The Corvin Chance Chronicles Complete Box Set

by N. P. Martin

  Dropping to my knees, I covered my face with my hands for a moment as desperate tears leaked from my eyes.

  When I eventually stood up in a kind of daze and went outside, I saw that the storm that was brewing earlier seemed to have calmed now, and there was nothing but heavy silence in the air. As I stood like a bomb blast survivor staring out into the night at nothing, the ghosts suddenly began to appear all around me, one by one until there was dozens of them everywhere.

  They just stood there staring, until I got the feeling that every one of them was judging me, goading me as they seemed to say…

  What are you going to do now, Corvin?

  I wish I could’ve answered them.

  But I couldn’t.

  Book 5

  Chapter 1

  It’s the Irish way. When your back is against the wall and you have nowhere to turn, when the world feels like its collapsing in on itself and your about to be swallowed up by it, you hit the bottle because it’s the only course of action that makes any sense. You get drunk to try and soothe the pain, even though you know there can be no soothing the mental anguish that is tearing your mind apart, no soothing the gripping pain in your belly. But you do it anyway. It’s the Irish way.

  Or my way at least.

  Sitting behind the desk in the darkness of the bookshop, I poured more whiskey down my throat like it was going to be the drink that finally washed away all of the pain, but of course it didn’t. Having downed most of the bottle by now, all I felt was nauseous, not numb like how I wanted to feel. If anything, the searing sense of loss in my guts was more pronounced now as it floated in a sea of alcohol, relentless in its desire to pull me toward it so I could drown in its bleakness, its darkness.

  Just like Amelia had drowned in the darkness.

  "She’s not dead…" I muttered drunkenly as I sat slumped in my seat. "She’s not fucking dead…"

  I refused to believe otherwise. I couldn’t believe otherwise. If I’d allowed myself to believe that Amelia was gone for good, I’m not sure what I would’ve done. There had been so much death already, Amelia’s would’ve crushed me, I had no doubt about that.

  "She’s somewhere," I said into the empty quiet of the shop, the books on the shelves seeming to sit in wordless judgment. "She’s somewhere, all I have to do is find her…and bring her back."

  I took another slug from the bottle before slamming it back down on the table. This whole time, I’d been trying not to look at the photo of my mother on the wall. Despite the lights being off, there was enough light from the street lamps outside to just make out her face in the photo, and my eyes inevitably drifted to it. As soon as they did, the tears started. Bitter tears that tasted sour as they ran into my mouth. "If you were here, you’d know what to do," I said to the photo. "You always knew what to do…"

  Wiping the tears from my face, I drained the whiskey that was left in the bottle and then sat looking straight ahead toward the window, my vision blurry as I stared at the shadowy street outside.

  I don’t when the figure in the window appeared. I just remember my vision coming into focus, and as it did, I realized that there was someone there on the street outside, staring at me through the window. It was a tall man with light colored hair, wearing a dark raincoat that hung past his knees. Normally, the shutters would be down over the windows, preventing anyone from looking in. But as the shutters weren’t down, the man outside was able to stare through the window at me, my silhouette probably formed from the glow of the street lamps outside.

  "What the fuck does he want?" I said as a deep frown came over my face. "Fucking freak…PISS OFF FREAK!"

  Despite my shouting, the man outside continued to stand there, his arms by his side. Squinting into the half-light, I saw the man seemed to be in his forties or thereabouts, and as I watched, he slowly took a packet of cigarettes out of his raincoat pocket, took one out and lit it. As the match he used flared up in front of his face, I could see that his eyes were on me still.

  More than that, he now seemed familiar to me. Despite not recognizing him at all, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we had somehow met before. There was just something about him, something that caused a feeling of dread to come over me for some reason, as if the man was bad news.

  He continued to stand there, smoking his cigarette as he stared through the French windows at me. By his third or fourth puff, I’d had enough of being gawked at. In a rush of anger, I jumped to my feet, knocking my hip against the desk as I did so, wincing at the pain for a second before walking unsteadily around the desk and across the floor to the window, standing a few feet back from it. "Piss off!" I said to the freak outside.

