Dark Descent

by Nicole R. Taylor

  “Where did you go last night?” I whispered.

  “Did you have to bring that with you?”

  Jackson poked the troll doll with a finger, and it edged across the table between the salt and pepper shakers.

  “Says the fully grown man wearing a T-shirt that says ‘I am not a geek, I’m a level nine wizard’.”

  “Point.”

  We’d ordered two English Breakfasts with all the trimmings and were currently inhaling it. Sausage, beans, fried tomato, chips, scrambled eggs, bacon, a side of toast, and a pot of tea. Each. It was the best cure for a rough night and went down a treat. Thank goodness for all day breakfast menus.

  “So, have you changed your mind about wanting a birthday present?” Jackson asked, mopping up the sauce on his plate with a triangle of toast.

  “Nope. You know I don’t like the pressure of gift giving… or receiving.”

  “I thought it was more about your lust for minimalism,” he shot back with a grin.

  “Mmmhmm,” I muttered, dabbing my lips with a serviette.

  I glanced at a man sitting two tables away and did a double-take when I thought I saw his eyes shine silver. Kind of like the way an animal’s eyeballs reflected light in the dark. The second time, he looked like a normal dude out for a normal round of beans on toast from the local café. The man caught me staring and nodded, and I blinked before looking away.

  Picking up a chip, I dipped the end into the beans and swirled it around, focusing on the troll doll. What are you supposed to be, Purples?

  “Huh?” I asked, realising Jackson had been talking to me.

  “I asked when you were working again.” He turned around in his chair, trying to see what’d caught my attention. “What are you looking at?”

  “Nothing,” I replied with a shrug. “I’m on Thursday. Shooter co-ops. My favourite night.” I rolled my eyes.

  “Still can’t deal with them, huh?”

  “Those games attract a certain kind of geek you and I both know full well doesn’t mesh with my sensible capabilities as a female.”

  “Don’t be so prejudiced, Scarlett,” he said with a laugh before pinching one of my chips and stuffing it into his mouth. “I made most of my money playing Call of Duty, or have you forgotten?”

  “You’re an anomaly.”

  “Says the woman who liked Mass Effect Andromeda… the very game that ruined a perfectly awesome franchise.”

  “The main guy in it was hot,” I complained.

  “He was badly rendered. Like first gen console bad. I traded that game as soon as I could just to get it out of the flat. It was like the whole development team was possessed or something when they coded it—possessed or high, either one.”

  “Pfft,” I hissed, shielding my plate from his sticky fingers. “I know what I like.”

  He fell silent as I polished off the last of my breakfast, even eating the fried tomato I usually leave behind. I glanced at the troll doll again, narrowing my eyes. Purples… Where had I heard that before?

  Black inky smoke… She sees me excise a demon and she’s worried that I know about her age?

  The lane behind 8-bit! That’s where I saw the guy with silver eyes. The guy no one could see… Holy sh—

  “So last night, I wanted to talk to you about something,” Jackson began, turning his empty tea cup around and around.

  “That’s it!” I declared, almost falling out of my chair.

  “That’s what?” His eyebrows knitted together and he shoved his hand through his unruly hair.

  “I think I know what happened last night.” I began fossicking through my pocket for some change. I had to follow the clues, and then I’d figure it out.

  “What?”

  “Here,” I said, laying down a tenner and some pound coins on the table. “This ought to cover breakfast. Mostly…”

  “You’re leaving?” Jackson asked, glancing from me to the money and back again.

  “It’s important,” I replied, shrugging into my leather jacket and snatching up the troll doll. “I’ll be home later, okay?” Skidding to a halt by the door, I waved at him one last time. “I’m sorry! I’ll make it up to you, I promise!”

  Not knowing exactly where I was going, I legged it to the bus stop, determined to find the man in the leather jacket. He’d done something to me and that guy he’d knifed, and none of it made any sense.

  Spying the red double-decker turning the corner, I fished out my Oyster card. I had enough problems to deal with without some random stranger messing with my memories.

