by Amos Cassidy
Kris made as if to hurl his phone across the room but was intercepted by Harold who deftly extracted it from his fingers. “We need to be able to stay in touch,” he said softly.
Kris nodded taking a deep breath.
Harold calmly handed him his phone back.
“I can feel your distress,” Richard said. “If we are to retrieve Raven we must be calm and think with our heads.”
“Can you…can you feel him?” Kris asked.
“No. I lost contact with Raven. I believe it may have been sometime late last night, as when I awoke I could not sense him.”
“What…what does that mean?” Damon asked hesitantly.
“It means he’s dead.” Harold growled.
“No!” Richard snapped, his eyes blazing. “No, he is not dead, simply disconnected from the pack bond somehow, maybe through distance or through artificial suppressants.”
Kris looked confused but Damon and Harold exchanged knowing glances.
“What? What does that mean?” Kris demanded.
“It means that he may have been drugged. Fuck!” Harold resisted the urge to put his fist through something. Regardless of his issues with the Beta, Raven was still a fellow wolf, and pack at that. And as such, no one had the right to violate him in such a manner. Messing with a wolf’s senses was a big no, and when he got his hands on the bastard that had dared to cross the line, he would teach them the true meaning of pain until they begged for a pain suppressant!
“I completely agree.” Richard locked eyes with Harold having felt his murderous thoughts. “In this instance I may join you.” They shared a moment of absolute understanding.
“So he’s not dead?” Kris asked hopefully.
“He’s not dead.” Richard asserted.
They all agreed. Despite knowing that there was no way of telling for sure, that death was a real possibility, and that Thistle may have only been the beginning, death was not under consideration. If they were going to have any hope of finding Raven they needed to stay focused and grief would not allow that. So they grasped their Alpha’s assertions and made them their own.
Roman led Rose into the foyer of a large, imposing apartment block. Fifteen storeys high, the fifteenth floor being a penthouse, which was the residence of the pack’s Alpha, Richard.
Rose remembered him from when she had been held prisoner in the glass box. She no longer held it against him. He had just been doing his job, though at the time, she recalled she would have, given half the opportunity, rearranged his face.
The foyer was a large rectangular lobby, all dull steel and shiny mirrors. A door to the right indicated a stairway and before them were the lifts. Roman led the way to the lifts, summoning one with the press of a button. A few seconds later and they were riding up to the fifteenth floor. Then came another set of reinforced doors in another steel decorated lobby.
Roman pressed a buzzer, there was a slight pause then a disembodied voice enquired as to their identity.
“It’s Roman, 1585.” There was the click of a lock disengaging and they were through the doors. The corridor behind the doors was carpeted in deep red– the walls painted a warm marigold and lit brightly by overhead lights.
Once again, Roman led the way, turning right and walking a few paces down the corridor. They approached a door, which swung open before Roman could knock.
“It’s about time, what took you so long?” Harold stepped aside to let them in– staring intently at Rose as she slipped passed him.
Following Roman’s lead, she found herself in a large living area– deep leather sofas, a large glass-topped coffee table, a hi-tech looking sound system, a spectacular view of the city through large, panoramic windows, and four pairs of eyes trained on her.
“Hi.” She gave a little finger wave, nodding at Kris and Damon who were seated on the largest sofa and inclining her head in Richard’s direction. Her gaze lingered on the smartly dressed woman who was sitting, legs crossed at the ankles, on one of the smaller sofas. With her silver blonde hair falling in soft waves to her shoulders, piercing blue eyes and finely chiselled features she was striking in appearance. Acknowledging Rose’s regard, the woman inclined her head in greeting, her cupid bow lips curving in a warm smile. “Rose, it’s so good to finally meet you.” Her voice was honey-dipped, sweet and lustrous.
“Er, you too.” She faltered. “Sorry, and you are?”
The woman smiled wider. “Richard’s wife. My name is Marianne.”
Rose looked shocked. The woman hardly looked old enough to be someone’s wife let alone Richard’s. But then, how old was Richard? She’d just assumed he was old because he was an Alpha. She turned her gaze to study him and found herself the object of scrutiny.
“Werewolves don’t age at the same rate as humans,” he said simply, a twinkle in his eyes.
“How did you…did you read my mind?” she asked indignantly.
“No, Rose. Just your body language.”
“Oh, so you can’t…” She raised her hands and wiggled her fingers.
“No.” He shook his head. “As an Alpha I can connect with my pack, sense their emotions and sometimes their thoughts, but humans are a closed book to me. In these cases I must rely on my intuition and my heightened perceptual skills.” He indicated that she take a seat.
Rose glanced at Roman, who nodded, and she stepped forward and lowered herself on the sofa beside Kris. She wasn’t normally a person who looked to others for leadership– she was a more lead by example kind of woman. But around the wolves things seemed different. There was an obvious protocol and respect, and in this case thrumming energy pressing in on her from all around. They were tense, on the edge, she could feel it, and she didn’t want to be the person to push them over the edge.
“Would you like a drink before we get started?” Richard enquired.
