Twice Damned: An Uncanny Kingdom Urban Fantasy (Ghosted Book 3)

by David Bussell

  ‘Jazz?’ I said, hopefully.

  Squinting at the figure’s outline, I could see the shape was all wrong. Jazz must have been upstairs, hiding in her flat. This was obviously the culprit.

  As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I got a better look at the mystery figure and made out a pair of glittering eyes, staring right at me. Whoever this intruder was, he had The Sight.

  ‘Evening, squire,’ I said, but the stranger stayed quiet. ‘Bit late to be shopping for cups and balls, isn't it?’

  The stranger reached down and grabbed his crotch. ‘How about you cup these balls, ghost?’ he suggested.

  ‘Nice,’ I replied. ‘Listen, as much as I’d love to stand around chatting about your ballbag, I’m a busy, sexy man. So, how’s about you put whatever you’ve looted back in that safe and we’ll call it a night, eh?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ replied the thief.

  We discussed the matter at some length; me describing the futility of his situation, while he argued that there was nothing I could do to stop him. In the end, we might as well have saved our collective breaths. It’s like that old saying: arguing with an idiot is like playing chess with a pigeon. No matter how good you are, the bird is going to shit all over the board and strut around like it won the game anyway.

  ‘See you around, ghost,’ said the thief as he slung his rucksack over his shoulders and got on his starting blocks.

  ‘Stay there!’ I yelled, but he was having none of it.

  I went to cut off his departure, but as I made to block the exit, he zig-zagged past me and punched through the door, disappearing into the night.

  ‘Looks like we’ve got ourselves a chase scene,’ I sighed, before giving pursuit.

  Having seen which direction he was headed, I translocated instantly to a patch ahead of him, throwing a roadblock in his path. ‘Fancy seeing you here,’ I said, as he screeched to a halt, eyes wide.

  Translocation is a rare talent for a ghost, so it must have come as something of a shock to the fleeing thief to see me popping up in front of him, bold as brass.

  Gathering his wits, he dodged by me again and hot-footed it further down the street, loot bobbing on his back as he made off on his toes.

  Futile.

  I knew this area like the back of my hand. Without even looking, I could see the patch ahead of him with crystal clarity. Putting a picture of it in my mind, I gave chase again, covering the distance in a flash and appearing in front of the robber like Jason Voorhees hounding a libidinous teen.

  ‘Give it up,’ I said, wafting a tea towel under the stupidity alarm. ‘There’s no getting out of this one, mate.’

  But instead of paying heed, he evaded me a third time, ducking, landing in a roll and springing back to his feet to continue on his journey undeterred. I watched as he sped by me, pegged it past a pile of fox-munched bin bags, and took a sharp turn into an alleyway.

  Slippery bugger.

  The guy was determined, I’ll give him that. He was also fortunate enough to have taken a shortcut that I wasn’t familiar with, meaning I couldn’t summon up a good enough picture of his escape route to make the jump there (apparently I wasn’t as well-acquainted with the back of my hand as I’d assumed).

  I considered translocating to the opposite end of the alley—which I did know—and cutting of his escape that way, but decided I’d rather give chase on foot. It was a nice night and I fancied stretching my legs, plus I don’t tire like you breathers do, so the bloke had no chance of outrunning me. Sooner or later, that little scrote was mine.

  I took off after him, savouring the thrill of the hunt, sprinting past the torn-open bin bags and cutting deftly into the alleyway, when—

  Pow!

  The sky and the ground switched places as I collided with something rock solid laid out at eye-level. I left the pavement, performed a 180 degree flip, and followed quickly with a devastating face-plant.

  Crunch!

  My noggin felt like it had been sat on by an elephant. Thrill of the hunt? Jesus, what was I thinking?

  Groaning, and rolling onto my back, I looked up to see the burglar, who’d taken me down by clotheslining me with his arm, WWE style. It turns out he was unusually strong, and that he could see and touch ghosts, which made him Uncanny for sure (some supernatural creatures are only capable of one or the other, such as the tentacle-sporting janitor I’d dispatched at the crematorium).

  The burglar grinned, exposing two rows of needle-like teeth. That explained that. The guy was an eaves, an Uncanny race of semi-men that lurk in the underworld and make a habit of finding their way into places they weren’t meant to be.

