Witch's Bell Book One

And we keep those up on the top floor.'
    'Top floor? But there's nothing up there but equipment, storage, and-'
    'Files,' Frank finished off her sentence with his bland, but direct tone. 'And there's an office too. Back when this place was built, when we had a bit more magical crime doing the rounds – we had a full-time witch on who just used to do the filing. Margaret was her name,' Frank's face took on a far off look, with a bare smile playing at the edges of his usually drawn-lips.
    'Really, I didn't know this,' Ebony followed close behind Frank as he slowly took the stairs. Even though there was an elevator, Frank always took the stairs.
    'Lots you don't know about this place, Ebony Bell, its full of secrets. Lots of files, too. But you'll know that by the end of the month, I'm sure.'
    Ebony smiled wanly. Yes, that was definitely one lesson she was going to learn, not that she'd ever wanted to. Filing, researching, and general paperwork were not very fun. And even though Ebony worked in a used bookstore, she still hated that side of police work. She didn't care too much about what some half-drunk university student had summoned on the morning of the 25th of December 25 years ago. It was water under the bridge. Ebony cared about the present. She still loved her books, and loved to read. But she was no history buff, unlike a certain Detective Nate, who had now borrowed so many books from her she was thinking of giving him a library card.
    As they ascended the stairs, Ebony let her eyes wander to the windows that were neatly placed along the back wall of the stairwell. The stairs were big, long, tall, and strong. They were the backbone of the department, her father had once said, like the spine sending messages to the rest of the body. But if they were the backbone, then, technically, at their top should be the brain. But instead the top floor was full of old equipment, dust, and more yellow files than the eye could see. Unlike ordinary files, magical cases couldn't readily be typed-up and shifted onto computers. There was something very important that was lost in the translation. So the witches had always encouraged the police department never to get rid of their old files pertaining to magical crime. As such, they'd just shifted them up to the old top-floor.
    No one liked the top-floor, she'd remembered that from when she'd been a child. It had a draft, her father had once grumbled to her, an uncanny draft that always found a way of chilling the back of your neck even if you were wearing a scarf.
    And now Ebony was expected to work up there for the rest of her non-magic sentence. Not only would it take her ages to get there in the morning, but she would have to work alone all day without the prospect of stolen coffee or doughnuts.
    Or Detective Nate, a little voice said in her head. But Ebony quickly laughed the little voice into submission, ignoring the strange kick of disappointment at the idea she'd hardly see the annoying detective for the next several weeks.
    When they finally reached the top floor, Frank let out a heavy sigh. 'I like that walk,' he said with a toothy grin, 'it's good for the heart. And,' he pointed behind them to the giant window that sat at the top of the stairwell, 'the view is the best in the building.'
    Ebony stared out the window, head tilting to the side. It was a good view – an amazing view, in fact. You could stand there and watch the rest of Vale go about its business, with the keen gaze of a hawk from above.
    But Frank hardly paused, and Ebony found herself following after him, legendarily-comfortable shoes slapping on the dusty marble floor. It seemed as though even the cleaners didn't come up here anymore. She gave a little shudder at the thought of all the cobwebs and dead insects she'd probably be blowing off the files. Ebony would probably come home from work looking like she'd been crawling through ancient caves every day, and probably smelling like it too.
    The architecture up here was different. While on the floors below, the central staircase of the department would lead into long, wide corridors that would span the length of the building – rooms branching off them like capillaries off an artery. Up on the top-floor, everything was open. There were no offices and rooms – just the one wide, open room that stretched the length and width of the building. It was huge, or would have been if it wasn't jam packed with old, rusted shelves which were in turn jam packed with