  When the bus came to a stop, I jumped on, tapped my card, and climbed up to the upper level. What I didn’t want to think about was the fact that the mystery bad boy might not even be real, and all of this might be a hallucination created by my mental instability.

  Sliding into an empty seat, I combed my fingers around the troll doll’s purple hair. There was only one way to know for sure.

  Find the man and I’d find the truth.

  4

  The city was awash with artificial light, but darkness was never far away.

  My boots thudded on the stairs as I exited Tower Hill tube station. The barriers squealed open as I slapped my Oyster card on the reader, and I was outside again. Overhead, the stars were obscured—by light pollution or clouds, I wasn’t sure.

  Across the street, the Tower of London was lit up, looking ominous and out of place in the modern city. It was easy to forget how old London was with all the progress rushing by. Hints of its origins stuck out all over the place for those whose eyes were keen enough to notice it—a building, a tourist attraction, a sign bolted into a wall, the sudden appearance of a church and a matching graveyard between a Lidl and a Sainsbury’s.

  The troll doll heated in my hand, drawing me past the castle-like structure that’d seen its fair share of death and drama. A bus zoomed past, lit up and full of passengers, and my hair whipped backwards. Man, it was freezing. Checking my phone, I saw it was almost eleven-thirty. I’d been walking all day, pinging from one side of the city to the other on a wild goose chase, unable to shake the feeling I was being pranked to the extreme. If it wasn’t for the magical arsehole detector in my hand, I might’ve given up ages ago.

  I was following the heat signature of a troll doll, I thought to myself. This is not normal. But I’d kept going anyway.

  Bad Boy had killed the same guy twice for crying out loud. He could’ve skewered me just as many times, though I wasn’t sure how that’d work, but he didn’t. He’d seemed curious that I was even talking to him until he’d turned full arsehole. Still, it was probably best I approach the guy in a public place if I could. The things I did for answers.

  The troll was scalding my hand by the time I realised I was standing outside a pub. Clutching the hair so I didn’t burn myself, I sighed. Hopefully this was the end of the line. I stood on the footpath as traffic whizzed back and forth behind me, and stared up at the name, The Hung, Drawn, and Quartered. That wasn’t a bad omen or anything.

  From the outside it looked like any other pub in the city district of London. Red brick façade, old window panes with cottage flowers growing in planter boxes on the sills, black and gold signs, a chalkboard easel with lunch and dinner specials—every pie individually hand-crafted with the finest short crust pastry!—and benches outside. It was far too cold for anyone to be standing out here with their pints, so I was alone on the footpath. Inside, I could hear the hubbub of punters enjoying a late run on a Tuesday night.

  I peered in the window, scoping the lay of the land. The place looked very stately with chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, marble columns, and intricate gold-framed paintings of old people. Old people meaning historical figures I didn’t have any inkling as to who they were or why they were famous.

  The troll doll warmed in my hand as my gaze fell onto a man sitting in the corner by the open fireplace. His back was to the room and he was nursing a pint of beer, his shoulders slumped and his head down. He was wearing a
leather biker jacket, and his hair was all messy like he hadn’t bothered to style it after getting out of bed. It looked good on him, which was just insult to injury. Perfect people always looked perfect, even when they’d just been rolling in a mountain of shit.

  Thrusting myself over the mass of plants, I pressed my nose up against the window and scowled. Yeah, it was him all right—sexy, brooding, and an arsehole sticker plastered on his forehead. Remembering that morning when I’d unconsciously masturbated on a bar of soap, my cheeks flushed. It wasn’t about him, I thought to myself. It was a psychological need for relief.

  A group of men sitting just inside stared at me and laughed. Pulling back, I tossed my hair over my shoulder and stalked towards the door. Now or never, Scarlett.

  Warmth hit me in the face as I entered the pub, and I wasted no time weaving between the tables, making a direct beeline for Bad Boy himself. The closer I got, the more certain I was that I was about to meet my untimely end. I was doing the whole run headfirst into danger thing again.

