Night Terrors: An Uncanny Kingdom Urban Fantasy (Hexed Detective Book 3)
Page 18
Well, ask the obvious.
‘Someone handed it in at Baker Street,’ he said.
The front of the briefcase was adorned with a brass plate featuring a name.
Vizael.
‘Are you sure it’s okay to bring this here?’ I asked. ‘Shouldn’t the, you know, bomb squad have looked at it first?’
To me, the name Vizael sounded—and please don’t judge me for saying this—a bit… Middle Eastern.
‘Fucked if I know,’ replied the delivery man, making no attempt to stifle a yawn. ‘Anyway, it’s your problem now.’
He pushed through the exit, back into the downpour, and the door clicked shut behind him.
Wonderful.
I gingerly picked the basket up, carted it into the back office, and set it gently on my desk. With a click of my mouse, I booted up Sherlock and started logging the basket’s contents, picking around the mystery briefcase like a faddy eater dodging her greens, until eventually, the case was all that was left.
Sighing, I swiped away some clutter on my desk, pushing aside unopened letters, a couple of half-empty drink cans, and the deer skull whose eye socket I used as a pen holder (someone left it on the Northern Line a while back, and since they didn’t claim it in the allotted ninety days, I made it my own. Like I say: morbid). Having cleared a space for the briefcase, I laid it flat on my desk, lid-side up. Its leather was well worn and faded, but continued to survive in the way that expensive things often do. A pair of brass clasps held the case together, each of which sported a three-digit combination lock.
I began to enter the item into the computer system:
Item #Misc205AG629. Vintage brown leather briefcase. Identifying markings: Brass plate with name, VIZAEL. Brand: Unknown. Contents: Unknown.
What was in that thing? A nail bomb? A laptop containing Top Secret files? Military launch codes? I had to know.
I took a quick glance over my shoulder to check no one was watching—despite the fact that I was the only mug still in the office—then spun the brass wheels of the combination locks with my thumbs.
Click Click.
I didn’t even look to see which numbers I’d randomly arrived at, I was too distracted by the clasps simultaneously standing to attention.
‘What are the chances…?’ I muttered, as I carefully lifted the lid.
What I saw next came as a bit of a shocker.
Inside the case, sat in a black velvet tray, was a weapon.
Not a bomb, or a disassembled sniper’s rifle, but a knife. A dagger, like something you’d see in one of those Hobbit movies. The dagger’s blade was polished to a mirror finish, its handle wound with a length of purple leather, and its bottom bit—whatever that bit’s called—was a finely-cut gemstone the size of a baby’s fist.
‘Niiice,’ I gasped.
It was a beautiful bit of craftsmanship, and I couldn’t help but pick it up and test its weight.
Along with mouthing off at my supervisor, that was the second huge mistake I made that day.
The moment I picked up the dagger, I knew something was wrong. The pain didn’t come right away, but only because it was so intense that it took a moment for my brain to register. When it did hit me, it almost knocked me out cold.
A burning sensation lit up my palm, white-hot and raw. It felt like sulphuric acid had been poured onto my skin, stripping it down layer by layer, etching its way through fat, muscle and bone.
I let go of the dagger and it tolled on the edge of my desk like a rung bell.
‘Jesus Christ!’ I screamed, and filled a speech bubble with some more choice blasphemies.
Clutching my wrist, I turned my wounded hand over to review the damage. There, in the dead centre of my palm was a brand: a perfect circle containing a big letter Z.
‘Motherfucker,’ I noted.
I shot an accusatory look at the dagger and crouched down to get a better look at the thing, lying innocently on the office floor. Wrapped around the weapon’s handle, I found an embossed metal circle containing a symbol that matched the one burned into my palm.
‘Bastard.’
I was in agony, but thankfully for me, I was also the designated first-aider for my floor, and knew exactly where to find the little green case with the white cross on it.
I made it to the staff kitchen, found the box, and rifled through tape, gauze, disinfectant, and hydrogen peroxide, until finally I laid my hands on the burn cream. I unscrewed the top of the tube with my teeth and was about to squeeze it dry, when I heard another buzz.
The office intercom, again.
I checked my watch. It was three in the morning now. I looked down again and saw the dagger lying on the office’s navy blue carpet, out of its case, and where it didn’t belong.
‘Motherfucker,’ I reiterated.
End of Extract.
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