Dark City (The Order of Shadows Book 1)

by Hallows,Kit

  "Let's end this nonsense now." Tudor strode towards me and the scalpel in his hand described a thin silver arc as it sliced through the air and curved towards my heart.

  3

  I threw up my arm and Tudor's blade slashed into the wrist guard concealed by the sleeve of my coat. It stuck. I wrenched my arm free and yanked it out.

  Tudor began to back away.

  I threw the scalpel. It struck him in the center of the chest.

  Not one drop of blood spilled from the wound as he pulled the scalpel out and flung it down. The blade tumbled across the floor, chiming like a bell. "You've ruined my shirt," he said. "It's Givenchy." His eyes flitted over my sweater and jeans. "Not that that would mean anything to you."

  "My condolences." I reached into my pocket for another bullet and loaded my gun. The weapon's powerful, but it has a serious limitation; it'll only hold one shot. Plus each cartridge has to be handcrafted.

  "Screw you, Rook. You're an affront. A jobsworth for a corrupt outfit."

  This made me smile. "I don't think the boss would describe me as a jobsworth. But I'll admit, I enjoy ridding the world of trash like you."

  "You're not even one of us. You're blinkered. Humans shouldn't blindly wander into worlds that don't belong to them."

  "You might be right, but regardless of what I am," I nodded towards the woman on the sofa. "It's the last time you're going to torture and feed off an innocent. Now, I can make this fast or slow, it's up to you."

  Tudor's eyes roved over me, calculating his odds. "How's it up to me?"

  "If you tell me something useful, I'll put the bullet in your head, you'll be dead before you know it. Otherwise I'll put it in your stomach and rub salt in the wound."

  "What do you mean useful?" Tudor took a tentative step towards me.

  "I'm looking for Elsbeth Wyght. Do you know where can I find her?"

  Tudor grinned. "Oh, I heard about that. She killed your sweetheart, didn't she? And now you're going to make her pay. So noble. So manly. Does the Organization know you're hunting witches on their dime?"

  I brought the gun up. "Are you going to tell me where I can find her, or not?"

  "I've seen her." Tudor's smiled widened. "We move in some of the same social circles. She's a strange one, I'll grant you. Strange and very, very powerful. A true wild child of darkness."

  "Where'd you last see her?"

  Tudor muttered something.

  "What?"

  His lips continued to move in a slow, deliberate mumble.

  An invocation.

  My finger curled around the trigger...and then...

  ...then he was gone.

  A wet, tearing sound filled the room. Tudor reappeared before the haggard girl. A pair of gnarled, leathery wings ripped through the back of his suit and curled up around him, their boney tips clacking together.

  All illusion of humanity was gone, in its place, the face of a monster. Gaunt, angular, sunken cheekbones, skin like boiled leather. He looked like something that had spent most of its life in some deep forgotten cave, and for all I knew he had. The black pinpricks in the centers of his pale eyes fizzled and curved teeth jutted from his lips.

  Tudor glanced at my throat. I could see his yearning to tear it out and feed, but I could also see his caution. His gaze fell to the barrel of my gun.

  If I missed again, he wouldn't.

  "The night is coming." Tudor flexed his long, curled claws.

  I fixed my eyes on him, half expecting him to dematerialize. I couldn't miss this time. "It's already night."

  "Not this night. The night." Tudor gave a smug, contented grin as he swept his withered hand towards the boarded windows. "You've seen the changes. You've felt them. We all have. The city's going to hell and the ones who have kept to the shadows are venturing out. Taking what they want. The horde is at the gates. Can you feel them, Rook? Can you feel their breath on the back of your neck?"

  "The only thing I feel is relief, knowing the bullet's spiked with garlic oil. It took a while to get the formula right, but I'm sure a connoisseur like you will appreciate it."

  Tudor began to flicker.

  I fired.

  Into thin air.

  The room darkened as he appeared at my side, his teeth sinking into my shoulder. I dropped the gun. It thudded to the floor. The pain in my shoulder was worse than anything I'd ever felt. Like ripping away a bear trap then cleaning the wound with sulfuric acid.

