May Contain Traces of Magic

May Contain Traces of Magic

Tom Holt

Language: English

Pages: 352

ISBN: 1841495069

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


There are all kinds of products. The good ones. The bad ones. The ones that stay in the garage mouldering for years until your garden gnome makes a home out of them. Most are harmless if handled properly, even if they do contain traces of peanuts. But some are not. Not the ones that contain traces of magic.

Chris Popham wasn't paying enough attention when he talked to his SatNav. Sure, she gave him directions, never backtalked him, and always led him to his next spot on the map with perfect accuracy. She was the best thing in his life. So was it really his fault that he didn't start paying attention when she talked to him? In his defence, that was her job. But when 'Take the next right' turned into 'Excuse me,' that was when the real trouble started.
Because sometimes a SatNav isn't a SatNav. Sometimes it's an imprisoned soul trapped inside a metal box that will do anything it can to get free. And some products you just can't return.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

strange, but I seem to have lost my memory. I must’ve slipped and fallen,” he added, proud of himself in spite of everything, “and bashed my head quite hard, which would explain why I’m down here on the floor.” “You poor thing—are you all right? Are you feeling dizzy?” Chris shook his head (which rather spoiled the effect). “No,” he said, “but I really and truly have lost my memory. Do you think you could just sort of remind me?” “Remind you of what?” “Everything.” Angela sat down on the

come in. Only, please keep your voice down, my, um, partner’s still asleep.” A crash from the kitchen gave him the lie in his teeth. “Actually,” Chris said, “if you wouldn’t mind just waiting there a second, I’d better just tell her you’re here. She might be—” He tailed off. She was thinking walking about without any clothes on, whereas he hadn’t said a bit snotty otherwise just in case she overheard. He three-quarters closed the door in Angela’s face and limped into the kitchen. “Oh,” Karen

that’s not your car, is it?” “No. It’s one they lent me while—” He stopped. There was something wrong with the car. He lunged closer, and saw that the window had been forced open and the interior was a mess. The seats (the beautiful plush German luxury seats, a tantalising hint of a world of opulence and ease that he knew he could never attain) had been ripped up, the plastic dashboard panels were cracked and distorted where somebody had tried to prise them off, and the glove compartment door

hand was starting to go numb. He rested it for thirty seconds, then scraped some more: I WILL HELP YOU, AS I HAVE ALWAYS DONE. HOWEVER, SINCE The tape-measure slipped out of his hand again. This time, luckily, it missed the fixtures and fittings and flumped down on the floor. He snatched it up, and— YOU MISSED A BIT He blinked, then looked up. Sure enough, there was a little patch of paper that had escaped the blade. He flicked it off, then went back to where he’d got to. Nothing there.

nuisance that he thought he’d got sorted; and then he sighed. “All right,” he said. “Back you go,” and he went to put the mug down— Later, when he was replaying the scene in his mind for the seventh or eighth time, Chris decided it was probably the sigh that did it, though he gave himself some credit for spotting the strategic moment, when John’s gaze was off him and he was concentrating on putting the mug down without spilling it. Where the technique came from, he had no idea, since the last

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