by Mike Morris
He went to Jerry's Bar first, where his mother used to work. Mr. Giles used to work out of the back of there more often than not. Many a time Jack had waited outside until his mum finished her shift or until she could smuggle out some half-rancid stew for him to eat. The outside wasn't much — a door in a wall, no windows and a battered sign the years had stripped of nearly all its paint. The snow around the doorway had been trampled to black slush to mix with the usual pools of vomit splattered here and there.
The door didn't want to open at first. It was heavy and old with rusted hinges that didn't do their job. Jack put his shoulder behind it and forced it open. The air was thick with smoke, and the smattering of candles burning on tables did little to lift the gloom inside. A window would've helped, but the people who drank at Jerry's didn't care what time it was or what was happening in the outside world. They drank at Jerry's to avoid all that, forget everything else existed other than the drink in their hand or the whore on their lap.
It was smaller than he remembered. The few times he'd gone inside looking for his mother, the place had seemed so big Jack used to be scared he'd not reach the other side — or if he did, that he'd not make it back. The customers too were no longer the rough giants he'd once feared. They looked like sad old men now, more likely to piss themselves than cause any trouble.
Jack felt a flash of anger as he passed a tired-looking serving maid trying to push some punter's hand off her breast. It was easy to imagine his mother in her place. Plenty of times she'd come home with a black eye or a fat lip because some drunk had gotten out of hand. Sometimes she didn't even make it home, doing only God knew what. No way for a mother — a woman — to make a living. He resisted the urge to swat the drunk across the face. He had other matters to deal with first.
He made his way through the tables, eyes fixed on an alcove at the back. Three men sat around a table while two more stood guard in front of it. The guards weren't like the rest of the clientele in Jerry's. They had muscle and looked more than happy to use it.
As he got nearer, Jack could make out the faces of the three men at the table. Mr. Giles was in the middle, fatter than Jack remembered and most of his hair gone. He grinned as Jack approached and a gold tooth caught the candlelight. The other two men weren't faces Jack knew but they had the same air about them — men used to living on other people's sweat. Criminals. They didn't seem quite as cocksure as Giles, though. Probably wondered what a Black Dog wanted with them.
One of the guards stepped forward, glaring at Jack, all broken nose and cauliflower ears. He and Jack were about the same height but he was a good thirty pounds heavier. Jack wasn't concerned, though. Fighting a Nostros might put the fear in him, but some thug was never going to be a problem.
"What do you want, Dog?" snarled Broken Nose.
Jack looked over his shoulder at Mr. Giles. "I need to speak to you about a house on Sigil Street."
The thug put his hand on Jack's chest. "You speak to the boss again without his permission, I'll break you in half."
Jack took a step back, ran his eye over the guard. There was something familiar about him despite the beatings the man had received over the years. "Do I know you from somewhere?"
The man spat at Jack's feet. "Nah. I don't waste my time with God-botherers."
"I do know you," said Jack, enjoying the moment. "You're Ron."
The man was taken aback. "How do you know my fucking name?"
Jack smiled. "I beat the shit out of you once when I was fourteen. Round at old Mrs. Waters' place."
The memory flashed across Ron's face. "Why, you ..." He swung a punch but Jack moved his head and it sailed past, leaving him open to a counterattack. Jack smashed his elbow into Ron's jaw, felt it break, and watched the man drop. Easy.
The other thug went to help but Jack stepped back, ready for him.
"Enough," snapped Mr. Giles, stopping his man. "You proved your point, Dog. What do you want?"
Jack stepped over the fallen body. "I want to know about the house on Sigil Street."
Mr. Giles glanced at his companions, took a sip of wine and then returned his attention to Jack. As shows went, it wasn't very subtle. Jack didn't care. Let him think he was in charge as long as he told Jack what he needed to know. "What house? There's a whole bloody street of them," he said eventually.
"The one we found the dead bodies in," replied Jack. "Don't pretend you don't know."
