Dark City (The Order of Shadows Book 1)

by Hallows,Kit

  The three of them were troubling enough, but none could hold a candle to the man on the end of the sofa.

  He wore a long coat and his wide-brimmed hat threw restless shadows that seemed to crawl across his face. Shadows that, given the early morning light, were nothing less than unnatural. He began to turn towards me. I glanced away toward Underwood's door.

  Underwood was a black and lilac blur behind the frosted glass. Someone sat opposite him and their were voices muffled. His office was situated in-between the offices of the other two partners, Humble and Glass. I'd worked for the Organization for seventeen years and I'd never seen either of them. And I was fine with that.

  A monotonous fluorescent buzz fell over the waiting room broken only by the sound of Osbert's fingers as he dug for the last crumbs of his greasy golden breakfast.

  Finally, Underwood's voice began to rise and whoever was in there with him stood and opened the door. A short dumpy woman with a red face and thick glasses emerged. She glared at me as she slammed Underwood's door, and thundered from the offices.

  "Rook." Underwood's soft, sardonic voice issued from his room.

  I stepped into his small plush office and closed the door, glad to put something between myself and the freak show seated outside. Underwood sat behind his desk, the glare from the window behind him spreading like a halo around his head.

  If I had to guess, I'd say he was in his late fifties, give or take a couple of centuries. Long strawberry blonde hair framed his face and his fae, lilac eyes matched the tie resting neatly against his crisp white shirt. The golden ring in his ear gleamed as he glanced up at me, steepled his fingers and gave me a crooked smile. "I don't remember setting up an appointment. So imagine my surprise at seeing your black-clad form through the glass." His keen eyes ran over the bruises on the side of my face. "I see Mr. Tudor put up a fight."

  "He did. Along with the other vampire."

  Underwood nodded. "Apologies for that. I only had intelligence for Tudor. Still, Dauple assured me you dispatched both of them quite adequately. By now they'll be no more than vampiric cinders floating over the city. Well done, Rook. Tea? Coffee?"

  "No thanks."

  Underwood's rested his long chin on his steepled fingers. "I don't have any work for you, if that's what you've come for."

  "I'm surprised to hear that. It seems the whole city's going to hell right now."

  "Things are certainly...ramping up, shall we say." Underwood lifted a china cup from its saucer and took a sip, the gesture as genteel as everything else about him.

  "I know about the murder."

  "Which one?" Underwood asked, but I could see he knew exactly what I was talking about.

  "The occultist that had his throat cut, his eyes removed and his arms folded over his chest like he was sleeping. My contact told me the forensics team has nothing to go on."

  "We're looking into it."

  "We?"

  His eyes narrowed. "Mrs. Glass and myself. But I fail to see why this is of any interest to you."

  "The murder happened on my patch and the victim had runic markings on his wrist, I'd almost mistaken him for a good friend of mine."

  Curiosity flashed in Underwood's eyes. "And who might this friend be?"

  "No one. What can you tell me about the killer?"

  Underwood's eyes grew hard and his irises darkened to obsidian. " My colleague's working this case. Her and her assets. Ergo you're not."

  "Why didn't you think it was worth mentioning to me?"

  The side of Underwood's face reddened. "You seem to have a shaky grasp of which of us is the employer, and which the employee. I tell you what you need to know. And right now, I'm telling you to back off."

  "I can't." My knuckles grew white as I gripped the edge of the desk. "Not if my friend's in danger. I need to find the killer."

  Underwood's tone dropped to a low, dangerous growl. "It's being dealt with and isn't open for discussion. Stay out of it, Morgan. Agents that disobey often find themselves touring Stardim."

  Stardim's a high security prison on the outskirts of the city, a nightmarish place where the Organization houses violent supernatural criminals. Virtually no one that goes there comes back out, and those that do rarely have any will to reoffend.