  I forced myself to stand tall as I waited for my little surprise to kick in.

  Within moments, he began to howl.

  I clapped a hand to the wound on my shoulder. "Essence of hedgeberry. I took a concentrated dose before I got here. It tasted like shit, but it was definitely worth it."

  Tudor splayed a hand against the wall as he leaned over and retched. Strings of vomit hung from his mouth as his wings spasmed and thrashed madly. I took his head and slammed it into the wall twice, then dove for the gun.

  He fell upon me before I could reach it and scratched at the wound his accomplice had made in my neck. I struggled to right myself while the girl's bare feet twitched on the floor inches from my face.

  The room dimmed as Tudor dug further. I couldn't suppress the agony as he grabbed my forehead and his needle-like claws pierced my scalp.

  I pulled his finger from the hole in my neck and twisted it until it cracked. Tudor howled and grabbed my head harder, his claws digging deeper. I reached into my bag.

  The world turned black. A sharp ringing tone overwhelmed me, and somewhere below it came a faint whimper from the girl on the sofa. It was enough to give me a boost of strength.

  My fingers found the pouch I was looking for. I pulled the drawstring loose with my thumb and finger as a wave of searing agony burst through my skull.

  Bright, golden light spilled from the bag.

  Tudor began to scramble away, his wings jittering, his face a grimace of nausea and disgust. "What's that?"

  "This?" I held the pouch up and forced myself to my knees. The room swam around me as I forced a smile. "Sunshine in a bag."

  I threw it. His reflexes out-paced his thinking as he opened his hand and the bag landed in his sinewy palm.

  He screeched like a child as the glowing light shone upon his face.

  I grabbed my revolver and loaded the final bullet into the chamber while he shuffled towards me like a broken automaton.

  I fired.

  There was a brief flash of light and the bullet smashed into his chest.

  Tudor slumped to the floor, his eyes wide and glassy, a vile noxious black stream oozing like ink from the corners of his mouth.

  The woman on the sofa stared, but it was clear she wasn't seeing me. Her thoughts were somewhere else altogether. She rubbed her wrists and her hair, as if they crawled with lice.

  I rifled through my bag for the pocket where I keep salves and tinctures. Inside was a small silver flask of clear, odorless liquid. A healing water from one of the last truly blessed places. I gently placed the bottle between her cracked lips and tilted it up.

  She closed her eyes and swallowed. Slowly her brows un-knitted and a semblance of peace passed across her face. Moments later she slumped over, fast asleep.

  Two messages appeared on my phone when I switched it on. The first was a reminder I'd set months ago.

  "Happy Birthday" I mumbled to myself.

  In reality there was only a one in three hundred and sixty five chance it actually was my birthday. Because in truth, I had no idea where or when I'd been born, beyond waking up in an abandoned asylum, aged ten.

  A couple of years back I'd told this to Willow, the only woman I've ever loved. It was one of the only times I'd ever seen her taken by surprise. She'd given me a long loving look, then drunkenly declared that this would be my birthday. But she was gone now, leaving me to mark the occasion with a girl that looked like a wizened meth head, and the dead vampire at my feet.

  The other message was spam from a Gothic dating site that ha
d somehow got my details, which was uncanny given my penchant for wearing black and listening to Nick Cave and The Cure.

  I flicked through my address book, which didn't take long, and dialed.

  The call was answered mid-ring.

  "Dauple," said a wheezy, cracked voice.

  "Morgan Rook."

  "Morgan Rook!" He repeated, his voice as excitable as a nine year old child on Christmas morning. "You've got something for me?"

  "Vampires. Bring bags and a saw. One transformed, so his wings need removing. The other one just has a seriously bad complexion and a hipster mustache. I'm on Bury Street. How long will it take you to get here?"

  Dauple gave a high, manic laugh. "I'm already here. Is it safe to come up?"

  I shivered. How the hell did he know where I was? "Yeah, it's clear."

  The door downstairs slammed, making enough noise to wake the dead. The girl on the sofa stirred. A trace of youth and color had returned to her face but her eyes still had the wild look of a lamb being led to the slaughter.