"This information ... what's it worth?"
Jack looked him dead in the eye. "At the moment, there are Black Dogs tearing up Brixteth. Must make it hard for someone like you to do business when there are so many of us around. Imagine what damage we could do to people who don't help us."
Mr. Giles laughed as he rubbed the stubble on his chin. "Threats don't work on me, boy."
"I'm not threatening you. I'm appealing to your sense of civic duty."
That got another laugh from the criminal. "No one's asked that of me before." He pursed his lips as if thinking it over. "Fuck it, why not? Maybe one day you'll do me a favor if I tell you."
"Maybe," replied Jack.
Mr. Giles leaned back in the booth, wiped his hands over his protruding belly. "That whole street and most of the buildings around the docks are owned by the same person. A woman. Sarahlas, her name is."
"And where will I find this Sarahlas?"
"You'll find her in the big warehouse on the river. Her name's on the side of it to make it even easier for you."
"Thank you," said Jack.
Mr. Giles held up a finger. "A word of warning before you go. You'll find her not quite as friendly as me."
Jack nodded. "I'll bear that in mind."
He left the bar, grateful to be outside once more. Even the stink of the Brixteth streets smelled far sweeter than the inside of Jerry's Bar. He held his face up to the light as snow melted against his cheeks. He'd not heard of this Sarahlas before, but that wasn't surprising. It'd been a long time since he and Brendan had lived there.
Shit. Brendan. In everything that had happened, Jack had forgotten about his brother. He'd left Brendan, promising to return with food. He'd not returned, not told him what was going on. He'd have to find some time later to go and see if Brendan was doing any better — if he was safe. Maybe Jack could persuade him to return to the monastery — at least there he'd get proper care.
He headed to the river, making quick time down the still-empty streets. The few people he passed looked petrified and more than one drew the circle of God over their chests when they saw him. People always seemed to get more pious when danger was close by.
There were several warehouses along the river, all with their own docks, ready to unload goods brought from other parts of the country to Arbour. One was much bigger than the others, so Jack headed there first. Sure enough, "The Sarahlas Trading Co." was marked on the side in gold letters.
Compared to the rest of the neighborhood, it looked like business as usual at the warehouse. A large clipper was anchored at the docks and men were busy hauling bundles of cotton out of its hold and onto the shore, where more men dragged them into the warehouse. No one paid Jack any attention as he walked past them and entered the warehouse.
It was just as hectic inside. Half a dozen wagons with teams of horses were being loaded on the opposite side of the warehouse while the new goods were stacked ten bundles high. There were towers of crates further back. Men shouted at each other, giving orders, cursing the work and each other's pace, telling jokes and talking shit.
Jack spotted an office in the corner and up some steps — a little wooden room with a door and a window, perched on stilts. Again, no one stopped him as he made his way there. The door to the office was ajar, so he opened it without knocking.
"Who are you?" A woman sat behind a desk. Her dark hair was cut short and her build was lean and taut. A white scarf was curled around her neck and a tattoo of a snake did the same around one arm. A cigar burned in an ashtray and a knife lay next to some paperwork, but
it wasn't there to open letters. Unlike Mr. Giles, it was obvious she didn't need hired thugs to look after herself.
"My name's Brother Jack. I'm a Knight of the Order of Saint Stephen," replied Jack. "Are you Sarahlas?"
"I am," she replied. "I don't get many priests coming to see me. They seem to think I'm a bit of a lost cause." She took a drag of her cigar and then blew the plume of smoke toward Jack, grinning. "Are you here to save me from myself?"
"I understand you own the buildings on Sigil Street." There was something about the woman that put Jack on edge. He could feel the hairs on his arms rising.
"What of it? I own a lot of buildings." Her tone dripped with boredom.
"We pulled two dozen bodies out of a building on Sigil Street yesterday."
