Chaos Born

by Rebekah Turner

  “What do you mean by, ‘apparently’?”

  Caleb’s brow creased further, his face becoming pensive. “There was a misunderstanding between The Order and the City Watch about the jurisdiction of law within their church. A team of Grigori priests got there before us. They documented the crime scene and then cleaned it up. Apparently the sacrilege was too great for the scene to stay the way it was for a moment longer than necessary.”

  “You have access to their files?” I asked.

  Caleb nodded. “Copies were made. I have them back at my office. Their conclusion is that the nephilim was a traitor to the One True God and in using magic, the One True God smote him with the berserker affliction.”

  “He got smoted, eh?”

  “Their words, not mine.”

  “Sounds like a rough way to go.” I shifted in my chair, trying to understand the reason for this meeting. “I still don’t get it. If that’s their conclusion, why think different?”

  “A berserker doesn’t have the mindset to remove specific parts of his victim’s bodies.” Caleb made a grabbing motion with his hands, as if pulling a loaf of bread apart. “A berserker just kills. The dead priests were missing their tongues, hands and feet. This was after they were killed by being hit with something sharp, here.” Caleb pointed between his eyes. “Each body had exactly the same type of mutilation.”

  I leant forward, intrigued. “Holes in the head. Why does that sound familiar?”

  Caleb tapped his nose. “The Butcher of Applecross.”

  “The latest serial killer on the block? Are you trying to make a connection between the two?”

  “The method of murder is the same, though the public aren’t aware of the connection yet,” Caleb said in a low voice. “It all started at Saint Pendergrast. This Butcher business started around the same time.”

  My heart tripped with excitement, as if this were the beginning of a hunt. I had a pretty good guess what kind of favour Caleb needed. My mind instantly seized on how it would benefit me. Good headlines for Blackgoat. A public service to Applecross. Gideon beaming at me with pride. A rise in my wage.

  “The Council is most anxious to have this serial killer brought to justice before the news leaks outside of Applecross. They’ve opened the investigation to all city Captains.”

  I eyed his full tankard pointedly, licking my lips. “You said the priests’ blood was used to mark the floor. Do you have a copy of the symbols?”

  “No,” Caleb replied. “It had been wiped mostly away. The only thing that was left was the Calling Circle, burnt into the flagstones.”

  “That’s very unusual. Sounds like someone messing with a powerful summoning.”

  “Would you hazard a theory?”

  “Not sure yet,” I said. “Any witnesses?”

  “None left alive,” Caleb said. “There were three victims in total. Two had also been disembowelled. There were even teeth marks on the flesh.”

  “How did the nephilim die?”

  “Single pistol shot to the head. The Grigori suggested the Regulator came out of his beserker spell, saw his crime and became remorseful enough to take his life.”

  “Do they know of your theory that the nephilim wasn’t the killer?” I asked dryly. “I can’t imagine it would be a popular idea with your superiors.”

  Caleb leant forward, resting his elbows on the table. “You’re the first person I’ve shared this with. You’re right. The Grigori wouldn’t look kindly on someone investigating a crime they claimed was solved. I was hoping you could ask around for me. Help me find out who’s behind this. A warlock with a grudge against The Order? A new cult? I would need all inquiries to be made discreetly. Everything I’ve said must be confidential.”

  I put a hand on my heart, feeling the bump of my throwing knife and winked my dimples at him. “I’ll say nothing to anyone.”

  Caleb smiled at the gesture, took an absent sip of his beer and gagged. He put the drink down with an offended expression. “I would be greatly in your debt.”

  “I’m just a blade for hire, Caleb,” I reminded him. “I don’t know yet if I can help you. I can ask around for you, but that’s all.”

  “You’re not just a blade for hire, Lora,” Caleb smiled gently. “You’re the ward of Gideon Blackgoat, the only otherkin in all of Applecross who has his hairy finger thrust into every pie in the city.”

  “Careful what you say.” I arched an eyebrow. “Gideon’s no otherkin, he’s a full-blooded satyr and there are some pies even he won’t touch.”

  “The City Council doesn’t recognise the difference between the two. What does it matter?”