  ‘Say goodnight, ghost,’ he said.

  ‘Bastar—’ was about as far as I got before he brought his heel down on my face.

  5

  I came to beneath a stampede of leather shoes and high heels. This time the feet passed right through me though, and the people they belonged to remained wholly unaware of the face they were trampling.

  The sun had dawned on a new day, and the rat race was already in full effect. Commuters on their way to the office were using the side street as a thoroughfare to St. Pancras Station, blissfully ignorant of the fact that they were striding through a ghost as they sipped their coffees and munched on hot croissants.

  I sat up and recalled the events of the previous night, shaking my head at the memory of getting KO’d by that burglar, cursing myself for being so cocky. Christ, I’d made a right pig’s ear out of that. Whoever that eaves was had left me looking like a proper wally.

  I limped back to Legerdomain, readying myself for an earful from Jazz Hands. She didn’t disappoint. There she was, sat behind the counter with her arms folded, dressed like a woman twice her age. She wore a mess of mismatched fabrics under an Afghan shawl, and had an unruly tangle of brown hair. She looked, as she did every day, like a sentient pile of dirty laundry with a bird’s nest on top.

  'Where have you been?' she screeched, as I entered her shop. 'My whole inventory of magic items… gone!'

  I threw up my arms. ‘Oh, I'm sorry your trinkets got pinched,’ I replied, acidly. ‘Don't mind me, an actual human being, risking the tiny sliver of life he has left.’

  ‘Trinkets?’ she parrotted. ‘This is more than a bit of harmless stock shrinkage. This is grand larceny!’

  As Jazz Hands continued to rage, I went about assessing the damage to her establishment. I examined the burglar’s point of entry and was surprised to find that the door hadn’t been forced. Instead, the lock had been expertly picked, though not with any conventional tools. There was a magical residue on the doorframe that betrayed the use of kleptomancy; a form of sorcery used for unlocking doors and cracking safes. It’s a school of magic I’ve specialised in personally, so I recognised the signs.

  Now, you might wonder why a ghost would need help getting into places when he can already walk through walls, but being able to pop open doors is still a handy trick. After all, even if I am intangible and able to stroll unhindered into a bank vault, how am I going to walk out solid diamonds through solid metal?

  I turned to Jazz. ‘Did he set off the bell when he came through here?’

  ‘Yes,’ she huffed. ‘That’s how I knew someone was breaking in.’

  Using her powers of enchantment, Jazz had manufactured a special bell that hung above the shop’s door. It was rigged to sound within the proximity of an Uncanny; an early warning alarm system she’d put in place to alert her to any unwanted supernatural visitors. The bell had appeared on the premises about five years ago, the day after we first met. I try not to take it personally.

  The bell hadn’t told me anything I didn’t already know though. I’d seen the burglar up close and recognised him as an eaves, so him being Uncanny came as no surprise. The real question was, what had he taken, and why? Were the stolen goods for personal use, or was he planning to fence them for a profit? Or was there some other angle I wasn’t seeing? As far as I knew, no one had succeeded in br
eaking into Legerdomain before, so why now?

  I made my way behind the shop counter and popped the till. The drawer was still full of the previous day’s takings. The thief hadn’t shortened the register, he’d only been interested in the merchandise. He’d come here with a mission, it seemed.

  ‘What did he get away with exactly?’ I asked.

  Jazz Hands slid a list across the countertop. It was a long list. I scanned it, surprised by the sheer volume of items that had gone missing. Also surprising was the nature and unfamiliarity of the items. I’d come to consider Jazz Hands my personal ‘Q’ over the years, and though I’m not naive enough to think she enchants items exclusively for me, it was a bit galling to see just how many commissions she’d undertaken on strangers’ behalfs. I was suddenly given a very real sense of my place on Jazz Hands’ priority list.

  ‘Bloody hell, Jazz, you’ve been keeping busy. I’m surprised I even get a look-in with all these side jobs you’ve been doing.’

  ‘Oh, grow up, Fletcher,’ she replied. ‘You think I keep the lights on in this place selling capes with red lining to stage magicians, and giving you stuff for free? In this economy?’

  She had a point, but I still felt as though I’d been cheated on; a feeling I was only too familiar with.

