Blessed by Fire

by P W Hillard

  D.C.I Weston picked up a small bronze dagger form the table and turned it over in her hands. It was roughly made, its blade dulled by age, a small crack running through its misshapen hilt. She set it back down amongst the seemingly random assortment of objects that her detectives had brought back from the supplier.

  “Honestly gentlemen it looks like you got taken for a ride,” she said. The assembled components had cost more than the departments Christmas party budget.

  “I know it doesn’t look like much Ma’am,” Dale admitted, carefully placing a glass jar filled with soil into an open wheeled suitcase. “This is soil from mount Sinai, that dagger is genuine Babylonian, those pebbles are Norse scrying runes the- “

  “Yes, yes I get it, all very rare and apparently very expensive,” she interrupted. “Still, there is bound to be some dubious legalities to some of this. We could have just confiscated the entire lot.”

  “We would have lost a valuable contact and supplier then though Ma’am,” pointed out Dale. “That’s the problem. What we deal with sometimes means we must deal with some unscrupulous characters. I mean, look who gave us the list of these items in the first place.”

  Florence nodded. She could remember when she was just Constable Weston, walking the streets of her local Brighton. Things had always been so black and white since then. As she had risen in rank things had gotten noticeably greyer. Undercover stings, informants, plea deals. She chuckled to herself. Those all seemed small compared to buying probably stolen goods at the behest of the Devil. “You’re right Cooper. The day it sits right with me I think is the day I need to move on I think.”

  “I think I agree Ma’am.” Dale continued placing the items from the table into the suitcase. “You still think me, and Raj need to head down ourselves?”

  “Too right I do. This whole thing has been a complete shitshow. It’s getting harder and harder to spin it each day. I’ve had both the commissioner and the home secretary on the phone this morning. We need to get this sorted.” She started at Dale, her arms crossed. He nodded nervously and began to zip up the suitcase. He knew better than to disagree with her. “I’m not thrilled with the arrangement you made either. I don’t like the idea of her walking around unsupervised.”

  “I agreed to supervise her Ma’am, she won’t be alone.”

  “She asked specifically for you Cooper,” barked Florence. “You made a literal deal with the devil. I hate how that is the lesser of two evils right now.”

  “Ok, just got off the phone and they say we have a location, seems like we are good to go,” declared Rajan as he stepped into the small store room he and Dale had unofficially requisitioned to store the reagents they had purchased. “Afternoon Ma’am.”

  “D.S Singh,” said Florence, returning his reply. “All ready to go?”

  “Yes Ma’am, just come to collect D.S Cooper and then we’re off to the station. Curren and Holden will meet us off the train and take us to the site they have chosen.”

  “This needs to work Singh. These things have been loose a few days and have already racked up a shocking body count. We need to get a lid on this as quickly as possible.” The tone in Florence’s voice intimated that this was not a suggestion.

  “Understood Ma’am,” said Rajan. “The intel seems good and it’s a solid plan.”

  “Personally Singh, speaking from experience, that any plan described as solid,” mused Florence, “often transpires to be considerably wobblier than first imagined.”

  Claire stood staring at her handywork, proud of the carnage she had wrought. Blood trickled through her sticky fingers, thin strands of viscera splashing around her feet. She held her bloodstained hands above her head.

  “Another!” she shouted. At her command another sheep carcass was dragged before her. Claire knelt, gripping the dead animal’s skin and tearing it asunder with her hands. Still warm blood poured from the tear. She eagerly dipped her hands the crimson fluid and began to paint.

  The building they had found was a gift. The town was full of empty warehouses and factories, casualties of decades of waning industry. Claire had led the other Jinn here after their earlier clash, eager to increase their numbers. It was perfect. Jinn were pure primal fire, creatures of flickering baleful flame. To summon them required this world own flames. A field burnt down in the night. A lighter in a bathtub. Closed, cold, but still functional a large oven had lain resting in a former bakery. Scores of sweet-smelling baked goods had once grown behind its grilled smile. Now it would simply grow the doorway between this world and another. Claire’s hands danced as she painted sigils across the ovens metal shell. The runes had begun to spread across the walls. Around her the other Jinn stood silent watching. Eyes watching the body of the young girl furiously daub blood across the exposed brick, hungrily anticipating what would be soon to come.

