Rogue, Renegade And Rebel (In Her Paranormal Majesty’s Secret Service Book 1)

by Michael Anderle

Rico grinned, the sight of it rather wolfish. “Right you are, Beefeater.”

  “It’s…” Worthington smiled. “Oh, thank you.”

  Rico nodded at Rita, and they slipped through the wall and out of sight.

  “They're a strange pair,” Baxter commented.

  Worthington walked off. “I like them.”

  “Only because they finally got your job title right.” Jennie chuckled before following him outside. Baxter came shortly after.

  As Jennie materialized through the wall, she knew that something was wrong. The first sign was that Rita and Rico stood facing them in the middle of the road. The second was that Worthington wriggled between them, caught in their grip. The third was that their weapons were trained on his heart and head.

  And the final thing? Well, that was the handful of armed thugs leaning out of the abandoned building’s second-floor windows, their guns trained on Jennie and Baxter.

  The hairs on the back of Jennie’s neck stood on end. “How many times do I have to tell you, Jennie?” She mumbled to herself. “Specters cannot be trusted.”

  “Hey!” Baxter’s complaint turned into a gulp when Rico began to laugh.

  Chapter Twenty

  Loew’s Forty-Sixth Street Theater, Brooklyn, Present Day

  Vinnie Romano looked down his nose at the poor excuses for specters sitting in the theater’s dressing rooms.

  Bulbs still bordered the mirrors, although the glass of each was either smashed or thick with dust. Stools had been knocked over and were so rusted they were orange, and what had once been plush leather sofas for the celebrities who’d graced these walkways were nothing more than chewed up piss-stained couches with their springs sticking out like insect appendages.

  Three specters sat on the floor, slumped against the walls. Vinnie had seen their type before. Three former crack addicts who were only now just beginning to get their heads around the fact that they would never feel the highs of narcotics again.

  The floor was littered with needles they couldn’t touch, the syringes lined with the remnants of the final fix that had caused them to breathe their last breath and enter the world beyond life.

  They scratched their arms and they shivered where they sat, and their spectral skin was covered in sores.

  Vinnie wrinkled his nose, knowing that the other dressing rooms held similar scenarios. A plethora of the city’s lowest of the low, coming to terms with their new existence as the world swam beneath their feet.

  “It gets easier,” he told them without compassion.

  They didn’t even look at him, merely grunted. He hated that he had to associate with these degenerates.

  Vinnie weighed the pistol in his hand and fought the desire to use it on them. As satisfying as it would be, it was hardly relevant to his purpose. They needed all the help they could get, no matter where they got it from.

  He closed the door on them and wandered down the corridors.

  The old theater was a mess, having closed to the public over fifty years ago. The city of New York hadn’t bothered to renovate the damned thing, just left it to rot. The walls were mostly bare wood, with yellowed wallpaper peeling from the tops like curled fingernails. The lights and abandoned furniture were caked in dust.

  The corners of this place were a hungry spider’s wet dream.

  It was the perfect place for a hideout, somewhere considered haunted by the locals and forgotten by the politicians. A piece of history standing on a cliff face, bravely rooting itself in the face of a storm.

  Vinnie passed several other cruel-faced specters but uttered no greeting. Over his years of death, he had learned when to speak and when to remain silent. Even now, as several other specters ran toward the upper windows and withdrew their weapons, he refused to open his mouth.

  He rounded the corner and walked the stairs leading to the theater’s upper balcony. He emerged into the old auditorium and looked out on the rows of faded red seating facing a stage that would never be used again. That was the thing about death; you learned what it was to be useless and lonely.

  A single specter sat in the center row, arms spread out and relaxed over the backs of the adjacent chairs.

  “Nearly showtime,” the specter called, his voice echoing around the hall. “Nearly fifty years on, and we’re finally about to watch what we’ve all been waiting for.”

  Vinnie walked down the row and took a seat behind the specter. “Ain’t you needed upstairs?”