  Standing beside him, I slammed the troll doll onto the table.

  “What did you do to me?” I demanded.

  The man tensed, his gaze fixing on the plastic toy. Up close, he smelled like liquorice, citrus, and something metallic.

  “How did you find me?” he asked after a moment. His fingers tightened around his glass, the tips turning white.

  “The troll doll.”

  “Clever.”

  “That’s all you’ve got to say?” I was boiling over like a volcano. Any second now, I was going to blow my top and things would get messy. Real messy. “You messed with me, didn’t you? At first I thought you might’ve slipped me a roofie, but I don’t drink, not usually and especially not when I’m working. Then I toyed with the idea that you pricked me with a needle.”

  The man snorted like I was performing some stand-up comedy routine and angled in his chair so he could stare at me.

  “But then I started remembering things,” I murmured, leaning closer, doing my best ‘bad cop’ impression, “lots of things.”

  “Sit down,” he commanded, his eyes narrowing.

  “No.” I was going to sit anyway, but I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of thinking I’d ask how high when he’d just barked at me to jump.

  “Have a seat, Purples,” he said, gesturing to the padded bench opposite him. “I’m not going to bite.”

  “Just stab,” I shot back, not missing a beat.

  “Surly and sassy.” His lips quirked into a sly grin. “Looks like I’ve caught a live one.”

  Gritting my teeth, I slid onto the bench. “Who are you, and what did you do to me?”

  The man picked up the troll doll and wound his finger around the tuft of purple hair. “It looks like you, don’t you think?”

  “Stop avoiding the question,” I snapped.

  “The question?” he retorted. “It was more like a two-in-one. I’ve only got enough change for one of those answers, Purples.”

  I scoffed, “I’m impossible? I’ve got nothing on you.”

  The man leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. Turning the troll doll around so it faced me, he tapped his finger lightly against the side of its little plastic face. “Look here.”

  I didn’t know if it was just a reflex, but I glanced down.

  “See that?” he asked.

  “See wh—” I almost choked on my spit as the hair began to writhe, then flicker as the acrylic tuft turned into flame. It glowed a deep royal purple at its core and turned positively electric around the edges.

  The man let out a humph, then closed his hand around the flame. When he let go, the troll doll was back to normal.

  “What was that?” I asked, snatching at his hand. He leaned back and held up his palm so I could see that he was unharmed. His skin was unbroken, though calloused as hell, but there were no burns at all.

  “You have no Light, you’re obviously not manifesting, but you keep shaking off my attempts at Alteration,” he declared. “Something’s wrong with you.”

  “Huh?” I didn’t know what any of those things were, but I was severely offended at the part where he said something was wrong with me. I didn’t need the reminder.

  “Alteration,” he repeated like I should know everything about his state of insanity.

  “I don’t know what that is,” I said with a pout. “And you haven’t explained anything to me. Who are you?”

  “You’re wondering if I’m a figment of your imagination?”

  “Jackson said he couldn’t see you.”

  “I was cloaked then because it was necessary,” he stated. “I’m not now, because I’m off the clock, Purples. I punch in, I punch out.”

  “Of what?” I asked, my voice rising. “Do you always answer questions with nonsense?”

  The man leaned back and ran his hands through his hair with a groan. “Impossible.”

  “Who are you?” I demanded, the volcano beginning to break through the surface.

  “Wilder,” he said, thoroughly exasperated. “I knew you were going to be a problem.” He closed his fist around the troll doll and muttered something under his breath.

  “Well, I’m so sorry I’m such an annoying thorn in your arse cheek, Mr. Wilder,” I drawled. “I remember everything, FYI—the name calling, the sexual harassment, the stabbing, the funky black smoke.”

  “I did not sexually harass you,” Wilder exclaimed. “I saved your life and this is the thanks I get?”

  “From a puff of black smoke?”

