Deadly Departed: A Supernatural Thriller (Fletcher & Fletcher, Paranormal Investigators Book 2)

by David Bussell

  I had no idea what I’d just witnessed, but I could tell from the look on the kid’s face that he’d been the one to engineer it.

  ‘You did that. You tricked him.’

  The kid knew Enoch couldn’t help himself; couldn’t resist the chance to make him suffer that little bit extra before he took his life. So he set him on me knowing that my blood—Frank’s blood—would do... that to him.

  I rolled onto my knees and craned over Enoch’s body. Despite everything, there was still a flicker of life left in the vampire’s eyes. I pushed my face out of the skull I was inhabiting and showed him the second Fletcher he’d been looking for.

  ‘Suck on that, you fucking Lost Boys reject.’

  His eyes went wide, his mouth even wider, and then he was dead.

  I peeled away from Frank completely and slapped a hand on the Arcadian’s back. ‘I knew it. I knew that plan of yours was a winner, you sly bastard.’

  Frank turned to me with a dirty look that said, Like bollocks you did.

  ‘Okay, fair cop, I thought we were up the Swanee for sure.’ I was gushing, never more happy to be wrong. ‘How did you know that would happen if ugly plugged his fangs into us?’

  The kid smiled. ‘The compatibility research my people carried out taught us a lot about the Vengari. One of the things we learned was that their diet is more varied than that of the average vampire.’

  ‘They can feed on animals?’

  ‘Yes, but more than that, the blood they require needn’t be fresh. So long as it is properly preserved, a Vengari can subsist on blood that’s decades old.’

  That explained the wine cellar I found at the Vengari conclave, or blood cellar, more like. What it didn’t explain was the vampire with the ruptured stomach creosoting the floorboards.

  The kid explained. ‘Another thing our research pointed us to was an event in the late fourteenth century that the Vengari dubbed, The Famine of Gothenstein. At that time, one of their clans had taken possession of a Bavarian castle; a matter of some upset to a group of knights templar known as the Order of the Ivory Flame.’

  ‘Ain’t it always the way?’ I joshed.

  ‘Quite. At any rate, the knights surrounded the castle and cut off the vampires’ escape, forcing some two-hundred Vengari to starve. On the sixth day of the siege the knights broke into the castle without resistance. The vampires were dead, every last one of them, but not from starvation.’

  ‘They killed each other?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking. According to records kept by the knights, they discovered a font—a baptismal font wrenched from the castle’s chapel—half filled with blood. Surrounding the font were dozens of vampires with wounds matching those of our friend here.’ His gaze sank to Enoch’s mutilated body. ‘And lying besides those vampires were an equal number of blood-stained goblets.’

  I put it together. ‘They drank their own blood.’

  ‘Yes. To survive, the Vengari called upon the lower castes of their clan to sacrifice their lives for the greater good. The weakest died so that the strong might live. Only it didn’t work out that way.’

  ‘I’ll say.’

  ‘The Vengari learned an important lesson that day: while the blood they ingest needn’t be fresh from the vein, it cannot be dead.’

  ‘Hence the Bavarian Jonestown Massacre. So that’s how you knew the joke was on him.’

  The kid showed off that smile again. ‘It’s how I knew that blood without life—the kind the undead carry—is poison to the Vengari.’

  More like hydrochloric acid from the looks of it, but I wasn’t about to split hairs. The kid saved my bacon. Any lingering doubts I had about him were gone. Now I’d do everything in my power to make sure he survived the vampires and got out of the city. Just one thing left to do before we made tracks…

  Slipping a hand into Enoch’s coat pocket, I took out a hankie-swaddled package and unwrapped Frank’s severed tongue.

  ‘Better luck in the next life, matey,’ I said, giving the vampire a condescending pat on the cheek.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven: Body Politics

  The sun was creeping up by the time we’d finished shovelling Enoch and the rest of his muppets into the hearth. Luckily for us, vampires go up like dry kindling when they’re introduced to fire, so it wasn’t as big a job as it might sound. Tough on the old nose, though. I could only hope the coven had aired out by the time Stella made it back from her hols, because the place smelled absolutely rank when we skipped out of there. As for the bloodstained floorboards, well… if she kicked up a stink about that I supposed I could always chuck an old rug her way.