  He merely smiled slightly, and for the first time I saw that he had ice blue eyes that seemed to be strangely devoid of emotion, except perhaps for a look of glee it seemed like, as though he were enjoying messing with my head.

  So it’s like that, is it? I thought. I’ll sort this asshole out right now…

  I went to the door and pulled it open, muttering to myself that the guy had picked the wrong night to mess with me.

  But when I got outside, he was gone.

  Frowning, I looked up and down the street, but there was no sign of him. "Son of a bitch," I said, thinking there was no way the guy could move that quick, unless…

  He had teleported.

  The cold night air seemed to make me drunker as I stood trying to figure out why some clearly Touched freak had decided to deliberately mess with my head this night of all nights.

  Shaking my head, I pulled the shutters down over the front window and then went back inside the shop, locking the door behind me. As I headed back to the desk inside the shop intending to look for another bottle of whiskey that I was sure was in the back storeroom somewhere, I suddenly stopped when I noticed something on the desk, something that hadn’t been there before I went outside. Frowning in the semi-dark, I walked closer to the desk as my eyes focused on what’s there, and as I realized what I was looking at, I drew back in horror. "What the…"

  I could hardly believe what I was looking at as I stared down in disgust. Near the front of the desk, in between two piles of books, was an arrangement of severed fingers. There were ten fingers in total, all of different sizes and appearance, indicating that they had come from different people. Most where cleanly severed, though a few looked like they had been ripped off the hand they used to belong to. At least one of the fingers—which still held a gold ring, a wedding ring perhaps—was leaking fresh blood as if it hadn’t long been severed. The fingers were arranged in a neat circle, and in the center of the circle was something even worse. Two eyeballs with stalks trailing out behind them, arranged so they seemed to be staring up at me.

  I stood for what felt like a long time, trying to figure out why someone would do such a thing. It had to have been the man from outside, whoever the hell he was. Clearly he had teleported into the shop while I was outside looking for him, and for some unknown reason, he had left this arrangement of body parts on my desk.

  A bolt of anxiety went through me as I considered the possibility that this had something to do with the Dark One, and that maybe it had used its influence to arrange this…delivery, perhaps for no other reason than just to taunt me, although…

  Another wave of anxiety went through me. What if some of these parts belonged to Amelia? I thought.

  Sickened by the thought, I turned on the lights and recoiled anew at the gruesome display on the desk, the bright lights leaving nothing to the imagination now. Immediately, I saw that both of the eyeballs had blue retinas, a discovery which threatened to make me hurl until I realized the retinas were a darker shade of blue than Amelia’s. The fingers too didn’t seem to belong to Amelia either, though to be honest, I didn’t know her well enough to be sure. There was at least one finger that was long and feminine that could very well belong to her, though my gut was telling me that it didn’t. If the Dark One had really arranged this macabre delivery, what possible purpose could i
t serve? Possibly, the Dark One was trying to taunt me, but I didn’t think so. This was someone else, and I had no idea who. Either the man in the window had acted alone—in which case who the hell was he?—or he had acted on behalf of someone else—in which case, for whom?

  "Jesus," I said shaking my head. "Why me?"

  The question hung in the air unanswered, and I expected it to remain so, for the time being at least. Although whoever left this sickening display on my desk, I had no doubt they would be in touch again soon. The was just the start, I knew. The was some sicko saying hello, and I sighed and shook my head when I realized with a sinking feeling that someone had me in their sights for whatever reason.

  "As if I didn’t have enough to deal with," I said, reaching for my phone on the desk, about to call the cops when I suddenly stopped myself, realizing I didn’t the law involved in this. The last thing I needed was for the cops to be digging through my life asking awkward questions that I couldn’t answer.

