Thunder rumbled over us, and a shot of lightning ripped through the sky, striking the stairs. My hands flew up to cover my eyes from the brilliant white light and sparks that spat from the impact. A crackle of power whipped through the air, making my skin tingle and burn. Blinking my eyes clear of little black dots, I saw a form of shadows standing at the base of the stars. Roman and Crowhurst had cut down the undead attackers. Seth was on one knee, head bowed and looking like he was ready to fall over.
The darkness solidified abruptly and then The Defiler materialised from the ether in a shimmer of inky darkness. His mouth was set in a severe line, back jammed up straight. His sword of fire was back, flaming bright in his hands. When he spoke, his voice resonated deep and strong. “You are in breach of the treaty, hellspawn. You have broken the Rules that Bind and your punishment is the final death.”
“Fuck off!” Legara roared at him. “This realm is mine.” She leapt toward him, her talons outstretched for a killing blow.
Then she stopped.
Her eyes glittered as she regarded the knight. She pulled in a short breath before giving a laugh. “You are but a dead man.”
“I am the guardian of The Weald,” The Defiler said.
“No.” Legara ran a tongue over a lipless mouth. “You belong to me.” She lifted a talon towards the knight and then darkcraft whispered on a breeze. Terror trickled through me as I realised what she was doing. “Beware! She’s a necromancer,” I yelled.
The darkcraft swelled, pressing on me, choking me with its honeyed sweetness. Then the knight’s attention snapped from Legara to me. His sewn-shut eyes seemed to see all and dread crawled through me.
“That’s right,” Legara crooned. “Go and get her, my darling knight.”
The Defiler didn’t move, though I spied his leg shaking with the effort. “I am not yours to command,” his voice was a hoarse croak.
“You must not resist me.” Legara clawed the ground, tearing ragged grooves in the stone stairs. “I command the dead. Your curse was birthed through death and darkcraft and it is my magic to call. You are all mine, little knight. Kill the female nephilim.”
The knight shook violently, his fiery sword spluttering in the heavy scattered raindrops. He stepped reluctantly up the steps, face twisted in a terrible agony. The rain was falling more heavily now, steam rising from his sword like hissing snakes.
Roman charged up the stairs, sword at the ready. The Defiler turned and they clashed, the impact of the two blades sounding like metal smashing against a hollow drum. The knight swung around on the stairs, faster than I could track and slashed fire across Roman’s face. The nephilim fell back, hands flying up to try and protect his face, his sword dropping.
Seth had moved in behind The Defiler, a short blade in one hand. He drew it savagely across the knights’ throat and the grey skin split wide, but nothing bled out. The knight struck out behind him, his sword burning deep into Seth’s leg and he went down with a scream.
Legara’s four wet eyes swivelled my way, gloating. The Defiler started walking towards me again, then he stopped, his body shuddering with the effort. “I will go no further, hellspawn,” he grated out. “You are not my master.”
“Idiot.” Legara spat a glob of saliva on the ground and it steamed like water on a hot skillet. “If you want something done right, always best to do it yourself.” Her talons reached for me again, tearing at me. Screaming pain slammed through me. My head dropped to see the tip of Legara’s sharp tail embedded in my side. She started pulling me towards her.
“I will eat you slow, nephilim.” Legara’s breath washed over me, hot and rancid. “Your dead will be my slaves, and I will rule this miserable patch of land.”
Black dots danced in my vision. With effort, I dragged my chin up. Legara was laughing, saying something in a gloating voice, but I wasn’t listening anymore. My eyes had caught a soft looking patch of skin between her two main eyes.
Death point.
I engaged the quick-draw. The little Ruger flew out with a click. My hands wrapped around the butt, my finger slid on the trigger. With a prayer to Kianna wet on my lips, I squeezed. The trigger moved easy under my finger. The little gun barked and the shot went true, hitting Legara dead-straight between the eyes. Right through the soft patch of skin.
The hellspawn’s body gave a shake, her breath heaving and hitching, smelling like burning oil. Her tail pulled out of me, her talons fell by her side. She threw her head back and yowled in pain, blood streaming down her face. I moved away, hand pressed tight against the pain in my side. Legara gave a second cry; this one a mournful, lamenting sound. Then with a soft hiccup and a shudder, she tumbled face first to the ground and lay still.
