Ender of Worlds: A Morgan Rook Supernatural Thriller (The Order of Shadows Book 4)

by Kit Hallows

  “Like a dead body.” Samuel said.

  I took a deep sniff. All I could smell was earth and pine but there was definitely a trace of malice hanging in the air. And a feeling of hidden eyes watching.

  “This entire place is rigged,” Astrid said.

  “What with?”

  “Spells to deter trespassers. They’re mostly aimed at warding off blinkereds, but I’m guessing they’re going to get stronger and probably switch from magical to physical the closer in we get.”

  We continued up the slope and the ground leveled out and we passed through a clearing with a pond at its center. It was only a few yards long and wide, and yet I got the distinct feeling the waters ran deep. And that there were things within its depths that I’d sooner not encounter.

  I glanced over as something moved on the far side of the pond. A squat, reddish-brown dog, its eyes glowing as it raised its head. It took a step toward us and I could see there was something very wrong with it. It lurched forward again, its gait almost a limp. As if it was injured.

  Several others lingered behind it in the shadowy tree line. At least five or six; they were hounds, hunting dogs. They stared at me for a moment, and then to the leader as he raised his head and gave a half-strangled bark.

  “Shit,” Samuel said as he pulled his bow from his shoulder.

  I reached for my gun but realized it would be too loud and the last thing we needed in this place was to draw attention to ourselves.

  Daggers gleamed in Astrid’s hands as the pack spread out and advanced.

  “They’re infected. Restless,” Samuel said, and I knew by their strange bounding stride that he was right. Every single one of them was dead. Yet they ran toward us, their jaws wide, their eyes glowing, and their teeth like shards of flint.

  36

  As the dogs charged from the shadows, I saw the raw red holes along their bodies. They looked like gunshot wounds and their fur was matted with dried black blood.

  The wet stench of their decomposition came at us in a wave. Samuel loosed an arrow and struck the pack leader in the throat but it didn’t faze the beast. It still came at me, its unblinking milky-blue eyes locked onto mine, like there was no one else in the world, just me and him.

  I planted my feet firmly, steadying myself as the sword of intention flashed in the gloom. The alpha growled and slowed as the rest of the pack fanned out around him and prepared to attack. Another arrow struck one of the hounds, but it didn’t flinch. I kept my eyes on the leader as Astrid ran toward me, daggers in hand.

  The lead dog lunged. I swung the sword to decapitate it, but another hound charged, intercepting the blow. The blade struck its flank and stuck, the momentum knocking us both off our feet.

  I tried to pull the blade free but before I could, the pack leader was on me. I grabbed the rank wet fur around his throat and thrust him back as his jaws snapped in my face. The stench was horrific.

  He was strong. Stronger than me. It was only a matter of moments…

  Astrid descended on him, her knife flashing above his dark silhouette. He yelped but there was no reaction or pain in his eyes. Just a killing intent. He turned on Astrid but I held it tight with one hand and grabbed the hilt of Talamos Gin’s knife with my other, pulling it from its sheath. I brought it up to the beast’s throat and it slipped through it like it was nothing more than wet newspaper. The blade kept going, arcing up through its skull and emerging stained with gore. I grimaced as I pushed him back and dozens of fat pale maggots tumbled from its carcass and wriggled upon my chest. The revulsion gave me a second wind and I hurled his twitching corpse off of me.

  I was barely up before another hound lunged, knocking the dagger from my hand. I fell and grabbed its sopping wet snout, forcing it shut as I held it back. The thing was relentless, a killing machine. Its lifeless eyes bored into mine as it twisted its head and the slather around its lips frothed and foamed. As my fingers sunk into its fur, I caught a glimpse of the monster that had created it.

  A burst of light hit my eyes. Like a flash bulb in a dark room then a snapshot of Endersley filled my mind’s eye. I saw him standing over me… no, not me, the dog. A smile tugged his lips, like he was about to receive a much longed for reward. And then a man with a flat cap fired a shotgun. The dog collapsed and Endersley rushed over and slipped a long needle into the wound, his eyes wide with anticipation.

