Dark Lakes, Volume One: An Uncanny Kingdom Urban Fantasy (A Dark Lakes Collection Book 1)

by Matthew Stott

  ‘Well,’ said Eva, pulling a can of beer from her pocket, opening it, and putting it to her mouth to catch the escaping froth, ‘that’s a good fucking question.’

  ‘Jacob,’ said the husband. ‘Where’s Jacob?’

  The cuckoo roared again.

  ‘Shall we, I don’t know, attack? Or run. Maybe run?’

  ‘No,’ said Eva, ‘first one. Attack. We attack.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I replied, not unreasonably. I raised my fist and concentrated, feeling some of the surrounding magic flow into me. I concentrated, moulding the magic to my will, and a ball of fire ignited around my hand. I looked to Eva and couldn’t help but smile.

  ‘Alright, no reason to look so smug about a little bit of fi—’

  Eva’s sentence was cut short as a giant, green limb coiled around her waist, pulled her off the ground, and deposited her into the monster’s gaping, screaming mouth.

  I looked up at the cuckoo, dumbfounded, the flame around my fist puttering out as my concentration fell away.

  ‘Eva? Eva!’

  Eva did not answer. As she had just been eaten by a huge monster.

  ‘What now?’ asked the husband.

  I looked at him, at his wife, then back to the house-sized monster that had just swallowed my friend.

  It couldn’t be. Not Eva. She’d never go out like that. Not without a fight.

  ‘Eva! Get back here right now!’

  The cuckoo roared as I stepped towards its flabby, juddering mass, the fire reigniting around my fist. Like that would scare something of that size. It was like taking on an elephant armed with a single lit match. But forward I strode, disbelief and anger momentarily pushing aside fear and reason.

  ‘Eva Familiar, I am Janto of the Cumbrian Coven, I created you and you will do as I say!’

  Nothing.

  ‘Did you hear me, you demented cow? Get out here, right now!’

  The cuckoo was still enjoying a good roar when the noise seemed to catch in whatever it had that passed for a throat.

  And then it exploded.

  It was disgusting.

  The eruption sent me fifteen feet in the opposite direction, before depositing me onto my back. I sat up, ears ringing from the blast. I was coated, head to foot, in the creature’s blood, as well as great, wet, fat lumps of its flesh and innards.

  Lovely.

  Eva looked down at me, equally coated. She brushed the worst off her face, then reached into her coat and retrieved her tobacco tin.

  ‘What…? What happened?’

  ‘Hm?’ said Eva, as she rolled herself a fresh smoke with blood-damp fingers. ‘Oh, it did what I was wanting it too. Swallowed the magic coin that’d destroy it.’

  ‘And you too.’

  ‘Yeah. Third time I’ve been swallowed. It’s uncomfortable.’

  I sat up to see the husband and wife retrieving their child, the real Jacob, from the wreckage of the cuckoo.

  ‘He was inside the monster?’

  ‘Yup. Don’t ask me how it works, but he’s fine. Job done.’

  ‘What about our house?’ asked the husband, as he and his wife stood in gore-splattered ruins of their formerly picture perfect cottage.

  ‘We saved your kid,’ said Eva.

  ‘Yes, but...just look at the place!’ said the wife, starting to wail and shudder with tears again.

  Eva looked down at me. ‘No pleasing some fuckers, is there?’ She headed toward my car, the Uncanny Wagon, and I stood, shrugged apologetically, then hurried after her.

  2

  We arrived back at the coven with the cuckoo’s innards still coating us from head to foot, though now it had dried and cracked as I moved.

  If Jacob’s parents had been overly house proud, Eva really threw the lever in the opposite direction. I mean, so far the other way I’m pretty certain the lever snapped. The coven was stark. Grey stone walls, covered in cracks and scorch marks. I was quite certain that most of the furniture in the place had been liberated from tips and skips. A couch, so ragged and broken that even a crack den would have turned its nose up at its inclusion, but which now cradled Eva as she watched TV and drank.

  You don’t even want me to paint a picture of the kitchen. It would only give you nightmares. But know this: something was growing out of the sink. Something that I swear once opened an eye.