My body was one big, throbbing ball of pain. Tiredness swept over me like a cold ocean wave. I decided I might lie down. I lost control of my legs halfway down and figured it would be easier to fall. My head hit the ground hard, but what did I care? My side had gone numb, my legs and arms burning like liquid fire. It had started to rain, sheets of grey, cold rain and it washed the grime and blood from my face. If one of the undead came upon me, I didn’t think I’d be able to stop them. At least I’d lose that extra weight. Of course, dying would suck.
Footsteps. Blinking, I saw The Defiler appear near Legara’s fallen body. His sword was sheathed, his face stern. His head moved from Legara to me, his stitched-up eyes taking everything in. Up close, I could almost read the curse on his forehead. I closed my eyes, not wanting to. I’d had enough for today.
“I see you for what you are, Lora of the Blackgoat,” The Defiler said. I opened my eyes and struggled to sit up. He stepped over to me, a frown wrinkling his forehead.
“You are a seed of filth and corruption within The Weald. It is my duty as guardians of The Weald to warn you. Should you choose to use blood magic, you will jeopardise all that was created and I shall end you.”
A roll of thunder unfolded from the sky, rattling my back teeth. Then it was gone, along with the knight.
Chapter 48
The margarita was just how I liked it. Nuclear green and toxic with tequila. I sipped it leisurely, my eyes shaded by oversized sunglasses as I watched fresh young faces in skimpy bathing suits frolic in the hotel pool.
The sun was at its highest point, warming the holiday vista before me and I was feeling wonderfully relaxed. Lying on a toasty plastic sun-bed, I was wearing a screaming pink bikini and blue sarong. My distinctive hair was hidden under a scarf and a new charm sat around my neck, courtesy of Orella’s sourcing and a rather large chunk of my savings.
It had been difficult to forgive Orella and Gideon for what I knew was their best intention, but felt more like deceit. A drunken night with Gideon at the Mermaids Cleft had gone a long way in repairing the damage. Elbows knocking the empty tankards, Gideon had explained the worry and angst he and Orella had gone through in raising me. They didn’t care I was nephilim; they loved me as a daughter and wanted me happy. Crowhurst had joined in at one point and I had slapped him on the back and bought him a beer, deciding maybe he wasn’t so bad after all. Of course, that could have been the beer talking.
Seth had recovered after a long stint in hospital. I refused to listen to anything he had to say. I didn’t want to hear his explanations, his twisted reasoning. As far as I could figure out, he’d been grooming me, angling to be in place of influence when I became whatever he thought I’d become. I still wondered if he’d played any hand in the calling forth of Legara and Kronin, but my mind didn’t want to go down that path, afraid of what I’d unravel. So I ignored the flowers that arrived on my doorstep and tore up his messages delivered by wide-eyed Mercury boys with dirty faces. They knew the gossip of the city, and word was spreading that I’d used an Outland weapon against the Butcher of Applecross.
I was glad the copy of The Key of Aldebaran was gone, and had put out feelers, looking for other copies. I wanted them all destroyed. By my reckoning, some destinies weren’t meant to be realised. Then mayb
e I could pretend life could be normal again. Maybe I’d have no more nightmares about skeletal angels claiming to be my father and I’d be blessed with the sweet, blank dreams of nothing.
A couple of kids screaming as they dunked each other brought me back to the present. My eyes settled on the palm trees waving in the distance and I could hear the crashing waves of the beach that sat just beyond a cocktail shack made of driftwood and straw. All around me were happy people on holidays. I’d never been to Fiji before, but I knew I’d be coming back.
I wished I had a playmate to relax with, and my thoughts turned to Roman. He’d visited a few times and we’d sat over a steaming coffee, talking in stilted voices, a tension between us. He said he understood why I had chosen to hide. With my new charm, hiding wasn’t a problem. Unfortunately, even though the spell of concealment had been reinstated, my white hair had started streaking blue-black. I just hacked the strands as they appeared and prayed they meant nothing.
Ambrose’s body had been discovered in that short tunnel along with enough damning evidence that he’d been posthumously convicted as the Butcher of Applecross. So the case was closed in the eyes of the law, with Caleb receiving the glory as having uncovered Ambrose’s identity.
