by Hallows,Kit
Dark City
The Order of Shadows
Kit Hallows
Contents
Free Offer
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
How To Kill A Witch
Afterword
About the Author
DARK CITY
By Kit Hallows
Copyright © 2016 by Kit Hallows. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.
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HOW TO KILL A WITCH
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1
Bury Street was riddled with death. Its houses were long-abandoned empty husks, their shattered windows reflecting the broken moon in web-like cracks. Weeds sprung from gaps in the sidewalk and choked the wild flowers that swayed in the dilapidated gardens. The only cars left in the street were propped up on cinder blocks, their windscreens smashed, the fragments glittering on the pavement like spilled jewels.
The families that had lived here were long gone. Foreclosures and evictions mainly, but shakedowns and violence quickly drove away any holdouts. Now it was like a ghost town.
All in all, the perfect place for my quarry to ply his grim trade.
The Organization hadn't supplied an exact address, just a street, but that was good enough for me. I reached into my battered leather bag and pulled out a pair of brass-rimmed glasses. The lenses, ground from thin pieces of magically charged crystal, grant a temporary gift of enhanced sight.
Usually I'd see their thumping hearts, dim glowing lumps of meat pulsing in darkness. But I already knew this quarry had no heart. My quarry was dead.
Or should I say, undead.
My name's Morgan Rook. Yeah, really. I do odd jobs, and believe me, the jobs I do are very odd. And dangerous. And this retirement was no exception.
A cool breeze swept through my hair as I glanced down the long row of dark houses.
And then I saw it, a glint of blood-red light.
A dying heart.
His victim.
I pulled the glasses off and waited for the world to reassemble itself. The heartbeat was situated somewhere in the upper part of a house at the end of the street. It was a nondescript building, its windows boarded with plywood, the paintwork cracked and peeled. The front door, a warped rectangle of graffitied wood.
It was hard to imagine the place had ever seen a happy day, but the rusted bicycle in the tangled clumps of ragweed might have told a different story.
Light flickered between the cracks of the boarded upstairs window and muffled music drifted down, faint but clear. Jazz, recorded by people long gone from our world.
It was an unnerving sound, a joyous clatter and racket in this place of pain. Celebratory almost.
I glanced up at the moon as if she might bring me luck, but there was no blessing from that full scarlet orb tonight.
The garden gate creaked as I pushed it open, like a sound effect from a vintage horror movie. I paused before the front door and checked my gun was loaded.
And then I heard it. A faint, strangled whimper.
A plea.
She was still alive.
For now at least.
I ran my hand across the rough wooden door until I reached the lock. The shard of crystal around my neck still held enough magic for what I needed. I closed my eyes and focused as I visualized the deadbolts rusting to brown and red dust.
I pushed the door and it swung open.
I switched my flashlight on and swept it over the threshold to the sprawling pile of circulars and take-out menus that had piled up beneath the the mail slot. Damp discolorations on the putrid yellow wallpaper gave testimony to the furniture that had once been there. Aside from that, the hall was empty. No obvious traps.
A gleam of light twinkled from the landing of the second floor. The staircase was carpeted, a lucky break, providing that my quarry was adequately distracted. I've been warned time and time again that his kind possess a sense of hearing that is legendary, as if I didn't already know.
Another whelp rose over the music as it changed to a jaunty, brassy refrain, the mood totally at odds with the suffering whimpers. As painful as it was to hear, at least it meant he hadn't started feeding yet.
Because if he had, there'd have been no sounds at all.
But my blood, already warm on this balmy September night, began to boil lava-hot with rage.
I hate vampires. The unreformed ones at least. With today's technology, they've no need for human blood. There are alternatives; fast food veggie burgers for vampires if you will. Still, change is hard for beings who love the thrill of the chase, the bedazzlement of seduction, and the pulse of the vein.
Beings like Mr. Tudor.
But his lust for suffering was about to come to an end and the trail of bloodless corpses he's left across the city would stop here at Bury Street.
At first, distinguishing his handiwork amongst all of the other corpses piling up of late, had been a challenge. Death had hit the city hard. Cases were extreme and they got bloodier and bloodier as the summer progressed. The fine line dividing the magical and non-magical worlds seemed to be thinner than ever, and monstrous creatures like Tudor grew bolder by the day.
No one was safe, not even those with ties to The Organization. Which is why I'd told myself that this would be the last job. No more commissions, I had to get out of this dark game, just like I'd promised the woman I'd loved. And I would. Just as soon as I found the murderous bitch who had killed her.