  Underwood's gaze was hard and I was forced to look away from the raging fire dancing behind his eyes. And then he smiled, reached into his desk and pulled out an envelope. "You did a good job with Tudor and his acolyte. It would have been better if you'd taken them alive, but dead has its benefits too."

  He slid the money towards me, leaned back and for a moment it looked like he had something else to say. Then he shook his head and gestured to the door. "Go, Morgan. Take a break."

  It was the second time I'd been told that in less than twenty four hours.

  I nodded, left the room and did my best not to look back at the figures in the waiting room as I headed for the door.

  A nod's not a lie.

  9

  Since I was about to do exactly what Underwood told me not to do, I figured why stop there?

  I walked a couple of blocks south of the Organization's offices and stopped outside a video rental shop called Electric Video Club. Really. Apart from the odd nerd looking to add to his Betamax collection, or treasure hunters searching for rare and valuable horror on VHS, the shop gets precisely no traffic.

  Which was exactly its point.

  I stood before the shop's shuttered window and glanced through past the dust-laden video cassettes, their once garish covers washed out and bleached by time. Thick murky darkness gathered beyond the display.

  The door needed an extra shove, which was another slight but deliberate deterrent. I stepped inside and saw Madhav behind the counter staring at his phone. He glanced up and gave a slight nod as I walked past. "Morning," I said.

  "Indeed."

  I like Madhav, he's a man of few words. I made my way down a long aisle of videos, the faces staring out from the covers were snapshots from a bygone era.

  At the back of the aisle was a heavy metal door and an illusion. A sort of trompe l'oeil that hung in mid air and gave a very real impression of a storeroom filled with boxes, broken video players, and a rusty stepladder.

  I walked through them and entered the large room beyond.

  The Armory.

  Weapons covered the walls: assault rifles, sniper rifles, handguns of every make and model. Below them were rows of squat glowing glass cabinets filled with crystals that threw deep washes of color out into the room. Purple that sparkled from charged amethyst was tempered by the otherworldly glow of moonstones. The rest of the rainbow burst forth from calcites, fluorites, quartz and crystals I had no name for.

  The whole room hummed with magic.

  "Morgan Rook," A rumbling voice boomed from the backroom. Bastion Stout appeared, his head barely cresting the top of the counter. For some reason he was wearing a classy black suit today that made him look like a diminutive but powerful bouncer. His fierce eyes brooded up at me from below his heavy brow. He pulled himself up onto the stool and gave me the amused look he always seems to have when we need to talk shop. Then he stroked his beard. "What do you need, refills?"

  "Yeah. I'll need some new crystals. Ammo too, and a couple of handguns couldn't hurt." I tried to sound as casual as possible.

  "Right you are. How many crystals?"

  "Ten or so. And pendants if you have any to spare."

  Bastion's eyes swept over me. "Where's my empty crystals?"

  "At home. Sorry."

  "And the release form for the new equipment?"

  "Also at home."

  Thankfully Bastion was used to this, and even though he'd warned me countless times about not returning equipment after a job, he always let it slide.

  "I have a list you know," Bastion said as he slid open the weapons cabinets and packed a canvas satchel. He pointed to various guns and waited for me to nod or shake my head. "Every single piece of Organization equipment y
ou've failed to return has been itemized. I keep it hidden from Snarksmuth you'll be glad to know."

  Snarksmuth's the other armorer, a jobsworth and all-round pain in the ass.

  "So what's your assignment?" Bastion asked as he picked through a tray of amulets.

  "It's strictly hush hush." I took no pleasure in lying, but with Underwood demanding I take time off, I needed to grab what I could, while I could.

  "Fair enough." Bastion opened up the padded section at the top of the satchel and placed a handful of crystals inside. "The armory's been doing a brisk trade these last few days."

  "Have other agents been in?"

  "Oh yes.' He scowled. "Loathsome, creepy bastards. Bitches too. You're one of the few I can deal with." He shook his head. "Sometimes I wonder what Messrs. Humble, Glass and Underwood are thinking."

  "Me too."