  I went back to scanning the list so I could get a sense of what the eaves had liberated from the place. Among the pieces that had gone walkabout were the following:

  Spectroscopic contact lenses: an upgrade of the glasses Jazz engineered, which allow her to see ghosts without possessing The Sight. Otherwise known as “spooktacles” (to wankers);

  Amulet of protection: a special item of jewellery that acts as a kind of magical kevlar;

  Masque of the Metamorph: an artefact Jazz acquired at auction that enables its wearer to alter their facial features;

  Arcane tattoo kit: for adorning the body with magical glyphs, runes and sigils;

  Blasting sceptre: does what it says on the tin.

  I pushed the piece of paper back to Jazz. ‘Is that everything?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘So, can you get my stolen inventory back or not?’

  I offered her a smile. ‘Does the pope shit in the woods?’

  6

  The Beehive is a neutral zone; a safe harbour, where blood enemies lay down their arms, pull up a bar stool, and drink side by side. A musty drinking hole where Uncanny folks can knock back a pint in peace, among their own kind and away from the prying eyes of the masses.

  It isn’t a place for the capital’s Friday night crowd; the post-work pubbers and the weekend warriors. You won’t find it on FancyaPint.com, and you sure as shit won’t read about it in any tourist guide. The Beehive isn’t even on a map, technically speaking, hidden as it is down one of London’s many “blind alleys”, invisible wrinkles in reality that go unseen by the city’s bread and butter residents.

  The entrance to the establishment is similarly nondescript, marked only by a small, faded painting of a beehive on its stout, oaken door. Only those in the know can see The Beehive, but then knowing is my business.

  I pushed open the pub’s entrance and stepped into the saloon bar. I hadn’t visited The Beehive in a while, but that didn’t matter, nothing had changed since the last time I was there: not one stick of furniture, not one stain upon its sticky, wooden floor. The place was frozen in amber.

  The locals swayed drunkenly to an ancient jukebox playing scratchy, old wax from the last century, and the usual gang of misfits indulged in a spirited game of gin rummy, with tarot cards instead of playing cards, and human finger bones for chips. Meanwhile, a pair of satyrs argued over who'd win in a fight between Odin and Cthulhu. They asked for my opinion on the matter, but I knew better than to get in between a couple of satyrs. Nasty bite on them, those swines.

  To look at the pub’s colourful collection of characters, you could almost mistake The Beehive for being bohemian, but a place for dilettantes it is not. Lenny runs a no-nonsense, spit and sawdust tavern with nothing in the way of frills. You don’t come to The Beehive expecting zany chalk board messages, beat poetry, or olives and focaccia served on wooden chopping boards. You come to this place to get out of the cold, lay low, and die one beer at a time.

  I scanned the saloon in search of my prey.

  Where are you Razor?

  Razor is an eaves I’ve tangled with a couple of times down the line, and practically a piece of furniture around these parts. The piranha-toothed eaves are a race of Uncanny known for passing on secrets in exchange for certain none-too-salubrious favours. I wasn’t here to grant Razor any boons though, I was here to kick in his teeth and find out which of his conniving brood had made off with my friend’s inventory and lain me out in an alleyway.

  There was no sign of Razor this evening though. He wasn’t sat in his usual spot at the back of the room, or propping up the bar, or even crimping one off in the little boy’s room. Where had he gotten to?

  I was pretty miffed about having wasted a journey, but then I suppose it is a bit much to ask that Razor always be sat around waiting for a fresh kicking whenever I have a burning question that needs answering.

  I returned to the bar and approached Lenny, who towered behind the taps like some hairy Lurch.

  ‘Jake Fletcher,’ he said, gravelly and low. ‘Don’t you have a house to haunt?’

  I laughed good-naturedly. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve seen Razor about, have you?’ I asked, offering the immense innkeeper a polite smile.

  Lenny just shrugged. He’s never been one to waste words, or even facial expressions, now I come to think about it.

  As I dawdled there, wondering what to do next, I caught sight of an unfamiliar label on one of the beer pumps. ‘What’s this now?’ I asked.

  ‘New brew,’ Lenny replied. ‘O’Ghouls. Special beer for ghosts, seeing as you lot can’t hold proper booze.’

  You don't come to The Beehive for the comedy. Given Lenny’s size and temperament, though, I faked another laugh. ‘Ha. Good one.’

