by Lee Isserow
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Spirited Words
A Freelancers Novel
By
Lee Isserow
Copyright © 2017 Lee Isserow
All rights reserved.
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Other books in The Freelancer series
The Spirit Box
The Roving Death
The Prince of Darkness
Snake's Kin
Other books in The Circle
Shadowmancer
Chapter 1
If you play with fire
“Darling, do we still have the Lafite sixty five?”
Nathaniel Deidrich-Marlsburg's ears pricked up at his wife's query. The name of the wine sounded familiar, but they had so many wines, from so many years, it was hard to keep track of them all.
“Nineteen sixty five?”
“Oh, gods no! We're not feeding swine! The archbishop has a refined palate.”
A light blush came to his cheeks. He had never been the connoisseur she was, and tried in vain to hide his embarrassment with a flustered ramble of “Eighteen sixty five, of course, how could I be so foolish!”
She smiled as he rose from his desk, always forgiving for his lack of taste. For the twenty three years they had been married, and for the four years of courtship beforehand, it had always been her role to pick the wine. She had learned fairly early on that he could not be trusted, when he ordered a Mastantuono Cabernet that tasted as though a family of rats had drowned in it during the fermentation process, evacuating their bowels into the swill as they breathed their last little rat breaths.
As he made his way down the grand staircase, Nathaniel tried to think of better times. He was a damn Earl, it was not his place to set foot in the cellar. It was not his wife's, either. That used to be a task reserved solely for the staff. However the recent repairs to their property had reduced their funds significantly, and as a result, most of their staff had to be let go.
The door to the cellar screamed with an ungodly wail as he pushed it open.
“Banbury! The door's squealing like a damned infant again!”
There was no response. He huffed, having forgotten that Banbury no longer worked for them. Their most loyal and dependable valet was one of the hardest to lose. But times were tough, and despite the government being kindly to those in the aristocratic sphere, without six or seven figures in their bank accounts, they were aristocratic in name only. Not far off from the type of people he disdained, who just bought a patch of land in Scotland to earn the title of Laird.
Nathaniel made a mental note to set about working out how to stop the door from making the ungodly racket. Perhaps, he thought, it could be fixed with the liberal application of fire, which was his usual course of action. Marjory would not approve, he reminded himself. She had become quite adamant that after the last set of renovations there were to be no more fires in the house.
He descended the staircase into the darkness of the cellar below, and his eyes took their time to adjust. Scant rays of early evening sun cast through the barred windows ,that lined the wall close to the ceiling on the far left of the underground bunker of alcoholic delights. They sent an orange hue across the rows upon rows of wine racks, and each sent shadows upon the next, until the sunlight was all used up, to leave the right hand side of the cellar in complete darkness.
As he arrived at the bottom of the stairs, he looked around for a light switch. Bulbs hung above from the ceiling some ten feet above his head, but he couldn't for the life of him recall how to turn them on. His gaze returned to the doorway at the top of the stairwell, a thin cord hung by the entrance, mocking him with a sly and subtle shimmy. Damned if he was going to walk all the way up the thin, steep steps just to come down again. He grumbled onwards, in search of the bottle his wife had deemed suitable for their guest.
Nathaniel was still unfamiliar with the way in which the bottles had been put in order. When Banbury still worked for them, he had been proud of his ambitions to categorise them all, intent on making the whole experience of tracking down a specific bottle “as easy as pie”. Nathaniel was not certain whether Banbury had been referring to it being as easy as baking or eating said pie, but was hoping it was the latter as he had no earthly clue how to bake, yet was quite fond of pie.
After having walked back and forth along the full length of two aisles, he was started to wonder whether his former valet had actually got around to putting wines in order, for as far as he could gather, they were not set out in any logical pattern. He wiped the dust off what felt like the thousandth bottle, and discovered the year was 2009. The previous bottle had been from 1941, one was Chateau Margaux, the other an Inglenook. He started to get hot under the collar at the whole process, and an awful thought struck him: that Banbury had categorised them by taste, rather than alphabetically or by age.
A thunk from somewhere beyond the aisle drew his attention away from the irritation that had been brewing. It wasn't the crash of a bottle falling from the shelf and shattering, more like an absent-minded drop. It sounded like the impact of thick glass on the wooden floor, followed by a deep rumbling clatter as it rolled for a little bit before coming to a stop with a light clunk against a rack.
He rose to his full height, kept the breath in his chest, strained to hear further sounds from deeper in the cellar. It was a mouse, he thought, or worse: a rat. But what he heard was not the movements of a rodent. It was more like a low grumble, fleshy mouth sounds, smacking lips, a salivarous tongue. And he thought he could hear words, in fact, there were most definitely words, albeit unintelligible.
He tiptoed as best he could round to the end of the aisle, turned the corner and came back around the next, in search of the origin of the grumbling voice. His eyes probed the crosshatch of light and shadows, still unable to see the offender, now thinking it a homeless man that broke in somehow, to drink them dry.