  The train rattled into the station, its brakes screeching like a wounded bird. Dale held onto the hand rail as the overcrowded train shook, finally stopping in the middle of the long platform that seemed to stretch off eternally. Dale was used to the underground, to be jammed into a crowded carriage. Even compared to that the train was packed. A single carriage that seemed to have been last updated sometime in the mid-eighties carrying the two detectives from the much larger Cardiff station. It was early evening and they had gotten caught in the daily commute, office workers dourly cramming themselves through the single double doors into the tiny cabin. Stepping onto the platform, the wheels of the suitcase clattering on the stone behind him, Dale stretched his free arm. Rajan followed, swinging his elbows in a similar attempt to stretch.

  “Remind me never to complain about the tube again,” said Dale.

  “You mad?” spluttered Rajan. “The tube is way worse than that.”

  “What? No. At least the tube is designed for it. That was meant for like, thirty people tops,” argued Dale as they started towards the turnstiles.

  “The tube somehow manages to combine the worst of trains,” stated Rajan as he slipped his train ticket into the turnstile. It swung open and he stepped through. “With the worst of public transport,” he continued, turning to face Dale as he squeezed the case through his own turnstile. “I once took a tube journey where the entire trip a man played a trombone directly into my face. I will take uncomfortable silence pressed up against a stranger to wilful brass instrument abuse any day.”

  “I like that kind of stuff,” Dale said, “it adds character.”

  “That’s what people say when they want to describe something as shit but not outright say it. Trombones in your face is character. Uncle Jerry is really handsy with the girls, oh what a character,” mocked Rajan.

  “Fine but you have to admit. It is pretty London.” Dale slid the extendable handle on the suitcase down and gripped the smaller rubber handle on the top. He lifted and slowly started down the impressive staircase. He took each step carefully, eager not to drop the case.

  Rajan followed slowly behind him. “God, I hate London too.” Rajan was on a roll. “Everyone is so rush rush. And queues! No-one queues! I tried to grab some food at a salad place and there was a scrum for the counter! In a salad place!” Rajan was clearly enjoying the chance to air his grievances now he was on the other side of the country.

  “Oh, hey there they are!” Dale said quickly, eager to avoid one of Rajan’s rambling rants. He hopped down the last few steps, care forgotten in an eager attempt to avoid another lecture about traffic or keeping right on the escalators. Mark and Jess were stood at the bottom of the stairs in front of a worryingly shabby looking van. A man Dale didn’t recognise was leaning against the van door.

  “Dale,” Mark said stepping forward and shaking Dales hand. He grabbed Rajan’s as he reached the bottom of the steps. “This is Constable Aasif Rhaman, he’s a local who’s been helping with our investigation.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” Dale placed the suitcase on the ground and shook the man’s hand.

  “Likewise, want to get that in the van?�
� Aasif pointed at the suitcase.

  “Yeah, that’s a good idea,” agreed Mark. He grabbed the door and pulled it open, revealing the hastily spray-painted symbols on the back door. “Oh, uh…”

  “Uh what?” said Aasif as he lifted the suitcase. “Oh. Uh is right I guess.” Atop the still closed trunk was the Isabella doll. It was sat upright as though it had been posed that way. “That was inside the case wasn’t it?”

  “Inside its own box, inside the case,” added Mark.

  “We better put it back then,” Aasif said, trying to remain as calm as possible.

  Mark raised his eyebrows awkwardly. “Agreed.”

