Orella stared suspiciously at the steaming mushrooms on her plate. She leant over them with a loud sniff. “Well, something smells funny. Morgan, you sure you’re using the right mushrooms? You didn’t pick any with white spots did you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Morgan hurried over from the oven and took a sniff. “They smell fine to me.”
They were interrupted by a voice. “Is there a place at that table for one more?”
My stomach plummeted in dismay as I spied Seth lounging against the kitchen doorway. My brain offered up some colourful names to call him, but I held back with some effort. I looked at Orella, then to Morgan and prepared myself for inevitable outrage, but neither woman looked surprised. Last time Morgan had found Seth sneaking out, she’d chased him with a broom.
“Good morning, Captain Hallow,” Orella said.
“How do you fare this morning, teacher?” Seth asked with an indulgent smile.
Morgan sat down next to Orella, hands wrapped around a cup of herbal tea. “Lora. You know I don’t like men of his character in this house. What will the neighbours think?” Her tone was too calm and cool.
My mouth opened and closed a few times. “You both knew.”
Morgan shot me a look meant to shame. “You made enough noise last night.”
I did another impersonation of a goldfish before snapping my mouth shut with a frown.
“Those mushrooms sure smell good.” Seth took a step into the kitchen.
Orella stopped eating and raised a nicotine-orange finger. “Take another step and I’ll curse your cock with toad-warts. Your filthy sort isn’t welcome around me and what’s mine.”
Seth looked startled at the mention of his cock, then recovered with a casual shrug. He threw me an easy smile. “Anon’s mighty balls, a man only needs to hear that once. I’ve got to report for duty anyway. See you next time, Dimples.”
He disappeared and we all listened to the front door shut. I straightened my back, stuck my jaw out. “I’m not going to apologise. My life is my own to lead. I don’t want either of you giving me a hard time.”
Morgan stood and retrieved the kettle, pouring me a cup of delicious black coffee. “Drink your coffee.” She pushed over a small pot of jam. “Try this. It’s orange and raspberry, with a hint of chilli. I made it last season. It preserved very well with some new spices Orella gave me.”
“What kind of spices?” I eyed the pot suspiciously, thinking of all the strange pots and powders in Orella’s shop. I loved her cooking, but sometimes it was wise not to ask what you were eating.
“It’s made up of a teaspoon of cinnamon, a grinding of armadillo claw and a pinch of dried lemon ants. Good for your respiratory system,” Orella supplied.
I shrugged. Wasn’t the worst thing I’d swallowed. I picked up a knife and slathered the gooey conserve on a slice of bread, devouring it in three bites. The taste was tart, chased by a chilli bite and I quickly drained the rest of my coffee, burning my mouth. My eyes darted between Orella and Morgan speculatively. I opened my mouth to say more in my defence, but Orella cut me off with a glare. “Don’t you say anything. His kind is the worst sort of filth.”
“That’s a bit strong, isn’t it?” I tried weakly. Though it was pretty common knowledge Seth was a man with rather liberal moral views, I didn’t really understand Orella’s objections. I had half a suspicion she knew something I didn’t, but she had a habit of changing the subject when asked about it.
“He’s corrupt and dangerous.” Morgan poured herself a cup of coffee and rose from the table, shaking her head like she was disappointed in me. I had to admit, though I bitched about Morgan trying to nursemaid me, her disapproval was like Orella’s: something to avoid. Morgan leant a hip against the sink. “I don’t want to see him in this house again.”
“You’re not the boss of me.”
“Don’t you talk to her like that,” Orella was cleaning her plate, fork scraping up the last of the mushrooms. “I taught you to respect your elders.”
I threw my hands up in silent protest, knowing I couldn’t win against both of them. Orella sat back with a burp, rubbing her belly. “Gideon sent me over with some shopping bags you left at Blackgoat, and to remind you about your lunch meeting today at the Brown Bear Saloon.”
“You think he’s still angry over…” I stopped and swallowed, not wanting to remember what I’d seen that night: the corrupted flesh and mangled limbs as Sigwell turned. “…what happened with Benjamin the Bloody’s brother and Sigwell?”