“No, I’d rather just do this...whatever it is you need me to do. Raven’s missing and sitting around drinking coffee isn’t going to help find him.” The last part came out a little more shortly than she had intended. “Sorry, just a little on edge.”
Richard nodded, unfazed.
“A woman after my own heart.” Harold stage whispered.
Richard shot him a quelling look before turning back to Rose. “We are all on edge. And yes, you’re right we need to get started. However, Maxwell is still not here yet and without him there is little we can do.” He shot a meaningful glance in Damon’s direction.
Damon nodded imperceptibly and slipped out of the room.
“Where’s he going?” Rose asked.
“To call Maxwell, see where he is.” Roman explained.
“So, a drink?” Richard asked again.
Rose shrugged. “Coffee would be great.”
Marianne rose regally from her perch and left the room.
“Where…?”
“Coffee.” Roman said.
She slumped back in her seat. It was like watching a well conducted orchestra with Richard as the conductor.
“While we’re waiting maybe we should get the map out.” Richard suggested.
Harold turned and left the room.
This time she didn’t need to ask.
The map had been spread onto the coffee table, Maxwell had arrived and they were all congregated around it. She still had no idea what part she was to play but she was certain she would find out soon enough.
“You sure this will work?” Roman asked Maxwell.
“Trust me.” Maxwell said shortly. “The spell will pinpoint either where he is or the last place he was, depending on which one is stronger.”
No one said a word, each thinking the same thing but none daring to voice their thoughts.
“We can then search the area and we should…find him.” Maxwell finished, avoiding Richard’s penetrating gaze. “Okay, so I need something that belongs to him.” He held out a hand and Harold placed a toothbrush in it. “Great.” Delving into his pocket he pulled out a vial of powder. “Stand back.” He began to sprin
kle the powder over the map, clutching the toothbrush in one hand and mumbling under his breath. Slowly at first, then faster, the particles swirled and circled the perimeter of the map. Faster and faster until with a soft whoosh they congregated and settled in a tiny pile on one area of the map.
Richard leant forward peering at the map. “Hackney.” He looked up confused.
“We didn’t check there.” Damon confirmed.
The wolves had done a sweep of the area around Raven’s flat, Flo’s house and the university, as well as checking Raven’s favourite haunts. But Hackney hadn’t been on their list.
“Last trace is Hackney.” Maxwell confirmed, peering at the map. “Around the canal.”
All eyes turned to stare at Rose.
Okay, now she was beginning to feel a little overwhelmed. She cleared her throat. “You didn’t use this spell to find Thistle. Why not?”
Maxwell looked thrown, then, recovering himself, shrugged. “Thistle is a creature of the night, not alive, yet not dead.”
“Undead.”
“Er, yeah, anyway, the spell doesn’t work for vampires, zombies or ghosts.”
Rose nodded.
Richard glanced at Roman who nodded then leant in toward Rose. “Do you think you could find him, like you found Thistle in the park?”
She sat up straight. Of course, her strange new ability, she’d completely forgotten about it. She could go to Hackney and visualise Raven and let her power lead her to him. She felt excitement bubble up inside her, she could find Raven. But what if you can’t do it this time? What if you can’t control it? Look at them, hope in their eyes. They’re counting on you and you could very well let them down.
Fuck you, voice of doubt! She shook her head to clear it.
She would not fail. She could and would do this. There was no way they were going to lose Raven like they had lost Thistle.
She stood slowly, brushing off her jeans. “Let’s do this.”
The luxurious car – a perk for being the Alpha - pulled up along the road by the canal entrance.
“Thank you,” Richard said to the driver as they exited the car. “Wait here.”
Harold, Maxwell, Rose and Roman got out next.
The Alpha breathed in the air, his incredible sense of smell alert and decoding the scents around him. People, petrol, diesel, the grass, the mud, the concrete, the tarmac, dirt, a dog, a cat, a fox, and a rat– he peeled away the layers one by one. He walked closer to the canal. The smell of the water, the smell of…a faint trace of strange cologne, sickening cologne. He chuffed to clear his senses and tried again, trying to pick up his Beta’s scent to no avail.
“Rose, would you mind?” he asked politely.
Rose stepped forward, her expression serious. Taking a deep breath she closed her eyes bringing to her mind a picture of Raven– his silver eyes twinkling with amusement as they bantered at the dinner table. His warm handshake and his kind smile. She grasped the image fiercely, allowing it to burn within her mind. It happened pretty quickly after that, the dull throbbing of an internal pulse and the disorientation as it got quicker and quicker. This time she didn’t even feel her feet as they moved across the ground, following that subconscious beacon.
“Rose, Rose…”
She felt firm hands shaking her. “I’m…did I do it?” She opened her eyes looking about expectantly. She blinked against the sun, surprised to find herself on her hands and knees.
“I think you did.” Roman’s voice was expressionless as he stared past her to the ground beyond.
Turning her head, she followed his gaze to find the smashed remains of what seemed to be a mobile phone.
38.
ALL THINGS DEAD
“You will be thrown into the deepest pit of hell for your atrocities! Maggots will feed from your flesh for eternity, fire and sulphur will be your bedfellows. And Satan himself will be your king. All you will know is sorrow, torture and pain. That is the price for such blasphemy, for witchcraft!”
