Chaos Born

by Rebekah Turner

  “It will have the same outcome,” Orella said so quietly, I almost didn’t hear.

  I stretched and yawned. “I want to go home, Gideon. I’m tired.”

  “I send my letters to the Mayor, pleading for an audience.” Gideon threw the piece of paper on his desk. “Each time I receive a general letter in reply, written by a nobody, telling me he is too busy.” Gideon stopped and took a slow breath, sitting down behind his desk. “It seems I can’t even convince the Mayor into a meeting.”

  “What do you mean by that?” I frowned.

  “I thought he would have been in attendance to his daughter’s side,” Gideon replied. “Considering the severe nature of her illness.”

  “Are you done?” Orella got to her feet. “I have better things to do tonight.”

  I hastily stood, not wanting to be around Gideon when he was in one of his fire and brimstone moods.

  “Just where do you think you’re going?” Gideon asked me coolly.

  “She’s going home and to bed,” Orella said, already halfway out the door. “It’s time for everyone to go home and to bed.”

  Gideon slumped behind his desk, grumbling under his breath. I closed the door behind me with a relieved sigh and we both descended the stairs.

  “Gideon was trying to trick the Mayor into a meeting,” I said softly to Orella. “You don’t think he had something to do with the girl being possessed?”

  The elf-witch gave me a sharp look. “You should be ashamed to suggest it.”

  I fell silent, but I wasn’t ashamed. The old goat was crafty. He’d taught me plenty about manipulating others and I wouldn’t put it past him.

  Chapter 16

  A sparrow’s melody outside my bedroom window woke me the next morning. I groaned and rolled onto my back, eyes still shut. My wrist gave a throb and last night’s shenanigan’s came back to me with a crash. The thing that had entered the girl had felt powerful. Worse, it had called me daughter. I shivered, but more from the memory of the girl’s silver, soulless eyes than the cold.

  The sound of rattling carts and the occasional beep beep of a rickshaw horn leaked in from outside. A branch lightly tapped against my windowpane, sounding like it was urging me to get up and shake a leg at the day. I gave a yawn and sat up. Swinging my legs off the edge of my bed, I gingerly tested my wrist, finding it numb to touch. I removed the bandage and dry poultice, flexing my fingers and feeling no pain.

  I gave a slow stretch, feeling fresh and invigorated. Last night had been nightmare free. Then my cheeks heated as I recalled the dream I did have, though. The tall Regulator had featured prominently in it. What had the Grigori priest called him? I tried to remember and the name popped into my thoughts as if it had been lurking close by, waiting to be noticed.

  Roman.

  I walked to the bathroom, wincing as the cold tiles shocked my bed warm skin. The old iron pipes clanked and shuddered before spitting out some water in the sink. I splashed my face, gasping at the cold, then dried off and braided my hair.

  Back in my bedroom, I stepped into a pair of dark cotton trousers, and pulled a crisp white shirt over my head, overlaying it with a black bustier vest with metal clasps. Buttoning up a long saffron jacket, some red boots and lip-gloss finished the outfit. I made a mental list of things to do with the day as I buckled my work-belt over the jacket. In light of last night’s success, I decided it was time to get my charm back from Seth. I was going to be a big girl and confess to Orella what had happened.

  Walking downstairs, I stuck my head into the kitchen and saw it empty. In fact, the stove wasn’t even lit. My eyes settled on a package on the kitchen table. It was wrapped in a thick hessian cloth and an envelope on top had my name written in thick, chunky letters. Slitting open the envelope and keeping an ear out for Morgan, I unfolded the paper inside. Lacrone had signed the bottom of a short note that told me just how much he thought I owed him. Recalling his cryptic admission about stealing something from the crime scene, my hands moved to open the package, when I heard a noise like a snort. Leaving the package where it was, I walked to the front door, which was ajar.

  “Morgan?”

  My hand halted over the doorknob. Goosebumps danced down my arms as my eyes found a lick of crimson: a bloodied handprint stood out starkly against the white doorframe. My breath quickened; I realised I could smell more blood. My gaze shifted to where Orella’s protection hexes were written on the doorframe in chalk. They were smudged and burnt into the doorframe. I reached out to pick up my cane from the umbrella stand, withdrew the sword, and took a breath. Gritting my teeth, I flung the door open.