  Eva, now stretched out on the couch, fished around on the floor until her hand found a half-drunk can of beer, she then began drinking the flat, lukewarm remains. I braved the kitchen to go to the fridge, and grabbed myself a cold can. As usual, there was little in the way of food inside the fridge. Unless you ate mould. I took a mouthful or two of the cheap, strong beer, then pressed the cool tin to my eye, which throbbed from being struck by a fat ball of exploding cuckoo flesh.

  ‘Have you got anything to eat?’ I asked. ‘Preferably something out of a tin that will be free of contamination?’

  ‘What am I, your mum?’

  ‘Sorry, but fighting monsters gives me a bit of an appetite.’

  Eva sighed. ‘Brown paper bag. Freezer compartment.’

  I opened the fridge again and reached into the freezer drawer, pulling out a large, brown paper bag.

  ‘This?’

  ‘Is it brown?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is it a paper bag?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I’ll let you put the rest of the pieces together, idiot.’

  I’d gotten quite adept at allowing Eva’s many, many insults roll off me. It’s not as though I could really complain about them, anyway. I had, after all, been responsible for the death of her other two creators, Lyna and Melodia. The two witches who should be making up the trio of power with me, to look after Cumbria, the county in northern England we reside in. It’s a wonder Eva gave me the time of day, really.

  The rumble of my stomach shut up any further introspection, and I reached into the bag to pull out something to chew on. The ‘something to chew on’ that I pulled out came as something of a surprise, as it appeared to be a tiny person. Not a model, not an ornament, but an actual living creature, frozen stiff. I let out a strangled whimper that Eva found hilarious.

  ‘What the… what is this…?’ I said, waggling the tiny, corpse popsicle (corpsicle?).

  ‘Fairy, that. Very tasty.’

  ‘A fairy?’ I peered closer and saw a pair of gossamer thin wings flattened fast to the little thing’s back. ‘Like… a real fairy?’

  Eva hauled herself upright and wandered over, plucking a second fairy from the bag. ‘Yup, a really real fairy.’

  ‘Woah…’ I looked at the magical little creature in my hand. It was beautiful, perfect; a piece of a fairy tale brought to life.

  And then Eva ripped hers in half and began to slurp on its innards.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ I cried.

  ‘I know,’ said Eva, pupils huge, ‘they’re bloody fresh.’

  She grabbed the rest of the bag from me and headed for the couch. I paused, looked at the fairy in my hand, at the two halves that Eva had discarded on the floor, and then slowly moved to join Eva on the couch.

  ‘Sorry, daft question I’m sure, but… why are you tearing fairies in half and slurping out their insides?’

  Eva stuck her finger into one half of her second snack and teased out something gross, which she then slurped down. ‘Don’t feel sad for these bastards. Fairies are rotten, evil little fuckers. Lay eggs in homeless people, and when they hatch they eat their way out of the poor sods.’

  ‘Oh.’ It was definitely an ‘oh’ sort of a realisation. ‘Well that’s… disappointing. But, well, why are you eating it?’

  ‘Fairies are good for one thing: they’re packed full of concentrated magic. Crack one open, slurp it down, and ride the wave. Feel that undiluted power rushing round your body.’

  I looked down at the fairy in my hand, then passed it to Eva.

  ‘Wuss,’ she replied, before feasting on it, then standing up and doing some vigorous shadow
boxing as the magic whirled around inside her.

  ‘This is some really good shit. You sure you don’t want some, idiot?’

  I took that as my cue to leave.

  ‘No thank you. I’ve got a shift in a few hours and it would be nice to get an hour or two of sleep before the drudgery begins.’

  ‘What? It’s the weekend! Who works weekends?’

  ‘First of all, I do. I work weekends. Hospitals don’t close on the weekend.’

  ‘Pff. Needy lot, the sick.’

  ‘Second of all, it’s not the weekend, it’s Tuesday.’

  Eva eyed me suspiciously. ‘You sure?’

  ‘Very.’ I showed her the date on my phone. Her face dropped and drained of colour. She slumped back onto the couch and turned on the TV.

  ‘What? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Go if you’re going.’

