The Roving Death (The Freelancers Book 2)

by Lee Isserow

  However irritated he was, he knew full well that there was no point trying to press the matter. . . Rafe had always been a stubborn bastard at the best of times, and given that he appeared to feel there was beef between them, Lincoln was certain that Rafe was going to prove himself even more pig headed than he was under normal circumstances.

  He resolved himself to accepting that there was nothing he could do to change the obstinate freelancer's mind. . . Nothing, that is, except to subtly manipulate the situation. Put him on a path to discover the problem all by himself.

  Maybe then, when he saw how perilous the situation was with his own eyes, he and his new partner would be more than open to working together.

  Lincoln turned from the door, the smile firmly returned to his lips. One way or another, he was going to get exactly what he needed. Rafe would come to his aid and take care of the problem. Whether he wanted to or not.

  Chapter 10

  A state of gestation

  When the sun rose the following day, another sixteen people in London had died at the dinner tables of sixteen different houses. Each of them passing after eating their fill and belching great thick clouds into the air.

  Those sixteen bodies wouldn't be found for days, and the bodies of the four others in each of those houses, who were lying face-first in the plates laid out around the table, were in a state of gestation.

  Their insides were mutating. The obscene number of inadequate human organs being broken down by enzymes, liquefying, proteins taken by the spores and re-purposed. The contents of their old bodies being used as building blocks to make the hosts much more efficient for propagation of itself.

  The things that they were turning into did not require lungs and kidneys, a liver and heart, and they certainly didn't require one―let alone two―sets of intestines. All that meat was going to be recycled, put to good use, certainly better use than it had been put to previously. Now, it was becoming something greater than the individual, the self. It was going to feed the furnace of change.

  By the time the sun set, this latest set of hosts would have a completely restructured internal ecosystem. And despite only living for a night whilst the breeding cycle was active, each of these new hosts would succeed at their task, succeed at their singular purpose in life. Succeed at spreading their genus wider.

  And once it was successful, each of the breeders would die, as all the others had done. They had no need to survive longer than that. After all, there is no point in living once one has fulfilled one's purpose.

  As it incubated deep inside the human skin sacks, it was waiting with anticipation to be reborn. Not anticipation as humans might understand it, but anticipation of being one step closer to doing what it was born to do.

  it didn't have emotions as such. But if it did, it would be feeling something close to joy.

  It did not think, but if it did, the joy would be at the thought of how far it had spread thus far―and how far it would spread as the days and nights continued to roll on.

  For now, it was in the city. Before too long, it would have made its way across the country. And before the parasitic human populace knew what was happening, the whole world would be its playground. This was its design, what was always intended for it since the moment of its creation. And soon, it would be fulfilling that purpose.

  Chapter 11

  Dreaming of magick

  Ana was dreaming of magick. It was not the first time, nor would it be the last.

  In her dreams she was casting great and powerful alterations to reality, bending it to her will. In this instance, she was turning skyscrapers into giant, adorable kittens.

  At first, the non-magickal populace were terrified by the mammoth felines that stalked the city. However, once they saw just how much the kittens enjoyed playing with gargantuan balls of wool, everyone seemed to agree that it was worth the occasional car being crushed under padded foot.

  The dream was punctuated by a ringing somewhere in Ana's periphery, a ringing that was persistent and nagging, that woke her from her slumber. Groggily, she reached over to the phone, only to find that there was no incoming call. This was not a telephone call―it was a magical one, directly into her head. With a swipe of her hand, she answered it, with a disgruntled “What is it?”

  “Mornin' darling, how's it going?”

  She groaned softly, and shuffled around in the bed. Muttering a response of “Why are you bugging me this early, Slugtrough?”

  “Your mate wasn't picking up, figured you'd be more receptive.”

  “Not at eight in the bastard morning!”

  “Y'know, you're starting to sound like him. . .” Slugtrough said with a chuckle.

  “You take that back!” Ana said, sitting up in bed and slamming her hand down into a pillow.

  “Sorry love, say it like I see it.”

  “What the bloody hell do you want?”

  “Got a job, if you're interested.”

  “Is it another haunted painting? because there shouldn't be so many of those. . .”

  “Ain't like that darlin'.”

  “I let the first one slide, but call me 'darling' one more time and see what happens.”

  “Ana dear, this is a matter of life and death―and a highly lucrative one at that. . . I know how much you like money.”

  “I'm listening. . .”

  Whilst on the call, Ana could not see Slugtrough's wide, sickly smile for herself. If she could, and if she knew who was standing opposite him whilst the call was being made, she would have become instantly aware that something was thoroughly awry with the job he was setting up for her and Rafe.

  Chapter 12

  No bodies

  Rafe had managed to sleep through Slugtrough's calls, but somehow the ring from Ana got through to him―not that he appreciated the early wake up call. As grumpy as he was to be kicked awake from a peaceful slumber by a ringing in his ears, the fact that it was Ana's voice whispering in his head made it bearable.