"I heard something about that. Word is you've got a Nostros loose in the city." Sarahlas rubbed her neck, then readjusted her scarf. "I hope you're doing your best to catch the monster." The chair creaked as she leaned back in her seat and put her feet up on the desk.
"Do you know who was living there?"
Sarahlas shook her head as she rolled the cigar between her fingers. "I'd have no idea. I don't get involved in details like that."
Jack nodded toward the paperwork on her desk. "You seem pretty involved to me."
She stood up, took another drag from her cigar, and smiled the coldest smile Jack had ever seen. "Shipments worth hundreds of gold coins are rather different to tenants paying a few coppers in rent. And that's when they can be bothered to pay." She stood up and walked over to Jack, stopping only a few inches away. She looked over him as if she were appraising a lump of meat then stared into his eyes. His sense of unease grew. Her perfume had a sweet, delicate aroma that was completely at odds with the reality of the woman. "I'm sorry I can't be of more help to you but, as I'm sure you can imagine, I'm very busy." She waved toward the door.
Jack gave her a nod. "Thank you for your time."
He could feel her watching him from the office window as he made his way out of the warehouse. He stopped at the end of the road and looked back, his hand drifting to the spot on his neck where the Nostros had bitten him.
Sarahlas knew something. He was sure of that.
14
Nial
"Bastards!"
"Clear off out of here!"
"There's no monsters here!"
"Bastard Dogs!"
Nial watched the crowd scream and shout. It'd been building all afternoon, ever since the Black Dogs had descended on Brixteth. With every building searched, with every door knocked on, it had grown. Minute by minute, hour by hour. Disgruntled and angry residents swarmed to the corner of Sigil Street to show the priests how welcome they really were. Men had to be pulled from search teams to hold the locals back. There hadn't been any violence yet, but Nial wouldn't rule it out. The day was fading fast. Snow clouds filled the sky, adding to the gloom. It was going to be a long, cold night.
"Don't they realize we're trying to save their stupid lives?" hissed Edward. "Would they rather we left them to the Nostros?"
"Brixteth has always prided itself on sorting its own problems out," replied Nial. "They don't like the law down here."
"We're not here to arrest anyone," said Edward. "We're here to stop a monster."
"They don't know that," replied Nial. "Most of them probably don't even believe the Nostros exist."
"They'll have to believe it when the bodies start piling up. Dear God, give me strength." Edward shook his head.
"That's the last thing we need," said Nial. "I'll put up with the abuse if we can have no more dead."
He looked up at the sky. Daylight was fading fast. Whatever protection the sun gave them would be gone soon enough. "Send word around the teams to pull out of the buildings and set up patrols on the street. We can send half the men back to the monastery to get some rest and then change over at midnight."
Edward left, and for one brief moment Nial was alone. He closed his eyes, feeling every one of his years. It was a bad situation they were in, that was for sure. Everything he held dear was hanging on the edge of a precipice. He was used to fighting the Nostros in the Middle Kingdoms against terrible odds, but he'd always known that if he fell, his home had the Angel Sea to protect it. The ocean was a gift from God that kept Abios free. But now? It was just one more advantage that had been stripped away from them.
The demons had ships good enough to protect them from the sun on the voyage over, gunpowder to blast the Abion defenses and now traitors to help open the doors to the demons. No matter what Nial did, what sacrifice he and his men made, it felt like he was only holding back the inevitable. Had his whole life been for nothing?
He cracked his neck from one side to the other. Maybe the councilors were right. Maybe he was seeing treachery where there was none. Maybe he was just old and paranoid. By God, he hoped that was the case. Better to be proved a fool than proved right. He glanced over at the crowd, saw the angry faces. How many of them would die if he was right?
The sun dipped down behind the rooftops. The day was nearly gone and none of his men had found anything. Things were only going to get worse for them all once it got dark. They'd soon see what monsters waited for them then.
"Brother Nial!"
He turned and saw Jack approaching. "How'd you get on?"
"I found out who owns the building," said Jack. "A woman named Sarahlas. She runs a trading company by the river. She has a large warehouse there."