  The connection burned the tips of my fingers as I shoved the dog away and leaped to my feet. It fell back, snarling as I seized the dagger from the ground and lopped its head off. I sheathed the blade and retrieved the sword of intention from the carcass of the dead dog near the pond. The mhudambe blade was too vital, and dangerous.

  I turned as Samuel backed toward the woods, firing a volley of arrows. Astrid struggled under a hound that had pinned her down. “Come!” I called to the zombified dog snapping at Astrid. It looked my way, and I swung the sword, sending its head flying into the murky water. I yanked its corpse off Astrid and jumped back as another dog flew past me.

  Two more followed, but their loping gait was impeded by the arrows lodged in their legs. I stepped toward them, swung hard and fast, and eliminated them one by one.

  I felt sick. For the devastation, and the way these poor beasts had been mistreated. My sword sank into the ground as I leaned on its handle and tried to steady myself. Nausea passed through me and bile scorched my throat. I leant over and puked as white dots danced before my eyes.

  “Here,” Samuel said as he held out an expensive handkerchief. I took it, noting that the gold and scarlet monogram in the corner was not his.

  “Thanks.” I wiped my face and offered it back, half smiling as he flinched.

  “Keep it. Or better yet, burn it.”

  “What about them?” Astrid glanced at the dead hounds. “We can’t just leave this mess here. Someone’s bound to come across it.”

  “Right,” I agreed. I grabbed one of the dogs by its slack leg, dragged it to the pond and shoved it in. It wasn’t exactly the most thorough or pleasant solution, but the clock was ticking. We worked together and cleared most of the carnage away before setting off under the steadily darkening sky.

  The thin trail that led away from the meadow was buried under dead fern fronds and leaf litter, but we followed it as best we could. It took us to the edge of a clearing and there at the center was The Lodge; a sprawling stone walled mansion with a gabled roofline and dark arched windows. Snaking past the cold facade was a pebbled drive peppered with weeds. As it swept away from the house it transitioned into a long, potholed road that vanished into the forest. A stagnant fountain loomed over the unkempt lawn. Its centerpiece was a buxom woman clutching a trident, her once alabaster skin colored green by the algae flourishing in the thick putrid water.

  “Nice place,” Samuel said.

  “It was once,” I said. “Too bad old man Lampton’s let it go to seed.” I turned to Astrid. “Have you spotted any traps?”

  “There's one by the fountain, but we should be fine if we keep our distance.”

  “He probably figures no one's crazy enough to come near this place,” Samuel said. “And he has good-” He stopped as something clicked behind us.

  The unmistakable snap of a shotgun barrel locking into place.

  37

  The man wore a flat tweed cap that left most of his face in shadows, but his white glowing eyes stood out well enough. So did the shotgun pointed our way. It took a moment to register the true cadaverousness of his appearance; the bloodless gash in his cheek that was so deep it exposed muscle and bone. As well as the mauling claw marks that could only have been a result of tangling with the undead hounds.

  “He’s one of them. He’s infected.” Astrid whispered.

  The zombie glanced at the shotgun. His face lined with concentration as his eyes flitted over the weapon. He was struggling to work out what to do next.

  “Be quick,” Astrid said as she darted into the gloom. He followed her movement, and I was about to dis
arm him when he jerked the barrel back my way.

  “Now hold up there.” Samuel said easily, like the matter was of no serious consequence. As if the zombie had merely caught its coat upon a nail. “I don’t think you’re supposed to be pointing that thing at us.”

  The zombie gurgled and turned its weapon toward Samuel.

  “Did you know that over five hundred Wednesdays have gone missing since the day was named?” Samuel asked, and somewhere, hidden within his nonsense was a spell of confounding. “Or that the flies that land around cows’ eyes are collecting tears to top up the seas. Yes, cow tears are highly sought after and often-” Samuel took the gun from the zombie and stepped back. “Something or other.”

  The zombie growled and lumbered toward him. I pulled my sword and swung, decapitating it just as Astrid emerged from the shadows, to presumably do the same thing.