  ‘Okay.’ I turned to leave, then paused, dithering. ‘It’s just, it seems like maybe something’s up? Is it the day?’

  ‘We’re not pals, Joseph.’

  ‘Oh. Well. Okay.’

  ‘Today is the fifteenth of July. You know what that means?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It means it would have been Lyna’s birthday. Still is. The dead can celebrate birthdays too.’

  I worried at the buttons on my coat, not knowing quite what to say. It was obvious Eva was hurting, and she was only hurting because of me. Because of the old me. The old me I couldn’t even remember.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ was the best I could do as I headed for the exit.

  ‘I’ll never forgive you, you know,’ said Eva. ‘They’d want me to, but tough. I’m not forgiving a fucking thing, got me? Not forgiving, not forgetting, and not trusting.’

  I nodded, then left, feeling just about as shitty as it’s possible to feel.

  Which was very shitty.

  And then a little worse than that.

  3

  It turns out that being reminded of what a worthless, reprehensible human being you are can really interfere with your ability to drift off to sleep. Strange, that. Five hours had passed since I’d said goodnight to Eva, and I’d slept for literally none of them.

  I wearily trotted into Carlisle Hospital for my shift and headed for the reception desk, the cold glow of the strip lighting wrapping its arms around me. As usual, people were dotted around in uncomfortable chairs, waiting. Waiting to be seen. Waiting for people who were being seen. Waiting for news that might ruin their day. Or entire life.

  Big Marge, the large, ever present receptionist with the barmaid hair, greeted me with her usual judgemental expression. ‘You look like crap,’ she said. ‘As always.’

  ‘You know, you’re really not very good at flirting, Big Marge.’

  Big Marge raised an epically scornful eyebrow. I believe if Big Marge were ever to lose the power of speech, her eyebrows would be able to take over the communication role without skipping a beat.

  ‘What happened to you this time then?’ she said indicating my eye, which had become puffy and bloomed with a rosy red glow.

  ‘Oh, nothing. Nothing weird,’ I replied. Which even as I said it, I realised was in itself a weird thing to say.

  ‘You come in here banged up a lot. Exhausted, covered in bruises, cuts. Smelling like you needed a shower three days ago. What’s going on with you?’

  A plausible excuse was required.

  ‘Fight club.’

  Thanks for nothing, brain.

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Fight club. Like that film.’

  ‘Which film?’

  ‘Fight Club.’

  ‘Hm. Yeah. I do like me some Bradley Pitt.’

  ‘It’s just a fitness thing,’ I explained, caught up in the lie. ‘Me and a few, uh, lads, we duke it out in a church basement. It was either that or a book club, and I don’t have time to read a book.’ I grinned, hoping for charming.

  ‘I don’t buy it.’

  ‘Okay, I do read. Sometimes. But only books with pictures.’

  ‘There’s no way your skinny arse is fighting grown men.’

  ‘And why is that?’ I asked, bristling slightly.

  Big Marge raised a fist and made as though she was about to hit me. I leapt back, squealing, throwing my arms up in front of my face.

  Dignity, I know not your presence.

  I straightened out my long coat, ignored Big Marge’s smug look, and headed for my locker.

  As the work day trundled past in a sleep-deprived fug, I found myself thinking about how utterly bizarre my life had become. I watched the mop in my hands sweeping back and forth across a dirty corridor floor—hands that I could ignite with flames should I wish too—and wondered how long I could keep juggling both sides of my life.

  If only this warlock thingy paid a living wage, I could drop the day job and actually get enough sleep to function properly.

  That’d be nice.

  But no, apparently monetary reward isn’t part of the gig. The best I could expect for rescuing someone from a bloodthirsty werewolf, or from saving the entire world from a long-dead cult ready to rise up and enslave humanity, was a glow of satisfaction and a busted nose.

  I yawned and leaned on the mop for a quick rest. Sooner or later, the wheels were going to come off, I was sure of it. Brain or body, one had to fall to bits eventually.

  ‘All hail the saviour!’

  I turned to see the Fox, Roman helmet on his head, axe held aloft, grinning up at me.

  ‘You know, I’m really, really over that greeting. How about a simple Hi from now on?’

  The Fox lowered his axe and frowned.