  “Nah.” The specter grinned. “This is where it’s all going to take place. Down on that stage, where the magic is supposed to happen. You ever seen a stage show, Vinnie?”

  Vinnie only shook his head, but somehow, the specter knew what he was saying.

  “They’re a marvel. Lights, actors, dancers—oh, man, you should see the dancers. Leggy blondes who could kick the faces off the VIPs in the wings.”

  “I don’t see any dancers,” Vinnie told him.

  “Observant, ain’t ya?” The specter pulled out a ghostly cigar from his pocket. “No, you’re right. No dancers today, Vinnie. No dancers, but there will be a show, that’s for sure. There’s always a show whenever she’s around.”

  Vinnie gulped. He knew who the specter was talking about, of course. He had encountered her before, a long time ago, a brief encounter that had ended in his and many of his comrades’ deaths.

  “We can beat her, can’t we?” Vinnie asked, a fragment of doubt in his voice.

  Marco turned in his seat, his hardened stare drilling into Vinnie from beneath his brow. Half of his cheek was missing, and there was a large hole in his stomach from where the Big Bitch had shot him.

  Marco moved so suddenly that Vinnie barely had a chance to retaliate. He grabbed Vinnie by the ear and pulled him so close that their noses were virtually touching.

  “Yeah, we can,” Marco growled. “Because if we fail this time, we’re both out of chances. No more resurrection as spectral entities, no. If we die now, we’re dead forever. You hear me?”

  Vinnie swallowed and raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t think she could exorcise specters?”

  Marco gave an infinitesimal shake of his head. “It doesn’t matter. If we don’t finish her off this time, then she’s not the one we need to worry about, is she?”

  Marco threw Vinnie back against the seat where he shrunk and passed through the ancient fabric. A gun fired somewhere outside, and both of their eyes moved to the exit doors at the back of the theater.

  Marco gave a wicked grin. “Oh, good, the curtains are up. Time to get this show rolling.”

  “I do have to warn you that there is only one way that this will end if you choose to get on my bad side.” Jennie held up her hands as though she were being placed under arrest, yet her expression was calm and collected. “Is that what you want to do?”

  Rico turned to the gunmen on the upper levels and laughed once more. “She’s kidding, right? You do know you’re outnumbered and that we have your spectral buddy hostage?”

  “I told you they weren’t working for the crown,” Worthington cried, struggling to escape as he was dragged away. “I fucking told you.”

  Rita tightened her grip around his arm and dug her pistol into his stomach. “Oh, no. That part was all true. We’re all working for the same mistress, only you two have stumbled upon something Her Majesty would rather not have made public.”

  A flicker of doubt passed across Jennie’s face. Her eyes met Worthington’s, and he looked away.

  Jennie controlled her emotions, ensuring that her enemy couldn’t see what was going on in her head. The strongest weapon any person—alive or dead—could harness, was their confidence. The moment that slipped, the floodgates would open, and the enemy would tear into it and use it to their advantage.

  “What is it you want?” Jennie asked. “Clearly there’s some kind of motive here, so what is it? What do you want from us?”

  Rico sneered. “It’s not what I want. It’s more what my superiors want. Come along quietly, and
perhaps we’ll give you an honorable entry into death. Do you know the suffering that can be inflicted before a person dies?” He shook his head and tutted. “It’s beyond description.”

  Jennie turned to Baxter, whose eyes were fixed on the thugs up above them.

  The only redeeming factor of this building was a small section cut into the corner, which had since been converted into Regal’s Fine Furniture store, a small shop that made use of the theater’s old reception area.

  The rest of the building looked like it had lain untouched for decades.

  “What do you think, big guy?” Jennie asked Baxter out of the corner of her mouth. “Do we surrender?”

  “I didn’t have you down as the surrendering type,” he implied.

  Jennie contemplated that. “You know, you’re right. But it’s been a while since I’ve seen a theater from the fifties, and I’m itching to get inside.”

