The Roving Death (The Freelancers Book 2)

by Lee Isserow

  “Oh, little girl,” Reva said with a sigh and a condescending tone. “So powerful, but so new!Nobody wants or knows what to do with a Lilithian owl. Nobody but me, that is.”

  “Yeah, ol' Reva ain't as dumb as Slugtrough,”

  “Oh gods, you're not still running errands for that horrible little troll, are you Rafe?”

  “Every now and then,” he mumbled, with a shrug.

  “You really need to start looking for a higher quality of clientele.” she indicated to the pot, and Rafe dumped the squishy mass of owl organs, skeleton and feathers in, as instructed. “Would you like a cup of tea dear?” she asked, directing the question at Ana.

  “She wouldn't.” Rafe answered on her behalf.

  Reva shooed him away and began to stir the owl into her concoction whilst he washed his hands. “It's not perfect, but it'll do. . .” she muttered, as she reached over to a chopping board and emptied the contents: onions, leeks and garlic into the pot.

  “Is that. . . for a spell―I mean, a casting?” Ana found herself asking, wondering if that was a stupid question.

  Reva chuckled to herself. “It's soup. Everyone knows Lilithian owls make the best soups!” She reached into her pocket and pulled out some gold coins, handing them to Rafe. “Thanks again, deary. Next time, maybe don't mess up the produce so much, 'kay?”

  Ana stared blankly at the pot as Rafe went to the door and held it open for her. She turned and walked through the door, conjuring another door into the alley. “So, just to put this into context, we saved a woman from an owl monster. . . not to save her and her baby. . . but to make soup.”

  “Soup is. . . a relative term in this case, but yeah,” Rafe replied, with a shrug.

  “I don't think I will ever understand magickal folk. . .“ she sighed, as he held the new door open for her.

  The door closed behind them, and was reabsorbed into the brick wall it had been conjured upon. The figure that watched Rafe and Ana walk through it was certain neither of them had been aware of his presence as they departed from the alley.

  A smile came to the lips of the tall, scowling, muscular man. He couldn't deal with the bodies all by himself, couldn't contain the problem, let alone run a diversion to stop it from spreading wider. That was more than obvious. Rafe was the perfect person to recruit to do the hard work for him.

  And the woman who accompanied him, she was a magickian he was not familiar with, and yet he could sense the power radiating off her. She was not familiar yet, but he was rather looking forward to the prospect of getting to know her. . .

  Chapter 7

  It ain't trivial

  The man entered Reva's house without waiting for in invitation. His sigils broke the enchantments on the door with little effort on his part. As his cuban heels scuffed the wooden floorboards with each of their clicks and clacks, the stony glare she shot him spelled out her disapproval at the unannounced incursion.

  The scowl carved on his brow made it clear that he cared not whether she was happy with his entrance into her sacred space. He had a job to do, and she was vital to carrying that out.

  “If that kind of rudeness is how The Circle does things these days, I'm rather glad I'm no longer involved,” she grumbled.

  “Yes? Well, they're paying you well enough.” He threw a leather pouch in her direction, and she caught it in mid-air with a silent flick of the wrist. “No reason to complain when the bounty is quite so high, correct?”

  “Seems like a waste of money, y'ask me,” she said, glancing into the pouch and confirming the contents, pocketing it and returning to her soup. “Y'got trackers on staff. . . “

  “Oh Reva, do you really need me to say it? You're the best in the business, a damn sight better than the bumbling nincompoops at the ol' roundy-round.”

  “I trained most of them, they ain't dumb, know their damn jobs.” She raised a ladle of guts and sniffed at it, then reached into a cupboard and found a jar of salamander scales, sprinkling them liberally in the pot before she returned to stirring.

  “Yes, well they're rather busy, and don't wish to be involved in such trivial matters.”

  “If this is what I think it is, based on that sample y'gave me it ain't trivial.”