  He lay in bed, taking in the details she imparted of Slugtrough's latest job, and closed his eyes. His mind's eye conjured images of Ana that accompanied the sound of her voice in his periphery, imagining it as if she were lying next to him. He made sure to carefully guard that thought, so as not to accidentally transmit it over to her. As much as they had a close professional relationship, he wasn't sure how she would take to the idea of him imagining that she was sharing his bed.

  Reluctantly, as the call ended he forced himself to rise from the warm embrace of the duvet, showered, dressed, and took the door she had waiting for him in the lounge.

  She tapped her wrist as he emerged, miming that he took his sweet time to get up and join her in the living room of a suburban house.

  Three beige couches lined the walls, each littered with a few too many brightly coloured throw pillows for Rafe's liking. The rug at the centre of the room was covered with a plastic dust sheet, a pint-sized easel at the centre. He walked around it and inspected the picture, which was a melange of pastel shade watercolors. Reaching down, he ran his fingertips over the paints―bone dry. The painting was from the night before at the very least, and looked as though it were the product of a child's imagination, rather than that of an evil spirit. The latter tended to prefer to paint in blood, vomit and faeces, rather than watercolours.

  “Sure this is the place?” he asked. It seemed far too quiet for the scene of some malevolent mystical threat. There was, more often then not, screaming at the very least―let alone all the fluids that had a habit of flying, which he was certain were putting his dry cleaner's kids through university.

  “Yes I'm bloody sure!” she huffed, leading the way out of the living room. There was no sign of movement from any of the inanimate objects, and no sign of people, let alone supernatural goings-on.

  “I'm just saying, seems real quiet for a mass possession.”

  “I'm sure there'll be screaming any minute now. . . You've got to learn to be patient.”

  “I got pa
tience in spades―you're the one who gets bored on stakeouts.”

  “You won't let me bring a book!”

  “If your nose is in a book, what exactly are you staking out?”

  Rafe's ears pricked up, and he signalled for silence as he took the lead through the kitchen―there was a soft buzzing from somewhere nearby. Scanning the counter, he kept a watchful eye on the knife block, in case one of the knives decided his chest would be a better storage container for its blade. There continued to be no sign of anything suspicious, and he pushed the door open to the dining room.

  Buzzing filled the air, as flies darted this way and that, between supping down the mould-caked leftovers that were on the plates.

  Circling the table, Rafe inspected the mess left on the crockery. There was a pattern on each of them, the food mostly confined to the outer rim, whilst being cleaner at the centre. Ana caught his frown as he stared at the plates, and took a closer look for herself. Her lips parted as she leaned in, making out the shape of a nose, maybe the curve of a cheek. “Is that an imprint of a face. . .?”

  Rafe nodded. “But no bodies. . .”

  “Well, there's a good reason for that.” Ana said, waving to get his attention, and pointing at the various bright yellow plastic tags that were littered around, big bold black numbers on each of them.

  Behind the table, at the largest scattering of tags, there was a thick black stain on the carpet that he didn't like the look of.

  Stepping over the stain, Rafe strutted out the room to the front door and tugged it open. The bright yellow plastic of police tape criss-crossed over the outside of the entrance. The cops had already been there, and it was too late for these victims. But something about all of it didn't sit right with him.

  “What's up?” Ana asked.

  “Slugtrough doesn't usually send us within ten miles of cops.”

  “He said it was a matter of life and death.”

  “He also doesn't care about life or death. . . and this is more like a matter of death, and more death. . .”

  “Any idea what we're dealing with?”

  Rafe huffed, reluctant at having to admit he was slow on the mark on this one. “Could be a thousand things at this point. We need to see the bodies to know what's going on.”

  “So, we go grab a smoothie, then head to the Morgue?” Ana asked.

  “No smoothie, just morgue.”

  “Spoilsport. . .” she grumbled, summoning a door.

  Rafe took one last look at the crime scene as the door pushed itself out of the wall. None of this felt right to him. Everything in his being was screaming at him to turn around and tell Slugtrough to shove it up his arse.

  And yet, as he caught Ana's eye whilst he held the door open for her, he knew he'd see the case through. Because working with her was the most fun he had had in a long time, no matter how suspicious the damn job.

  Chapter 13

  Weird in spades

  The door took Ana straight into the morgue, scaring the attendant half to death as she walked through an opening in the wall that had never been there before.

  “Jesus!” he shrieked.

  Ana burst into action, her hands whipping through the air, middle finger of her right hand drawing a circle, first finger tracing behind it, she made a fist and ran her other hand over the knuckles, pulling her arm back to throw it in the direction of the attendant and mesmerise the hell out of him. A hand wrapped around her clenched fist just before she could release it, Rafe appearing through the door behind her, shaking his head.

  “That's no way to treat a friend,” he said to her, glancing over to the attendant. “How you doing, Chris?”

  “Uh, yeah, good, I guess?”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Ana tugged her fist from Rafe's grasp and looked around for somewhere to release the mesmerising energy that was clenched between her fingers. She glanced left and right, then decided to just nudge the door open again, and flung it back into the crime scene, ignoring the sound of shattered glass as she slammed the door shut.

  “Sorry about that!” she said, with a polite smile and a guilty expression she tried to hide. “Nice to meet you!” She shot out a hand, which he shook limply.

