The Roving Death (The Freelancers Book 2)

by Lee Isserow

“He was good at his job, that was for sure. One of the best when it came to dealing with the big and the bad.”

  Ana grunted into her glass of paint thinner, rolling her eyes before looking over to Lincoln. It was clear he wasn't going to leave, and wasn't going to shut the hell up about Rafe, and she gave in to his attempt to force conversation. “You two work together much back then?”

  “A fair amount.”

  “Do you know what happened to him? I mean, how he lost most of his magicks?”

  Lincoln glanced away, his brow furrowing into a ripple of consternation. “In truth? He blames me.”

  “Why?”

  “I was there when he. . . became. . . practically mundane.”

  “No wonder he hates you,” she scoffed. “Probably can't kill quite as many things without his magick.”

  “Quite,” Lincoln huffed, taking a deep breath and trying to make eye contact with Ana. “I have tried to apologize, time and time again. . . but you know how he is.”

  “Always in danger, and barely surviving?” she chuckled weakly to herself.

  “Obstinate.”

  “That too, I guess,” she said with a shrug, knocking back the last of the whisky.

  Lincoln glanced around the bar, and tried his very best not to express just how much he was put off by the ambience. Locking his eyes back in Ana's direction, a smile came to his lips.

  “Do you want to get out of here?”

  She laughed so hard she almost fell off her chair. “I'm not going to sleep with you!” she shrieked, a little too loudly for Lincoln's liking.

  Mallory glanced over, trying to subdue her own cackle.

  “I mean go somewhere. . . better. Higher standard of cleanliness for one thing, and a more, shall we say up market clientele.”

  “You got somewhere in mind?” Ana said, sceptically.

  “Oh yes.” Lincoln caught her eye contact and held it, the smile stretched wide across his face. ”And I think you're going to like it quite a bit.”

  Chapter 20

  A drunkard's glass

  Sleep was doing its very best to elude Rafe, after almost two hours of lying in bed begging and beckoning for slumber to come forth, he decided there was only one course of action.

  He forced himself out of bed, found his slippers amidst the darkness, and went through to the living room. A midnight snack would make the transition into slumber swift and easy.

  Opening up a cabinet, he grabbed a whisky, and picked out a drinking vessel reserved strictly for occasions such as these―a drunkard's glass, imbued with the tendencies and lack of tolerance of the drunkard that had died with it in his hand. It would maximise the impact of the alcohol on his system, and send him off to a deep and almost coma-like sleep. Sure, there would be a paralysing hangover in the morning, but times like these called for desperate measures. Two measures, to be precise, and he filled the glass to just under the half-way mark.

  As he lifted the glass to his lips, Rafe inhaled deeply through the nose. a warm, inviting scent filled him up from the inside out, sending a capricious tingle through his entire body. A smile came, and then lingered, as did the slightest notion of light headedness. Unconsciously, his upper body began to waver back and forth as he began to be taken in by the spell of the drunkard's glass.

  After a moment, he realised he had yet to take a sip, and had simply inhaled the whisky perched on his bottom lip. Slowly, and cautiously, he tipped it back and let the flavours meet the tip of his tongue, which sent a prickle across it as the taste buds burst to life. He tipped it back more, let it glide own his throat, a subtle burn coating his mouth, lingering for a few seconds before it dispersed.

  He wanted to drink more, wanted to down the whole damn glass and fill it again and again, but knew that was the enchantment's thoughts, not his own. He forced it from his lips, held on to the glass with both hands and tried to steady himself. The room around him was already starting to swim, vision caught off guard, equilibrium sent haywire by the magickal elixir that was intended to send him to sleep.

  Sleep, he reminded himself. That was the plan, the reason he had taken the glass out for a rare joyride. He took another sip as he stumbled around the living room, trying to find his way back to bed.

  The proportions of the room appeared to have changed since he began drinking, and the walls spun around him, a curious scratching sound echoing from somewhere, distracting him as he tried to remember the direction of the bedroom. He glanced back over to the rug to see if it was making the noise, after all, it had a tendency to move of its own accord. It was still. He glanced over to Sticky, but he too was sitting still in the umbrella stand, no sign of movement.