  Next stop, Legerdomain. I pushed through the door, ambled up to the front of the shop, and slapped Frank’s tongue on the counter.

  ‘One reverse amputation if you will, ma’am.’

  Jazz Hands tipped her head back wearing a pronounced frown.

  ‘Why have you brought an Arcadian into my shop, Fletcher? Let me guess, he’s a fae turncoat? Or is this your shapeshifter friend playing dress-up? Apologies, but I’m beginning to lose track with all the waifs strays you bring into my establishment.’

  ‘This is the Arcadian we’ve been looking for,’ I explained. ‘Turns out he’s Prince of the Unseelie Court.’

  Jazz stood up sharply. ‘Your Highness!’ she gasped.

  Her deference was so feverish that she ended up curtsying, shaking the kid’s hand and doffing an imaginary cap all at once. It was an explosion of manners, and made her look like she was having some sort of a fit.

  ‘Don’t you care that he’s a murderer?’ I said. ‘I mean, it turns out he’s not, but you don’t know any different.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she hissed from the corner of her mouth. ‘He’s of noble blood. The rules are different.’

  ‘A pleasure to meet you,’ said the Arcadian, giving the back of her hand a peck. ‘What a lovely establishment you have here. So…’ he struggled to find the right word, ‘... charming.’

  Jazz stammered, ‘Well... that’s so… you really are very… what an absolute honour to be… thank you.’

  She was grabbing at words like a barbecue skewer picking up the last scraps of meat at a Catholic family buffet. Never in my life had I heard her babble like this. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised; the woman was a staunch monarchist. She still drank her char from a Charles and Di tea set, so it followed that she’d get the vapours when a card-carrying prince came strolling into her store.

  I made the necessary introductions—unnecessary as they were—and we got to business.

  ‘How about it then, Jazz?’ I said, pointing to my partner’s severed tongue. ‘Can you get Frank gabbing again?’

  At the mention of his name, Frank’s tongue twitched and wriggled, flapping about on the counter like a landed fish. It took us all by surprise, except, it seemed, the man himself.

  ‘Are you doing that?’ I asked.

  Frank couldn’t answer, but he didn’t need to: the enthusiastic look on his face matched the movement of the tongue, which wagged like a dog’s tail in one of those videos where a soldier returns from a tour in Iraq.

  ‘Easy, boy,’ I said, and the tongue slowed from a mad thrash to an excited wiggle.

  Apparently, Frank was able to maintain control of body parts even after they’d been pruned off him. This was news to me.

  ‘Please make some space and I’ll see what I can do,’ said Jazz Hands, taking a magnifying glass to the tongue.

  I wondered how differently that request would have been met if we weren’t in the presence of royalty. I wondered if I’d have heard that “please”. Matter of fact, I wondered if Jazz might have dispensed with niceties altogether, whipped out a smudge stick and cast my ungrateful spirit into eternal shadow.

  But instead she went to work. From her toolkit, Jazz fetched a needle and thread, then she sat Frank down, tipped his head back, and guided the severed tongue into his gob like she was playing one of those steady hand tester games. After th
at, she muttered a bunch of nonsense that sounded like a lost extract of Finnegans Wake and got to sewing. The thread she was using glowed like liquid gold then vanished as she placed the last stitch. The tongue looked good as new.

  ‘How’s the fit, Frankie boy?’

  ‘Gooooood,’ he replied, a soppy smile plastered across his mug.

  I pounded him on the back. ‘That’s my lad. Look at that. No more need for the Marcel Marceau shit.’

  The Arcadian interjected. ‘Now that’s done, I wonder if we might return to my predicament?’

  The kid hadn’t been the most enthusiastic supporter of this little detour. A couple of times on the way over he’d asked if giving Frank the power of speech was really the most pressing item on our agenda, but I told him I’d made my partner a promise and that I wasn’t going to let him suffer any longer than necessary.

