NIGHT’S
BLACK
AGENTS
PAXTON LOCKE
BOOK 2
DANIEL HUMPHREYS
NIGHT’S BLACK AGENTS
PAXTON LOCKE BOOK 2
By Daniel Humphreys
Published by Silver Empire
https://silverempire.org/
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018, Daniel Humphreys
All rights reserved.
For Evan and Kent.
Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck,
Till thou applaud the deed. Come, seeling night,
Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day
And with thy bloody and invisible hand
Cancel and tear to pieces that great bond
Which keeps me pale. Light thickens, and the crow
Makes wing to th’ rooky wood.
Good things of day begin to droop and drowse;
Whiles night’s black agents to their preys do rouse.
William Shakespeare
MacBeth — Act 3, Scene 2
CHAPTER 1
Paxton
Joplin, Missouri—Monday morning
I was halfway through a stack of pancakes when the dead guy walked in the door.
Well, to be more precise—he walked through the door. I guess not having to carry keys is one of the few advantages to being dead.
Despite the fact that it was only about the tenth-weirdest thing I’d seen that week, I froze for a moment with my fork halfway between the plate and my mouth. I tried to cover for my surprise by exchanging the forkful of syrup-dripping sweetness for my cup of coffee, but my companion had already noticed the hesitation.
Cassie turned in her seat and scanned the diner behind us. A couple of trucker types in jeans, flannel shirts, and baseball caps bent over the counter, intent on their meals. One of Willy Loman’s coworkers sat primly in the corner booth, paging through a newspaper and sipping coffee. The ghost that she couldn’t see stood by the door and gave me a pleading look.
She turned back and cocked an eyebrow at me. Thanks to the fickle hand of fate, my new partner—she stomped on the concept of ‘sidekick’ with both boots—had recently gotten a full introduction into the eldritch shadows of our reality. I still ached from the experience, but for Cassie, it had been merely mind-blowing. Of course, I’d exhausted reserves I didn’t know I had to bring her back from the brink of death.
I reminded myself that I’d promised to be as honest as possible with her. I took a sip of coffee and picked my fork back up. “We have a visitor.”
She didn’t turn back to look again. My tone told her that it wasn’t the sort of visitor she’d be able to see. “Does that happen often?”
I swallowed and grimaced. The pancakes were getting cold, falling apart under their own weight. “No. They don’t usually come out in the daytime.” I studied the ghost as I spoke. At first glance, he was an average-looking twenty-something in khakis and a windbreaker. But most people that age weren’t semi-transparent with massive chunks of flesh missing from their neck.
“So, what do we do?”
I’d been starving less than an hour ago, but the apparition’s sudden appearance had spoiled my appetite. I wiped my mouth with a napkin and signaled the waitress. “We pay the check and we see what he wants, I suppose.”
My name is Paxton Locke. Ten years ago, I was a normal sixteen-year old. My interests consisted of video games, girls, and comic books—and not always in that order. My unassuming teenage life derailed when my mother began to dabble in dark magic. By the time the dust settled, she’d killed my father and left me with me magical inheritances of my own in the form of an ability I call the push and a mysterious, leather-bound book of magic. The grimoire defied belief. The cuneiform text within not only translated into the reader’s native language, the information it displayed varied depending on the desires—spoken or unspoken—of the reader. My childish innocence meant that the first few spells I learned were useful but benign.
The push is much more dangerous. It gives me the ability to control other people. And while Mother was a few cans shy of a six-pack, my dad raised me right. I don’t push people unless I have no other choice.
When I made the mistake of wondering what she’d sought in those ancient pages, the glimpse that I got of what she sought terrified me to such an extent that I doused the book in diesel fuel and burnt it to ashes. Suspecting that a magic book might leave behind magical—and potentially dangerous—ashes, I collected them and buried them for safe-keeping.
The ordeal that Cassie and I suffered a few days before came about as fallout from my mother’s machinations . After we’d made it out by the skin of our teeth and, perhaps, quite a bit of divine intervention, I’d recovered the ashes. After I did I learned that my suspicions that they were still dangerous had been correct.
A simple healing spell I’d learned so long ago had restored the grimoire to an intact state. Maybe I should have left it buried, but I couldn’t risk its potential discovery. For the moment, the safest place for it was with me. Us.
Of course, the safest place wasn’t always the most convenient. I grumbled under my breath as I shouldered my way out of the diner. I had the strap of a canvas messenger bag running diagonally across my chest, and the grimoire thumped against my hip with each step. My legs were still healing from last week’s multiple beatings. The combination of the encumbrance and my own injuries imparted an awkward hobble to my movement that would have been funny if it weren’t so annoying.
These were the kind of hassles they didn’t mention in the Dungeons and Dragons Player’s Handbook. What I wouldn’t give for a bag of holding. I held the door for Cassie and turned to the waiting ghost. “All right, what’s up?”
His lips moved, but I didn’t hear anything. Well, I don’t usually hear them when they talk, but in this case, I got nothing. I sighed.