  “There’s a difference. Neither one likes to be mistaken for the other.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Why aren’t you asking him these questions yourself?”

  “I don’t think he would help me, considering our past.”

  “I’m sure Gideon would love to assist the City Watch with their investigations. He’s a law abiding citizen, just like anyone else.” I kept my face straight, pretending not to notice Caleb rolling his eyes. He seemed to remember how Gideon considered the law a rather flexible arrangement.

  “Then you’ll help?” he asked.

  I rested my hands on the table, tapping one fingernail against the rough wood. “As a favour to you, yes. I have a contact that works for the Reaper Street Gang. They handle most wet work in the city. He’s expensive.”

  “I can cover your costs.”

  I bit my lip. I wasn’t sure I wanted Caleb’s money, but equally sure I couldn’t refuse it. “I’ll find him, ask what he knows. When I see Gideon next, I’ll ask him as well.”

  Caleb gave me a nod of thanks and pushed his tankard across to me. I picked it up and saluted him, then hastily set it back down as he stood, pulling on his greatcoat. I reached out again to touch his hand, trying to stop myself, but finding I couldn’t resist. Caleb moved away, pretending he didn’t notice my gesture. “I have to go now; I’m expected home.”

  Looking up into his open face, I asked, “Tell me, Caleb. Are you happy with your life now? Are you really glad you left Applecross?”

  He leant over the table and bestowed a light kiss on my forehead, his lips gentle and chaste. “I am, Lora Blackgoat. Though I confess to sometimes missing you and your temper tantrums. It did make my life interesting. But I’d never tell my wife that.” He went to leave, hesitated and turned back to me. “One more thing.”

  “Yes?” I asked wearily, ready for this meeting to be over. I was glad Caleb had found happiness away from Applecross and was now living his dream of being normal, with a wife and kids. I was glad for him. But it made me sad how we’d stopped being friends and that sadness made me so bloody tired.

  “I was told nothing can break free of a Calling Circle,” he said. “Is that true? There are no exceptions?”

  “That’s right.” I sipped some beer, hardly tasting the bitterness now. “No demon or angel can walk free in our realm. No exceptions. Calling Circles are for communication only. You said the Calling Circle was burnt into the ground, which might mean something tried to pass over, test the boundaries. I’ve heard that can happen.”

  “Just—,” he hesitated.

  “Yes?” I prompted, curious.

  Caleb rubbed his neck hard, as if bitten by a thought that would not leave him. “There were peculiar burn marks in the floor, just beyond the circle line.”

  “And?”

  He looked embarrassed. “Sounds rather melodramatic, but they looked liked footprints.”

  I gave a short laugh. “Really?”

  “Maybe. Tell me what you find.” He gave me a half-hearted smile, then made for the door, patrons scuttling out of his path. I watched him leave, then drained the rest of the drink in several gulps. Retrieving my cane from between my feet, I stood and made for the door. I tried to think who might have information about the crime that had been committed at Saint Pendergrast. There were some in Applecross who would
know the details about the killings, but I liked my skin where it was.

  My thoughts turned to The Scarlet Wren, a registered opium house that sold the best apple schnapps in the city. If anyone would have information, it would be the owner, Vivian Kwok. She was a shrewd businesswoman who was sometimes gifted with prophetic dreams. She was a friend of mine, though unfortunately, she was also a sometimes bed-partner of Gideon. Feeling optimistic that she wouldn’t rat me out to the old goat, I headed outside.

  Chapter 5

  The Scarlet Wren sat a few blocks over from Growlers, so I resigned myself to walk the distance. I passed crowds of people sitting around rinky-dink food stalls, slurping up bowls of silky noodles and gobbling on sticks of questionable charred meat.

  “Nice night,” someone called to me from the shadow of a building. I paused and saw a tiny goblin kid sitting on an empty crate. His ugly little face was sagging and wrinkled, oversized ears pierced with silver studs. He wore a scruffy cap with a winged logo on the front and a blue uniform that was tattered around the edges. I passed him a couple of coins. “Get yourself some food, kid.”