  “A demon,” he hissed through his teeth. “A particularly nasty one that would’ve fed on your soul and damned you to Hell.”

  I made a face. “Well, that isn’t outlandish at all!”

  “You weren’t supposed to see me,” he said, shaking his head. “No one is ever supposed to see.”

  “Yeah, but I did…”

  “I’d hate to say duh, but duh.”

  I still wasn’t sure if I was having a mental breakdown, but I was here now and this Wilder guy was talking. Well, it was mostly in riddles, but he was explaining something at least and people could see him this time. I narrowed my eyes at the woman at the next table who was drooling at the sight of the psycho in front of me. Ugh.

  “So you excised the black smoke demon thing, then came back for seconds. Theoretically, he wasn’t possessed anymore but you killed him anyway,” I said, leaning forward. “Why?”

  “He was a Vessel,” Wilder replied.

  “A what?”

  “A Vessel.” He raised his eyebrows. When my scowl deepened, he added, “A willing participant. He was so far gone, it was the humane thing to do really. Don’t worry, I cleaned up after myself.”

  “This is just getting worse and worse,” I said with a moan. “And I’m not even off my meds.”

  Wilder perked up. “You’re on medication?”

  “That’s none of your business,” I snapped.

  He stared at me so long, I was sure I’d grown a second head. “You better not be trying that alteration thing with me again because we’ve already established that it doesn’t work so great.”

  “C’mon,” he said, scraping his chair back and rising. “I’m taking you home.”

  “You’re taking me home?”

  “Don’t argue with me, Purples.” He flipped up the collar of his jacket. “Something’s not right with you, and it’d be negligent to leave you wandering the streets in the middle of the night, even though I’d rather be doing a million other things.”

  “Like?”

  “Asphyxiating on my own vomit.”

  “Charming.”

  He picked up the troll doll and held it out. “Don’t forget yourself.”

  “Are you always like this?” I asked as I followed him out onto the street.

  “Like what?” He started to walk in the direction of the tube station and I had to jog to catch up with his impossibly long gait.

  “So… prickly.”

 
He glared at me before he looked away. “The less you know about me, the better.”

  Alrighty then.

  Whoever—or whatever—Wilder was, he didn’t elaborate after that.

  We got on a District line train, switched at Monument, and walked through the maze of tunnels and escalators under the city, following the signs for Bank Underground station. Wilder never said a word, he just strode through the trickling stream of passengers, brooding and sulking with me hot on his heels.

  Thumping down the stairs and onto the platform where the northbound Northern line trains departed, he guided me to the far end, people hastily stepping out of the way as he approached. Not invisible then, just scary.

  I glanced at him out the corner of my eye as the train zoomed into the station, the wind whipping my hair into a frenzy. What was he exactly? I got the impression he was some kind of demon hunter, which was a completely absurd job description. Did he work for someone? Was he a loner? Maybe he was both. There wasn’t a ring on his finger… like that meant anything.

  The doors on the train swished open as the recording on the loudspeaker said, ‘Mind the gap between the train and the platform’. Wilder nudged me with his elbow, and I stepped into the carriage. It was mostly empty, so I sat and he took a seat opposite, slouching and man-spreading like a pro.

  “See something you like?” Wilder asked, his eyes shining. They were doing that weird silver thing again, and I made a mental note to ask him about that, too.

  “I’m just wondering why you need to open your legs so wide,” I said. “It’s rude.”

  “I’ve got huge balls,” he said with an evil smirk.

  “You’ve got a disgusting comeback for everything, don’t you?”

  “Stop rising to the occasion, Purples.”

  I rolled my eyes and turned my attention down the carriage. Anywhere was better than the gaping crevasse between his legs. I mean, I didn’t know why I was so combative with the guy. Usually, I was an under the radar kind of woman. A coaster on the coffee table of life. I never argued unless confronted. I supposed Wilder was confronting and not in a sexual kind of way. He had predator written all over him, which made this whole excursion stupid to the extreme.