“Look, I’m still fumbling my way through the rulebook here, but you don’t need a throat to talk to me, dude. Try again.”
He waved his hands and seemed to be shouting, but I still didn’t hear a thing. I muttered under my breath.
“I’m so glad I didn’t finish breakfast so I could play charades with a smart-ass ghost. Where are we going?”
He looked as annoyed as I felt, but he gave me a tight nod and pointed to the side of the diner. It was an add-on to a larger truck stop convenience store. Thankfully, it was a slow morning, or people would have been pointing and staring at the nut who was having a conversation with thin air.
“Back parking lot?” He nodded. I frowned, but I turned to Cassie. “Pull around, okay? I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?” We’d parked my new-to-me RV in the front lot, next to the tractor-trailers that I assumed belonged to the guys at the counter in the diner. I winked at her and gave her my best Han Solo grin.
“Hey, it’s me. I’ll be fine.”
She rolled her eyes, but dug the keys out of her jacket pocket and trotted across the parking lot toward the RV. She’d been getting a lot of practice drivi
ng lately since Mother and her coven burned down my childhood home and torched my old RV—and my wallet—in the process.
All things considered, I’d rather mess with a pack of witches and their familiars than the DMV any day. At least you can shoot the witches.
I shoved my hands in the pockets of my own jacket and followed the sidewalk around the side of the building. A twenty-four hour truck stop never shuts down, really, but the parking lot was pretty much empty save for a couple of big rigs and a dusty sedan. If I had to make my guess, they belonged to the folks inside the diner.
I looked at the sedan and frowned. The sign at the front had directed vehicle traffic to separate lots—semis one way, passenger vehicles another. We’d parked out front. The sedan should have been there, as well.
The ghost popped back into view next to the car and gesticulated wildly at the trunk. “I’ve got it, I’ve got it. Keep your pants on.”
As I approached the car I pulled my sleeves down over my hands and wished I’d stuck some gloves in my pockets. A few magic spells in my arsenal did not a superhero make, and if the trunk held what I figured it did, I sure as heck didn’t want my prints on it.
The car bounced up and down a bit as I tugged on the trunk lid through my sleeves, but it didn’t give. I glanced up to ask the ghost if he could pull the emergency release—the suckers have thrown enough knick-knacks at me, it wouldn’t be asking too much for them to do something useful—but it was nowhere to be found. “Typical,” I muttered.
The brake lights flashed, and the door locks chirped.
I looked up and caught the brief flash of a smile on the salesman-type as he rounded a corner. He had his folded-up newspaper tucked under his arm and he strolled like a man without a care in the world.
“I’ll be glad to give you a look,” he called out, and there was something in his voice that made my knees go a little wobbly.
I’d learned a valuable lesson about being ready for anything after my experience with the meathead triplets last week. I popped my hands out of my sleeves, focused, and pushed. “Stop.”
The grin on his face widened just a tad, but his heels kept clicking on the pavement. “Oh, my. A magus. You’re going to be a tasty treat, aren’t you?”
Well, shit. Here we go again.
Helen
Iowa City, Iowa—Sunday night
The guard manning the shack looked equal parts bored and tired as Roxanne rolled the window down. Helen Locke sat in the front passenger seat, and as the guard studied the occupants of the vehicle she favored him with a warm smile. If he noticed, or cared, it didn’t show.
“Visiting? If you don’t have a parking sticker, you need to turn around and park in the lot on Capitol Street.”
“Oh, we’ll be right in and out, my dear. That won’t be a problem.” The vague undercurrent to Helen’s words had an almost tangible weight to them, and the guard rocked back on his heels even as the light in his eyes dimmed.
“Of course, miss. That won’t be a problem.” The tone of a bored clock-puncher had turned, if possible, even more robotic. Helen’s smile widened. Oh, how I missed that.
“Splendid. Now be a dear and open the gate. Close it behind us. If anyone else tries to come in, tell them this area is temporarily off limits. If they don’t listen—well, you have that nice, big gun, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
Helen leaned back and luxuriated in the plush softness of the passenger seat as the security guard raised the flimsy barrier. It was more of a philosophical wall than a physical one, but that was fine. It had given her the opportunity for an object lesson.
And she did so enjoy teaching.
“The palm of your hand, ladies. When the time comes, you must remember to maintain your focus. Your desire is sometimes more important than the words.”
Roxanne pulled through the open gate and glanced in the rearview mirror. She did her best to conceal the smile that flashed across her face, but you didn’t survive in prison without being able to read faces.
When the four—three, now, thanks to Paxton, her would-be paladin of a son—had written to her, she’d nearly discarded the letter as another bit of inane fan mail. But there’d been something about it, a feeling not unlike that she’d gotten when she’d made the discovery that led her down the rabbit hole of magic. The letters had been tedious, couching the words in terms that wouldn’t alert her jailers. She’d kindled the flames of the nascent power she’d sensed over the period of months, leading them to various caches of arcane material. The authorities had discovered more than a few of them, much to her annoyance. Forensic accounting, it seemed, was a class of sorcery all its own.
