by Hallows,Kit
21
The supply room behind the bar was small, grungy and unremarkable, its shelves packed with brown and green glass bottles and its floor stacked with stainless steel kegs. One wall was empty but for boxes and a couple of old torn liquor posters affixed with duct tape.
It didn't take a wizard to spot the entire wall was an illusion. A slight shimmer ran over the brickwork and an eerie voice whispered in my mind, urging me to turn back.
Instead I walked through the wall. It felt like passing through a patch of freezing fog.
A bare bulb illuminated a flight of stone steps that led down into darkness. I trod lightly as a rumbling voice boomed in the distance and I listened as someone answered in a bored and waspish tone.
The room below was huge; a warehouse of sorts, the walls and ceiling hewn from thick planks of oak. Most of the floor space was filled with tall racks loaded to the rafters with what I assumed were purloined goods. There were potions, glass cases full of snakes, bottles of glowing flies, bags of spices, and all manner of weapons. I walked carefully, to avoid the glow of the flickering lanterns mounted high upon the wooden walls, and did my best to ignore the allure of chests full of glimmering opals and thick bars of gold.
The entire place was how I'd imagined a pirate ship might look. And if the rumors were true, it quite possibly was exactly that, or at least in part.
I slunk along an aisle and paused when I spotted a figure curled up on a green velvet Victorian sofa. He wore a long black frock coat that made him look like a slightly irritable comma. The captain of the ship presumably. Argyle Screed.
He was thin with a mop of untamed pepper-colored hair and narrow blue eyes that glinted behind tortoiseshell glasses. He held a glass of red wine in one hand, and the other was placed against his forehead, as if he was suffering from some trying drama.
And then I saw the source of his irritation; a goliath with a bushy dark beard that spilled over his blood-spattered tunic and ended in a twist over his candy-striped trousers. It seemed like he was attempting, and failing, to count the stacks of money piled on the table before him. Both looked my way as I stepped into the light and the giant grunted as his hands turned to fists.
"And you are?" Argyle Screed enquired. He looked me up and down, before returning to his wine.
"Morgan Rook."
"You said it like it should mean something to me." Screed shrugged and took a full sip of wine. The goliath at the table began to stand.
I held a hand out. "I'm not here for trouble."
"And yet you've walked right into it." Screed set his glass down and held his hand over his eyes.
"What are you doing?" I asked. The floorboards shook and rumbled as the goliath bore down on me.
"Covering my eyes so I don't have to see you being squished. I cannot abide the sight of blood or squishing." Screed said. "Be fleet of fist Crispig, reintroduce Mr. Rook to the wall he mistakenly traversed."
Crispig, grabbed a scimitar from a shelf, charged and swung it. I ducked away. He was huge, a giant. His beard seemed to be part lichen and it was filled with tiny bone-colored creatures that twitched and scuttled within its strands.
"Get the hell away from me!" I growled. I didn't want to use my gun, not if I didn't have to.
If he heard me, he showed no sign of it. Instead he swung the blade, this time almost taking off the top of my head. The scimitar clanked against the wall, sending a shower of blue sparks flashing into the gloom.
I waited for him to strike again, then danced aside as the sword bit into the floorboards. I kicked the flat of the blade and sent it flying from his sweaty grasp.
Crispig swung his fist. It thundered into the side of my face and propelled me into a row of shelves. The world turned black but for a white hot spark that brought a roar of pain through my temples.
Another punch like that and I'd be out cold.
At best.
The goliath leaned down, his rancid beard in my face, the creatures inside scuttling madly. I pulled a lighter from my pocket, flipped it open and thumbed the flint wheel.
Crispig looked down as if this was some sort of joke. Then the tiny flames leaping across his beard, spread and began to singe and burn. Tiny skeletal creatures dropped from the fiery tangled mass and scuttled across the floor. Crispig howled as he fought to put the flames out but the fanning effect of his great hands causing them to spread even faster.