  “Thanks, miss.” He tipped his cap at me and hurried off. I watched him go, wondering if Gideon had paid him to spy on me. Goblins were an industrious lot; they had the monopoly on the rickshaws in the city and most of their young worked for the message boy services, Mercury Messages. It always paid to be nice to a Mercury boy.

  I turned down The Scarlet Wren’s short lane, next to an all-night coffee shop called Perky Jane. Two red lanterns profiled The Scarlet Wren’s closed double-doors. I pushed them open, and a rose-scented warmth washed over me.

  The inside was all feature walls and mirrors. Communal tables sat in the centre, reclining couches at the back, and the walls were draped with plum coloured curtains. At the far end of the room, a fireplace was framed by polished marble, a wide mirror hanging over it.

  Normally the room would be bustling with customers, flirting with the girls or looking to disappear to a private room to puff away their worries and woes. Tonight, only a handful of working girls fluttered about a pair of foreigners with blue turbans playing a domino game by the fire.

  The reason for the empty house became quickly apparent. Five Regulators sat at one of the tables, drinking and laughing over tankards of beer. I strode to the bar, my cane clicking against the floor, pretending I wasn’t bothered. Like others in Applecross, I had grown up on tales of Regulator brutality and blood thirst. That was just the human Regulators. The nephilim Regulators were considered half-mad, obeying no one but their Grigori masters.

  My eyes skittered nervously towards the table. They wore their Regulator uniforms; heavy segmented leather armour, strapped together with brass belts and buckles. Their spine sheathes and swords had been unbuckled and discarded, slung casually over the backs of chairs. Silver daggers crossed their chests, and the symbol of The Order blazed on the backs of their gunmetal grey cloaks: a winding path curled around a winged sword. A couple sported wheellock pistols holstered on heavy gun-belts. Personally, I considered the wheellock gun an idiotic device. Good for one shot, followed by a frantic fifteen seconds as you tried to wind over the sproggins, spriggens or whatnots to reload. Of course, if you’re aim was good enough; I guess one shot was all you needed.

  One of them was a Witch Hunter, standing out with his shocking white mop of hair. He was a willowy stripe of lean muscle and was casting me a few interested looks. I threw him my best snooty glare and he looked away. The Witch Hunter didn’t concern me, and neither did the two other men of the group. One was a grisly man with an iron-grey plaited beard, the other a wiry guy with a nasty smile and a gold front tooth. These men may be Regulators, but they were also just men and I’d faced worse. It was the remaining two that had me worried; two large nephilim. Their breed was as easy to identify as the Witch Hunter: with dark, coarse hair and eyes the colour of tar, pinpricked by white pupils. Black rune tattoos marked one side of their faces, beginning at the hairline and stopping at the cheek. I’d heard the tattoos were written in the language of angels, but had no idea what they meant.

  One of the nephilim looked young and was clearly drunk. His eyes were hooded, and his long hair loose, falling across his face. The older nephilim had close-cropped black hair, high cheekbones and restless eyes. His body was raw-boned and solid, and when he glanced my way, his eyes were almost brutish. His tankard sat full in front of him, and he looked very sober among the men at the table. Even the Witch Hunter, normally a pious sort, was enjoying himself, his eyes bright and laughter loud and braying.

  Vivian Kwok appeared from a back room and beckoned to me. She was otherkin, with glacial eyes and fair cheeks. She might have passed for human, save for hands that were crooked talons and the salmon-toned feathers that speckled her bare arms. A woman of conservative tastes, Vivian wore a deep purple embroidered taffeta corset with lace trim and a matching bustle skirt. Around her slender neck sat a lace choker centred with what looked like a jewelled bird skull. I’d met Vivian when she’d come to Orella, looking for something to control the nightmarish visions that came with her soothsaying talent. Since then, our paths and interests had crossed enough times that I considered her a friend.

  As I passed the Regulators, I could hear the greybeard arguing with the young, intoxicated nephilim.

  “—can’t hold your drink, don’t bother starting.”

  “Brother Aiden was a man of faith.” The nephilim’s voice was muffled as he lay his head on his arms. “He knew it a mortal sin to take one’s own life.”

