The Spirit Box (The Freelancers Book 1)

by Lee Isserow

  Slugtrough stared right back at him, a serious expression frozen on his face.

  “That doesn't even make any sense―the cereal is called Lucky Charms, there's nothing lucky about Leprechauns, they're awful little bastards!”

  “And yet, the charm has brought the Earl's family an awful lot of luck over the decades.”

  Rafe studied Slugtrough's face, certain that the shiny slimeball was messing with him. Gryph showed no signs to indicate as such.

  “You got all the details I need?”

  “Course.”

  “All the details. Don't want to find myself in a trash compactor with the walls closing in. . . again.”

  “Definitely. All the deets, nothing to worry about.”

  He huffed, the air expelled turned into something close to a growl. “Fine. How much?”

  “Knew you were the man for the job.”

  “How much.” Rafe repeated.

  “Mundy or Magickal?”

  “Split.”

  “Five hundred mundy, twenty five Hermetic gold.”

  “Fifteen-hundred and fifty.”

  “Come on Rafe, you're breaking my balls.”

  “I'll do more than break your balls if you screw with me, Slugtrough.”

  “Hah. Sure you will. Thousand and thirty five, final offer. There's more than enough other desperate, depleted Circle-jerks willing to take on a well paid gig.”

  “Fine,” Rafe grunted. “Thou' and thirty five.”

  Slugtrough put out his hand, and once again Rafe found his fingers meeting the sickly, sticky texture of the little man's skin. This time however, glittering sparks came away on his palm along with the slime, as their deal was agreed.

  “Good. Gimmie a second and I'll find you the plans to the mansion.”

  “―Mansion!?”

  “Oh, did I not mention? The trinket's locked up in the Earl's estate.”

  Rafe sunk in his seat. Once again, Gryph had screwed him. Break-ins weren't exactly how he liked to make a living, but he was desperate: for money, for food, and most importantly, to be able to get the hell back on with the actual job he was meant to be investigating.

  Chapter 17

  Day Drinkers

  Dean told Ana to take the rest of the day off. She had been “excused from service”, “put on probation.” He was sure to insist that this was her “first strike”, and dropped in a bunch of similar, identically meaningless phrases, all piled on top one another to make sure she understood how serious he was about the whole thing.

  She stomped down the street, having already been walking for the best part of an hour, with no plan for the rest of her day. The pace wasn't helping relieve the exhaustion, she could feel it coursing throughout her entire body. But even though she was tired, the idea of actually going to bed was burgeoning on terrifying. The creature from the dream was still haunting her, in mind's eye as much as it was bleeding―literally―into her waking life.

  Ana's body came to a sudden stop of its own volition outside a building, her subconscious divining that a destination had been reached. She glanced up, a slim smile came to her lips as she saw the sign above the door, Day Drinkers in bright red neon against peeling black paint. Her unconscious mind had taken her to the one place that she was going to feel safe, even in the most screwed up of times, even if it felt too early to drink.

  She walked through the door and instantly caught the eye of the slim blonde barmaid, who shrieked with glee.

  The woman came out from behind the bar and sauntered over, her arms wide, ready for an embrace. She gave Ana a tight hug, the smell of cherry flavoured whisky hanging in the air around her.

  “You've been day drinking again. . .“ Ana said with a chuckle, as she took Mallory's embrace in, holding her friend close.

  “So sue me, if I choose to take the name of the place in the imperative.” She dragged Ana over to the bar and sat her on a stool, before going back to her station.

  “What does Jimmy think of you drunk on the job?”

  “Oh, like he's sober any of the bloody time.“

  Ana scoffed. Day Drinkers was called as much because the owner spent most of his twenties in an alcoholic stupor. She was always amazed that he managed to turn his favourite activity and proclivity into a thriving―or at the very least, surviving―business.

  “Vodka and coke, right?”

  “It's four thirty!” Ana protested.