She grunted. “Who can say what a satyr thinks?”
“What do you think?”
Orella pulled out a short wooden pipe from a pocket in her skirts and stuck it in the corner of her mouth, looking like she wasn’t going to answer me.
“You’re not going to smoke that in here, are you?” Morgan asked her pointedly as Orella went to strike a match. “The smell gets into my herbs. I’ve already had to confiscate a box of Lora’s cigars. I won’t have them in this house.”
I gave a start. “What? You went through my shopping?”
Morgan had the grace to look embarrassed. “I just had a peek in one bag and accidently found them.”
“Kianna’s blessed tits.” I raised my voice, thankful she hadn’t come across the quick-draw and gun. “You’re not my keeper. I want those smokes back before I leave today.”
“If you get caught with them, you’ll have to pay a huge fine to get out of jail…again.” Morgan drained her coffee, turning to rinse the cup in the sink. “I’ll never understand why you think the risk is worth it.”
I opened my mouth argue just how much a nice cigar meant to me, when Orella got to her feet. With a jerk of her head, she motioned for me to follow her. “I’ll just take this outside then, shall I?”
Casting Morgan a glowering look, I followed Orella outside the back door by the sink, and into my backyard. A biting wind sliced unmercifully through my dressing gown and I rubbed my arms, shivering. Spring was clipping at winter’s heels, but the sky was still grey, the weather menacing and the mornings uninviting. Even the ash trees that lined the street were holding in their new life, as if reluctant to have their blossoms and leaves seared by the lingering chill. Shivering, I wished I were still in bed, alone. I also wished I had thought to wear some slippers. Hopping from one foot to the other on the cold ground, I tried to warm myself and not flatten a row of beetroot tops in the vegetable garden, which dominated my small backyard. I blew on my cold hands. “Maybe I should go in and get some shoes.”
“Maybe you should just shut your mouth,” Orella snapped. “Now, come here. I don’t want to shout.”
She struck a match and lit her pipe, stalking to the very back of the garden, near the brick wall that marked out the yard. Standing near Orella, I leaned forward, trying to inhale some of the clouds of spiced tobacco as she huffed and puffed away.
“Did Gideon tell you the contract on your head is still live?” Orella asked.
“Yeah, yeah. I know I’m still popular. No one seems to have taken it yet though.”
“That’s because people are hesitant to cross Gideon,” Orella replied. “But that won’t last. There are those desperate enough to try.”
“I’ll be ready,” I assured her, trying to look capable as I rubbed my arms. Orella fell silent and I thought to risk a question. “Don’t suppose you’ve heard any unusual news these days?”
Orella’s murky grey eyes met mine. “What do you mean by that?”
“Anything…strange.” I flapped a vague hand about. “I’ve heard some wild stories about this so-called Butcher killer. Even that there might be a connection to what happened at the Church of Saint Pendergrast.”
“Pendergrast? Where the nephilim committed suicide?” Orella’s brow furrowed, shadowing her eyes. “You think it’s the same individual?”
“I don’t know,” I said quickly. “Just heard rumours, is all.”
Orella puffed a few more times, saying nothing, just staring
at me through clouds of smoke, her eyes flat. I was well aware I could never be accused of being overly sensitive to people’s feelings. Not that you could blame me, what with being raised by an elf-witch with no concept of social niceties and a satyr who lived with one cloven hoof perpetually in his mouth. But I had enough sense to know something was wrong, so I waited patiently for Orella to explain in plain language what was on her mind. She waited, then said, “I’m also supposed to talk to you about a job. Gideon has assigned it to you and it will be challenging.”
“I can do challenging.”
“It’s another exorcism.”
I blanched. “Is he insane?”
Orella opened her mouth to answer, but then bent over in a coughing fit, her shoulders shaking with the force of it. I gave her a couple of pats on the back, asking if she wanted water, but she just shook her head, the gold hoops in her ears clinking. She finally straightened, wiping her mouth. I frowned at her.
“How long have you had that cough?”
Orella grumbled something, dismissing my question with a wave of her hand. She went to take another puff, but I snatched it off her. “I think you’ve had quite enough of that.”