  “Quick thing,” Rafe said, trying not to give Ana a judgemental stare about breaking something back in the house. “Cops bring a body in that stands out as weird?”

  The attendant scoffed. “Come on Rafe, I got weird in spades. . . You want the hanging without a rope, the drowning in a bed, the autopsy that happened on-site with no sign of blades being used, the child's body missing all its skin, the adult skin missing all its insides, the―”

  “Autopsy the only bloody one?”

  “if you could call it blood.”

  “You wouldn't call it blood?” Ana asked.

  “Uh, it's more like a thick black soup. . . And the organs. . . Well, I guess organ-singular would be more accurate.”

  “That sounds like our guy,” Rafe said, with a glower at the description.

  “Girl.”

  “Girl? How old?” Ana asked.

  “From the face, I'd say ten at a push. . . can't exactly count the rings on this one, organ looks like it's something out of a Cronenburg nightmare.”

  “A naked fight in a Russian bathhouse?”

  “Excuse her,” Rafe said, with a huff. “She hasn't seen a real Cronenberg movie.”

  “You're missing out!” Chris said, his eyes lighting up. “The Fly! The Thing! They're amazing!”

  “Yeah, I'll get right on that,” she said, with a wry arch of her eyebrows. “Y'know, when there's not a body, or bodies-pural that we're investigating.”

  “Oh, of course! Well, you best see for yourself.” He lead the way into a refrigerated room, walking them over to the locker in question and wrenched it open, tugging the body out on its tray.

  Rafe's lips parted, but no words came out. A shiver ran down his spine―but not from the cold.

  He had seen this kind of thing before. Not exactly this, but similar enough. A pit started hollowing out in his gut, and as he stared at the open chest, the massive frozen organ,

  Ana could tell that something was wrong. “What is it?”

  Stare still fixed on the body, he let out a sigh that sounded more like a growl. Reluctantly, he met her eyeline. “The kinda thing you need an owl to track down. . .”

  Chapter 14

  Dumbing it down

  Cuban heels click-clacked against the paving stones of an East Finchley suburb, as Lincoln Nightblade stormed through the streets. He had a strut on, but his pace and heavy footsteps weren't due to being in a hurry―not that time wasn't of the essence. His marching stride was laced with resentment at not having heard a damn thing from Rafe yet, and being left to go about fixing this whole damn mess by himself.

  The map in his hands, his eyes darted back and forth between the road ahead and the congealing guts on the paper. He was almost at the first house on the list, another fifteen to get through before the sun set, or he'd have to waste another day tracking even more of the damn things down.

  His stride slowed to a crawl as a ringing punctuated his periphery, a smile coming to his lips as he answered it with a wave of his hand.

  “Rafe old chap! Lovely to hear from you!”

  “Shut it, Nightblade.”

  “I take it you've seen our girl?”

  “Is this what I think it is?”

  “Zacar Teloah.”

  “That's not possible, brood mothers are all locked up or dead”

  There was a rumble under the call, as they were joined by a third speaker. “You know, it's very rude to have a two-way conversation when there are three people involved. . .” she muttered.

  “Apologies, my dear,” Lincoln said, sending the warm vibe of his smile through to her. “I would have involved you, but I'm afraid I couldn't recall your name.”

  “Bet you say that to all the girls. . .”

  Nightblade sighed, cleared his throat, and contin
ued onwards towards the house on the map. “Can we focus here? This is a rather pressing matter.”

  “You sure it's Teloah?” Rafe asked.

  “Do you really think I would be asking for your assistance if it were the common cold?”

  “Hello?!” Ana chimed in. “How about dumbing it down for those of us who don't speak Idiotchian?”

  “Is she insulting the Angelic tongue?” Lincoln said, taken aback.

  “She does things like that. You get used to it―”

  A loud, cacophonous scream of static ran through both Rafe and Nightblade's heads, bouncing around their skulls, kicking off identical migraines for the two magickians.

  “She is part of this conversation, and doesn't like being referred to as if she is not present!” Ana growled.

  “We need to do this in person. . .” Lincoln muttered. “I'll send you two a door.”

  “I can get my own damn door!” Ana spat, beginning to summon one against the morgue's wall. “Where are we bloody going?”

  Rafe tuned out of the conversation as Lincoln gave her the location, his eyes fixed on the wall as the tiles rippled and undulated, the gleaming white ceramic giving way to black glossed wood.

  Once again, everything in his being was telling him that he shouldn't go through it, that he didn't want a damn thing to do with Lincoln Nightblade, and certainly didn't want Ana anywhere near him. . .

  But he had seen the body with his own eyes. And if Lincoln was telling the truth, if this thing was a Teloah, then there was no question about it―the damn thing needed to be dealt with before it had the chance to spread any further.

  Chapter 15

  All kinds of ways to stop the spread

  Ana and Rafe walked through the door into the foyer of a large house. A circular table with an orchid was inexplicably placed at the centre of the oversized entrance, behind which Lincoln was sat on a massive staircase, wider than he was tall, spiralling up what looked like four floors.