  Baxter finally tore his eyes away from the gunmen and looked at Jennie. To another person he might have been intimidating, looming almost two feet taller than Jennie.

  However, she had seen bigger and badder in her days.

  Baxter grinned. “There’s more than one way to break into a theater.”

  Jennie nodded. “Good answer.”

  A second later, Jennie’s pistol was in her hand. She took aim at the windows and took out one of the gunmen in a single shot. Then she connected with Baxter, and they both became immaterial and melted through the wall of the house behind them.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  A volley of glowing bullets ricocheted off the back of the house, raining spectral dust to the ground.

  Jennie heard them all, as loud as hands clapping, but she knew the residents of the house wouldn’t. Mortals were unable to hear virtually anything that happened outside of their range of frequency, and it was only a few conduits and gifted among them who were able to experience the sounds and cries of the dead.

  Jennie had experienced this all of her life, from spectral children playing outside at night to former lovers meeting in the afterlife and throwing themselves into cries of passion. From gang members still wrapped up in their feuds to former opera singers unable to let their music go. She could hear it all.

  Her parents never could. Nor could any of her friends—when she’d still bothered with the living, that was.

  During these times, she had merely clutched her hands to her head, praying for the voices to stop. The other children would ask her what was wrong, but she had learned over time to avoid telling them the truth, just drew herself into a tight bubble of reclusion.

  It was only after the battle for the paranormal courts at the start of the twentieth century when Victoria took her place as queen and Jennie was fully indoctrinated into the paranormal world that she began to understand the limits of mortals, and the extent of her own powers.

  Oh, yes. They slept silently, waking in the morning none the wiser to the events that would take place at night and the ground-shaking shift of faith that would tear the paranormal court wide open.

  Baxter held his pistol near his face, his back to the wall. “Is your friend going to be okay out there?”

  Jennie winked. “My friend? I thought he was yours.”

  Baxter laughed. “Seriously.”

  “He’ll be fine,” Jennie assured him. “He’s hardly going to be in much danger out there. What’s the worst they can do to him? Blow off his face and shut him up for a few seconds?”

  “They could exorcize him,” Baxter suggested.

  “True.” Jennie dismissed the thought. “But they’d need someone extra-powerful for that kind of ritual. Given that they’re just a bunch of mobsters holed up in an old theater, I’m going to assume he’ll be just fine on his own.”

  More shots rang out.

  “Time to get out of here.” Jennie crossed the living room and opened the door to the kitchen. She paused when she saw a boy of around six years of age standing in the milky light of the refrigerator with a carton of orange juice in his hand.

  Jennie froze.

  The boy turned and stared at her with wide eyes. The orange juice fell from his hands.

  “You can see me?” she asked softly.

  The boy nodded his head.

  Shit, she thought. Always check that you’re in spectral form before running uninvited through someone else’s house.

  She waved her hands in front of her as if casting a spell. “This is all a dream…”

  The next moment she reconnected to Baxter and disappeared from sight. She left the boy standing there with the pool of orange juice dampening his socks. A second later, she had passed through the wall to the front of the building and found somewhere new to hide.

  For the first time in decades, Worthington felt the pain of being beaten.

  They had not been gentle with him. Rico and Rita had dragged him through the theater walls and past the gunmen lining the corridors inside.

  There were a couple hundred of them, at least—specters with scars on their skin and permanent scowls on their faces. The theater smelled of death and an abandonment of hope. They passed rooms lined with specters overcoming withdrawal, and others containing prostitutes who now satisfied the dead instead of the living.

  Several rooms they passed were used as weapons stores. The specters who had died with their guns in their hands had donated their ghostly firearms to the cause.

  The place was huge. They went up flight after flight of stairs until they reached the VIP lounge—a large room complete at the very top of the building with a bar and several pool tables. One of the tables sported a broken leg that made it bow crookedly to the others.