  My door had been an eggshell white with a brass knocker. Now, the paint was splattered with dark blood, and far too much of it. It had dried in drips and globs, running down to make a pool on the doorstop, and soaking my welcome mat.

  The body lay on its side by the closed front gate. A dog had somehow gotten in and was nudging the corpse like it was looking for food. I went to scream at it, but my breath caught in my throat and the sound came out as a croak. I recognised Morgan’s dress and my sword dropped from my grasp, clattering down the stairs. It had to be Morgan, but I wasn’t sure. How can you tell when the head is missing? I needed to call for help. I needed the authorities. Seth would know what to do. The dog looked up at me and I realised it wasn’t looking for food.

  It had already found it.

  Blood stained its muzzle and a glistening loop of purple entrails hung from its jaws. It was a big dog, its coarse fur caked with dried mud and wet, fresh blood. With growing horror, I saw white ribs sticking out of the dogs’ side and half of its skull was caved in. The dog looked like it had been run over by a heavy carriage or hit by a rickshaw. Its eyes were a glazed milky white and they fixed on me, the stare of a dead thing. It growled and lowered its head, leg muscles bunching.

  “Easy, boy.” My hand moved to my belt. “Who’s a good boy, yeah? Who’s a good boy?”

  The dog charged, teeth snapping, gloopy saliva and blood flying about its muzzle. I pinched salt and cast it, spitting out a curse. The spell crackled to life in a shower of sparks, slapping against the dog and knocking it back against the front gate. It gave a guttural noise, hind legs kicking as it tried to right itself. I stumbled down the stairs, scooped up my cane, and yanked out the sword. The dog got back on its feet, its dead eyes not registering any pain. A thought screamed through my mind, warning me not to get bitten by this freak of nature. The dog was sick. Worse than sick. It was fucking dead.

  The dog charged. I bent my knees, steadying my blade. The dog leapt and I bought my sword up in an underarm swing, skewering it through the soft belly. But the force of the dog was more than I expected and I was thrown back, hands still clutching the hilt of my sword and bringing the snarling dog with me. Its blackened claws scrabbled against my arms, shredding the shirt and making deep scratches. Its muzzle snapped at my face, its breath reeking like rotten meat. Brown teeth snapped at me with a wet clicking sound. I screamed when maggots wiggled from its mouth, falling into my hair. With a heave, I threw the dog to one side, yanking my sword free. I backed up, getting some space. The dog flopped around a bit, back legs stalling, before dragging itself up. It hacked a few times. More maggots fell to the ground, writhing in the buffalo grass that covered my small front yard. My stomach seized up, but I clamped down on it.

  Kill zombie dog. Blow chunks later.

  It came at me, slower this time. I had a chance to take a swing at its head and I took it. But the dog darted in, snapping at my legs, its heavy body knocking the sword from my hands. I kicked at it with my boots, my hands reaching for one of my back pockets. The garrotte wire wasn’t something I used a lot; I was no nimble footed assassin. But I lived by the motto of better to have something than not and right now, I needed something that would cut through flesh.

  The dog came at me again, relentless in its attack; milky eyes trained on me like it had no other thought than to kill. I spun away, looping the wire around its
neck as I did. Then I twisted the ivory handles and pulled. The dog went down and I shoved my knees on it, holding it in place. Bracing myself, I pulled the taunt wire with all my might. The wire cut through the flesh and bone like jelly. I fell back, watching in revulsion as the dog’s head rolled a little way from its body.

  Dragging myself to my feet, I opened the front gate and stumbled onto the street. A group of men wearing cloth-caps stood across the road, deep in conversation. A pie seller whistled as he served some kids. I heard footsteps and turned to see a working girl with a short bustle skirt and striped stockings walking towards me. She faltered as she got closer. “You need some help there, sweetie?”

  “Call for help,” I told her.

  Her eyes darted aside to take in my front yard of horror. She opened her mouth to scream and I wondered if I should try it as well. I knew that soon the numbness would disappear. That pain was coming and grief for Morgan would follow. I longed for the burn of anger, but felt too tired for it.