As he turned into yet another aisle, there was still no sign of the intruder, but there was a bottle. It lay on its side, devoid of its precious contents. He turned right, deeper into the darkness, found another bottle down the next aisle, two more dotted around the one after that, a small puddle of vomit right at the mouth of the following aisle. There had been an intruder all right, and judging by the size of its pool of regurgitation―which was barely three inches in diameter―the trespasser had a tiny stomach.
As he turned the corner of the final aisle, Nathaniel confirmed that not only did the infiltrator to their property have a tiny stomach, but absolutely everything about him was minuscule.
Standing at just over a foot and a half tall, the red faced little man was uneasy on his feet. His entire body wavered left and right, back and forth, as he mumbled to himself in some kind of futile rage. Nathaniel stepped closer to the little man, taking small, surreptitious footsteps, and tried not to make a sound.
The little man's voice became raised, he shouted in a deep accent that sounded as though it might be Irish. Although whether that was the case was up for debate, as it was still not even close to decipherable. He pointed at the wall, shouted accusingly, threw his palms up against it, as if to push it. The wall did not react to the shove, which only seemed to anger the intruder further.
As Nathaniel drew close, he began to be able to recognise some of the stranger's phonemes.
“Y'think y'so high'n mighty, lookin' at me like that, starin' me down. . . told y'before, it's cheatin' if y'enter a starin' contest without any eyes, but y'did so anyways, didn't ye!”
He shoved the wall again, and it became apparent that t
he home invader was in the middle of an argument with his own shadow,.
“Don't be thinkin' y'better than me! Y'aint better than me! Y'ain't even got any eyes, y'bastard!” His arm shot out for a nearby bottle. he missed with the fingers, and hit it with the swing of his knuckles, which sent it clattering to the ground, spilling yet more red wine across the floor.
Nathaniel tried to quash the little voice in the back of his head that was wondering how much each and every drop of spilt wine was worth. He knew that his wife had a proclivity for the finer things, and a bottle could have cost anything from a hundred to ten thousand pounds. In fact, the whole room was probably worth as much as it might cost to hire their staff for a decade. He switched his focus back to the angry little man, to that allowing his thoughts to trail along those lines was only going to put a strain on his relationship with Marjory, and he wanted to do no such thing. Despite her priorities being a little unorthodox, he did truly love her.
“What're you lookin' at?” The question wasn't directed at the shadow―it was directed at Nathaniel.
He threw all other other thoughts out of his head. The little man staggered towards him, a confident swagger to his wavering footsteps, the kind of attitude that only an intense amount of alcohol could imbue someone of such short stature.
“I said, what you lookin' at, y'bastard!” The little man snarled, bearing his teeth. They looked too big for his head, each almost half an inch long with jagged points. His tongue lashed around his mouth wildly, frothy saliva bubbled away at the corners of his dry, cracked lips.
“My dear little sir,” Nathaniel said, as he stared the tiny fellow down. “I am looking at an intruder in my cellar, and I would like to ask you to be so kind as to―”
The creature pounced before he could finish his sentence. Its mouth burst wide open, hands up, fingers clawed, talons aimed for his eyes.
Nathaniel whipped to the side, the alcoholic infiltrator shot past him, and landed on the floor with a confused grunt. He rose unsteadily back to his feet, looked at his hands, and grasped the air between his fingers, as if wondering why there weren't eyeballs in his palms. He looked up at Nathaniel with a wide, lustful smile. “I wants them eyes, boy!”
The little man crouched for another leap, but Nathaniel was done playing games.
“I do wish we could have settled this peacefully. . .” He sighed, raised his hands in front of his chest. “But you know what they say: if you play with fire. . .” He balled his fingers into his palms, fists at the ready for the impending attack. “You're going to get burned.”
Bright purple flames erupted from his palms, and set his fists alight. The green of his eyes glowed over the top of the fire as the magick in his blood fuelled the furnace that was at his command.
The creature seemed to be unperturbed by the fire, and lunged for him. Nathaniel caught the critter in his burning grasp, held the thing by his chest, whilst its teeth gnashed and arms flailed wildly, slashing at his captor's arms with tiny, sharp nails. Nathaniel squealed, throwing the damn thing against the wall with all his might.
It fell to the ground in a crumpled heap.
Jets of blue flame tore out of the gashes the imp had made in his wrists, and his shirt caught alight from the unintended expunging. Nathaniel ripped the damn thing off, threw it to the floor and stamped the blaze out. He glared at the smouldering remains of his shirt, then glanced over to his drunken assailant. It wasn't staying down. In fact, it didn't even appear injured, even though it had been held in fiery hands and flung face-first into a wall.
Nathaniel threw his hands ahead of his chest, his fingers danced through the air, and he let fly with a mighty torrent of fire at the disgusting little creature.
The imp was flung back against the wall, white hot flames engulfed him. He tried to fight it, pick himself back up, but the continuing blast held him in place, his skin boiled and bubbled, his clothes erupted around him, the alcohol in his blood fuelling the blaze.