I grabbed what looked like a broken oar from a shelf, and smacked him hard across the head. There was a heavy thunk followed by an even heavier thud as he toppled onto the floor, out cold.
Clouds of dust rose around him as I stamped the flames out, my boot crunching the tiny white creatures like seashells.
A slow clap filled the room. "Bravo." Argyle Screed called. "Bravo indeed. But I wouldn't want to be you when he wakes. Crispig values his beard more than gold, which makes him a very cheap employee indeed."
"I'm here for information." I took some pleasure in the way Screed flinched as I strode towards him.
He raised a thin, arched eyebrow. "And why would I give you anything? You're an unwelcome guest. Like a tick, or a head louse."
"You know who I am, right?" I asked.
"I may be past my prime, but I'm not senile. You said your name was Morgan Rook, and I've no reason to doubt it." Screed pursed his wine stained lips. "I've heard of you. You're a bore who works for those even bigger bores at the Organization. A pimple on the side of an ass."
The man was ridiculous, but I admired his bravado. I swept my hand toward the shelves surrounding us. "The Organization takes a dim view of smugglers and magical contraband."
"And I take a dim view of the Organization." Screed's lips curled into a half smile. "And round and round it goes."
"Until one of us breaks, and I don't mean to be unkind, but I think we both know which of us is going to come off worse."
"Morgan Rook, scourge of vampires, ogres, and bearded bounders. It has a ring to it."
"It does. Now, let's stop trading insults and get down to business."
"Well the time for niceties is over," Screed said. "So what exactly is this information you seek?"
"I'm looking for a mercenary you employed."
Argyle Screed laughed. "I have nothing but mercenaries working for me, which is just how I like it. They're motivated by something that I have lots of and they don't demand health insurance. And come to think of it, most of the ones I hire can barely talk, and that's a definite bonus. Over the years I've employed countless meatheads, so you'll have to be a little more descriptive."
"A woman." I pulled my phone from my pocket and showed him a picture of the symbol. "She had a mark like this on her arm."
Argyle Screed nodded. "I remember her. She was good, but pricey. As I recall, she accompanied me on a jaunt overseas to pick up some most rare and precious...things."
"What's her name?"
"Hellwyn."
"Hellwyn what?"
"I've no idea of her surname, or if she even possessed one. In fact I cannot say I know much about her at all. She was most enigmatic and about as communicative as our formerly bearded friend sprawled out across my floor there."
I glanced at Crispig. Thankfully he was still out cold. "Where can I find her?"
"I don't know." Argyle Screed held his hands up as I advanced upon him. "All I know is if you require her service, you have to summon her."
"Summon her?"
"Yes. Or so I'm told. I didn't recruit her, I left that to a former associate."
"Former?"
"He came to a rather bloody end at the hands of a yeti."
"A yeti?"
Screed nodded, and by the displeasure on his face it seemed he was telling the truth. "Such a dreadful turn of events. Anyway the means of summoning Hellwyn died upon his half chewed lips. Which is a shame because she was most effective."
"That's not all you know." I could see he was holding something back, either to toy with me or to buy time for his goliat
h of a mercenary to wake up.
"The only other detail I can recall is my colleague mentioning something about finding her in a graveyard."
"Which graveyard?"
"I don't know, it was somewhere in the city. He said something about lighting a stump of candle clutched in the hands of a stone angel. All very gothic and mysterious, and utterly tiresome."
"Are you serious?"
"Deadly, and-"
Both of us glanced over as Crispig growled and began to raise his hand. It fell back down and landed with a great slap on the side of his face.
"You're welcome to join me for a glass of wine if you like," Argyle offered. "But if I were you, I'd take my leave. As I said, Crispig only has one joy in his rather limited life, and you set fire to it."
The giant groaned and his eyes opened wide. They fixed upon the ceiling, and then dropped to find me. He snarled.
I didn't like my chances of winning another round.
"Good evening, Morgan Rook," Screed called out as I turned and made my way down the aisles of contraband. "I trust I'll see you around."