  I stared down at the macabre display for a moment, considering just gathering up the body parts and disposing of them somewhere. Maybe no one needed to know about it except me. But the more I stared at the severed fingers, the more I realized that I needed to know who they use to belong to. Maybe if I knew who the victims were, I could find out who killed them, assuming they were dead, of course, which I didn’t doubt. This was the work of some sicko, and I just knew in my gut that whoever it was had butchered at least ten people to procure these severed digits, not to mention the eyeballs.

  This has to be some serial killer, I thought as I shook my head, unable to believe that I was now being targeted by such a person.

  "Fuck you," I growled at the display on my desk. I wasn’t about to let myself get pulled into this, whatever this was. Not when Amelia was possibly trapped in some alternate reality somewhere with her monstrous parents. I was refusing to believe she was dead, though the possibility still haunted my mind like a specter. All I could do was try to ignore it and hold onto the hope that Amelia wasn’t beyond saving. She had sacrificed herself for me, and I wasn’t about to let that sacrifice be in vain.

  Especially after she had told me she loved me.

  That made the whole situation even more wrenching, the loss even more keenly felt.

  I’ll save her, I thought, even if it costs my own life in the process.

  The drink was starting to weigh heavily on me now as I stood swaying, hardly able to focus on anything. The journey up the stairs to the flat seemed like too much of an effort to make, so I just sat down on the floor as my eyes started to close, then fell back, groaning as my head hit the hard floor.

  Above me on the desk, the two eyeballs seemed to look down at me, which my mind soon attached Amelia’s face to, so that I came to look at her instead, her mouth open the way it was just before the Dark One had pulled her down into that black hole.

  As my eyes closed, words left my mouth:

  "I love you too, Amelia…"

  Chapter 2

  Several hours later, I awoke with a loud groan. My body ached from lying on the hard floor, and my head felt like it had been cleaved in two by an ax. Sunlight seemed to be streaming through the slats in the shutters. When I sat up, the first thing I saw was the arrangement of fingers on the desk, with the two eyeballs in the middle.

  "Oh Jesus…" I said, quickly turning my head to the side as vomit spewed from my mouth. I spent the next minute or so emptying the contents of my stomach—which wasn’t much besides whiskey and bile—until there was nothing left to bring up. Then I wiped a hand across my mouth and sat for another minute while I worked up the courage to try and stand up. As soon as I did, my stomach churned once more and I stood dry retching for several seconds before straightening up and taking deep breaths, my head pulsing with pressure the whole time.

  That’s it, I thought. I’m never drinking again.

  Famous last words. I knew I’d be on it again before long. Just not now, though.

  God no…

  I stared down at the fingers and eyeballs for another moment and then reached across the desk to grab my phone. If the cops weren’t an option, then maybe the Council was. This seemed to be their type of case, given its nature. By rights I should call the local Council, but I decided not to, knowing the red tape they would throw at me. So I decided instead to call Benedict Bonneville, figuring he would be able to expedite things.

  "Corvin," he said when he picked up. "I’m about to go into a meeting. Whatever this is, can it wait?"

  I stared down at the grizzly arrangement on the desk. "Eh…"

  "It will have to, I’m afraid. I’ll contact you after my meeting. We need to talk anyway."

  I frowned. "What about?"

  "That favor you owe me."

  I rolled my eyes. "Right, the favor."

  "You haven’t forgotten have you?"

  I shook my head. "No, it’s just—"

  "Good. I’ll call later."

  When he hung up the phone I wondered if he meant that he would phone me or actually call here at the shop, which would mean he was in Ireland. Which would also mean it would be harder for me to put him off over this favor I owed him. Perhaps when he knew the situation, he would relent, though by the sound of his voice on the phone, I doubted it.

  "Shit," I muttered, regretting calling him in the first place. I had enough to deal with, especially now after last night’s macabre delivery. I wouldn’t have time to be running about doing god knows what for Benedict. He’d just have to understand. I hoped he would anyway.