  Still, he had a point. In the time it took us to get to Kings Cross, the fae had deteriorated rapidly. Gone was the glow he wore at the coven, replaced by a cold sweat and a gauntness that had left him looking like a waxwork in a heatwave.

  He coughed into the crook of his elbow. ‘My body is giving out and my powers are already starting to fail.’

  Talking of failing powers…

  ‘Hey, Jazz, where are we at with that whole soul bond palaver?’

  ‘The what?’ the Arcadian cut in.

  ‘It’s a me and Frank thing,’ I explained. ‘Ever since his bones got hauled out of the ground, I’ve been having some power problems of my own. Used to be I could possess whoever I liked and shoot about the place like a leaf on the breeze, no need for all the legwork.’

  The fae threw up his hands. ‘Are we back to the zombie already? Seriously?’

  ‘Oi! Without that “zombie” you’d be brown bread, mate.’

  ‘Show His Majesty some bloody respect, Fletcher,’ barked Jazz, forgetting herself. When she saw the shocked expression she’d brought to the Arcadian’s face she quickly composed herself, wiping a stray fleck of spit from her chin and smoothing down her bird’s nest of hair. After a polite cough to reset the mood, she addressed my question in her best telephone voice. ‘The soul bond, yes. I’ve been looking into your dilemma and I believe I have made some inroads.’

  ‘Cracking,’ I said, clapping my hands together and giving them a swift rub. ‘Lay it on me, sister.’

  ‘Given that we’re dealing with matters of the spirit, I began by looking into your former field of expertise: exorcism. In doing so, I discovered a specific liturgy that may be of use to you.’

  Frank leaned forward. So did I. Jazz went on.

  ‘I had to dig very deep to find it, but my research eventually led me to a medieval sacrament known as the Rite of Sequester.’

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘Now there’s a surprise,’ she replied, doing her best to measure her tone but failing to modulate the sarcasm from her voice. ‘Allow me to explain. The Rite of Sequester was developed to enable the removal of a spiritual entity from a specific vicinity without casting them into oblivion. By employing this rite, it’s possible for an exorcist to move along a troublesome apparition without himself ending up trapped in purgatory, unable to ascend to Heaven until he’s burned away all traces of his Earthly sins.’

  I had a feeling that that last little nugget was aimed at me. In fact, I knew it was.

  Jazz continued her spiel. ‘Consider the Rite of Sequester a form of light exorcism. Rather than banishing its target, the rite transfers the spirit to a separate locale on the physical plane.’

  ‘Why would anyone want to do that?’ asked the Arcadian.

  ‘Because back in those days, people had more respect for the dead,’ I explained.

  ‘Correct,’ said Jazz. ‘In fact, it is said that the saint who penned the rite did so in order that he might move the spirit of his dead mother from her graveside and back into the family home.’

  ‘Good lad,’ I replied. ‘No wonder they made him a saint.’

  ‘Actually, he was venerated by the Catholic church for choosing a life of extraordinary sacrifice and piety over one of luxury and comfort.’

  ‘Also good.’

  Jazz shrugged. ‘Horses for courses. I’ll take a pass on a sainthood if it means not having to sleep cross-legged in itchy horsehair undergarments for the rest of my life.’ She pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose and went on. ‘That aside, with further research, I believe I may be able to utilise the Rite of Sequester in such a way that it might sever the link between you and your partner and restore your powers.’

  ‘Really?’ I said, flashing Frank a smile. ‘So we’d be back where we started?’

  ‘Yes. Precisely so.’

  I saw Frank’s expression sour. He’d picked up on something in Jazz’s tone. Something I caught, too.

  ‘Why did that have a note of the ominous to it, Jazz?’

  She considered us with her owlish gaze. ‘Because you’d be back to square one. Back to the stage you were at when you first met.’

  I clocked what she was saying. ‘You’re telling me we won’t be able to merge anymore?’

  ‘Correct. Though you will be able to possess others, you and your former body will become two distinct entities, unable to cohabit the same space. Permanently.’

  So that was the price of admission. I could have my old box of magic tricks back, but Frank and me would forever be oil and water. Pineapple on pizza. No. I was just starting to get comfortable in my own skin. Getting sundered from Frank was too steep a price to pay.