  “This is perfect.” Rajan was carrying a cardboard box that had been filled with small jars. It was as much black seed oil as Jess could buy. After buying out the Chinese medicine shops remaining stock she had traipsed around trying to find more before stumbling across a small quantity in a hardware store that the owner was all too eager to part with, it having sat unwanted, covered in a thin layer of dust. Rajan span around, box cradled in his arms as he took in the building they had found. It was an old office building, four floors of open plan areas. The ceiling was thick foam tiles studded with old style metal sprinklers. There were two main entrances in the front and the back meaning which would make what they needed to do easier Rajan set down his box next to the rest of the supplies.

  “Yeah it should do the job,” agreed Jess. “Can’t help but feel that calling all the super dangerous spirits into once place might not be a super chill idea.” She pulled a deliberately exaggerated face, her eyes squinting, lips pursed. “But you know, got to try something.” She held up her hands, palms pointed at the sky.

  “How did you find how to do all this?” asked Aasif as he took a jar of honey from one of the boxes, checked it and placed it back, trying to find the one that was responsible for the small stain on the bottom of the box.

  “A contact, she gave us the list of components and instructions on the spell.” Rajan leant against a beige wall, a puff of dust being knocked free as his back hit the plasterboard.

  “What kind of contacts have you guys got that give you lists with creepy dolls and weird objects on them? What happened to fun contacts like who to buy a slightly used PlayStation off.” Aasif found the culprit jar. He removed it from the box and set down on the frayed lilac carpet tiles that filled the building.

  “The devil. She’s an arse but she knows her stuff,” Dale chimed in.

  “Come on Dale, that’s not something you should go around announcing.!” Jess stood with one hand on her hip, her eyes burning with disapproval.

  “He’ll find out soon enough. One of us now.” Dale swung his arm over Aasif’s shoulder. “Better start looking for a flat in London now, that shit is expensive.”

  “Dale!” Jess shouted.

  “No, it’s fine, I figured as much.” Aasif shrugged his shoulders. “When you described what happened to you it kind of clicked. It’s not like you can actively recruit for this sort of thing, right? So, a copper who comes across this stuff is really your best bet.”

  “He’s good this one!” laughed Dale, tapping Aasif hard on the back.

  “Yeah he put two and two together,” added Rajan, “makes him a better detective than you.” He laughed heartily at his own joke.

  “It’s ok. You know every morning I get up early, go for a run. No-one else is around, the sun is rising. Its serene, almost beautiful. I love it. But really that’s all I love. Mum died when I was little, Dad a few years ago. No other close family, I live alone. That run is all I live for. Day after day. Doing this, doing all this weird stuff. It’s helping people. I mean really helping people. Not breaking up fighting drunks or removing junkies from the park. Actual real meaningful help. I think, maybe, that’s something worth getting up every day for besides the running.” Aasif sat there for a moment, the room silent from his stark admission. “So, the devil is a woman?”

  “Well,” began Mark, “the devil is a powerful primal entity. If she wants to be a woman this millennium that’s up to her.”

  Rajan chuckled. “She would very much like to also be more, shall we say, acquainted with Cooper. You won’t believe what we agreed too for all this help.”

  Chapter 19

  Mark held his phone in his hand, torchlight shining down onto the rooftop below him. He was crouched on his knees spray paint can in his other hand. It hissed like a scared cat as he slowly and carefully copied the sigils from the picture on his phone. Opposite him Rajan did the same, the cramped roof becoming increasingly difficult to manoeuvre on. Each man stepped awkwardly, eager to avoid the wet paint, each grateful that for once the skies were clear. The hiss from the can collapsed into a rattle as it began to run dry. Rajan stood up, admiring his work.

  “Toss me that can if you’re done?” said Mark, shaking his own with a clack to show it was empty. He set it down and caught Rajan’s can as it sailed through the air to him.

  “I recognise maybe, a quarter of these? If that?” Rajan waved the small pocket torch he had brought over the rooftop. They had been up there for hours, meticulously marking out the spell work as instructed. Four stories up meant the wind chilled them through, its piercing gale meaning they had to cling close to the flat grey concrete roof of the office block to use the spray paint they had bought.