When Nathaniel was certain the creature was dealt with, he put out the fire at his fingertips. But the creature, despite still being on fire, was apparently far from dead.
It ran across the aisle, straight into the rack opposite, a trail of smoke and flames in its wake. Bottles shook in their slots, some were knocked out and crashed to the floor. The old, dry, wooden rack took to the flames as if it were a tinderbox. It ignited instantly, and the fire whipped past Nathaniel as it spread down the aisle.
“Oh, bloody hell!” he shouted, his fingers pirouetted to take control of the flames and pull the back, as he tried desperately to stop the entire cellar―let alone the house―from going up in flames. Again.
Quelling the blaze was a simple affair for one with his adept, but the fire had taken too much of the rack, and the room full of smoke as a result. He wafted the thick, noxious fumes from his face, coughed over them, as he searched the darkness for the imp. The flames that had engulfed it had died out whilst his attention was on larger fire, and he could no longer see the damn thing.
“Darling?!” a shrill, angry shout from the top of the stairs, followed by footsteps on the wooden steps down into the cellar.
Nathaniel backed his way out of the aisle, unwilling to take his eyes off the smog in which the creature might be lurking. “Yes dear?”
“Dare I be so bold as to ask why it appears the house is on fire again?”
“Well. . .” he wasn't sure of the best way to put it. She would likely blame him for the creature's infiltration, on top of the smoke that was likely wafting through the entire house.
However, he would not need to conjure a rational explanation for the entire affair. Before he had a chance to answer, Marjory's hands were alight with blue and green flames, a jet of aquamarine fire blasted the disgusting, drunken imp across the room, and in the process, set another aisle alight.
The creature ran around, tried to duck and dodge further blasts, which just sent the whole room ablaze all over again, whilst Marjory and Nathaniel tried to quash the fervent flames of their own making.
“I'm starting to think we might have to cancel on the Archbishop. . .” she shouted, over the top of the fire's roar.
“Agreed,” he shouted back. “And we might have to admit that this little blighter might be immune to fire. . . In which case, we're going to need help to make this bastard good and dead!”
Chapter 2
You can't always get what you want
“Find us a case already!” Ana ordered, before she even slipped into the booth opposite Rafe.
“Good morning to you to. Do you want a coffee or something, I'll call the waitress over.”
“I don't want coffee, I want a case!”
The waitress walked past them, and Ana raised a finger to gain her attention. She smiled wide and wiped all traces of irritation from her expression.
“Could I get a coffee please? So black, it absorbs all light that even dares to consider coming anywhere near it.”
The waitress was happy to oblige. Rafe waited until she was out of earshot before he responded to Ana, keeping his tone low and hushed.
“It's not that easy to 'find' a case.”
“Really? Because there seemed to be a lot of critters running around last month. . .”
“Blood moon brings them out, might be dry for a while.”
“Well that's no good! I've got rent to pay. . .” she grumbled.
Rafe's lips parted as the waitress returned with Ana's coffee, but he decided not to let any words escape until she had departed again. “You couldn't possibly have gone through every penny you earned last month!”
“Don't you tell me what's possible―I defy possible.”
“Sure that kinda talk will go down great at the bread line.”
Ana's brow contorted into a scowl. She chewed on her lip for a moment “So, this bread line you speak of. . . Can I get a ticket and come back later, or do I have to queue all day?”
A ringing in her periphery distracted from whatever glib sta
tement Rafe shot back in her direction.
“Tali!” she squealed with excitement.
“Good day, am interrupting anything?”
Ana could feel the warm smile on Tali's lips. “Of course not, grump-a is just buying me a coffee. . .” she glanced over to Rafe, as if to indicate that he was who she was referring to with the portmanteau of grumpy and grandpa. “How's it going?”
“Not bad, busy as usual.”
“You're always busy! We need to get another coffee some time soon.”
Rafe stared with a fixed, perplexed gaze as Ana talked to a person who was not in the room. Specifically, he was amazed that Ana had actually met Tali, given that she grumbled about how she was always working. He signalled to Ana to involve him in the call, but she wasn't paying him any attention.
He was also a little taken aback that Tali called Ana rather than him, but tried not to let it show.
“Oh, I'd love that! Next week I might be free.”
Rafe cleared his throat, and signalled again that he'd like to be part of the call.
“One second, grumpa wants to get in on this.”
This time, he decided not to let it slide. “Grumpa? Really?” He almost spat out his coffee at the term.
“Well, you do get grumpy, and you are significantly older than her. . .” Tali scoffed, as soon as he was added to the call.
“Not old enough to be her grandpa.“
“He won't tell me how old he is. . .” Ana sighed “I hope I age as well as you guys.”
Tali chuckled “You calling me old?”
“Oh, you look fantastic for your age, you know that.”
“When have you two had a chance to meet?” Rafe found himself asking, only aware after the words left his lips that it was just leaving himself open for a glut of sarcastic responses from the two of them.
“Yes, Grandpa, it's called being friends. Normal people have friends, they don't just call when they need a damn favour.”