"Well done. I'll send someone to have a chat with her."
"I already did that."
"And?"
"She said she didn't know anything about the building — but she would say that. Her warehouse is perfect if you wanted to bring a Nostros into Arbour without anyone knowing, and she had enough wagons coming and going to make moving him easy enough as well."
"What was she like?"
"She's tough. I can't imagine her taking any nonsense from anyone," said Jack. "But there was something about her that made me uneasy. I just don't know what exactly." The boy rubbed his neck.
"Good work," said Nial. "I'll send some men to watch — "
"Nial! Jack!" The young lad, Erik, ran toward him, panic on his face.
A sick feeling rose in Nial's gut. The bad news had begun.
"Brother," said the boy when he reached Nial. "Brother ... it's Alexis. He ..."
"Catch your breath, lad," said Nial, "and tell me what's happened."
Erik sucked in a lungful of air. "They've gone missing."
"Who's gone missing?" asked Nial, a knot of dread in his gut.
"Alexis and his team. They've gone."
"What's going on?" called Edward, hurrying over.
Nial forced his voice to remain calm. "Tell us what's happened. Slowly."
Erik looked from Nial to Edward to Jack and back again. "Brother Edward sent me to tell Alexis your orders, sir. About patrolling the streets and setting up shifts."
"Aye, that I did," said Edward.
"I went over to Monmoth Street, fast as I could," said Erik. "Found Thomas waiting in the street. He told me Alexis had gone into one of the buildings half an hour ago and they'd not come out since."
"And?" said Nial. He knew what was coming and didn't want to hear it.
"He thought something was up, so we both went in and looked." Erik rubbed his face as if he couldn't bear the memory. "They weren't there. Just a lot of blood. A lot of blood."
"Shit," said Edward. "Shit."
"You stay here, Edward," said Nial. "Try and disperse the crowd — get them inside their homes before it gets too dark. I'll go with Erik, Jack and a couple of the lads and have a look."
"Be careful," said Edward.
Nial nodded. "That goes without saying." He turned to Erik and Jack. "Come on. Let's go."
They set off at a run, two other Dogs following on their heels. The ground was covered in snow and slush, hampering their speed. Their breath came out in little clouds around them as they crossed st
reets and ran down narrow lanes.
Alexis had fifteen men with him — good men. Not easy to kill, even for a Nostros. Damn it. Damn it all. It was another step back. Another victory for the wrong side.
It was dark when they reached Monmoth Street and found Alexis' last man waiting for them under an unlit street lamp, sword in hand, a black shadow against white snow, ready to jump at shadows. A building loomed behind him. Run-down. Broken windows. Graffiti along the wall. A slum.
The priest tried to smile when Nial and the others reached him, but truth was he looked petrified. He wasn't much older than Erik. Probably only a year on from taking his vows. "What's your name, son?"
"Thomas, sir." He nodded as if to confirm he'd spoken the truth.
Nial pointed to the building behind him. "Is that where you last saw them?"
Another nod. "Alexis told me to wait outside. Keep watch here."
"All right, let's go in and take a look." Nial turned to the others. "Keep your eyes wide, God in your heart and your pistols in your hands. Don't take any chances in there. Got it?"
This time they all nodded and drew their weapons. Nial checked the frizzen of his pistol, made sure it was charged properly. No one wanted to go in with a gun that could misfire.
Satisfied, he signaled his men to move in.
The door rattled on its hinges as they entered. A groan echoed through the building. Nial winced. A warning for whoever was in there.
It was more than dark inside. Pitch black. Nial held up everyone just inside the entrance while their eyes adjusted. They were in an atrium with a glass roof that must've been covered in snow; there was no light sneaking through. Stairs ran up the side of one wall to the floors above. Nial counted four levels. Plenty of room to hide.
"Where was the blood?" he whispered to Thomas. The boy pointed right, through an archway.