“So you’ve said.”
Tom was being yelled at yet again by Lord Andrew Butterfield. The Lord had been born in 1860, and was head of the family in a grand manor that had long since burned down somewhere in Surrey– way, way back in the day. Rumour was that the good Lord Andrew burned his beloved home down because he’d squandered the family fortune, an incredibly vast fortune, on booze, prostitutes and gambling. Out of shame he took a match to the manor that had been in his family for many, many years, going up in flames with it. That was in 1912– the sinking of the Titanic and the burning of Butterfield Manor had made headlines that year.
“Heathen! Blasphemer! God will not take kindly to this!” Lord Andrew spat out more of his venomous spiel.
Tom sighed. Why did he have to do that spell? Why did it have to be this ghost he was stuck with? What about John Lennon? What about Marilyn Monroe? What about any other ghosts from the spirit plane that didn’t have Butterfield as their surname?
“Pray for your soul! Pray for His forgiveness!”
It had started at around nine that evening. Tom had registered himself in the afternoon at the little antique shop and was now a fully legal necromancer. The old man, Mick his name was, had handed him a battered old leather book, a vial of chicken blood, a bag of bones, some incense and some salt. He then told Tom to read the book carefully, that necromancy magic was not easy and not for the faint hearted. Mick also added that once Tom felt comfortable with what he was to learn from the book, he could then join a necromancer training course so he could be contracted for jobs that required the skills of those dealing in all things dead.
When Tom got home to his flat in Clapham he devoured the book on necromancy, aptly titled ‘Necromancy: An Introduction.’ There was a chapter on zombies and how to raise them. The book said that the raising of a corpse, and then its animation, was not to be undertaken by a necromancer in his or her early career. Channelling such dark magic took a spiritual strength that developed with time. An iron will and sturdy stomach were also required. Tom decided he’d steer clear of zombies, for a while at least.
The book focused on simple spells to summon ghosts and outlined the etiquette required to converse with them. Necromancers could see ghosts without the use of magic. It was part of their gift. Tom had seen plenty of them, sometimes resulting in embarrassing situations like the time one made him jump as he was relieving himself in a public toilet, leading to him missing the urinal and spraying piss up the wall and over the man next to him. He’d got a black eye for that. And the time when he was having sex with his ex-girlfriend. Yep, ghosts didn’t really care if you were busy or not. If they found a necromancer they were quite vocal about asking for whatever help they needed. It didn’t matter if you were stark naked on top of your girlfriend and having a merry old time. Emily, his girlfriend at the time, had not been impressed when he had suddenly lost his impressive erection.
Sometimes ghosts found the necromancer, but summoning a ghost was different. It took the right ingredients and the correct incantation. Only then could a ghost be called upon for a chat.
So Tom had followed the spell to every last detail. It was an easy spell, the book said, a great one to introduce you to your powers. He had pulled out his dad’s old watch, an item left to him in his father’s will, and used this to open a channel to the correct spirit. His father had worn the old thing until the day he’d died. Tom was pretty confident that it provided a good link to his father. He should really have collected some soil from his father’s grave, but as his father had been cremated and the ashes sprinkled into the Thames, it wasn’t a possibility.
A circle of salt for protection from evil, the chicken blood poured onto the bones of unknown origin– the book didn’t say what the bones were, the incense lit and an incantation in very old Latin. It was all going so well.
However, what Tom had failed to do was take into account his noisy neighbour below. He was in the middle of the incantation when the stereo being turned up to full volume in th
e flat below distracted him. He dropped the watch, stumbled over the words, made a grab for the book to get back on track and knocked over the incense.
“Bollocks!” he’d yelled.
“I beg your pardon?”
And there, standing in the centre of his living room was the well dressed, snooty-looking cliché of a man, Lord Andrew Butterfield. The spell had been well and truly screwed up, leaving the pair of them bound together.
The rants began shortly after.
As well as the book and ingredients, Tom had been given the address of a lady who dealt with all things dead. There was no contact number. And to make things worse he had to get from Clapham to Upminster to sort the whole mess out. The entire journey had consisted of verbal tirades and put downs from the Lord. Tom had Googled him on his iPhone, learning about Manor Butterfield and all of the Lord’s rather juicy history.
“You were quite the lad,” Tom said.
“Excuse me?” Lord Andrew said indignantly.
“You liked the women.”
Lord Andrew’s pasty white face didn’t go red with anger, but Tom could see it was bordering on it. “I loved my wife dearly.”
“Didn’t say you didn’t, but you didn’t love her enough to not dip your wick in every…I had a good line there but I’ve lost it. Bollocks!”
“I do not care for your language, Heathen.”
“It’s Tom.”
“How much longer will this journey take? I am growing tired of being in your company. I wish to return to…” Lord Andrew trailed off.
“For someone who likes to go on about Heaven, Hell and Sin all the time-”
“Say no more.”
“I’m just saying that they don’t seem to factor into it do they? You came from the spiritual plane, I read about it in my book. I don’t know what it is, but I know it’s not what you expected.”