  “You don't know what it is, not for sure. . .” he sighed and kicked at the floorboards, scuffing them intentionally this time. “Did you have any trouble getting the owl?”

  “I had no trouble,” she scoffed. “Can't say the same for the two that grabbed it.”

  “Rafe. . .” A small, laboured smile appeared of its own volition. “Didn't think he was still on the job―and who's the girl?”

  “No idea, and didn't care to ask. She's new.”

  “New, but the blood's old.”

  “You sense that too? Be betting it's another one of―”

  “Don't say his damn name. . .”

  “Ain't going to. Know how much you Circle boys don't like to hear it.”

  He huffed, grunted, stomped to the kitchen, and took a look over Reva's shoulder into the pot. “Are you gonna track this damn thing or what?”

  “You are very rude young man.”

  “Reva, I haven't got all day. The longer this thing is out roaming the streets, the harder it's going to be to contain. . .”

  “It's brewing, got to get it nice and hot,” she said, reaching over to a cupboard and grabbing a dessicated jellyfish, grating a few shavings off into the pot.

  He let out a long, heavy sigh, and walked over to the coffee table, unfurling a large ordinance survey map of London, laying it out flat, lining up the Miller's house at the centre.

  “Put plastic down!” Reva shouted, without turning from the stove.

  “What?”

  “Plastic!” she said, indicating to a roll of cling film on the kitchen counter.

  He grumbled and muttered to himself as he threw the map off the table, and covered the wood with cling film before he re-opened the map on top. He took a seat on the couch whilst he waited for her to sniff and stir the concoction to completion.

  “There we go!” she declared, picking the pot up and carrying it over to the living room. After a final stir, she took a ladle of boiling owl guts, and cast as she poured it over the map, blowing softly over the top of of the potion.

  The viscera began to scab over at various points. The first was the Miller's house, then four other points had scabs coalescing on top of them. Those were the places where it had already been, where it had infected families and passed itself on.

  The concoction began grouping and congealing at other points of the map, places where it was at that very moment. The addresses of the houses in which it was gestating.

  His eyes darted across the map, as he counted the points, then counted them a second time just to be sure. Sixteen. His estimate had been correct. A growl left his lips at the thought of having to try and rein sixteen of the damn things in, let alone their offspring. And then he recalled there was a potentially cleaner solution to hand. . .

  He had been all too aware of the disgruntled grimace etched on his forehead since he first realised the spawning had occurred. But now, that scowl was finally fleeing, because a plan was emerging, a way to deal with this damn thing without drawing too much attention.

  He couldn't do it alone. Well, technically, he could―but he didn't want to do it alone, nor did he wish to get his hands dirty in the process. The less his fingerprints were on this whole messy affair, the better.

  A wide smile came to him, a calm rolling through his body, as he realised there was no reason to fret. After all, he had been recently reminded of someone who was perfect for doing the dirty work he had no desire to be a part of.

  Chapter 8

  Nightblade

  Rafe's skin glided over Ana's, his hands meeting hers, gently guiding her movements. He navigated her flesh as their fingers swum back and forth over one another. A strong grasp, then a frantic flurry of motion, all while heavy breaths and gasps flowed from their lips .

 
; Silence fell, as they were still for a moment. Words whispered ever so softly, then the movement continued, thrusting in the air, their exhalations in unison, deep and hot.

  Stretching out wide, she could feel a physical presence in front of her hands. Rafe came from behind her, circling to face her, his eyes meeting hers. Another breath, through gritted teeth, and with every ounce of strength in his body, he drove his hard, clenched fist at her face.

  His knuckles cracked as they impacted with a barely visible barrier held in place by her hands. Where his fist hit the surface, light swum on the air, as if being refracted on water. The barrier encapsulated her, keeping her safe from harm, and was mostly translucent but for the occasional undulating glimmer of prismatic and pearlescent abstractions of the dim lamps in the room.

  “You know what that was like?” she asked, pulling her hands back and whisking the barrier away.