  “It's four forty-five somewhere,” Mallory said, already pouring the drink and sliding it across the bar. “Hate to say it, but looks like you need one.”

  “Thanks. . .”

  “Meant it as. . . what's a compliment that isn't a compliment?”

  “An insult?”

  “A gesture. Y'know.”

  “Yeah,” Ana said with a smile. She knew what Mallory meant, even if Mallory didn't.

  “How was it, the funeral?”

  “About as crummy as could be expected.”

  “Sorry I didn't go, Jimmy needed me in here.”

  “Don't worry about it, service or lack there-of didn't exactly put the fun in funeral.” she sipped at the drink, gaze shying from the excitable stare of Mallory's alcohol-glazed hazel gaze.

  “You look tired.”

  “I am,” Ana sighed.

  “Really tired.”

  “Thanks?” she huffed. “Didn't sleep well.”

  “Can imagine.”

  Ana's eyes crawled up slowly to meet her friend's. Her lips parted as if to speak, then sealed back up almost instantly. There were no words that could put the way she felt into any kind of logical context. And Mallory couldn't imagine, not in the slightest.

  Chapter 18

  The task at hand

  Tali refused wholeheartedly to send Rafe a door to Chichester, given that his side job was somewhat-illegal. Since all other methods of translocation were unavailable to him, he found himself stuck on a train, sitting opposite a man that insisted on snacking on something that smelled as though it had died months previous.

  As Rafe tried to ignore the aroma, he reconsidered the foodstuff's life, deciding that it had already been eaten the once, regurgitated, and left in a warm cupboard over the summer, gestating for the perfect time to eat it again with a captive audience, trapped in a metal cage snaking its way across the country. Even after the man had finished devouring his foul smelling meal, the stench returned via acrid belches over the course of the journey, as if the man's body was trying to do anything it could to dispel the mephitic odour from deep within his gut.

  Rafe did his best to stop thinking about it, and attempted to concentrate on the task at hand. He had the layout of the estate, from the grounds through to the mansion house itself, but he wasn't feeling anything close to prepared for the incursion. He knew this kind of thing required planning, reconnaissance, anything more than just “go to the study, it's in the safe”, which was all Slugtrough had to offer in terms of direction.

  If this was any other job, any other time, he wouldn't rush in as near-blind as he was. But he didn't have time, this gig was just a means to an end. And when it came down to it, how hard could it be to break into a mundane's mansion, get into a mundane safe, and scoot on out without leaving a trace? He knew it was cocky to think that way, but also knew that based on Slugtrough's intel, this job was going to be a cakewalk.

  A few hours later, when he was running for his life and everything was on fire, Rafe would think back to that moment on the train, hating himself for being so damn naïve.

  Chapter 19

  Washed away

  Ana was drunk. More drunk than she could remember being in a long time. And on top of feeling drunk, she was feeling dumb for being so drunk, especially given that it was still light out―probably. The windows of Day Drinkers had been tinted to save the inhabitants from the judgement of the sun.

  “Hey,” a voice said from beside her. She hadn't noticed the guy sidle up, hadn't even noticed him come in. “How you doing?”

  She stifle
d a laugh, it wasn't the most cogent of chat-up lines, and she certainly wasn't interested in anything he was offering.

  “Having a good night?”

  She took out her phone and glanced at the time, it was only barely past six. “I don't think this counts as night. . .“

  “Ha!” he said, there was no laugh that accompanied the statement. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “Nope.”

  “Come on, lemme get you something. What you drinking?”

  “Not interested, sorry.” She made certain not to initiate eye contact, to underline her resolve.

  “No need to be a bitch,” he grunted, leaving her alone at the bar.

  She snorted to herself. If refusing a drink was his threshold for “being a bitch”, she couldn't imagine what he would say to her throwing a drink in his face, which would have been her next move if he hadn't left her alone.