  ‘That’s not going to work,’ I said. ‘Carry on the research. There has to be another way.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ she replied, which was not at all the response I was anticipating. Had the Arcadian not been present, I expect Jazz’s comeback would have been of the four-letter variety and delivered with some vigour.

  ‘Right then. Now that’s on the back burner, let’s see what we can do about getting the kid here out of this marriage.’

  ‘Finally,’ the fae gasped.

  Jazz Hands rocked back as if delivered a hard jolt. ‘Your Majesty is arranged to be married?’ she said. ‘And you want to call it off?’

  Clearly the old bird needed some catching up, so we sat her down and filled in the blanks. Jazz took in the news, deflating at the notion of a royal wedding being cancelled but understanding the necessity of it.

  ‘Well, what do you reckon?’ I asked, having laid out the kid’s predicament in black and white. ‘Got any bright ideas bouncing around that big bonce of yours?’

  Jazz cocked her head and touched a finger to her chin dimple. ‘You’re wrong to think you can deal with this situation on home ground. Facing the Vengari head-on is a fight you cannot win, and that’s without the fae being involved.’

  ‘What else can we do?’ asked the Arcadian. ‘The Vengari have already proved that we can’t hide from them, and we’ve established that leaving the city isn’t going to work.’

  ‘With respect, Your Highness, you are thinking too small. What you need is a real escape hatch. A doorway to somewhere far, far away.’

  The kid brightened. ‘You know of such a place?’

  Jazz lowered her gaze reverently. ‘It’s not exactly fit for a king, but it is completely off the map. It’s somewhere your enemies will never find you. Somewhere you can live out the rest of your days in peace, without ever having to look over your shoulder.’

  ‘Where is this magical place?’ I asked. ‘Penge?’

  Jazz’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I’m talking about Other London.’

  Chapter Thirty-Eight: If You’re Going Through Hell, Keep Going

  Outside of Legerdomain the sun was high and the sky still and stonewashed. Someone who knew less about vampires might have seen this as an opportunity. Might have been tempted to take advantage of the daylight and make a run for it while the bloodsuckers were tucked up their coffins, arms crossed over their chests, dead to the world. As if vampires were that th
ick.

  Just because vamps live in the shadows, doesn’t mean they’re impotent in the daytime. Their kind have been around for centuries, and learned long ago that they’re vulnerable during the hours the rest of us are awake. That’s why they create blood slaves: mortals who guard their sleeping bodies and act in their stead while they slumber. Luckless vassals so addicted to the taste of vampire blood that they’ll do anything for it. Anything. Which is why the Arcadian would never be safe in the city, and why we had to get him to Other London right away.

  If only it were that simple. The portals to Other London had all been sealed, or so legend had it. In fact, there were a few entrances still available to those who had the know of it, though none of them were easy to access. The portal Jazz informed us of was no exception. It didn’t really register as a door, and even if you were canny enough to spot the portal for what it was, it wasn’t something you just walked through. The secret threshold to the hidden city could only be made real at the stroke of midnight, and was kept behind locked doors. If Frank and I were going to stand any chance of getting the kid through the portal, we were going to need help.

  The Beehive was our first port of call, what with the bar being a recognised safe harbour and protected by a magic-dampening bubble that kept any mystical wrongdoings in check. Lenny’s pub was about as secure a place as we could hope for, I figured. What I didn’t count on was Detective Kat Stronge.

  The look on her face when she saw Frank and me walk through the door of The Beehive with the Arcadian in tow was… well, frightening if I’m honest. Particularly since it was backed up by a taser pointed in our direction, and who knew what 50,000 volts of leccy would do to a man sensitive to a whiff of car exhaust?

  ‘What’s going on?’ Stronge demanded, turning the heads of the smattering of day-drinkers watching the pub’s new widescreen TV. ‘Why isn’t he cuffed?’

  I was about to answer her when a meaty fist took hold of Kat’s wrist, accompanied by a voice like a bassoon left out in the rain.

  ‘Are we gonna need to have words again?’ boomed Lenny, The Beehive’s Ben Nevis-sized landlord.