“Look, Lora. Gideon knows what he’s doing.” She returned to our conversation, watching me as I gave her pipe an absent puff. My thoughts flew back to that night, of the grilling Orella had given me the day after the exorcism. I had lain in my bed, my injuries and mind numbed by herbs and alcohol, still confused as to why the exorcism had gone so wrong. Orella had been very upset. It was as if she was convinced something had changed within me that night and that the failure had been on my part. It was as if she was worried I’d done something terrible. I remembered with a flash of guilt the fuss she had made about my charm, checking if I was still wearing it, saying its luck should have protected me more. Naturally I’d been wearing it, the stupid thing hadn’t broken in two yet, and Orella’s old eyes had failed to identify the crack, as had I. An unformed suspicion took root in my mind.
“I need you to be careful, Lora,” Orella was saying. “These are strange times.”
“How so?”
“There was a blood moon in the night sky a few weeks ago,” Orella said. “Since then, there have been reports of an imbalance in the craft. I suspect the ley-lines have been somehow disturbed. Perhaps that is what went wrong with Sigwell’s exorcism.”
“Is an imbalance something serious?”
Orella gave a noncommittal grunt. “The ley-lines are the foundation of the craft. If the foundation shifts, the house is weak. It is estimated they will settle soon enough.”
I pinched my nose, remembering my headache. “Then why are we doing another exorcism?”
“Gideon tells me it is for a very important client. He asked I attend as the secondary to support and supervise you,” Orella said.
I stamped my feet again, casting nervous glances at her. As a rule, an exorcism always required two individuals. One to perform the spell of banishment, and one to relieve the first, if the going got tough. Sigwell had been a grizzly man, all scars and old age. A man who knew his business, knew enough not to make a mistake. When it’d all gone badly, I’d done what I had been taught to do. Contain the situation. Neutralise all threats. And when both had come at me, claws of bone ripping from their bodies, jaws disconnecting and eyes turned inside out, I had defended myself. I’d never seen anything like it and Orella had been at a loss to explain to me what had happened. Didn’t help matters that the deformities had disappeared after I had chopped their heads off. I tried again.
“What happened…do you think it was my fault?”
Orella held her hand out for her pipe and I handed it back without argument. She took a long draw, then expelled the smoke through her wide nostrils. “We’ll know for sure soon enough.”
Chapter 9
My meeting with Gideon and the client wasn’t for another couple of hours. Orella had left with a prickly kiss on my cheek, while Morgan had set about making some bread.
I tossed up the option of staying home and feeling Morgan’s accusing vibes through the walls, or from a neighbourhood away.
Decision made easily enough, I went to my bedroom and wrestled my hair into a bun at the nape of my neck. Sliding into a black-leather pant-jacket ensemble, I fixed a bowler hat on my head, then swept on a woollen overcoat. My work-belt got strapped on the outside of the overcoat; pockets within easy reach and the satchel slung over one shoulder.
Before I left, I knelt in one corner of my bedroom and pried up a floorboard. Inside the small cavity lay a plain lock-box with a combination lock. I had two hidey-holes in the room. There was this one, and the other was a false bottom in the trunk at the end of my bed. Dialling the knob to enter the code, I unlocked the lid and lifted out a small leather-bound book. I’d come into possession of this special little book nearly ten years ago. It contained the kind of outlawed spells that would be an instant death sentence at the hands of a Regulator. Touching the cover for a moment, the face of the tattooed nephilim flashed through my mind. Shaking my head to clear my thoughts, I tucked the book into my satchel and placed the floorboard carefully back in place. Taking the stairs as fast as I dared, I snagged my cane from beside the front door and was soon on my way with a shouted goodbye to Morgan.
Outside, I hurried down the stone steps. Grey clouds hung low. A cool mid-morning wind tickled my face and I gave a yawn, straining my neck to one side and hearing a satisfying crack.