  In the meantime, I went to the back room and got some paper towels, which I used to cover up the fingers and eyeballs on the desk. Then I went to the front door to make sure it was locked and that the closed sign was showing. The last thing I needed was for anyone to walk in and see what was on the desk. I imagined it would be kind of hard to explain ten severed fingers and two detached eyeballs to some unsuspecting customer, who would likely inform the cops immediately after rushing out of the shop in distress.

  After I made sure the door was locked, I cleaned up the sick on the floor and then went upstairs to the flat and took a shower, putting on fresh clothes as well—dark jeans, black leather biker jacket and a pair of combat boots. When I was dressed, I stood in the bathroom and stared at my face in the mirror above the sink, wondering what horrors I was going to see in my eyes. They definitely had a haunted, slightly traumatized look to them, complemented by the dark circles underneath. I also still had the scars from the night I was attacked by the vamp outside the bookshop. Four faint lines that ran from my forehead down over my left eye and over my cheek. One of the lines was deeper than the others, and for whatever reason, they seemed to be healing slowly, as though they didn’t want to disappear at all, and wished to remain in existence, proudly on display. As I ran my finger down the deepest of the scars, I couldn’t help wondering if my father used to look at himself in the mirror like this. Was he haunted by the things he’d done, like I was? I shook my head as I realized with a tinge of sadness that I would never know.

  When I left the bathroom, I grabbed my car keys from the kitchen and headed out the door. I’d wasted enough time. I had to save Amelia, but before I could do that, I had to figure out how to do so, which meant I needed to speak to someone who would likely have knowledge on such matters.

  So I drove to see Davey Carvel.

  Dalia answered the door when I arrived at Davey’s house on the North Circular Road. She stared at me a moment when she opened the door, realizing immediately that something was wrong. "Corvin," she said, her dark eyes searching mine for the source of pain she could no doubt keenly sense in me. As I said before, Dalia’s Fae abilities meant that she could attune herself to anyone’s inner pain and darkness. She got a weird sort of sustenance from it, in fact, as well as pleasure, though I could tell from her face that she got no pleasure from my pain on this day. "What’s happened?"

  I sighed as I smiled sadly at her, wanting nothing more than the comfo
rt I knew she could bring me. Which she did, stepping forward and putting her arms around my neck. I responded by hugging her back, squeezing my eyes shut as I held her. "I’m glad to see you," I whispered in a hoarse voice.

  Dalia gently pulled back to look at me, her eyes betraying her worry as she did so. "What’s the matter, Corvin? You look…"

  "Terrible? I know."

  "You’ve looked better, that’s for sure." She smiled as she ran a hand across my cheek. "I can feel your pain. I haven’t felt pain like this in you since…"

  "Me ma died?"

  She nodded. "Yes."

  "It feels like she might be dead, though I hope not."

  Dalia frowned. "Who, Corvin?"

  "Amelia."

  Her stare faltered slightly as I felt her gently probe me from within. "What happened to her?"

  "Something bad," I said. "I’ll tell you inside over coffee. I need coffee."

  She nodded. "Okay, come on in then."

  We walked into the house and into the living room where Davey happened to be sitting on the couch, the coffee table pulled up close in front of him. He had a jewelers loupe held in his right eye as he poked at some mechanical contraption with a small screwdriver. He looked up as I walked in, removing the loupe from his eye. "Corvin," he said. "I thought it sounded like you."

  "All right, Davey?" I said as I went and sat on one of the armchairs, removing a stack of books from it first, placing them on the floor next to a pile of others. The room was as cluttered as it was last time I was in it. It would seem Dalia moving in hadn’t changed that fact. She seemed comfortable with stuff lying around everywhere. Personally, it would drive me crazy such mess. I had my mother to thank for that, who was a total clean freak when she was alive. I wasn’t quite as bad as her, but I still couldn’t tolerate mess beyond a certain point without wanting to sort it all out.

  When Dalia went to make the coffee I’d requested, Davey sat staring at me for a moment. "You seem troubled, Corvin," he said. "Problems?"