  "You're going to be okay," I kept my voice low and even. It seemed to reassure her. Until Dauple burst into the room, drenched in cheap aftershave that would give anyone a nightmarish flashback to the eighties.

  Dauple looked just as strange and macabre as you'd expect from someone in his trade. He was like a kid's cartoon sketch of an undertaker, black shadow-ringed eyes, long hooked nose and thin curling lips. His long drawn face almost glowed white in the gloom as he ran a slow hand through his short thin, coppery hair.

  "All dead and broken," he said in a hoarse whisper as he dropped a large metal tool box with a clattering bang.

  I did my best not to shudder at the relish in his eyes and the rasp of his long hands as he rubbed them together. "I need you to pack him up and get him and the other one over to the Organization tonight. Okay?"

  Dauple nodded, but a distracted gleam lit his eyes. His tongue darted out and slicked his upper lip, then he nodded toward the girl on the sofa. "She's seen better days..." he raised a hand towards her. I slapped it down. "Don't think she's got long," he continued. "Perhaps I should get another bag-"

  "Don't touch her." I holstered my gun, then picked up the casings from the floor and slipped them into my pocket. It's doubtful the police would ever visit this squalid place, but it's better to be safe than sorry.

  "If you're sure." Dauple sounded disappointed as he began to lay out a long black rubberized bodybag. He hummed an off-key tune while he rifled through his case and pulled out a hacksaw.

  I watched him and weighed up whether or not I really wanted to engage in further conversation. Then my curiosity got the better of me. "How did you know I was here?"

  "I followed you."

  "You know where I live?"

  Dauple shook his head. "No. Not yet."

  "What the hell does that mean?"

  "I..." He looked like a child caught stealing a cookie. "I just like to know where the agents live. All the movers, shakers and friends of the crows."

  "Why?"

  "So I can get to the scene before the retirements happen." Retirements was Organization code for the termination of supernatural criminals. "I like to watch things die." He held up a hand and added, "bad things, of course. Not nice things or nice people." Dauple grinned, revealing teeth I didn't want to see.

  "Where did you follow me from?"

  "The office. I saw you leaving."

  He seemed to be telling the truth, but the thought of him tailing me or finding out where I lived made my flesh crawl. "Don't do it again, Dauple. If I find you anywhere near my house, you'll regret it. Do you understand me?"

  "Loud and clear."

  I looked away as he began to saw through the sinewy joint where Tudor's ragged wings had sprung from his back.

  The girl gaped at the spectacle, her face split with horror. I reached into my bag, pulled out a vial of dust, tapped a dose out onto my thumbnail and held it out to her. She took my wrist without a word, put a finger on the side of her nose, pursed her quivering lips, and took a quick short sniff. It was a small dose, just enough to help her forget this night, my face and most of what happened. A little zombification never hurt anyone. At least in moderation.

  Dauple began to whistle as he pulled a wing free and laid it down beside Tudor. "I'll need a ride to the hospital when you're done," I told him.

  "Rightio!"

  I led the girl down the stairs to Dauple's hearse. It had a fake logo and the name of a fictitious undertakers painted on the door. The windows were blacked out and there was no partition between the front and the back so the whole thing reeked of chemicals and things I didn't want to think about. Thankfully the girl didn't notice. I helped her into the back, where she rested on a pile of thick black bags, oblivious to their intended purpose.

  I gently closed the door and lay back on the hood of the car while I waited for Dauple to finish up.

  The moon hung red and full, its sickly light shining off the windows as a cool breeze stirred the weeds in the gardens. I closed my eyes and did my best to put the evening's events from my mind. I was glad Tudor had been dealt with, but frustrated too. I was certain he'd had information on Elsbeth Wyght. Tudor had been exactly the kind of creature that evil piece of shit would associate with. Now anything he might have told me would be taken to his grave and I was back to square one.

  When Dauple finally came out of the house, I helped him stow the bodies in the hearse and climbed into the passenger seat.