I owned a little home on Toxeth Street, deep in Applecross. It was a narrow terraced house, built in red brick with a ratty slate roof and bad plumbing. It was a cosy home and I loved it. The walls were thick enough that I didn’t hear the neighbour’s troubles and was left well enough alone. I considered myself lucky to live in a neighbourhood where the Bowley Street Boys sent working girls, rather than hard men, to collect the monthly protection payment. The threat of a broken leg can be a great motivator, but so can a pretty woman’s smile. Even I got compliments when it was payday. And I did pay. Everyone paid.
The street itself was relatively well kept, if not a little worn and prone to flooding when the summer rains came about. Broad-leafed trees and street lamps lined the road.
The year I’d moved in, the ash tree out the front of my house had grown freakishly large, it’s trunk twisting and morphing, cracking the pavement with its swollen roots. Complaints had been made and tests had been done, but no one seemed to have the nerve to cut the monstrous thing down. Since it had happened after I’d moved in, my neighbours saw it as a rather alarming omen and took great care to avoid any interaction with me. As if the colour of my hair wasn’t reason enough. Touching the medallion of Anon through my shirt, I thought about how Seth was pretty damned good at being sneaky. I’d learnt a lot from him over the years.
Leaning on my cane, I set off. Since I was having trouble finding Spink, and Vivian had nothing, an idea had germinated in my mind. Asking Gideon for any information he might have was an option, but I was sure he’d like the idea of me helping the City Watch even less than Orella. The idea I was having was dangerous, but it could be done.
I visited a peddler I knew, who operated his business in an alley behind a row of tinker and metalsmith shops. He sold voodoo dolls and novelty hats, but like any peddler worth his salt, the good stuff was hidden from view. We greeted each other cordially, remarked on the weather and then I placed my order and parted with an obscene amount of money.
The peddler rummaged behind his cart for a few minutes before passing me a heavy paper bag. Tucking it into my satchel, I hurried on my way, trying to not think of the money I had just spent. After all, Caleb had promised to reimburse me any expenses. I just hoped he wasn’t going to ask me to itemise.
My pace slowed as I realised there was a knot of people ahead, heads bent together. Normally I avoided crowds, but this one drew me in. The sombre air and the low murmurings usually meant one thing.
Death.
Elbowing my way past peop
le, I arrived at the front and then wished I hadn’t. A couple of dour faced constables kept the crowds at a distance, but the body was easy to see. It lay in the middle of the street, limbs splayed and blood splattered in wide arcs, looking like fallen wings. I spied Seth to my left, talking to someone in the crowd. His head was bare and he wore his leather greatcoat. My eyebrows rose when I spied Caleb squatting at the feet of the victim, scribbling in a notebook. His face was lined in concentration, his uniform ironed and his peaked helmet freshly brushed.
This area was nowhere near Caleb’s jurisdiction and I wondered what Seth thought about it. My eyes shifted back to the body. The legs and arms ended in bloody stumps and my eyes caught a gaping wound between the corpse’s eyes. My stomach gave a heave-ho sensation at the sight of gore at this time in the morning. There were some things that were hard to handle just after your morning coffee.
“Was it witchcraft then?”
A voice shouted near me and I winced, touching my sore head. Turning, I saw the speaker was a man with a stiff blacksmith apron and mustard-coloured beard. “Was it darkcraft then?” he bellowed again, his question directed at the two Captains. Seth strolled over his eyes honing in on the blacksmith.
“Tell me, my good man, are you privy to some information I am not?” Seth drawled as he drew closer.
“Just looks like the work of the infernal to me.” The blacksmith’s gaze dropped in the face of Seth’s withering stare.
“Sounds to me that you might know something on this matter.” Seth gave a grim smile. The man shrank into himself and tried to take a few steps back, though the crowd, sensing some fun, closed in and did not allow him retreat. Feeling sorry for the blacksmith, I spoke up. “Captain Hallow. Always good to see responsible abuse of authority.”
Seth’s smile turned genuine as his eyes settled on me. “Lady Blackgoat. A tad early in the morning for a lady of leisure, isn’t it? I would have thought last night’s adventures would have worn you out.” He winked theatrically to the crowd around me. They in turn chuckled, hiding smiles behind raised hands.
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