  “I know what you mean,” Mark replied, finishing the odd jagged spiral he had been painting. “I’ve only seen some of this stuff in our archive. Specifically, in the kind of books we keep in the vault.” Rajan nodded in reply. At the heart of the Special Investigations archive lay a large metal vault door, the kind you normally only saw in heist movies. A firearms officer always stood guard; even getting in required special permission from Weston. Once inside each book was stored in its own safe deposit. Carefully inscribed runes etched into the metal struggling to keep the books contained. More than once a book had ended up in a detective’s bag without them realising, as if the books wanted to leave. They had taken to chaining each book to its deposit box.

  Rajan shuddered. “I hate going in there, I swear last time I could hear whispering.”

  “Yeah, it’s a little worrying we’re using that kind of magic honestly,” admitted Mark. “Plus, I know we don’t have much choice, but what is the chance that Lucille is double crossing us?”

  Rajan laughed. “I am one hundred percent sure she is double crossing us.”

  “I’m not double crossing them,” said Lucille. She was laying half on her bed, legs planted to the ground, arms outstretched.

  “Really? You actually gave them the for real spell they needed?” Abbie took a sip of her tea. She placed the small china up back down on the minuscule kitchens worktop and added another spoonful of sugar. “You’re becoming a soft touch.”

  Lucille sighed. “Maybe? I just figured I let our kind try and they clearly ballsed it up. Time to give the humans a chance.”

  “They don’t have much of a chance though. It’s real likely they will all die.” Abbie leant her elbows on the back of the sofa, cup and saucer held in her hands.

  “Always so downbeat. It wouldn’t kill you to look on the brighter side of life occasionally.” Lucille lifted herself up, perching herself on the edge of the bed.

  “Life? We spend all day running a dive bar in some London back alley. We used to be kings.” Abbie took a long sip of her tea with a disgusting slurping noise. “I had everything all ready to go, locusts ready to fly. You know how long it takes to train a swarm of locusts? Hundreds of years down the drain because someone bottled it when it came to showtime.”

  “Hey!” complained Lucille clearly insulted. “I joined your open mic night didn’t I. I clearly have no problems with stage fright.”

  “Nice of you to twist my words.”

  “And you said I was losing my touch.” Lucille stretched out a toothy smile.

  “Ha Ha,” replied Abbie, her voice a mocking monotone. “I’m not being fair. I made the choice to join you in th
is. I just imagined my life being more destroyer king, less IPA recommendations.”

  “You are pretty good at that though. Business has been picking up lately. The open mic nights are helping a ton. We’ve sold a bunch of tickets for that gig next weekend.”

  “That’s a problem though. We can only really ever stay small. We’re supposed to be laying low. I’m amazed you got them to agree to let you run a bar in the first place.” Abbie placed her empty teacup in the sink. She opened a cupboard and removed an unopened packet of chocolate covered hob nobs. She peeled open the packet and offered it to Lucille who eagerly took one.

  “Well, I was always good at making a deal,” said Lucille. She took a bite of the biscuit. “Plus, I’ve been working on the small things,” she continued her voice muffled by the mouthful of biscuit. “If everything works out business should pick up.”

  Jess placed her phone back into her pocket, a tear running down her cheek. She took a deep breath, making the recording had taken a lot out of her emotionally. She always felt drained recording the messages she did, and always felt like a great weight had been lifted when she deleted them. Every time she thought she might die Jess had taken the time to record a message for her wife and child. She had recorded dozens, and each time it got a little easier to do. That thought terrified her. Composing herself she returned to her part of the plan. Her jacket had been lain carefully on the floor, her shirt sleeves rolled up past the elbow. Jess was within a small maintenance room on the top floor. A web of pipes surrounded her, leading into a large metal tank. The lid of the tank was set aside, leaning up against the wall. Four men and not even one had held a wrench in their lives. Jess was suddenly very grateful for the time in her fathers’ workshop as a girl. He had been a great believer in practical skills, his tutelage proving extremely useful when Jess and Hannah had bought their home. She reached down, picking up one of the jars of honey. The lid popped off with a twist, the thick liquid dropping in globs into the water below.