  Knocking back the last of her fifth―or was it sixth―vodka and coke, so as not to leave it unattended, she toddled off the bar stool and sauntered clumsily over the toilet. Despite the clientele and their fondness for getting wrecked whilst the sun was up, she always thought the restrooms were miraculously clean. The women's were, at least. She had heard many horror stories from Mallory about how trashed the men's got: urine all over the floor, walls caked in poop. As she struggled with her jeans and finally sat down to pee, she tried to imagine how drunk a person would have to get to decide to write on the walls of a cubicle in their own filth. Let alone what kind of message was so important that it needed to be inscribed then and there, whilst in the midst of a bowel movement.

  She exhaled a slow breath, trying to get the room to stop being so spinny, and let a stream of pee loose into the porcelain below. It felt so relaxing, like she was deflating, all her anxieties being washed away. Ana giggled to herself at being so dumb about a bodily function, and was appreciative of the alcohol for giving her a different perspective of the world.

  The door swung open, and she stopped laughing to herself, suddenly feeling self-conscious. Footsteps clacked along the tiles, slow and heavy, getting closer, stopping right outside the door of her cubicle. She found herself putting a plug in the stream of pee, listening out for whoever might be on the other side of the door. The steps sounded too big to be a woman's. Fear washed over her, picturing the most horrible thing she could imagine: the man not taking no for an answer. . . And following her into the bathroom.

  Instantly, she found herself thinking back to university, to a self defence class she took, held by Take Back The Night. The instructor was a muscular wiry man, former Mossad, he had said, and showed them all manner of techniques to gain the advantage over an aggressor, how use their own weight against them. She pictured it in her mind's eye, but a lot of it was a blur, the alcohol dulling her usually impeccable memory of such things. Even if she could remember the techniques they had been taught, none of the starting positions of an assault were anything close to her current pose, sitting on a toilet with her pants pulled down.

  The door shook as something hard hit it, sending it vibrating back and forth, the lock click-clacking with the shakes.

  Ana was frozen in place. Terrified. Someone would have heard it, they must have. It was so loud inside the cubicle, it had to have reverberated into the bar.

  Another slam against the door, followed by the frantic click-clacking of the lock, a small fountain of sawdust falling down from the screws in the frail chipboard. Another hit or two and they would fall out, the lock would go flying, the door would burst open, and she'd be trapped, at the mercy of whoever was on the other side.

  Yet another impact. The screws were barely holding on to the wood, even the click-clacking back and forth seemed to tug them just that little bit more from the frame. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, and she found the strength to get her fragmented thoughts together, pulled her underwear and jeans back up, as she got to her feet. The lock would fall off the door with next hit, and she wasn't going to be a damn victim in some horror story.

  The nightmare of the assault had put her on edge. She could picture the creature's violation, recall its face under her skin all too clearly, and wasn't going to live that nightmare in real life. The fingers of her right hand balled themselves up into a tight fist, her elbow raising, cocking back, ready to throw a punch as soon as she saw her attacker's face. She wasn't going to go down without one hell of a fight.

  Reaching to the door with her left hand, she took a short breath, flicked the lock and pulled the door open. It swung into the cubicle with a wail, the hinges screaming in horror at having been contorted.

  Nobody was standing on the other side.

  Tentatively, Ana took a step out of the cubicle, fist still raised at shoulder level, ready to fire off at the slightest hint of danger.

  Not a soul to the left, no one to the right either. She took slow, purposeful steps towards the door back to the bar, and pulled it open a crack, checking on the patrons outside. The guy who hit on her wasn't there, just a couple of old timers sipping their pints, Mallory behind the bar pouring herself a generous shot of something sweet and expensive.

  She closed the door and moved into a different cubicle, locked the door and sat down to finish off peeing. The feeling of relief had gone. No longer was she expunging her anxiety with the steady stream into the bowl below. Now, she was overcome by even more anxieties.