  'But I suppose dark times need dark measures," Bastion growled. "Things seem to be getting worse by the day. I've lived here for decades, you know and there's always been ups and downs, but lately..." He climbed up onto the stool and placed the satchel on the counter. "Lately I've thought about packing up and leaving."

  "The city?"

  "The world. My homeland's no picnic, what with the endless wars. But this place seems to be getting completely out of hand. I swear it's only a matter of time before the blinkered wake up to us, and..." Bastion held a hand up. "I'm sorry Morgan. No offense intended."

  "None taken. I'd join you in world trotting if I could. It'd be nice to be somewhere else for a while. Sample new beers and maybe even some culture. And then more beers."

  Bastion laughed. "Believe you me I could take you on many an Inn crawl. Maybe I will, if we can find a way to move a human between worlds."

  "Count me in." I picked up the satchel. "Seriously, I hope you're not going to leave. But if you do, let me know ahead of time so I can give you a proper send off, complete with the mother of all hangovers. Right?"

  "Right." Bastion's grin turned to a scowl as the door in the small room behind him clanged. He glanced at his watch. "Snarksmuth's early. You better go. Just make sure you bring me the forms for that stuff. Right?"

  "I will. Take care."

  I hated lying to Bastion, but needs must when the devil drives.

  10

  I returned to my apartment to rethink my situation. Clearly Underwood wasn't talking, and as for Tom, I'd be better off trying to wring blood from a rock. I called Haskins but he had nothing new.

  It wasn't the first dead end I'd ever reached in an investigation. I just needed to look a little harder, find some new stones to kick over.

  The coffee cup warmed my hands as I sat back on the sofa and closed my eyes. I could sense magic thrumming in the air just outside the window. Someone was conducting a ritual, it was a great connection but I had no need to tap in. The thing is, using it comes at a cost and after all these years, I've never found a way around that. Magic supercharges the senses and gives all sorts of gifts, but go too far with it and the comedown is horrendous and makes the aftermath of a two-day drinking binge seem like a picnic.

  I glanced at the table and the napkin with the victim's address. I typed it into my phone and looked it up on a map. It was only a few blocks away.

  I glanced out the window as the sun emerged from the clouds and illuminated the distant skyscrapers. B&E at a crime scene was definitely a covert operation so I decided to grab a few winks while I waited for the cover of night.

  I ditched the coffee, grabbed a fresh bottle of whiskey and took a good hard swig. It numbed my senses and slowed my racing mind. I sank into bed, kicked off my shoes and fell into a deep, but fitful sleep.

  My phone chimed at half past six, waking me from a torrent of strange, unsettling dreams. I tried to recount them as I untangled myself from the blankets but my tentative grasp on the details had evaporated.

  I drew back the blinds. The sun had slipped behind the hills, the city lights twinkled in the dusk and a breeze with a distinct autumnal chill whistled through the gap in the window.

  The coffee maker gurgled as I placed my leather bag on the table and restocked it with items from the supply satchel. First, I grabbed half a dozen charged crystals, a spare gun, and a silver bladed knife. Then I checked my med kit, replenished the cures and salves, and packed an Organization-issued compass that tracked supernatural entities. Finally I secured a moonstone pendant around my neck and shivered as the magic inside tingled against my skin.

  My laptop flickered as I flipped up the screen and waited for the hard drive to sputter to life. There was no news worth noting. A bank robbery, a couple of hold-ups, a suicide on the subway, and a shoot-out between rival gangs. The usual.

  The bathroom filled with steam as I ran a shower and let the hot water pound and scorch my skin. It's good to purify and focus before going out on a job. It keeps the mind sharp.

  I climbed out of the shower, cleared a space on the mirror, shaved and dressed. Black jeans, black sweater, black shoes. Which seemed oddly appropriate for visiting a murder scene. I returned to the living room to find it filled with cats. I opened some tuna for them and slipped out into the night.