  “Hitting a brick wall. . .” Rafe grumbled, rubbing the injured knuckles with his other hand.

  “It was like a nineties romantic comedy, like you're teaching me golf or bowling or something.”

  “If golf of bowling could save your life, sure.” He shrugged her comparison off. “Let's go again.”

  Ana made sure he saw the slow, laboured roll of her eyes. She was getting a little bored of how serious he was whilst they were training. Rafe was great fun before, after, and in-between jobs, but when they were working or training she was finding him a buzz kill.

  He glanced over to the umbrella stand in the corner. “Sticky! You're up.

  As Ana began to cast, the leathery old walking stick launched itself from the umbrella stand and flew towards her face at full speed. Her fingers darted around in front of her, throwing up a barrier just in time to avoid being knocked unconscious by the sentient stick.

  “Good work!” Rafe said. The walking stick circled through the air back towards him, and he patted it on the handle.

  “Thank you,” Ana said, proud of herself.

  “Him, not you.”

  “Well that's rude.”

  “Sticky,” he said, glancing down at the stick. “Show her how rude we can be. . .”

  The handle nodded up and down, then whipped across the room towards Ana, attacking the barrier from every angle with hard, fast strikes. The bubble around her rippled with every impact, but held fast.

  Amidst the assault, they barely heard they knock at the door. Rafe glanced over, but chose to ignore it. Nobody of any interest ever came to the damn door.

  Another knock came as Sticky continued to throw himself at the barrier, this one Ana heard.

  “You expecting anyone?” she shouted over the top of the barrage of blows.

  “When am I ever expecting anyone? Keep your head in the game.”

  The stick flew over her head, and began driving its base into the back of the barrier, spinning wildly, as if trying to drill through. Ana flung a hand in its direction to strengthen the barrier where it was attempting to make its incursion. The light around the point was distorting, skin of the magickal shield buckling under the force being applied to it.

  “You should see who it is. . .” she grunted, sending her other hand over to try and reinforce yet further. “Might be important.”

  “This is important.”

  The front door exploded open, top half fracturing into pieces, throwing up a cloud of sawdust. The bottom half swung back wildly, hinge screaming in agony at having to hold the weight of what was left of the door all by itself. Ana turned at the distraction, her barrier failing, Sticky whipped through the air, altering course to avoid drilling into the back of her head. He darted across the room, ready to attack the uninvited guest at what was left of the door.

  The street lights from the outside world silhouetted him: a large, muscular outline standing steadfast. It took a moment for Ana's eyes to adjust to the orange glow flooding into the dark room, and she began to take in his features.

  He was handsome, in a curious kind of way. Head oddly cuboid in shape, with a large, straight jaw that was fastidiously (or more likely, magickally) clean shaven. He had a wide mouth, but thin lips that were ever so slightly lilted at the corners, as if in bemusement. The nose at the centre of his face looked perhaps a third too small for the rest of his features, small and pointed up, like a cats. And his eyes were large and wide, bright green circles gleaming out of almond-shaped sockets, with the slightest hint of an epicanthic fold. The two most striking things about him were his hair, which stood proud above his head in a slick quiff that was black with streaks of white that looked too perfectly symmetrical to be natural―and then there were the alligator skin shoes with the cuban heels, that Ana raised an eyebrow to. Although she hadn't any strong feelings one way or the other about alligators themselves, she was fairly certain that there had to be a fair amount of cruelty involved to make shoes out of them.

  Judging by Rafe's displeased expression, she could tell that not only did the two men know each other, but this stranger's presence was an unwanted imposition.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Rafe grunted.

  “Long time, Rafe old boy.” he glanced over to the walking stick. “And nice to see you too, Sticky.”

  The stick nodded, and returned to its umbrella stand, lying dormant now it was certain there was no threat.

  Rafe rolled his eyes. “Not long enough.”

  “Aren't you going to introduce me?” the visitor asked, indicating to Ana.