  “Enough, boy!” the greybeard bellowed. “Shut your mouth about it all. We’re here to drink, have women and a good time.” He punctuated this point by grabbing the closest woman to him.

  Unfortunately, this was me.

  His hands hoisted me up with an easy strength and my cane clattered to the ground. Without thinking, I yanked the dagger inside my vest. It slid free of its sheath with a quiet snitk. Finding myself plonked unceremoniously on a bony knee, I twisted and bought the blade to his throat. The Regulator’s hands froze around my waist and his eyes rounded big and surprised. The shorthaired nephilim opposite surged to his feet, his face thunderous. A stunned silence settled in the room.

  The standing nephilim’s nostrils flared, taking in my clothes and assessing me. I noticed a silver-studded whip hooked at his belt and nearly passed out with fear. It was a serious crime to threaten a Regulator. My mind raced. If I bluffed, I could get out of this. I just had to think of a legitimate reason I had a dagger to a Regulator’s throat. I could explain this. We could all have a laugh. Maybe I’d get off with a spanking.

  “Take your hands off me, Regulator.” My mouth moved before my mind could filter. I cursed silently. At least my hand was steady. The greybeard’s hands slowly removed themselves from me. The other Regulators at the table were still in their seats, any trace of their previous revelry abruptly gone, though the young nephilim had passed out, his mouth vibrating as he snored. The nephilim opposite me spread his empty hands wide, his leather armour creaking as he moved, brass studs glinting in the firelight. The tattoos that crawled down the side of his face made him look even more sinister.

  “Take care how much blood you take from my friend, woman.” His voice was a low rumble that vibrated against my breastbone. “You’re already in enough trouble.”

  My lip curled, but at this point I had the sense to keep quiet. A voice cracked through the air, startling me. “Lora Blackgoat. Put that dagger down. Right. Now.” Vivian was standing as close as she dared. “You disturb my customers, Lora.”

  I hitched my shoulders. “Since you put it that way.” I eased off the greybeard and moved away. Wiping a speck of blood from my blade on my coat, I slipped it back into its sheath. Vivian took another step closer to the table, addressing the standing nephilim Regulator.

  “You’ll have to excuse my friend.” Vivian shot me an annoyed glare. “She does not play well with others.”

  “Your
friend has interesting hair,” the greybeard remarked, rubbing his neck.

  “She dyes it to get attention,” Vivian lied smoothly.

  “Attacking a Regulator is a punishable crime.” Black eyes pinned me, shining like chips of polished onyx. The nephilim still stood, though his shoulders had relaxed, arms now loose by his side. His gaze moved over me, lingering on my hips, lifting to my breasts, then meeting my eyes. The look was suggestive, like I’d be in trouble caught alone with him. A slow flush burnt its way up my neck. I wasn’t adverse to a bit of flirting with a well-built man, but a Regulator? No thank you.

  “Perhaps it is better to consider us even, then.” Vivian glanced pointedly at the nephilim snoring on the table. “As you know, this one gave my girls much fuss tonight. I’m sure you wouldn’t want your superiors to find out the trouble being done here.”

  The nephilim exchanged a glance with the greybeard, then grunted in agreement. He gave me one last curious look and sat back down. I dipped to retrieve my fallen cane, feeling everyone in the room watching me. A pale curl came loose from my braid and fell across my face. I blew it away, accidently meeting the nephilim’s eyes. Curiosity was in his face and I figured he was wondering if I really dyed my hair, or if I was a rogue Witch Hunter, the usual assumption. I jerked my chin up, in the universal gesture of ‘oh yeah?’ and flounced to the bar, my hands shaking. I tried to pretend that I wasn’t sweating, that my heart wasn’t thumping wildly in my chest and I wasn’t rightly terrified. I heard the nephilim ask the greybeard if he was all right. The older Regulator gave a loud, theatrical sigh.

  “Well, brothers,” he announced. “That was no whore, but I think I’m in love.”

  Laughter echoed around the table and the tension was broken. I relaxed a little, until I glanced around to see the greybeard tracing a silhouette of a voluptuous woman in the air. “But she dyes her hair to look like a Witch Hunter! And that rump! Far too fleshy for me.”