  This wasn't normal―none of this was normal. And despite being terrified that she was going completely mad, she couldn't help but find a small modicum of humour in the situation: wondering if there were exorcists listed in the phone book. . .

  Chapter 20

  Fiery aristocrats

  As Rafe walked around the circumference of the Earl of Chichester's estate, he quickly realised that the map Slugtrough had shown him didn't quite give an accurate representation of the sheer scale of the property. It was practically a damn palace, acres upon acres of land locked behind a wrought iron fence that looked to be close to fifteen feet tall. There was one entrance, one path through the grounds to the mansion house far in the distance, and it was covered in cameras, manned twenty-four seven.

  Not that Rafe was ever planning to go through the entrance, let alone walk up the path. He found a nice, secluded area of fence, with dense woodland behind it, and “wooshed” his way through to the other side. The treeline went round the property, going all the way up to the house on the east side. He trawled through it, trying to be as quiet as possible, despite every step along the way resulting in cracked twigs and crunched leaves. . .

  Coming to the edge of the woods, the house was in sight. It hadn't been hard to get that far, and it worried him. Meant there were probably more security features inside the house―at the very least, there would be cameras. He took a breath and closed his eyes, picturing his own face as he traced his first and middle fingers from his jaw to the temples. Exhaling, his thumbs met at his chin, ring fingers at his forehead, little fingers grazing his nose. He thought of words his tongue could not navigate, and pictured his intent: the face in mind's eye shifting and shimmering, features distorting, changing as he borrowed facial elements from everyone he had ever met, everyone he had ever seen.

  Opening his eyes, he wished he had something reflective to look at to see if his clumsy shroud was working. He just had to trust that he had enough magick flowing through his blood to pull it off, and tried as hard as he could not to dwell on the agonizing hangover he'd probably be plagued with come the morning. There wasn't much he could do to alleviate it when it came on with full force, but he could try and stave off the glimmers of the migraine that were crawling under his skull. Kneeling down, Rafe laid his hands on the grass, muttering “I'm sorry about this,” as his fingers moved independently against the mud, fists closing around the grass. It became brown and crunchy in his grasp, two circles radiating out from his hands across the lawn, as he siphoned a little elemental magick from nature. The hints of headache began to subside, and he let go of the grass, ha
ving taken what he needed and not a drop more. He tried to ignore the guilt at having stolen that which was not his to wield. But these were desperate times. He promised himself, and promised the patches of dead ground, that he'd pay it back as soon as the opportunity prevailed.

  Taking a deep breath, Rafe dispersed through the wall of the east side of the house, finding himself in a drawing room. As he became solid again, his feet met with thick, ornate carpet. The whole room looked as though it were being viewed through a sepia lens, deep browns and dark reds everywhere he turned, the walls lined with old leather-bound books that looked as though they were decorative, rather than there to be read.

  There wasn't time to waste on such trivial observations. He shot straight through a door that took him to a hallway, headed right to the end. It was a longer walk than Slugtrough's map indicated, and he made sure to expand every estimated measurement he had been given for the rest of the incursion, so he wouldn't continue to be caught off guard by the sheer scale of everything in the damn property.

  The hallway opened out into a grand entrance. Slugtrough had called it as such, and that was no exaggeration. The ceilings were at least fifty feet from the ground, a massive chandelier hanging at the centre that looked twice as tall and ten times as wide as Rafe. There was no time to marvel, he needed to get up the stairs―two flights of them―and once again, Slugtrough had undersold him on the amount of stairs there would be.

  Rafe was out of breath by the time he got to the second floor, but he hadn't run into any security teams or staff members, so that was a small mercy. . . He didn't want to have to hurt anyone, not when the job was just a means to an end.

  Slipping down a corridor, he tried to keep track of the doors. Third to the left was the one he was after. He only got to the first when he heard footsteps coming towards him from the end of the hall. Barely a second to think, with only the choices of charging forward or doubling back, he picked the option of retreat.