  It was his imagination, he decided. Either that, or he had forgotten that this drunkard's glass also came with the added bonus of auditory hallucinations. He couldn't recall if that were true, but decided it must be.

  He finally found the bedroom, and then the bed, which he collapsed upon with a clumsy elegance. Despite plummeting to the mattress, the hand with the glass remained poised in the air with the expertise of a man who treasured the contents, not a drop spilled on his descent.

  He took another sip, the last of the night, he promised himself, and nuzzled up to the bed covers. It was a herculean feat, wrapping himself up good and tight in them. Somehow with every movement he made, an arm or leg would find themselves outside of the duvet. He sat up, grabbed hold of it, found the corners, and shook it out to straighten it up. Completely covered, he settled back down in the bed and tried to embrace the warmth, attempting to clear his mind and focus on sleep, forcing his wibbly mind to ignore the scratching that was fainter now, but still present.

  Eyes closed, the darkness spun around him. The obscured world continued to swim in circles. A tide of self-hate washed up against his thoughts, he had been dumb, drunk too much from the glass―and the worst thing was, the drunkard's curse was still in his head. . . All he could think of was drinking more, despite the rocky alcoholic sea he was already sailing.

  A thud penetrated the night, and Rafe's eyes shot open. He looked around in the darkness, no indication of intruders, no sign that anything had fallen. The sound of scratching was gone, replaced by a series of faint grunts and gasps, hammering of flesh on wood, a flurry of movement.

  He sat up in bed, shook his head to try and stop the room from spinning―making it worse in the process. He reached over to the bedside table his fingers found the curve of the glass. Glancing over to his enchanted hand, he glared at it. “Not now. . .” he grunted, as he kicked his feet over the side of the bed.

  Knocks rat-a-tated on the bedroom door. It sounded urgent. It could be Ana, he thought, she could need him.

  He looked around in the darkness for a shirt, tried to get his bearings. She didn't need to see him without a shirt, nobody should see him without a shirt. . . All those scars, the patchwork of flesh put back together by crude, uncaring hands. It disgusted him, and he could only imagine it would disgust everyone else who saw it.

  Rafe forced his hand to place the drunkard's glass back down, he knocked the lamp on to the floor in the process.

  “Dammit!” he grunted. The spinning was making him clumsy and useless. The light switch felt too far away in his current state, and as he tried to cast, Rafe discovered that his fingers were magnificently inept, missing one another with the grace of a gazelle trapped in quicksand.

  The knocking continued. “Just a bloody second!” he grumbled. Reaching out into the darkness he found the handle to the drawer of the bedside table and tugged it open. Light flooded into the room. He squinted at the brightness inside, taking hold of the everlit candle lying on its side. Everlits were handy for situations like these, provided light, but didn't burn or melt―perfect for a state of clumsy inebriation.

  Holding the candle aloft, he found his slippers and took to his feet, steadying himself before he bumbled over to the door, that was still being knocked on frantically. With a twist of the handle he tugged it open, Sticky thwac
king him in the face with his handle three times before it realised the door was no longer shut.

  “What?” Rafe shouted. “What do you want?!”

  Sticky twisted in the air, and pointed towards the door, wide open, the rug doing its best to block the intruders from entering.

  “The hell?”

  Rafe took slow, cautious steps towards the door frame, his eyes taking time to refocus, but it was clear that someone―something―was trying to push past the rug and get inside. Not only that, but there was a foul scent on the air. Sulphur. . .

  He checked himself, the glyph was still active. If this was what he thought it was, he would still be protected, for now at least.

  Fighting his better nature to get the hell out, he reluctantly grabbed a corner of the rug and pulled it back, staring directly into the faces of a horde of angry Teloah, groaning and gasping, grunting and moaning.

  “What the hell?”

