by Lee Isserow
He raised his hands up, and cast to reinforce the barrier. “On three,”
“Two―one!” she shouted, and the two of them propelled the barrier forward.
The creature on top of them was flung through the air, and slammed into the wall of the barn. For a second, it appeared dazed―and that was more than enough time for them to act.
Rafe ran over to the milk jugs, every limb ached, the breath punched him in the chest―but there was no time to waste, no time to recover. He grabbed them and threw them towards the beast.
Ana raised her hands, interlocked her thumbs, as she repeated the motions that Rafe had shown her. The tips of her little fingers met just as they did in the memories she could picture so vividly. Middle three fingers folded in between her palms, her hands rotated to come together as if she were praying. Her tongue twisted its way around ancient words from a long forgotten language. As the last syllable left her lips, she pushed her hands out flat ahead of her, and threw the top hand up towards the brood mother.
It stopped moving.
The constant flow of mucus and slime around its body ceased instantly.
She shot out two fingers from each hand, one for each of the cans, and directed the creatures form to each of them in turn. The viscous sludge beast burst into quarters, each section flowed through the air towards the mouth of the jugs, and as they filled, Rafe slammed the lids on them, and sealed them shut.
As he closed and bound the final can, he collapsed to the floor, gave in to the exhaustion that was running through his entire body. The monster was dealt with. Its human avatar was still unconscious. The job―if it could be called that, given there was no form of payment―was finally over.
He wiped what was left of the seminal fluid on his hand back on his coat and lifted up a shaking finger, dialling the only person he could think of to deal with this mess.
“Hey Tali, clean up on aisle. . . wherever the hell we are. . .”
Chapter 46
To live happily ever after
Rafe and Ana waited for close to an hour whilst Tali put calls through to the relevant departments.
“They'll be with you any minute now, quit hassling me!” she spat, on his sixth call to check in.
“I'm bored,” Ana grumbled.
“Did you like it better when our lives were at risk from a blob monster? Because we can let her out again if you want. . .” He reached towards the closest milk can.
“You do that, and you're on your own, action hero.”
He pulled back from the milk jug instantly, even in jest, he did not like the idea of having the deal with the damn thing all over again.
“I'm. . . so sorry!” said a muffled posh voice from the corner of the barn.
“Guess Romeo's just come out of his spell. . .” Rafe sighed.
“I thought you said they weren't spells?”
“Figure of speech.”
Lincoln crawled out of the hay, bleeding everywhere as he took to his feet, and embarked on slow, cautious steps towards the two of them.
“I didn't mean it! Any of it! I promise, it was that thing, it was in my head!”
Rafe rolled his eyes.
“Do you forgive me Rafey? Ana, do you? I'm truly sorr―”
Ana slammed a fist into his groin, in one part to stop his whining, but also to indicate that she in no way accepted his apology―spores in his head or not, he was a manipulative arse, and she had seen more than enough of his memories to know that he had always had his own interests high above those of others.
Lincoln fell to the floor and gasped for breath, his eyes were wide as pain rocketed through his system.
“Least of what you deserve, jelly-shagger.”
The wooden walls of the barn distorted and shifted, the wooden grain and brown hues gave way to the glossy black of door after door. Each of them burst open, and the room filled with agents coming in from The Circle. Light and fire, shadow and glass danced around their fists, ready to cast and strike down any creature that might attack―but of course, they were too late to deal with such things.
The operatives stood at the ready whilst large, black boots thudded through a door, and their owner surveyed the scene. It looked to Ana as though this man held his muscles in a permanent state of flex. She wasn't sure if his clothes were intentionally skin-tight, or if that was just what happened to all clothes once you gained a certain amount of muscle mass.
She scoffed as he sternly gazed from one milk jug to the next, then to the crumpled heap of Lincoln's body. It seemed to her as though he had cut his salt and pepper hair to make his head resemble a cube, which was was one of the weirdest fashion choices she had seen in the magickal world―and she had seen a lot of weird choices in recent months.
“Thanks for finally making it.” Rafe said, as he forced himself to his feet.
The large man walked over to shake his hand, his heavy, wide strides thundered across the barn.
“Quite a mess,” the man said, in a deep, booming cockney accent.
“Your mess, that we cleaned up,” Ana interjected.
“Don't―” Rafe started, but Ana was way past listening to his objections.
“Seriously, what the hell? You're in charge of this show, and you let a man stick his willy in a glob monster, run away with it to live happily ever after, making babies in how ever many people―do you know how many innocent lives have been lost―”
“We will make sure it's set right,” he said, as he offered her his hand. “Isaiah Faith.”
She snickered, making no attempt to hide the amusement she was taking from his name. He glanced over to Rafe.
“She does that, a lot. You get used to it.”
“Right. . . Well, from what I gather, you're a bloody powerful young lady. Ever thought about leaving the kiddie table and joining―”
“Hey!” Rafe grunted. “That's my partner you're propositioning!”