The apprentices showed their worth four nights ago. They broke the physical shackles that kept her out of the world and shattered the metaphysical chains her son had used to prevent her from making her escape on her own. After a decade of confinement, her power sung as it coursed through her veins, and she had a hard time not laughing out loud every time that she considered the situation.
“That was epic, Mrs. Locke,” Kelsey chorused from the back. She was a petite little thing, barely five feet in height, with her brunette hair cut in a pageboy style. She’d worn a different Tinker Bell t-shirt each day since she and the others had broken Helen out of prison. In spite of her fashion sense, she was the most obviously loyal of the group, though her talents seemed middling at best.
That’s fine. Even witches need someone to fetch coffee.
She favored the girl with a smile. “Just a little taste, child. And it’s Helen.”
Kelsey’s companion in the back seat rolled her eyes. Giselle’s expression was neutral enough that it was debatable what she was rolling her eyes at. Tall, willowy, and sarcastic, she kept her honey-blonde hair tied back in a loose ponytail. Of any of the three, Helen was most suspicious of her. She was a quick study, but she also seemed bored and aloof with the entire endeavor as though she was hanging out until something better came along.
“This is it,” Roxanne announced. She pulled up to the curb in front of a large, two-story stone building. A crowd of people wandered across the lawn, plastic cups in hand, and the rhythmic beat of dubstep filled the air. If that didn’t provide a good idea what the place was, the Kappa Sigma on the side of the stone wall proudly proclaimed it.
Helen resisted the urge to curl her lip in disdain and reminded herself to stay focused. They weren’t here for her. They needed reinforcements.
“Shall we?” she asked, airily.
The four of them exited the car and strolled up the walk. Helen drew back, letting the others take the lead. Roxanne struggled to keep up—she was only a hair taller than Kelsey and much heavier. The unfortunate girl had a body like a crate, though she possessed a model’s features and red hair that was too gorgeous to be anything but real. While she’d had pegged Kelsey as a gopher and Giselle as someone to be wary of, Roxanne was the one with the most potential. She had a focus the other two lacked, and it would serve her well—as would her innate self-doubt. Never have to worry about her trying to take the reins.
At the door, two frat boys in identical outfits of khakis and polo shirts sneered at the foursome. “You two can come in,” one said, indicating Kelsey and Giselle. “But you’re too old, and you’re too fugly.”
Helen wagged a finger at him and made a tsk-tsk noise in the back of her throat. “There’s no need for rudeness. Sit in the corner and keep your mouth shut until I tell you otherwise.”
The second frat boy gaped as his friend stepped to the side of the porch and sat down, legs crossed. “What the . . .” He started, but she interrupted him.
“Now, you’re going to let the four of us in. No one comes in behind us. Understand?”
“Yes,” the frat boy said.
“Well, don’t just stand there. Be a gentleman, open the door!”
Two of three girls giggled as the pounding rhythm washed over them. Roxanne’s face blazed red with anger. Helen clasped her by the upper arm. “
Use it,” she murmured in her ear. “It’s power, now. Make it work for you.”
Lips tight, the younger girl nodded. Proud, Helen beamed as they stepped into the main living area. “Heed me!” The magic lent an otherworldly echo to her shout, and she quivered a bit at the thrill of it. “Someone shut off the music. The rest of you, have a seat on the floor.”
The sudden silence was almost eerie, but even stranger was the near-simultaneous collapse of the crowd of revelers. They sat as was their preference, as she hadn’t gone into that much detail, but the implicit command in her tone forced all of them to sit facing her. She hadn’t commanded their attention, but the effect of her push left most of them in stunned silence. The others were reduced to quiet, conspiratorial whispers.
Helen strolled in front of the group, the ghost of a smirk spreading across her face. “Choose your protector, ladies,” she said to her companions. She indicated the crowd with a luxurious wave.
The girls seemed hesitant at first. If they hadn’t participated in such a casting before, Helen might have wondered if they were having some sort of moral crisis over what they were about to do. From what she’d heard, the three-way split the familiar spell had made of the now-deceased Melanie’s boyfriend Trace had resulted in three babbling idiots that had been unable to keep the fourth member of their club—coven seemed so pretentious, though she knew the girls preferred it—safe from Helen’s son.
She kept her expression blank, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. When in doubt, read all the words, children.
Helen scanned the crowd as her protégés picked their way through. Most of those who made eye contact with her looked away in terror, but one girl refused to break eye contact. Interest piqued, she made her own way into the crowd and crouched.
She wasn’t certain how things worked, but the girl didn’t strike her as the frat party type for whatever reason. She’d dyed her hair in pastel streaks, shaved on the sides and twisted into a braid that hung down her back. Dark lipstick, a nose ring, and heavy eyeliner completed the look.
Night's Black Agents (Paxton Locke Book 2) Page 1