  The Teloah closest to him snapped its jaw at his fingers, almost taking them off in a hard, sharp bite. Sticky flew across the room and knocked the teeth down the damn thing's throat before it could bite again and find flesh. Tendrils from deep inside the creature's gullet grabbed hold of the stick, and latched it tight in the thing's mouth.

  It was clear that the rug was struggling to keep them back, and with Sticky trapped in one of the Teloah's mouths, Rafe knew the only course of action was retreat. He punched the closest Teloah in the face, knocking its head back. The creature's jaw clacked opened and Sticky was free.

  “Back to the bedroom,” he instructed them both, “On three.”

  Sticky turned to him, in a way that seemed to communicate “Are you sure?”

  Rafe wasn't sure about anything right then, but he knew trying to barricade what was left of the front door was only a temporary measure. Better to retreat, regroup, and come up with their next move.

  “Three.” It wasn't a great plan.

  “Two.” Calling it a plan was, if anything, a stretch.

  “One.” But it was the only plan they had.

  Rafe ran back towards the bedroom, Sticky whipping ahead of him to knock the door open. The rug followed, ripping itself from the clutches of the Teloah it had been holding back. They fell into the living room, one toppling on top of the other, revealing yet more in the street trying to gain access to the house, crawling over the mass of bodies that were writhing on the floor, teeth gnashing, jaws clacking, as they hungered for Rafe's flesh.

  The rug got through the bedroom door, and Sticky slammed it shut, as Rafe pushed the bed in front of it.

  “Okay. . .” he huffed, half out of breath from the exertion. “That was where my plan ended. . . Who's got the next plan?”

  The rug and walking stick glanced towards each another, then turned to him. He felt their judgemental glares, as if this was all his fault, and it should be him who came up with another plan.

  “Fine,” he grunted, throwing fingers through the air.

  “What do you want?” Tali grumbled in his periphery.

  “Door!” he shouted, as the door shunted, the bed scraped across the floor. He pushed it back, trying to hold the damn thing in place.

  “Please would be nice.”

  “Emergency, Tali!”

  “Fine. Where to?”

  He thought for a second, more than a second, mind still drunk and blank and useless. “Anywhere!”

  The Teloah slammed against the door again, enough of a gap for them to slip fingers through, probing and clawing at the bedroom, trying to gain purchase and force themselves deeper into the room.

  Rafe took a breath, grabbed hold of the bed frame and pushed it as hard as he could, slammed the door shut again. Stray fingers slapped against the floor, the sickly scent of sulphur filling the bedroom.

  “You're welcome,” Tali spat, hanging up.

  Rafe turned, grabbed the handle and walked straight through the door. With a thud, his face met the back of the closet.

  “Dammit!” he shouted, as he pulled himself out of the closet and looked around in the darkness for the actual door. He tried to ignore the judgemental stares from the sentient rug and walking stick.

  His fingers found the glossy black paint of the door, and navigated the surface until they got hold of the handle. He turned it and wrenched it open, then glanced back at the rug and stick. “Get to the ceiling. Soon as I'm gone, they'll leave.”

  Reluctantly, the two animated inanimate objects did as instructed. They both wanted to help, but knew better than to disobey his orders.

  Rafe held the bed frame in place until they were out the way, and launched himself through the door, slamming it behind him. If the Teloah were tracking him somehow, they would know he was no longer there. They would turn around, leave the house and head in his current direction.

  The alcohol still saturated in his system, wits still dulled, he just had to hope that the door hadn't dumped him within walking distance of his house. . .

  Chapter 21

  Anaglyph

  Despite not really wanting company, Ana let Lincoln conjure a door. Reluctantly, she let him hold it open for her. And against her better judgement, she walked through it, out to a suburban street somewhere that still looked like London.

  “What the hell are we doing here?” she asked, her tone thick with alcohol-infused insolence. “I thought you said you were going to take me somewhere better. . . This looks like a street someone's grandmother lives on.

  “Just a moment,” Lincoln said, as he led the way.