He didn't need to speak up. Ana was practically rolling around the floor laughing at the prospect of working for The Circle. “You can't even. . . stop your agents. . . from shagging slime!”
Faith glared at her, unamused. He signalled for the agents to clean up the scene.
“Why would I. . . work for a group. . . that can't even. . . run a brewery. . . during a piss-up”
“You've got that the wrong way round,” Rafe offered, but she was too busy cackling to care for his corrections.
Faith realised fairly swiftly that he was not going to get a new agent out of this massive screw up. Without a word, he turned on his heels, gave Rafe a polite nod, and stomped away through a door.
Rafe stood patiently and waited for Ana to stop laughing, catch her breath, and return to her feet.
“I think you made your point,” he said.
“Did I? I can write them a letter with more detailed critique.”
“Not necessary.”
They walked out of the barn towards the pink and yellow hues of the rising sun hanging low on the horizon.
“Thank you,” he muttered. “For not leaving me for The Circle.”
“Oh please! You'd be useless without me,” she scoffed, grabbed hold of his hand, and began to swing it wildly back and forth with their stride.
Walking through the corn that was cut at a foot off the ground, it began growing at an unnatural rate, fast and wild, golden stalks upwards of six feet tall soon surrounding them
Rafe looked over and caught her eye, their smiles mirrored back and forth, as the damage from the whole disaster was being undone bit by bit. The Circle were finally doing their damn job at the tail end of the affair, cleaning up the mess that had been made whilst they were off saving the world elsewhere.
“You know,” Rafe said, “I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship.”
She smirked. “Start?”
“It's from a movie. . .”
“I know it's from a movie.”
“They're walking off into the sunrise, and. . .”
“Yeah, I said I know it!�
�
“So what's the problem?”
“I've known you for months, idiot.”
“So you're being pedantic now, saying our friendship started back then?”
“Do you want to walk home?”
“No.”
“Because I'm gonna turn to mist any second now, can happily leave you here. . .”
“Sorry.”
“For what?”
“I dunno, just felt like this was the kind of thing that an apology would get me out of. . .”
Ana smiled wide, and the two of them exploded into a cloud of mist. As they flew back towards London, a common feeling was shared back and forth between the two of them: it wasn't just the dawn of a new day, but also the dawn of a new, and equal footing for the two of them. And neither could wait to take that dynamic out on a case.
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Keep reading for an exclusive preview of the next book in The Freelancers series!
Rafe and Ana return in
The Prince of Darkness
There's nothing to fear in the shadows...
You should fear the shadows themselves.
A man who can control shadows is terrorising the magical community of London. Performing a grand ritual that could rip the very fabric of reality apart.
Rafe and Ana are reluctant to investigate, it's definitely not their kinda gig - too apocalyptic for their liking...
But when they discover their connection to the Prince of Darkness, they find themselves pulled in to his scheme whether they like it or not.
Because the Shadowmancer is not working alone. Someone is pulling the strings.
And the only way they can find out who, is to bring the entire world to the brink of oblivion.
The Prince of Darkness
Chapter 1
Walk the ritual out
Since moving to London, he had always thought Christ Church was an extraordinary building. The crown jewel of Whitechapel architecture, more so since its renovation. With nothing but time to kill, he circled it, and admired the great spire at the peak that loomed above the broad, hulking white stone shoulders of the building.
The sky was starting to take on a pink hue, or as pink as it could get with London's air pollution. A muddy wash of cerise-tinted grey that implied the sun was considering setting sometime soon.
That was what he was waiting for, night to draw forth. The later he left it, the fewer people would be present, and that meant fewer people that might get hurt.
There had been no time to scope the damn place out. Reconnaissance was a luxury that, like time, was in short supply. He'd have to make do with the memories of previous trips to the market, hoping that the traders hadn't changed their habits since he was last there.
As he came back around the church, he caught sight of market traders as they flocked out of Spitalfields. A man stood at the large metal gate in a black security uniform, and ushered them away. He stood steadfast, back straight and chest puffed out. The guy looked as though he saw himself as one step away from a policeman, but in truth, the impression he was expelling was one of police-lite: the aesthetics of police with none of the sugar, calories or actual authority.
As he watched the security guard, he tried to force a chuckle at the thought, but it brought no real levity. There was no good humour in a situation like this, not even close.
There was no closing time for the market, not officially. The only closing time that vaguely mattered was that for the mundane market that the security guard was locking up. And even then, it only acted as the gateway to the mystical market that was his intended destination.
He waited, watched, as the guard tugged at the gates to insure they were locked, then walked down the street and turned the corner to check the next set of gates.
The sun was inching its way down in the sky, deep blues taking over from the pink. There was no putting it off, not any longer. It was time to act.