My attention came to the present as Grossell passed by, not recognising me as he mopped water off his face with a towel. His considerable bulk was squeezed into a tiny pair of swimming trunks and he had lobster-red sunburn.
“Another drink, miss?”
A waiter wearing a crisp white uniform and a hibiscus flower behind one ear smiled down at me, face haloed by the bright sun. I finished the rest of my drink and passed him my empty glass. “Maybe later.”
I watched him move away to check on other guest. With a reluctant sigh, I got up, collecting my towel and cane under the sun-bed. Following Grossell at a leisurely distance, I entered the lobby of the Flamingo Hotel, the cool air-conditioning raising goose bumps on my skin. I loitered by a grimacing Tiki sculpture as Grossell stepped into the elevator. The doors closed and I hurried up staircase to floor three. The fat surgeon had been checked in the Flamingo for the last five days. I’d found him through a computer check; the moron actually used his own name. Seeing the lay of the land and how he’d settled in, I decided there was no need to hurry the job and booked myself a room. After two days in the sun and nights at the bar, I figured I’d probably had enough fun and it was time to go to work.
Grossell was staying in room 3B, with a nice view of the pool. I exited the stairwell, seeing the corridor empty and stopped outside Grossell’s room. Putting a finger over the peephole, I knocked twice.
“Housekeeping.”
Gideon told me to bring Grossell back to Blackgoat to face justice for his compliance in his brother’s crimes. I was more than happy to oblige, but was worried. The surgeon knew what I was. He was a loose end.
The door opened and Grossell peeked out. His eyes latched on me and he gave a squawk of surprise, tried to slam the door shut. I put my shoulder into it, knocking it open. Grosell fell back, face ashen.
“Hello sunshine.” I shut the door behind me, took off my sunglasses and leant casually on my cane. It felt good to be out, back at work. I was finding my rhythm again and it was a great feeling. I gave Grossell a wink, flashed the dimples.
“Sweetheart, let me tell you how this is going to play out, just so we can save some time.”
* * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from Chaos Bound by Rebekah Turner
Book 2 in the Chronicles From The Applecross series
Chaos Bound - Chapter 1
No-one had liked Rae Dowler. His nickname had been Captain Chunky, and that was from his friends. He’d been a greedy bastard in life and now, in death, was a weight on my conscience. This was the second co-worker to die on a job with me. The first one I’d had to behead after he’d become infected at an exorcism with a demonic entity, along with the client. Thankfully, my sword had been nowhere near Rae Dowler when he’d dropped dead of an old-fashioned heart attack. Still, people liked to talk.
Spring had bloomed in the bustling city of Harken, and instead of the usual rain, or tepid fog, the narrow, crooked streets had been flooded with gentle, golden sunshine. For a city used to constant downpours and overcast skies, the unexpected weather was viewed with some suspicion and considered most unseemly.
A warm afternoon wind was blowing though the cemetery, ruffling black skirts and sending hats sailing. I watched as the coffin was lowered into the ground, only half listening as a priest of The Higher Path faith droned on about eternal life.
Dowler had been in the Runner industry for over forty years. He was the only other Runner at Blackgoat Watch that didn’t mind being sent on jobs past The Weald’s guarded entryways: out into the modern world, with its buzzing technology, flashing neon lights and all things deep fried. Transporting anything from the Outlands back into the hidden Weald was illegal, but somehow Dowler always managed to return with a tray of Winkie Bill’s Crème Donuts. A tray he never shared, mind you. Just sat in the kitchen of Blackgoat and scoffed the lot before he had to go home to his wife. In light of his less than stellar diet, I guess the heart attack that killed him wasn’t a complete surprise.
Gideon, my benefactor and owner of Blackgoat Watch, stood to my left, reeking of stale whisky and boredom. Cloete, another Runner at Blackgoat, was on my right. A five-foot dynamo, Cloete was otherkin: her bloodline a mixture of succubus and goddess-knew-what other interbred, mystic race. Today she was wearing leather pants and a suede coat, her petite horns hidden under a bowler hat. Her inky-black tail wrapped around one leg, the end tapping impatiently against her thigh.