  He held a small gate open, and ushered her into a garden shared by two small houses that looked identical. Identical, that is, apart from the one on the left having a red door, and the one on the right having a blue door. Ana was not impressed.

  Lincoln raised a finger to indicate for her to wait a moment, and reached into his pocket, retrieving two pairs of glasses. He handed one to her and she stared at them with suspicion. They were tattered old cardboard 3D glasses, the left eye blue and right eye red.

  She glanced between him and the glasses, his wide smile was disconcerting. He gestured for her to put them on, doing so himself whilst she sighed and rolled her eyes. With a disgruntled huff, she folded out the little cardboard arms and slung the glasses on her face. As her eyes adjusted to the red and blue clear plastic, she looked ahead of her. There were no longer two houses, no longer two doors. It was one house, one purple door, and in front of it stood Lincoln with an even wider smile on his face―if that were possible.

  “Welcome to Anaglyph,” he said, as he reached for the door handle and turned it. The door swung open, music and light filled the air of the quiet suburban street. Cautiously, Ana stepped across the threshold, and found a wide smile sitting on her own lips. There was a feeling on the air, as if merely entering was to imbibe of some magickal elixir. And this place was nothing short of magickal: longer, taller and wider than the tiny house that sat on the street outside. The ceilings looked as though they went up forever and ever, disappearing into darkness. Gold and glass chandeliers full of large everlit candles hovered ten feet in the air, rotating to match the beat of the music, sending shadows dancing across the room, interspersed with fractals of light.

  The walls were red brick, but had all manner of plants growing from them. Against one booth, vines crawled up and down. At another, an apple tree bent down and offered its fruit to the magickians at the table. And in the far corner, a fully blooming magnolia tree rained petals down on to an extremely happy looking couple.

  She felt a pit in her gut as she watched them. They were so in love, so jubilant in their perfect magickal life. Ana swallowed over a lump in her throat, she turned to look anywhere else.

  At the centre of the room was a long, low stage that lead to a set of red curtains at the far end of the room. She wondered what kind of shows went on there, and couldn't even begin to imagine the type of cabaret or burlesque that could be performed with the aid of magick.

  She glanced back towards the bar, and
caught Lincoln's eye. He had been staring at her, taking in her amazement at the venue. Once again, his smile was too wide and toothy for her liking, but she was certainly getting used to it.

  “You've never been taken here?” he asked, leading the way to the bar.

  “No.” Her answer was short, and tone curt, because she was all too aware that he had intentionally not used Rafe's name. She would have never found this place by herself―Rafe was her introduction to the world of magick, and if he hadn't brought her there, it was probably for a good reason. Although whether that reason was for her own good, or for his, was another matter entirely.

  “Nightblade,” the bartender said, as he sauntered over. His feet clicked and clopped on the black stony floor beneath the bar, sounding ten times louder than Ana's own footsteps. She peeked over the top of the bar and saw a tail whip through the air, a set of large, oversized jeans with holes revealing furry brown legs beneath, and at the very bottom of them was the source of the loud footsteps; the man's hooves, massive and black, each as large as her own head.

  “What is it?” she whispered to Lincoln.

  The bartender raised an eyebrow and leaned over. “It is a demi-satyr, and it has excellent hearing.”

  Ana could tell her face went bright red in an instant, and she felt a little faint with embarrassment. ”Sorry,” she said, with a tremble in her voice. “You're the first. . . uh. . . nice magickal creature I've met.”

  “Did she call me a creature?” he asked, addressing Lincoln with a scowl.

  “I didn't mean creature in bad way!” she hastily added, “I meant it in the nice way, a compliment, better a creature than a. . . critter, right?”

  He stared at her with big eyes, the size of a cow's, spaced slightly too far apart for a human. She noticed his ears, long and pointed, flipping back and forth every so often, and under his shaggy hairline were two little horns poking out, barely a centimetre long, but they were certainly horns.

  His stony expression broke, and a loud, hefty guffaw bellowed across the bar, sending the scent of rum and chewed grass into her face.