But first, Tudor.
I moved carefully as I made my way up the stairs, but not cautiously enough. A trigger snapped below my foot as I reached the third step and I heard a wet, slithering sound. Like a slug slaking off its skin. A heavy metallic and aniseed scent filled the air.
An illusion trap. I clamped my coat sleeve over my mouth.
Too lat
e.
The staircase shook and trembled as if the planet was turning in on itself. I flinched as the yellow wallpaper writhed and crawled like a living mosaic of millions of yellow ants. I dug into my bag for a means to break the spell and recoiled.
It felt like I'd plunged my hand into a corpse.
A burnt smell of soot seared my nostrils and my head swam. I glanced upstairs, expecting to find the beast descending, claws raised, ready to strike a killing blow as I squirmed in this half-paralyzed state.
But the staircase was empty.
The world heaved again and sent me spinning out of the here-and-now, to a place in the past I'd long since chosen to forget.
To the place I was born, aged ten. The asylum on the hill.
The walls turned from yellow to grey and a familiar stench pricked my nostrils; industrial disinfectants, shit and madness. Ancient screams echoed from the dilapidated corridor that appeared at the foot of the stairs, and a long shadow flickered below the fizzing fluorescent lights.
I stifled my cry as the stairway transformed into a line of black, brittle teeth and the carpet undulated like a tongue. I yelped as I grabbed the sizzling hot handrail and checked my palm for livid red marks, but it was clean.
"It's not real. None of it's real." It was my voice, but muffled. Like it was coming from an old chest in an attic in some other dimension. "Keep it together."
I took a breath that went nowhere and tried to gasp for another as the edges of the world dimmed and darkened. The whole universe seemed to shake and contract and suddenly I was propelled from my body and as I looked down I saw myself below the stairs. Nothing more than a boy.
Someone was leading me away, their hand in mine. I tried to see who it was, but their face was pixellated and blurred.
As I descended toward the specter of my past self, I froze. Something brushed my corporeal throat and then I felt the rake of razor sharp nails. That and the muffled whimper was more than enough to break the spell and propel me back.
The asylum vanished and I found myself on the stairway with my head wedged against the yellow wall. Pain exploded through my neck as a fingernail tore into the side of my throat.
2
I forced myself to remain perfectly still as the nail raked my flesh. As far as my attacker was concerned, I was somewhere else altogether, locked in the illusions of his magical trap.
He moved around to face me. I stared ahead, looking past his eyes as if I was still lost in the terrible, dead black dream.
It was a vampire, but not the one I was looking for. This one hadn't fully turned yet. There was still a crazed thrill of excitement in his pinprick pupils, and his face hadn't yet taken on the lines and cracks of the fully initiated. He'd been a man once, and not long ago. Young, with a hipster mustache and pseudo Victorian clothes that served to make his appearance all the more grotesque.
He giggled as he tapped his nail on my jugular, ignoring the blood that trickled down toward my collarbone.
A wail came from the room at the top of the stairs, this time the sound was agonized.
It was feeding time at the zoo.
I whirled round and grabbed the vampire by the throat, my grip tight enough to silence him. His head was horribly malformed, his skin almost translucent, his eyes milky blue.
He bared his needle-like teeth and grimaced as I pulled my fist back and punched him hard in the side of the face.
Bone shattered beneath his skin.
I shoved him away. He tumbled down the stairs, his head striking the floorboards below with a horrible crack. He lay slumped by the doorway as I leapt down and twisted his head until his neck snapped. The light in his undead eyes dimmed as one foul, final breath wheezed through his lips.
A fresh wave of nausea passed through me, a side effect from the magical trap. I reached into my bag, grabbed a vial of Clariberry and pulled the cork free with my teeth. It smelled like rotting seaweed and burned my throat like cheap whiskey, but within moments the serum cleared the toxic spell from my mind.
I was back in the present and my past was back where it belonged; buried beneath a rock at the bottom of an endless well.
My heart raced as I climbed the stairs, watching for the telltale glint of magical traps. I found one hidden near the top step and cleared it as I leapt up into the hallway.
The short murky corridor ended in a wash of light that flickered as a shadow crossed it. The music roared with a blast of brass as a ragtime tune started up and someone inside the room gave an almost ecstatic sigh.
Time was running out.
I pulled my gun from its holster.
I'd had the silver bullet in its chamber modified, it was hollow, and filled with premium garlic oil. The garlic was totally unnecessary, but I hoped it would cause my quarry additional pain as he died.