  “Another one of Endersley’s hideous experiments,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Samuel agreed, “it’s looking like Lampton merrily handed over his groundskeeper and those hounds to the sicko.”

  “This place is insane,” I said, before glancing back to the house. “And there’s the heart of it. How are we going to get in?”

  “Leave that to me.” Samuel pointed to a window on the ground floor. “Wait over there.” Then he turned with his trademark flourish and jogged into the trees.

  We made our way around, hugging the shadowy tree line until we reached the closest point between the woods and the house, then we ran low, leaping over the graveled drive and landing in the tall brown grass near the window.

  I glanced back toward the squalid fountain and the shadowy unkept garden, glad for Astrid’s company. The place reeked of evil and neglect, and I tried not to think about the innumerable dark deeds that must have taken place here over the decades.

  “Morgan,” Astrid whispered, just before the window behind us slid open and Samuel appeared. He smiled but there was tension in his eyes. Astrid slipped through first and I passed my sword up to them before following her.

  The hall was like a haunting memorial to faded grandeur. The once elegant maroon damask wallpaper was mostly faded, washed out to a sickly pinkish brown, and great swaths of it were torn or peeling. Everything was dusty and unkempt, from the oak tables dotted with expensive looking trinkets, to the framed portraits hanging along the wall. One was of a man in his early twenties. If I hadn't known better I might have confused Lampton for his grandson. They had the same severely parted black hair and cold beady eyes but his attire was from a lost era. And below it, on a stand, was a framed photograph of Lampton with his grandson standing in what looked like a penthouse overlooking the city. Their body language was stern and domineering, as was the hard look in their eyes, the image itself seeming to suggest the city was theirs and theirs alone.

  I glanced up as music began to play upstairs. Bach, Cello Suite No.1. Thanks to Mrs. Fitz I knew it like the back of my hand. I listened intently. Below the quieter refrains came the sound of footsteps on creaking boards.

  “Come on,” I whispered as I led Astrid and Samuel along the sparsely furnished hallway and past the bust of a soulless looking man with hard, cruel eyes that overlooked the foot of the stairs.

  We were about halfway up the first flight when a strange flickering lightning-like flash filled the hallway, but no rumble of thunder followed.

  38

  Astrid and Samuel shrugged as I glanced back at them. The strange flash was clearly as much a mystery to them as it was to me. I nodded for us to continue, cautiously expecting someone to appear on the landing above.

  At the top of the stairs was a short corridor that led to a room with candlelight flickering over a dusty floor. We moved toward it, each of us tensed for whatever lay ahead.

  The room beyond was spacious but sparsely decorated with paintings and a few dreary objets d'art displayed on tables and stands. In the corner, sitting by an old-fashioned record player, was Lampton. He wore a crumpled blazer over wrinkled satin pajamas and was too absorbed with pouring himself a glass of brandy or whiskey from a decanter to notice us.

  He didn’t look well. His hair was still severely parted though it had thinned considerably, and what little of it that was left was the color of ash and snow. Liver spots marred most of his gaunt wrinkled face and his hand shook as he took a desperate gulp from his glass and stared out through the drape-less window.

  I drew my sword and scanned the room for undead servants, as Astrid slipped into the shadows. The music dipped and as it did, Lampton raised his glass and toasted his reflection. “To your good health, sir,” he said, his voice little more than a rasp.

  “Cheers!” I said.

  He turned my way and his startled eyes grew wide with fear then fury. He reached down beside his chair and raised a handgun. “Who the fucking hell are you?” he demanded.

  “Charmed, I’m sure,” I said. “I suggest you put the gun down.”

  “So do I.” Samuel stepped into the flickering light, his bow tensed as Astrid appeared before Lampton, dagger in hand.

  Lampton scowled, and it took him a moment, but eventually he set his gun down on the armrest. Astrid snatched it away and it disappeared into the folds of her cloak.

  “If you came here to rob me, then you’ll leave as paupers,” Lampton said, with a short, bitter laugh. I watched him closely, as if I was dealing with a cobra. There was no question the man had access to magic. Summoning and enslaving a succubus had been no small feat, but it seemed his skills had atrophied along with his physique and the splendor of his home. He looked tired and feeble as I crossed the room and plucked the needle from the record.