  So I just stood there and listened, feeling nothing.

  Chapter 17

  I sat in my kitchen, hands cupped around my third cup of coffee. My hair fell loose and limp over my shoulders. My bloodstained jacket was crumpled on the floor, work-belt slung on the back of my chair. I’d changed my torn shirt to another one and it hung funny with half the buttons in the wrong holes.

  Everything felt too tight, suffocating. Even the kitchen seemed smaller. I’d shifted Lacrone’s package to the pantry. I hadn’t had a chance to open it yet, but didn’t want to with the City Watch poking around. I’d snagged a bottle of gin from a pantry shelf and applied liberal amounts to my coffee, my horror decreasing with each sip.

  Morgan was blazed into my memory, her limp body there every time I closed my eyes. I’d wiped off most of the muck as best I could, checking for bites or maggots. Blood was caked under my fingernails, but I was too exhausted to run a bath. My thoughts were murky and sluggish now, but one thought was clear: someone had my undivided attention. My thoughts shifted to possible suspects, one immediately sprang to mind. A killer with revenge written on his rotten heart. The dog, however, made me pause. Unless Benjamin the Bloody had hired a necromancer, I had no idea how the dog fit into this scene and why. Orella walked into the kitchen and sat opposite me. She pulled her pipe from a pocket and struck a match against the table.

  “Don’t do that.” My voice was raw and coarse.

  With a sigh, she blew the match out. “Gideon is on his way.” Orella put the unlit pipe in her mouth, biting down. “I know you’re thinking Benjamin the Bloody might be behind this.”

  “Do you?” I raised a challenging eyebrow, daring her to forbid me to go and avenge Morgan. “Then what’s your theory on the dog?”

  Orella frowned. “You said it attacked you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “It looks like it had been dead a while, Lora.” Orella tapped the kitchen table thoughtfully. “Are you sure it was what attacked you?”

  I clenched my teeth. “That dog…that thing…was moving until I cut it up.”

  “Necromancy isn’t a cheap service.” Orella fidgeted with her pipe, staring at the table. “And from what I’ve heard, Benjamin the Bloody doesn’t have the financial means to hire one.”

  I wondered what that meant about the bounty on my head and rubbed my eyes ferociously. I didn’t want to talk about this anymore. I wanted some more gin. I craved some numbness to the sensations that swamped me. Guilt didn’t suit me. A small voice asked me if I realised this was probably my fault. “There is another answer,” I said slowly. “The Butcher of Applecross.”

  “Why would he come here, to your house?” Orella’s voice was flat, like she’d been thinking the same thing.

  I placed my hands on the table, splaying my fingers and looking for a nail to bite. “Caleb Haskett asked me to help him in capturing the Butcher of Applecross. I’ve been asking around, seeing if I could get a lead.”

  Orella took one of my hands in her own warm ones, her skin feeling like crumpled paper. Her voice was sympathetic, but her eyes were very sharp. “You’re not the one who killed Morgan. Remember that.”

  “You and I both know that’s not true.”

  “But you didn’t kill her, remember that.” She let go of my hand and sat back, watching me shrewdly. “Tell me, what have you found out about this Butcher?”

  Thinking of the hellspawn theory I’d been warming to, I said, “A symbol was found at one of the scenes of the crime. Someone said it might be the calling card of a hellspawn.” Orella’s eyebrows rose and I added quickly, “There’s a theory that a warlock had used chaos magic to bring some hellspawn over a Calling Circle. That they were the ones responsible for the slaughter at Saint Pendergrast and are the Butcher of Applecross.”

  “You’re suggesting hellspawn roam Harken?” Orella shook her head and the metal hoops in her ears clinked. “There is no practitioner I know strong enough to perform that feat. Not to mention the Craft Aldermen have measures in place if such an event occurred. Do you have a copy of the symbol?”

  “Yeah.” I clomped upstairs to retrieve the piece of paper from my bedroom, wondering what Craft Aldermen measures Orella was talking about. I also wondered why Orella appeared remarkably unsurprised at my revelations about hellspawn running loose. At the very least, I expected outright derision, rather than a mild denial. I was tempted to read her aura, but knew she’d sense me doing it and be suspicious as to why. I wondered what she was hiding.