"Count on it," I called back. "And if this information doesn't hold up, I'll do more than burn your idiot's beard."
"Most dramatic, Mr. Rook," Screed called. "Most dramatic indeed!"
I let him have the final word.
For now at least.
22
I left The Seventh Knot and walked along the waterfront. The early evening air was cool and brought a foreboding autumnal breeze that rippled the water's muddy grey surface. The seasons were changing, and the idea of shorter days and longer dark nights wasn't a welcome one.
Not with the way things were going in the city.
Every winter seemed to stir up new and terrible creatures. Coaxed by the darkness, they arrived eager to spill blood and feed before the bright scourge of summer drove a good number of them back into the shadows. Winter was high season for vampires, shadow kin and creeping death. And this year felt like it might be the most brutal yet.
I needed to find the assassin, before all hell broke loose. Once Tom was avenged, I could turn my attention back to Elsbeth Wyght . Then, and only then, could I even consider taking time off or hopping on a plane to sunnier climes.
My next step was to track down this mercenary. It was a loose and frayed thread, but it was the only thread I had. If it came to it, I'd pay anything she asked to find out about the runes but ultimately I was hoping she might know who the killer was.
My phone screen glowed blue and bright in the gathering murk as I flicked through a list of the city's cemeteries.
There were more than I would have thought. Among the ones listed, I noted several names missing. So, clearly there'd be other long lost and forgotten ones that had managed to stay beyond the glare of the Internet's all-seeing eye. The thought of having to visit each of them looking for this stone angel was daunting. But if that's what it would take then so be it.
I had my gun and a few tricks in my bag, so at least I was ready. Graveyards weren't the best places to be after nightfall and were often magnets for all sorts of supernatural undesirables, ghouls, demons and...
Ghouls.
I'd encountered plenty of the creatures, but the word still conjured one particular image in my mind; Dauple. Dauple, the oddball. Dauple the Organization's chief collector of rare and exotic corpses. Dauple the ghoul.
Our last conversation, the one that had taken place over the partially dismembered corpse of Tudor, returned to me. Specifically the part where he'd mentioned tailing the Organization's agents; the movers and shakers and the friends of crows.
Surely if there was anyone who'd know every graveyard in the city, it was Dauple.
He was the best lead I had.
He was the only lead I had.
I dialed his number. It rang and rang. I hung up and tried again. Same thing.
Maybe he was asleep. After all, there was still a little daylight left in the corner of the sky. I pictured Dauple snoozing in a casket in some dimly lit cellar as he waited for night to set in.
I tried his phone again and hung up. I'd have to go and see him.
The glitch, I only had the roughest idea of where he lived. He'd mentioned an apartment somewhere on the west side of the city and had hinted unsubtly that I should go and visit him. Hang out and drink whiskey, and talk about corpses, putrefaction or whatever the hell people like Dauple talk about in their downtime.
The wind blew with a bite of frost.
Perfect weather for hunting ghouls.
The neighborhood where Dauple lived suited him; gloomy, shabby houses and buildings most of them tall, narrow and neglected.
I got off the bus and wandered down the filthy sidewalk, spotted over the decades with old gum.
Where to go first? Dauple's breath was almost always laced with booze, so I expected he was more than a little familiar with the local dives.
I walked along a block riddled with pawn shops and thrift stores and passed a takeout place. The window was filled with sweating columns of rancid looking meat turning on poles. Just beyond it, there was an alley. I stopped.
Two tiny figures sat perched atop a trashcan sharing what looked like a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag. At first I thought they were alcoholic children, and then I spotted the edge of the cloaks they were using to shield themselves from humans.
They were imps, their faces long, purple and pinched, their rheumy eyes mean-spirited. One wore a crumpled woolen hat, the other a hoodie.
I started towards them.
"Get out of here," the hatted one growled. It puffed out its chest and slicked its thin lips with an even thinner yellow tongue. "This is our alley."