  ‘Well, suits yourself,’ he said. ‘You are the mighty one. The eater of magic.’

  ‘No, I’m not. I keep telling you this, are you hard of thinking or something?’

  The Fox looked up at me, eyes huge and watery.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Sorry, that was mean, I apologise.’

  ‘It was very mean, yes.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very, very mean, it was.’

  ‘I said I’m sorry.’

  ‘I forgive you, saviour.’

  ‘Joseph.’

  ‘Saviour Joseph.’

  ‘Just Joseph. Or Joe. Just call me Joe.’

  The Fox considered this, then offered me a big grin. ‘Joe. Hi, Joe.’

  ‘Hello, Fox. Now, is there something you wanted? A message from the Red Woman? Some dire warning you need to pass on? Some demand to take my throne that you both already know I have absolutely no intention of taking, to become an evil monster I have absolutely no intention of becoming?’

  The Fox considered my questions as he scratched at his chin with a claw, then nodded. ‘Yes. Mostly all of that.’

  I sighed and went back to mopping.

  ‘She’s very upset, the Red Woman. Very much.’

  ‘Is she now.’

  ‘Says you’re a disappointment. A big one.’

  ‘What else is new? I get the feeling I’m a very disappointing sort of a person, Fox.’

  The Fox began to idly swing his axe back and forth, apparently at a bit of a loss.

  ‘Look, you go back and tell that scary, persistent, red-head woman that she can stick that throne where the sun doesn’t shine. By which I mean her ice-cold bottom.’

  The Fox frowned.

  ‘I do not believe it would fit. Very big chair, very small bottom.’

  ‘Is there anything else, only I am at work here.’

  The Fox made to speak, then stopped and shook his furry little head. He was a bit of an adorable annoyance, I had to admit.

  ‘I don’t wants to help her, you know.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  The Fox nodded. ‘Have to, don’t I? Doing what I must, so one day I’ll be allowed the sweet relief of death and so rejoin my beloved.’

  Now he was just making me feel guilty. I found myself turning back to say I understood, but the Fox had disappeared, as silently as he had arrived.


  After many torturous hours, my shift finally ended, and I shambled toward my beat-up little car, the Uncanny Wagon. How the thing still passed its M.O.T. I had no idea. I stroked its roof as though it were a beloved family pet, feeling all the dents, many of them caused by a recent attack from a swarm of demonically possessed eagles. Swarm of eagles? Is that right? Probably flock, right?

  ‘Joe!’

  I turned to see a woman speed-walking across the hospital car park toward me.

  ‘Annie?’

  Annie had sold her soul to a demon. Actually, to lots of demons. Not to toot my own horn, but I’d been very, very nice and brave and saved her neck. I hadn’t seen her since, so this was a pleasant surprise.

  ‘Caught you,’ she said, a really very nice smile upon her extremely nice face. Her eyes seemed to sparkle when she smiled like that.

  ‘Caught? I can assure you I wasn’t doing anything wrong.’

  ‘I was in the neighbourhood, so thought I’d drop in on the off-chance,’ she said, pushing her blonde locks behind her perfectly formed ears. ‘The receptionist said you’d just clocked off.’

  ‘Yup, this is me, clocking off.’

  ‘What happened to your eye?’

  ‘A fight club, would you believe?’

  ‘Was it a very nasty monster?’

  ‘Oh, an absolute rotter. But never fear, the righteous prevailed.’ I posed heroically, chest out, hands on hips.

  ‘Come on, you can take me for a drink and fill me in.’

  I’d been day-dreaming about my bed, and having almost sexual fantasies about the plump coolness of my pillow, but only a pillock turns down a beautiful woman asking to be accompanied to a bar for refreshments.

  4

  Twenty minutes later we were in a brightly lit, soulless pub and I was setting a glass of white wine in front of Annie whilst slurping the froth from a pint of lager.

  ‘I needed that,’ I said, feeling refreshed in a way that sometimes only alcohol can provide after a hectic day.

  ‘So, the eye…’ said Annie. ‘What happened there?’

  ‘Oh, no biggie, just a giant monster that looked like a toddler that had replaced an actual toddler.’