  The drive to the hospital was mercifully quiet, aside from the excitable tap of Dauple's finger on the steering wheel. It was that odd time of year when the last fiery throes of summer were tempered by the imminent arrival of fall. A time of shadows and winds that seemed to hail from somewhere else entirely.

  Dauple pulled into the bay outside the emergency room. A tired-looking security guard knocked on his window. I climbed out and gave him the look. A you're wishing you were somewhere else and your gonna forget you ever saw me look. It took a few seconds to sink in. Most human minds are shockingly easy to manipulate. I suppose it's because we're all so desperate to live in blissful unawareness, especially when it comes to the nightmares that shift and stalk around us. Given the choice, we'll cling to business as usual, whatever the hell that is.

  I unlocked the passenger door and helped the girl out. She looked less haggard now but the black bags under her eyes were still prominent. As were the welts and scratches where she'd attacked the imaginary itch that plagued her wrists.

  The hospital receptionist's attractive brown eyes flitted from me to the girl, then back to me with a flicker of disgust. Clearly she thought I was responsible for the girl's state and as I glanced into the large mirror behind her, I saw why.

  I looked like shit, my dark clothes ragged and frayed, spatters of blood on my sweater. I pulled my trench coat around me and secured two of the buttons, but it was too late. My throat and face were a map of purple bruises and I looked far older than my thirty something years. I smoothed my long dark hair back but the pomade just looked like filthy grease beneath all that overhead lighting.

  "What happened to her?" the receptionist asked. The nurse beside her glanced at me, his brow furrowing. He walked towards another security guard; this one seemed more attentive than the one posted outside.

  "Someone spiked her drink," I said. I hoped it would stop the conversation, but knew it wouldn't. "You need to get her help."

  "I need to get some details-"

  I picked up a pen from the clipboard on the top of the desk. The hospital was brimming with magic, most of it weak, but with the sheer volume of people inside, quantity over quality.

  I charged the pen with a simple spell and passed it to the receptionist. Her pupils dilated, her mouth softened and she gazed up at me, awaiting instructions. "Her drink was spiked," I repeated. "She needs urgent attention. You don't need any more details."

  The receptionist nodded and called for the nurse. He came over and took the g
irl's shaking hand. I waited until he led her down the corridor, then I turned on my heels so fast my shoes squeaked on the polished floor. I had to get away from the harsh buzzing lights and the swell of nausea, anguish and pain surging along the corridors.

  Dauple was gone by the time I emerged. That suited me. I didn't want the crazy bastard knowing where I was going.

  I hailed a cab and slumped in the back. The city passed by in a blur of dark towers and garish lights, and above everything that red swollen moon casting its devilish gleam.

  "Happy birthday," I mumbled. There was a bottle of bourbon waiting at the apartment, and sleep wouldn't be too far behind.

  Or so I thought.

  4

  The cab pulled up outside the old Victorian house I called home. Well, the top floor at least. The battered old taxi looked distinctly out of place nestled amongst the sleek Audis and BMWs parked along the street.

  I paid the driver, then waited for him to leave before slipping through the gate and up the flight of wide steps that led to the house. I'd been living here for the best part of a year, but it still amazes me that this is my home. For most of my life my only reason for being anywhere near a nice leafy street like this was to visit clients.

  Clients like my landlady, Mrs. Lyra Fitz. I'd met her while moonlighting as Morgan Rook; part-time spiritualist, exorcist and banisher of bad spirits.

  Lyra had a particularly nasty problem with a poltergeist in the cellar, and a banshee in the attic. Yeah, she'd really hit the supernatural lottery that year, but it wasn't surprising. Spirits, pucks and spooks were attracted by Lyra's gift, as well as that underlying touch of madness she could never quite disguise.

  I drove out the unwanted guests and she repaid me by renovating the attic and letting me move in, virtually rent free. Given the cost of living in this city and the paltry wages the Organization paid, this was a godsend. It also made me both lodger and caretaker when it came to clearing the premise of any supernatural entities, oddities or occasional insanities.

  I slid my key almost soundlessly into the front door and made my way up the flight of plushly carpeted stairs as the gentle strains of Erik Satie's 'Nocturne no 1' chimed from Lyra's apartment.