  ‘Or if you’d prefer something stronger,’ Lenny went on, stringing together more words than I’d ever heard him use in one sitting, ‘I can always crack open a bottle of REDRUM.’

  I’d never heard Lenny make a joke before, let alone two in a row. I’ve seen some barmy stuff happen around here since the London Coven was destroyed and the barriers protecting the city came crashing down, but this was by far the most unsettling thing I’d witnessed. No wonder I suddenly felt the need for a stiff drink.

  Thankfully for me, Lenny hadn’t been kidding – The Beehive’s new line of alcohol had been specially brewed with the phantom in mind, and was perfectly tankable for those of us lacking an actual gut. Will wonders never cease? I was salivating just at the thought of it. I hadn’t had a decent drink in forever.

  ‘I’ll take a pint of the brown stuff,’ I said, then realised I’d forgotten my wallet.

  And thus ended Lenny’s brief and baffling sense of humour.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ I said, theatrically padding down my trouser pockets, ‘looks like I’ve come empty-handed. Well, no-handed really…’ I passed a paw through the bar to demonstrate my predicament.

  Lenny continued to give me the hairy eyeball, glowering at me like a speared bull.

  ‘Don’t suppose you could start us a tab, eh?’ I tried. ‘I’ll settle up next time I’m in, Scout’s honour.’

  Again with the glower.

  I chanced my arm. ‘Go on, Lenny, you know I’m good for it. When have I ever let you down?’

  I’d not once been in Lenny’s debt before, and I’d always been a good customer. Well, except for the fact that I’ve never put so much as a quid in the till, and only ever came into his establishment to earwig on the latest rumblings. And then there’s the time I got into a scrap with the aforementioned Razor and trashed the place, which led to a short-term barring. Come to think of it, maybe I hadn’t been The Beehive’s number one patron, but you can’t go dangling a carrot li
ke ghost beer in front of a dead man, then whip the thing away. It’s just not cricket.

  ‘I’ll have the money to you inside of a week,’ I promised, counting on Jazz Hands to enchant me some bank notes I could settle up with. ‘With interest. Come on, Lenny,’ I begged. ‘Don't go being the brown in my rainbow.’

  Lenny’s scowl slowly slipped, to be replaced by his usual, resting frown. He reached out and fetched a pewter tankard from a hook above the bar. ‘You settle up next time you’re in,’ he said, pulling a pint of delicious-looking, nut brown ale. ‘Plus ten percent.’

  I pressed my hands together in a silent prayer then picked up the enchanted tankard and put it to my nose. The beer smelled glorious – of cloves and Belgian truffles and… well, booze. I couldn’t believe it. I could actually smell the stuff; a sense I usually don’t have access to, what with having a nose that only semi-exists.

  I thanked Lenny again for his kindness and retired to my favourite booth (the one under the mounted unicorn head), where I carefully set down the pint, making sure not to spill a drop. I was in heaven, or at least as close as I was going to get to the place for the time being.

  I took a sip of beer, marvelling at the sorcery that had made this moment possible. The only way I’d been able to enjoy a pint since I carked it was to possess a breather and borrow his body, but it just wasn’t the same using another man’s taste buds. Needless to say, given the opportunity to sup on some neck oil with my own neck, I got on the piss good and proper.

  The next pint barely touched the sides. I felt the beer ease into my system, and sank blissfully into the Gaffa taped padding of my seat. An hour later, I’d drunk what you might call, “Too much beer,” but what I prefer to call, “An heroic amount of beer.”

  While Lenny kept an eye on my mounting bar tab, I kept one the pub’s entrance, hoping Razor might come through it and answer some of my questions, but when the door finally did scissor open, it wasn’t Razor who stepped inside. Instead, came a tall, raven-haired stunner with rosebud pink lips and cobalt blue eyes. She had on a rabbit fur coat, which she wore unapologetically, as though PETA were never a thing. There was a hesitation to her entrance, though not out of nervousness. Her movements were cool and precise, the kind that suggested a woman keenly aware of her surroundings and any potential dangers therein. Judging by the way she took in the room, it seemed unlikely that she’d visited Lenny’s pub before, a suspicion that was confirmed as the locals turned and all eyes fell upon her. I looked across the saloon to see Lenny, who spent a moment sizing the brunette up before shrugging and casually mopping a spill from the bar.