"And you're welcome to it," I said. It was hard to tell if the creature was male or female below all the layers of clothes.
"He's still coming," the other said, punctuating each word with a belch. "But he shouldn't. Not if he knows what's good for him."
I could smell the booze now, an acrid stench of spoiled fruit and sugar. I could also sense their rising anger. Imps, as a rule, are treated badly. It's sort of a praxis in the magical world, so understandably they tend to carry a colossal chip on their diminutive shoulders.
"Look." I tried to keep my voice friendly, "I just want some information."
"We're not leprechaunsss," one slurred. "If we knew where the friggin' pot of gold was we wouldn't be sitting on these trash cans getting rat-assed, would we?"
"Rat assed." The other nodded. "Plenty of rat asses 'round here. Especially down this alley. Is that what you're here for?" He glared at me. "You look like the kind of man who inspects rats' asses."
They laughed and the hatted one nudged the other with such force he almost fell off the trashcan. He grabbed the side of the lid to steady himself and as he did, he let go of the bottle.
His eyes widened in horror as it fell, hit the ground and shattered inside the bag. "Now look what you've done!" He howled, before fixing his blaming baleful eyes on me.
"Listen." I pulled some cash from my wallet. "I'll give you twenty bucks if you tell me what I need to know. That'll buy you a good three or four bottles of that rotgut."
They glanced at one other, whispered and conferred, then the hatted one turned back to me. "Two thousand dollars, and not a bean less." He dug his elbow into the other's ribs. "No, I meant three thousand. No, four. Yes, right?"
"That's a big ask seeing as you don't know what I want," I pointed out.
"Well we'd know if you friggin' well told us, wouldn't we?"
"I'm looking for a man named Dauple," I asked.
I could tell from the looks of disgust and repulsion in their eyes that they knew exactly who Dauple was.
"Urgh." They shook their heads in unison. "Him."
"Creepy bastard. Looks like a bony old goat," one slurred.
"No, he looks like a stork. A stork that stumbled through a Goth's wardrobe." the other added.
"That's definitely Dauple." I held out the
twenty. "Where can I find him?" I snatched it away as one of them leaned over and tried to grab it.
"Five hundred and we'll tell you everything there is to know. Everything!"
I sighed. This was getting old and the sky was getting darker. "I'll give you thirty right now if you tell me where I can find him."
"Done!" The imp flexed his fingers.
I handed him the money. He snatched it away and leant over to kiss the notes with such enthusiasm that he fell off the can and landed on the ground in a crumpled heap. I reminded him of the question as I pulled him up to his feet.
He pointed to the other end of the alley. "Follow it round the bend. It comes out onto Dauple's street. Creepy sack of shit."
I wasn't sure if he was referring to Dauple or me. "What number?"
"I don't know nothing about numbers. I hate 'em. Never trust em'. Tricksy bastards."
The other glanced my way. "Look for his car," he said. "It's as long as winter and as black as a human heart."
"The hearse," I nodded.
"Oh, look at the Professor of words, hearse." The imp kicked the trashcan with the back of his heels. "You highfalutin bastard. I call it what it is, a shitmobile corpsecar!"
"Thanks." I walked away, choosing to ignore the long line of garbled insults that echoed along the alley behind me.
It didn't take long to spot Dauple's shitmobile. It was parked in front of a tall, ramshackle Victorian house that seemed about ready to collapse in on itself. The place looked like it had been subdivided into apartments and it didn't take Sherlock Holmes to figure out Dauple was in the basement.
Torn black sheets covered the windows and a heap of bulging trash bags were piled by the front door. A couple of them had split open, the spilled contents mostly consisted of empty wine bottles, oily red and white striped boxes and chicken bones.
A rancid smell of grease and decay filled the air, and flies buzzed all around.
I stepped gingerly down a short flight of cracked and shifting cement steps. I've fought vampires, trolls and ghasts, but Dauple's steps, they were an out and out deathtrap.