He walked across the road, and headed towards the locked gates. Not that gates or locks or physical walls were of any consequence to him. There was little that could stand in the way of someone with his adept.
With barely a thought, he crossed realms, traversed through the gates and doors with little effort on his part, and emerged on the other side in Spitalfields market. He mused momentarily, that not long ago such a thing would distress his stomach―to cross realms would literally flip him head over heels. But these days, he was more than a man, and more than a magickian. He was as much a part of the realm as it was a part of him. It was under his skin, flowed through his veins.
He walked a circuitous route around the empty, silent market. This was not his destination, but there was no direct route to his destination, not even between realms. He had to walk the ritual out, steps forming a grand sigil across Spitalfields. And more than that, he had to hope that his memory of the sigil's route wasn't going to fail him.
As he crossed through stalls, he appreciated the silence, a moment of calm before the inevitable chaos. The traffic out on Commercial Road was muted by the walls and vaulted ceilings of the grand building, that was the size of a whole city block.
Carefully, he stepped between wooden picnic tables set up between a series of food stalls, and found his eyes darting around, ears pricked up for the stray sounds of security guards on patrol. He hoped they wouldn't come, that they had better things to be doing down at the pub. . . He didn't want to have to hurt anyone, not for this, not so early in the damn job.
Finally, he was in the last stretch of the ritual, the door to the market just up ahead. The first half of this incursion, the easier half, was almost over. The second half, the one which had a myriad unknown variables and potential for violence, was still to come.
Three steps left to the door, he took a deep breath.
Two more steps, a short, sharp exhale.
One more step, and he closed his eyes.
The solid wood of the grey door bent around him as the sigil was sealed, and for a moment, it felt as though he were wading through a pool of water.
The moment passed, and with it came the raucous chatter and noise of the market. He was no longer in Spitalfields―he was on the other side. . . and all the closer to doing what needed to be done.
Before he went any further, he spun around, turned his back on the market. He couldn't risk his face being seen, couldn't risk being recognised. Not that he was exactly well known with those of a magickal disposition. . . But he had been caught on news cameras a while back, and even though The Circle had dialled back the memories of everyone in the world who saw that destructive spectacle, he couldn't risk that those within the market were immune to that re-writing of reality.
He took a breath, closed his eyes, and tried with all his might to remember the casting just as his grandmother had taught it to him. The first step was to picture his own face in mind's eye. Next, he traced his first and middle fingers from jaw to temples, and let out an exhalation as the flesh of his thumbs met his chin, then again as ring fingers graced his forehead and little fingers grazed his nose. He tried to recall the words he had been taught, not that his tongue could pronounce them. But his grandmother's tongue was more dexterous, and he heard them in his head, just as she had spoken them. He pictured his intent, the face in mind's eye began to distort, as he disguised his visage with faces borrowed from everyone he had ever seen.
In an instant, it was done. He was shrouded, and turned back to the market, a frown etched on each of the faces that shifted and shimmered to hide his own. The place was still a vibrant hum of activity, traders and shoppers filled the slim aisles for close to a square mile. He cursed himself for being so naïve as to think it would have been any other way. . . After all, the doors that lined the massive stone walls led to markets across the globe, and there was no reason to close down shop when customers came from all possible time zones.
He walked onwards, followed a vaguely recalled map in his head, a direction in
mind. As he sidestepped between stalls, doing his best to ignore the cries and shouts of market traders attempting to hock their wares, he wondered if being shrouded would alert someone's suspicions. Then again, he reminded himself, there are some that wouldn't want to be seen strolling through a den of inequity and questionable legality such as the market. The traders, let alone the security homunculi, were probably more than used to seeing such things. Of course, when he began to embark on the task he was actually there to do, it would certainly draw their ire. . .
He ducked away from the stalls, and silently wished that the aisles were wider, as the stall owners seemed to insist on shouting about their products directly into the face of anyone who walked by. He had no need for troll spit or enenra smoke. In fact, he wouldn't even know what to do with it even if it was given as a gift. The traders were there to sell to magickians that knew their craft better than he. The kind of people that knew potions and concoctions and so on.
As much as his adept meant he was brewing with magick, the fact was he only knew a small number of castings. He was, in the grand scheme of things, a magickian in name only, with no formal training beyond his matriarch's best intentions to teach the basics.
Finally, after what seemed like a half hour of fighting his way between stall and customer alike, his destination was in sight. He stepped out of the aisle and walked towards the fountain at the very centre of the market.
There was nothing about it that suggested it was anything other than a mundane body of water, barely a foot deep, with unkempt old grey stones strewn around it in a circle. But as with everything in the magickal world, he knew full well that nothing is ever what it seems at face value. . .
He glanced at the bottom of the shallow pool, shiny pennies glittered at him with sheens of copper and silver. The wishes of others, slowly rusting. A custom adopted by mundanes, with no clue as to the magickal origin.