  The crime scene was on the top floor of a large broad apartment building with a fire escape that ran up one side. Perfect.

  I didn't head there straight off. Instead I climbed to the roof of the building next door. A variety of scents wafted along in the cool breeze. It seemed like every savory dish in the world was being cooked below me and the air was filled with garlic, spices and onions. I pulled a telescope from my bag and swept it over the neighborhood.

  The murder was already old news so the place was free of cops, and I didn't see any signs of The Organization either. Two prostitutes swapped tattle and dirty laughs on the corner and a gang of wannabe hoodlums on BMXs loitered across the street.

  The cars parked along the road were empty, except one. Steam fogged the windshield blurring the silhouette inside.

  I put on my Organization shades and scanned the car. A single red and purple heart raced behind the glass and steel.

  Excited.

  I focused harder, trying to get more of a sense of the person or creature inside. No, it was a man, his heart coursing with nerves and adrenaline.

  Was he watching the apartments?

  No, his eyes were fixed on the hookers, his mind rife with indecision. A nervous customer window-shopping. No threat to me or them.

  I double checked the other houses and apartment buildings, but the place looked clear. I made my way down the stairs and slipped through the narrow walkway between the two buildings.

  The ladder on the fire escape above me was out of reach. I rolled a dumpster beneath it, jumped and pulled myself up to the bottom rung.

  I climbed cold squeaking metal steps to the top and edged along the landing to the apartment. The window was locked. I grabbed a crystal, drained it of power and imagined the latch sliding open.

  Click.

  I slid the window open and waited to make sure the darkened room was empty. It seemed to be, but appearances are often deceiving so I slipped the shades back on and did a quick scan, scouring the apartment for any heartbeats other than mine.

  There was nothing except for a couple of rats in the walls.

  I climbed inside and set my foot down on the shag carpet.

  The place smelled of blood and death, cheap cologne and frustration. Cops and forensics had been over every inch of the place, before finally giving up. They'd found nothing. But I didn't needed magic to tell me that, when a simple call to Haskins had sufficed.

  It was a small pokey place and it seemed like the man who'd lived here had done so for a very long time. Everything was dated and the furniture didn't look like it had been moved for decades.

  The room was like a study or a home office but there was a total lack of technology.

  No computer, phone or tablets. No television, radio or DVD player. Nothing modern. Plenty of occult paraphernalia and dust. Plu
s books. Lots and lots of books.

  I ran my flashlight over the spines of encyclopedias, dictionaries, travel guides, and how-to books for simple, basic things. Stuff most people would have learned before they'd finished high school. I wondered if the victim might have immigrated here but there was nothing that indicated this, no particularly ethnic objects, foreign art or souvenirs.

  The adjoining bookcase was more like what I'd expected, thick dusty books primarily focused on magic, mythology and ritual. This wasn't as rare as it might have been before. People's interest in magic was growing. When I'd started at eighteen, I'd felt like I'd been in a tiny, exclusive club. But not anymore. Now it seemed like every man, woman, child, and their dog, was into magic.

  Maybe it's the proliferation of science and technology. The more esoteric mysteries of the world should have been solved by now, but there's plenty that haven't been. And while humanity might have better lenses to see the universe through, they often miss what's right before their eyes, overlooking the mystical things that choose not to be seen.

  "Interesting." There was such a discrepancy between these books and the ones on the other shelf. They'd covered topics like basic cooking, English and general knowledge but the magical books were quite advanced. Defenses against demons, invocations, necromancy theory and practice.

  I pulled my phone from my pocket and photographed the titles, in case I needed to refer back to them later, then I stepped into the center of the room. It was time to do a little traveling.

  The crystals crackled as I pulled them from my bag and clutched them in my hands. I shivered as the electric-like charges ran through the palms of my hands and spread through my body. I began to intone one of the last spells my trainer at the Organization had shown me.

  In a way it was like time travel, but really it involved projecting the spirit form back into the past. Just like Tudor's trap had done, only this time I was in control.