  “You’re going to regret treating me this way,” Worthington told them through gritted teeth.

  Rico raised the back of his hand as if intending to slap Worthington. He flinched and closed his eyes, thankful when someone shouted, “Stop,” and the pain he had expected didn’t come.

  Worthington opened his eyes and saw two specters sitting in armchairs in the lounge. They both wore suits that had permanent bloodstains on their shirts. The one on the left looked fairly whole, whereas the one on the right had a large chunk missing from his right cheek.

  “Welcome!” The one on the right spread his arms wide as he spoke as if he was greeting an old friend. “Who do we have here?”

  Worthington tugged his arms out of Rico and Rita’s grasp and dusted off his clothes. He adjusted his bearskin hat to try to recover a modicum of self-respect. “Worthington Conrad, Beefeater and subject of Queen Victoria. Sent on an errand to this country to—”

  “Hush, hush,” the specter interrupted Worthington, puffing on his cigar. Ghostly smoke curled out of his mouth, leaking through the hole in his cheek like water through a burst pipe. “I asked you a simple question, and I now have my answer. Learn when to shut up.”

  “You sound just like Jennie,” Worthington mumbled.

  The specter continued as if Worthington hadn’t spoken. “Pleased to meet you, Worthington. My name’s Marco Ruggiero, and this here is my associate, Vinnie Romano. We understand you’ve been causing my men some trouble?”

  “I know who you are,” Worthington replied, his face turning dark. “The queen warned me that I might run into you two. Tell me, how go the recruiting efforts in the city? Because you’re doing a bang-up job of keeping quiet and avoiding stirring up trouble.”

  A flutter of annoyance crossed Marco’s features at Worthington’s sarcastic reply.

  Vinnie gave a cursory glance his way. “So, it’s true. You are here on the queen’s business. What right does the queen have to meddle in our efforts? The last we heard, we’re supposed to grow her numbers of followers in the US. Find new recruits and squash any competition.”

  “If that’s the case, you’re doing a shit job,” Worthington said. Rico and Rita shuffled awkwardly beside him, unsure of what was going on or what to say. “The Spectral Plane has made enough of a stir that they’ve been noticed in Britain. You thi
nk the queen didn’t hear of the battle you fought several months ago? How long did you think you could keep that one quiet?”

  Marco’s brow furrowed, and he stared angrily at Worthington. “What does Her Majesty want with us? We’re doing her bidding. We’re keeping our end of the bargain.”

  Worthington gave them a hard look. “If that were true, why would she send Rogue across the Atlantic to clean up your mess?”

  At the sound of Jennie’s name, what little color remained in Vinnie’s face drained. His hands moved down from his chest to cover the hole she had left in his stomach.

  “What’s your part in all this?” Marco growled, his anger finally making its way to the surface. “Surely Rogue doesn’t need a babysitter. Why have you been sent here?”

  “To keep the bitch off your trail and take down the Spectral Plane,” Worthington replied.

  Marco grinned. “Well, if that’s the case, then you’ve done a shitty job.”

  “I did what I could.” Worthington scowled. “It’s not my fault you left a trail of breadcrumbs leading directly to your fucking front door.”

  “No, but since she’s your charge, it’s you who assumes responsibility.” Marco continued to grin. “Queeny won’t be too happy to learn you failed in your mission, will she?”

  At this, a corresponding grin grew on Worthington’s face. “She doesn’t have to find out. Guess who’s got a plan to ensure that she gets captured and removed from the equation?”

  Vinnie leaned forward in his chair. “How? How?”

  Worthington chuckled darkly. “Because the bitch is mortal, and if there’s one thing mortals do a thousand times better than us specters, it’s dying.”

  Jennie peered out from around the side of the pillar.

  She had snuck through the houses, courtesy of Baxter’s power. They had moved fast and been able to shake off the dozens of specters that had spilled from the theater and stationed themselves around the block to act as sentries against the mortal who was able to harness the powers of the ethereal.