  “Philistine,” Lampton spat, still attempting to convey control.

  “I came to talk about your grandson and the plans he’s been hatching with Stroud and Endersley.”

  “I don’t have the slightest idea what-”

  “We know about it all,” I said. “The portals, the Silver Spiral. The restless disease.”

  “Restless disease?”

  “The contagion that reanimated your hounds and their master.”

  “Oh, those things.” Lampton nodded. “What of ‘em?”

  “Your dogs and your groundskeeper, or whatever the poor bastard was, aren’t of any consequence to you?” I asked, even though I was pretty sure I already knew the answer.

  “Dogs?” Lampton shrugged. “They’re just dogs, and as for Baxter, he was a miserable, drunken blinkered. Nothing to be missed or mourned, as I often say. Is that why you’re here? All this trouble’s over blinkered old Baxter and a pack of bloody hounds?” His words were slurred but I could see the booze hadn’t entirely impaired his concern over his own mortality.

  “No. I’m here about Endersley, Stroud and their connection to your grandson.” I fixed his gaze to mine, snatched his whiskey away and slammed it down on the record.

  Lampton stared me in the eye, and for an instance I caught a glimpse of the man he’d once been. Then I took another step toward him and he shrank back in his chair. “I’ve never had any encounters with Stroud,” he said, “but I know of him. Through Prentice Sykes.”

  “How did you meet Sykes?”

  Lampton shrugged, as if the information were of no consequence. “He sought me out.” Lampton sat up in his seat and added, “My family has achieved a great many things in this dreary little world you know.”

  “What did Sykes want?”

  “To open a portal. In exchange for treasures.”

  “A portal to Penrythe?”

  “Yes, that’s what he called it. Penrythe. That was where he said he was from, and that he’d found his way to our world after hearing about it in a place called The Hinterlands. Said he’d had to pay a fortune to be brought here, but he’d gotten himself stuck, somehow or other.”

  “Hence wanting help to open a portal,” I said.

  “Indeed. And in exchange he promised to return with lots of priceless trinkets for me.” Lampton smiled. “Naturally I agre
ed to it, more for the promise of knowledge than treasure. After that it was a simple matter of opening the damned thing. I won’t deny it was a little beyond the bounds of my abilities, formidable though they were.” He paused and gave a hacking cough.

  I glanced round for some water but there was none, so I handed him the whiskey and he took a greedy swallow, before thrusting the glass back at me. “Continue,” I said, ignoring his clumsy stab at dominance.

  “I asked Sykes what the simplest way to open a portal would be and he explained that one approach he’d heard of was the focus of many, many minds. He also said there was an inherent risk, because attempting to do this could cause them to break.” A thin smile passed over Lampton’s lips. “So I considered his warning carefully, because openly propagating madness wouldn’t go unnoticed. But what difference would it make if the minds we used were already broken? And I just so happened to know a place where we could find such folk.”

  “Galloway.”

  “Someone give the lug a prize,” Lampton responded. “Yes, Galloway Asylum. The only problem was the owner was a putrid little God botherer, a real boy scout. So I sent my she-devil to work her wiles on him. It didn’t take long for her to get him wrapped around her little finger. Then it was just a matter of waiting for a particularly fortuitous phase of the moon and drugging the patients to get the bloody portal open. It was a roaring success actually, we only lost a few of the wall gazers in the process, not enough to register on the authorities’ radar.”

  “And then what?” I asked as Lampton drifted into nostalgic reverie.

  His eyes flashed my way. “I made a shit ton of money which bought me a shit ton more influence. Sykes went back and forth between worlds and brought me treasures in return for keeping the portal open and my mouth shut.”

  “Treasures like this?” Samuel asked as he picked up a small silver figurine from the mantelpiece. A soldier, with a helmet shaped like a wolf's head. The sight of it jarred me. I’d seen armor like that before, in a foggy distant memory. “This looks like it was a part of the royal collection.”