The priest said 'amen' and people dutifully took their cue and began shuffling away. Dowler’s widow, a heavy-set woman with coarse hair and fleshy jowls, tossed wilted roses into the open grave, her expression a mixture of sadness and regret, with a pinch of what looked like suspicion.
‘Thank Kianna’s sacred tits that’s over.’ Cloete yawned, tail unravelling from her leg. ‘Who’s up for a brew at Growlers?’
‘That was the most boring funeral I've ever attended.’ Gideon copied Cloete’s yawn, covering his mouth with a hairy hand. He was decked out in a long frock coat with a red carnation tucked in the lapels and a natty yellow necktie. Gideon was a full-blooded satyr, and though he made every effort to look human, today he’d forgotten a hat, and his tangle of steel-wool grey hair revealed the tops of his horns he’d had amputated years ago in an effort to fit in. He’d also forgotten the contacts that changed his slit pupils to round, and his fancy-made shoes didn’t match. All this, and his hangdog expression, suggested he was struggling with a hangover.
‘It wasn’t that boring.’ I tried to sound indignant on Dowler’s behalf, but came off sounding guilty. I was busy praying the wife didn’t notice me.
‘Before I forget, Lora,’ Gideon paused to yawn again, ‘I need you to come in to Blackgoat tomorrow to talk about a new job.’
‘You’ve already got me babysitting the theatre bimbo,’ I reminded him. It was a simple bodyguard gig. No real threats…low stress…limited chance of beheadings.
‘Please.’ Gideon looked pained. ‘Nicola Grogan is an actress, and a fine one at that.’ He sniffed and flicked a finger at his carnation. ‘And I must say, that doesn’t sound like gratitude from where I'm standing.’
My lips tightened, but I had enough smarts to pause before I spoke, giving my brain a chance to kick in. After being passed over for jobs because other Runners refused to work with me, I was in no position to turn my nose up at any opportunities. I'd only attended one other successful exorcism job since the beheading incident. That client had been high profile: the daughter of the Lord Mayor Corelli. Unfortunately, the Mayor was a staunch advocate of the Church of Higher Path, who frowned upon things such as spells and magic, seeing them as blasphemy. Blackgoat Watch had been hired by Mayor Corelli’s wife, who’d sworn Gideon to secrecy, all of which meant I couldn’t put t
he job on my brag sheet of clients I hadn’t killed. As things stood now, Gideon had been forced to strong-arm Rae Dowler to work with me on a stakeout of a suspected cheating husband. The fact that the job hadn’t ended well for Dowler was now going to make me a social pariah. Again.
‘Sorry,’ I muttered. ‘I'm grateful. I'm grateful.’
Gideon grunted and made a beeline for the rickshaw he’d hired to chauffeur him to and from the cemetery. Despite his dishevelled look this morning, Gideon liked to think most people couldn’t pick he was a satyr, and that he was a master of disguise. No-one had the heart to tell him he wasn’t.
I rubbed my right lame leg and leant on my carved goat-head duelling cane, jealous of the rickshaw. After downing two espressos and three pastries from a local bakery, I'd walked to the cemetery as an act of contrition. Orella Warbreeder, my adoptive mother, had been lecturing me on how walking would do my joints wonders. But after standing in one place for so long, my hip had seized. I had half a mind to beg a lift with Gideon when a wink of light caught my eye, coming from the line of pine trees hedging one side of the cemetery. The light blinked again. I was no super spy, but had enough smarts to know when someone wanted my attention.
‘Lora?’
‘Eh?’ I realised Cloete had asked me a question.
‘Drink?’ She mimed throwing back a tankard of beer.
‘I think I'll just stay here a bit,’ I said. ‘Catch up with you later?’
Her eyebrows lifted. ‘Self-pity is an ugly emotion, Lora.’
‘Fuck off. I've just got things to do.’
Cloete pursed her lips. ‘You won’t be bringing your boyfriend, will you?’
‘Boyfriend?’ My eyebrows arched. ‘Who would that be?’
‘Are you serious?’ Cloete snorted. ‘You think people aren’t gossiping about you making goo-goo eyes at that fire and brimstone Regulator?’
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