I wanted him to feel every agonizing second of it.
I'm no sadist. But when it comes to creatures that take delight in a long drawn-out death, I believe a little karma's apt.
I rushed to the end of the corridor.
The shadow remained fixed on the wall and the swell of trumpets grew louder. I glanced down to see if the charge of magic in my pendant had dimmed. Shit. What the hell made me think I could rely on the Organization's equipment?
I reached out, searching for any stray undercurrents of magic I could tap into. There had to be some around, with all of Tudor's recent activity.
I'm no magician, but in my line of work having a few tricks up your sleeve can make all the difference. Magical energy is kind of like wifi and I'm pretty good at finding networks that are left open. I can usually tap in almost anywhere, but it really helps to be close to a hub.
I was about as close as I could get to this stream of dark vampiric magic without alerting my target. As I drew the energy in, it swam through my veins and filled me from head to toe, but the charge was weak.
Tudor had likely exhausted most of its potency when he'd set his traps and masked his true form to seduce his victim. He'd wanted to hide his true face from her. From what I'd learned of him he'd save that horror for the very last moment, striking when the glamour wore off, then delighting as she realized what was happening to her and that bloom of fear shot through her veins.
I peered around the edge of the door.
The first thing I saw was the blue LED light blinking on the music player sound dock. It rested on an upturned crate next to a sofa that looked like it had been made in the Seventies, and it must have been beyond bad taste even then.
The woman slumped across it looked older, at first glance I'd say 60. Then I noticed her clothes and make-up, and realized she was probably in her twenties at best. Her drawn, ashen face was turned towards the ceiling, her mouth slack and eyes wide. She was lost deep inside whatever abyss the drug coursing through her veins had taken her to. It looked like heaven and hell had collided as she grinned and twitched and grimaced.
Tudor sat before her, almost somber in his expensive charcoal grey suit.
He looked like a banker. His dirty blonde hair was slicked back, his pale eyes narrowed with ecstasy. A clear thin tube jutted from his wrist and snaked across the floor to the woman's throat.
The bastard was mainlining her blood.
He reached out with a remote and switched the music to a funereal New Orleans dirge, then he grinned and his eyes flickered like a junkie's. No doubt he was getting high on whatever he'd spiked her with.
My leather bag scraped against the wall as I raised my gun.
The sound jogged him from his trance.
I fired.
Tudor vanished and the bullet exploded into the wall, tearing a hole in the plaster as the oozing IV fell to the floor.
"Morgan Rook." Tudor's words were a warm whisper in my ear. I whirled round and threw a punch that connected with nothing but stale air.
Tudor reappeared on the other side of the room and leaped forward, throwing spells from his sinewy hands. Shadows whirred towards me, magical fear-laced shurikens.
Three of them shot past the side of my face but the fourth found its mark, striking me below the eye with ice-cold precision.
The room vanished and I was thrown back into the past. Back to the asylum. Trapped. Someone shrieked in the darkness, the sound shrill, urgent and primal.
It was a child's cry.
The child was me.
My heart pounded, as if it was trying to escape through my ribs. This thought made me want to vomit.
Everything made me want to vomit.
My spirit form shot down a dark corridor, and collided with the boy. I became one with my distant self and looked down to see the hand cradling my own. It was large, calloused and covered in silver scars, but somehow it made me feel warm and reassured.
A loud churning hiss filled the room behind us. The room we'd just left. The room I was even now trying to forget. Goosebumps broke across my ten-year old neck as I turned to look back.
The room was long and dimly lit but I could see a huge canvas hanging on the far wall. It was covered in thick ridges of iridescent black paint that seemed to swirl and shift as I gazed at it.
I knew that was where I'd emerged, born to this existence from that dark twisting eddy but I had no actual memory of anything beyond the last few moments. All I knew was I was here. Walking in a new world. Doomed to make my way through this dank, broken place.
I tried to look at the man holding my hand, but his face blurred and shifted. He gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Don't worry," he said. "We're fine now."
A woman cried out somewhere. I leaned over and threw up, and as I straightened, stars exploded before my eyes. The sound of the mounting cries and screams brought me back from the past.
The house on Bury Street reappeared, along with the woman and her pinched, haggard face. Her life, youth and blood was spilling from the IV and pooling across the filthy carpet.
Her eyes found mine and grew bright with panic and realization.
I tried to open my mouth to reassure her, but a fresh wave of nausea stole my words.