  Back in the kitchen, I passed her the piece of paper I’d borrowed from Seth and sat back down, draining the last of my coffee. Orella took her time examining the drawing, while I tried to sit still, my good leg jiggling up and down as the coffee began to hit. “Do you know it?” I asked impatiently.

  She lifted her eyes and they were like small, hard pebbles. “You still wear your charm, don’t you, Lora?”

  My heart gave a lurch sideways and my fingers lifted to touch the charm of Anon that hid under my shirt. Then the knee-jerk panic faded and my own suspicions took root. “Funny you’d ask about it at a time like this,” I said quietly.

  Orella’s gaze moved back to the drawing. “I’ve told you before. That charm’s been in my family for a long time. It has good luck attached to it. They way you keep making enemies, you need it.”

  My suspicion unfolded, an unpleasant feeling in my guts. Orella’s little swerve in the conversation had my suspicions in overdrive. “You’re lying.”

  She looked up, craggy face folding into an insulted look. “How dare you speak to me like that? I raised you better than that.”

  I flushed, regretting my words. “I’m sorry. I’m just upset.” A silence stretched out between us, thick with a tension I wasn’t sure I fully understood. On a whim, I blurted, “Have you heard of The Key of Aldebaran?”

  Orella’s eyes widened and I knew I’d shocked her. She ground her small teeth on her pipe’s mouthpiece, jaw sawing back and forth. “I’d better not find out you’ve been reading that filth,” she said. “It corrupts those who read it. People have gone mad, trying to understand its meaning.”

  A vein pulsed in her forehead. I eyed it warily. “So you have heard of it.”

  Orella waved a hand at the symbol, changing the subject. “This is the signature of a Soul Slayer. I can tell you now: if there were a Soul Slayer inside The Weald, the streets would be awash with blood.”

  I stared into my empty cup, seeking inspiration and comfort, since I wasn’t getting any in the real world. “What if you’re wrong? What if hellspawn found a way to breech The Weald?”

  “Then I would be more concerned about the one wielding the power.” Orella turned her face away from me. She stared blankly at the unlit stove, something sad flitting across her face. I dropped my eyes, knowing she was thinking about Morgan. My own grief rose, clogging my throat.

  “Lora?”

  We both looked up to see Seth in the kitchen doorway. His jawline was stubbled dark, m
aking his goatee look more like a beard, and his uniform was rumpled as if he hadn’t been to bed.

  Picking up my empty cup, I tipped it at him in greeting. “Captain Hallow. Always a pleasure.”

  “How are you?” He paused, waiting for me to say something, but I just stared at him. How did he think I was doing?

  Seth crooked a finger at me. “We need to talk.”

  I realised that somehow my hands had snuck up into my armpits. I lowered them with effort, but couldn’t keep still. Raking a hand through my hair, I caught knots and concentrated on unravelling the white strands. I did not want to go outside.

  Seth blew out a breath, then said, “By the looks of the hex on your doorframe, the killer tried to enter your premises. That is, after beheading your housekeeper on your lawn.”

  A hand came into view, Seth offering to help me up. “I need you to come outside, Lora. I’ll stay with you.”

  Giving up on my hair, I stood and pushed past him, ignoring the offer of assistance. Did he think I would break? That this was the first dead body I’d seen? Roper’s frightened face flashed through my mind in a short, screaming vision and I realised I was close to tears.

  Seth stopped me at the front door and leant towards me with a frown. “Have you been drinking?”

  “Anon’s balls…” I was suddenly feeling very light-headed. “Why do you care?”

  A humourless smile curved his lips. “It hurts me you have to ask.” He let me go and stepped outside. I followed him, seeing a handful of City Watchmen forming a loose line outside my property. Beyond them, a small crowd had gathered on the pedestrian curb, and were trying to peer over the hedges. At my appearance, the crowd began to murmur, casting dirty looks my way. They whispered behind hands, jerked thumbs at the freakish ash tree and plenty made the sign of the evil eye. I kept my eyes down, knowing my neighbours would be leaning out of their windows to stare down at the gory spectacle in my front yard. No doubt everyone was waiting with bated breath for me to be arrested.