  “No. I'm going to ask you to leave. And if you don't take to that request, I'm going to make you leave.”

  “Rafe!” Ana said, putting on a lightly judgemental tone “That's no way to treat a guest!”

  “Guests are invited. . .”

  “I wish to hire you.” A wider smile came to the intruder's lips.

  “We're all booked up.”

  “Way I hear it, you just finished a job.”

  “Reva. . .” Rafe muttered, under a sigh.

  “Thought the request for that owl would be more welcome coming from her than myself. Appears I was correct.”

  “Understatement.”

  “Well this is all thrilling,” Ana said, with a sigh. “But between you blowing a door apart,” she indicated to the stranger. “And you being a dick to the new guy,” she indicated to Rafe. “I'm missing a lot of backstory―or at the very least an introduction?”

  At her request, Rafe grumbled out a reluctant introduction. “Ana, this is Lincoln Numbballs, he's just on his way out.”

  The man scoffed, and walked past Rafe towards Ana, taking her hand in his. “Nightblade. Lincoln Nightblade,” he planted a kiss on the fingers he held. “A pleasure to make your acquaintan―” He cut himself off as he stood back upright and caught just how wide Ana's eyes had become.

  She tried with all her might to stifle a laugh, but it appeared that it just didn't want to be kept down, resulting in her cackling right into his face.

  Nightblade glanced over his shoulder towards Rafe, who did not have any sympathy for the man being laughed at.

  “She does that sometimes, mostly when people have chosen stupid names for themselves.”

  “It's very rude.”

  “So's bursting through a guy's door and walking into his house uninvited.” Rafe retorted, his tone thick with wry intent.

  “It is rather urgent.”

  “You Circle-jerks got way more manpower than lil' old me. Go ask daddy Comstock for another body to lend a hand.”

  “Comstock is. . .” Nightblade's eyes darted to the ceiling as he tried to find the best way to put it. “Otherwise engaged.”

  “That's an unconventional euphemism.”

  “That was the guy that let the Dybbuk out, right? You mean he's dead?” Ana asked.

  Rafe nodded. “Pointed him out to you, the guy on the news.”

  “The news that then wasn't the news? The Prince Of Darkness?”

  “She shouldn't be able to remember that. . .” Lincoln muttered.

  “Made it s
o she can,” Rafe elaborated. “Helps to plan your day when you know the world around you is being re-written every so often.”

  “Did you say he let a Dybbuk out?”

  “Long story. However you might recall that I hate you, and have no interest in filling you in.”

  “This is a matter of life and death.”

  “It's always a matter of life and death over at The Circle―someone loses a kitten you guys think the damn world is ending.”

  “This is life and death for all of London―if not the entire world.“

  “Always gotta raise the stakes. . .” Rafe said with a sigh, looking over to Ana, who was still laughing intermittently at Lincoln's name.

  “I really can't find a nice way to put this. . .” Rafe said, taking slow steps towards Nightblade, his hands leaving his sides as he began to pirouette fingers through the air―only to have his nose crunch against something hard and barely visible.

  He shook it off and glanced over his shoulder, Ana laughing even harder how, her hands raised in front of her, creating a barrier between Rafe and Lincoln.

  “Glad to see you're using what I've taught you. . .” he muttered.

  “You people have to be less serious!” she said between guffaws as she pulled the barrier down.

  “As I was saying, no nice way to say this―” He sealed the sigil by throwing his hands in the air. Lincoln Nightblade was pulled out of the house, cuban heels skidding against the floor, what was left of the door pulling itself together and slamming shut in the unwanted guest's face.

  “That seems almost as rude as him coming in without an invitation. . .”

  “He has it coming.” Rafe grunted. “It's the least of what he deserves.”

  Chapter 9

  There was no point trying to press the matter

  Lincoln Nightblade stood in the alley outside Rafe's apartment, eyeing the door with disdain. He was annoyed. That was not how he expected their reunion to go―especially given that he had paid work for his former friend and colleague.