Chaos Born

by Rebekah Turner

  After ten minutes of quiet contemplation into my coffee, Seth padded barefoot through the door. He wore trousers that hung low, beneath a bare chest and was rubbing his wet hair with a towel. I sipped my coffee, deliberately avoiding the view of the tantalising curve of his lower stomach dipping to the loose waistband. Seth tossed the towel over his shoulder and held out a hand to me. My broken charm nestled in his palm.

  “You couldn’t get it fixed,” I sighed.

  “Dimples, no one could fix this,” Seth said. “This charm had a spell holding it together.”

  “Say what?”

  “A spell.” He handed the pieces over to me. I frowned down at the chips of metal.

  “What kind of spell?” I stood, tucking the pieces into an empty belt pocket.

  “Not sure, but my goldsmith recognised the scripting and refused to have anything to do with it. Apparently you can get hexed, fiddling with things like that. You said Orella gave it to you?”

  What kind of spell would Orella want around me? I tried to keep my voice light, and not feel a crushing suspicion. “She did always say it held special protection properties.” I raised my hands to take the medallion of Anon from around my neck.

  Seth held up is hands. “Keep it. I like you wearing something of mine.” He stepped closer, backing me up against the kitchen wall. “I suggest you ask Orella what the spell was meant for. I might be important for you to know.”

  “I don’t like what you’re implying.”

  “I haven’t implied a thing, Dimples, so let’s move on to the next order of business.”

  “Oh?” I murmured, feeling a little tingly. “You have something else for me?”

  “You could say that.” Seth’s voice was turning husky. “I want that book you had at Saint Pendergrast.”

  “What book?”

  “Don’t pull that on me,” he said. “I won’t ask where you got it from, but I want it.”

  I leaned into him, my lips brushing his, feeling their silky smoothness. “You can’t have it, Captain Hallow.”

  Seth pulled back a little, staring into my eyes. His breath was warm and minty; his lips looked inviting. He rolled a light thumb across my bottom lip. “You do realise I could just take it from you.” One of his hands pulled the hem of my dress up, pressing a hand firmly between my legs.

  “The hell you could,” I snapped.

  Seth put his mouth on mine and the kiss was deep and searching. I was breathless when he finally pulled away. I started to growl at him, but then Seth started moving his hand around, hooking his fingers into my knickers. Shivers rolled up my spine as he nuzzled my neck, his other hand in my hair and pulling my head back. His goatee scratched roughly against my throat, his teeth nipping me, followed by light kisses.

  I wanted to lose myself in the sensation of his hands, his lips. But if Orella said Seth wasn’t to be trusted, I had to believe her. Instead of telling him to get lost though, I found my hips pushing against him, my breasts aching for his attention. Seth’s fingers became insistent, massaging me in slow movements as he started to nibble my ear. My cheeks flushed hot with expectation, my breath becoming short.

  Seth stopped and pulled back, a lazy grin on his face as he pulled my dress over my head. His eyes, which had been tawny before, were now shaded, the colour of storm clouds. “You know I’ll always get what I want from you, Dimples.”

  “How do you know that?” I asked, breathless.

  “Because you love me,” Seth smiled. “You just don’t realise it yet.”

  I opened my mouth to call him something dirty, but realised he’d probably just like it. Seth pushed my cotton bra aside and pinched one of my nipples. I shuddered at the sensation and bit my tongue, trying to bring myself out of the trance Seth always put me in, tried to ignore the craving I felt for him.

  Then Seth dropped to his knees, pulling my underwear down as he went, and I was lost.

  Chapter 28

  It was early afternoon by the time I untangled myself from Seth’s bed, leaving him snoring and tangled in his sheets. I left the medallion of Anon resting on the pillow by his head, deciding it was time to face up to Orella about the broken charm.

  I closed his front door quietly behind me and walked out to the street. Seth’s home was in a quiet, well-to-do neighbourhood, with nice streets and carefully maintained hedges. Street traffic was light: a group of men in suits tipped their hats at a passing lady and a girl in a white apron sold apples from a crate on a corner.

  I quit my gawking and headed off. Orella’s anxiety about the charm made more sense in light of Seth’s revelations and my mind churned with the possibilities. It might have been as simple as a protective charm, as I’d suggested to Seth. But other, darker thoughts took me over and I slowed my pace, brooding.

  “Bitch!”

  Now, that wasn’t my name, but I knew well enough that someone was probably trying to get my attention. I turned to see a skinny man who looked vaguely familiar.

  “I’m sorry. Are you addressing me?” I asked.

  “You’ve forgotten the Skuller brothers already, have you?” The skinny man’s voice warbled, as if he were close to tears. “Forgotten my dead brother John? Well, I haven’t. I, James Skuller, be here for vengeance.”

  He came closer, walking wonky and looking drunk. He pulled a pistol from the back of his trousers, aiming it at me. The girl selling apples screamed and ran off. Shouts of alarm came from behind me, and the shrill whistle of a Mercury boy sounded in the distance. I knew the City Watch wouldn’t be far off.

  “I didn’t pull the trigger.” I pointed out. “You did that.”

  “Shut up!” The wheellock swayed wildly.

  A voice came from behind me. “I wouldn’t do that if I was you.”

  I hadn’t heard anyone approach and gave a startled squawk. Turning, I saw Crowhurst of all people, standing close. He was wearing his highwayman coat again, his head bare and hands shoved in his pockets. His blond hair was slicked back, blood-red ruby winking in his ear.

  “What are you doing here?” I glanced back to the approaching Skuller brother, who was staring at Crowhurst strangely. I took the opportunity to duck my fingers into one of my belt pockets, grabbing the last pinch of my Sucker Punch Special.

  “Reuben? Reuben Crowhurst, is that you?” James Skuller asked.

  “Do I know you?” Crowhurst asked cautiously.

  “We worked the Grouper Bank job, about four years ago?” His eyes zeroed on me. “This one, she killed my brother. You don’t stand with her, do you?”

  Crowhurst glanced at me. “Did you really kill his brother?”

  “No. I ducked and he got shot by James here.”

  “She tricked me,” James howled. “It’s her fault he’s dead.”

  “Can’t let you just shoot her, Skuller. I’m on a job,” Crowhurst said.

  “Oh, hello,” I huffed. “I’m only just standing right here. I can take care of myself.”

  “Shut up, Lora.” Crowhurst took a step closer to me. His shoulders shifted and I knew he was going to try and push me out of the way. My fingers flicked out and the mixture of silver, salt and gunpowder flew in an arch, crackling into black spots as I snarled a short hex. The nasty spell only needed me to stab a finger to direct it, and soot coloured streaks spat into James’ face, puffing around him in a thin powder. He began to slap at his body frantically.

  “Help! I’m on fire! I’m on fire!”

  I dusted my hands and walked away. The illusion would fade soon enough and I planned to be somewhere else when it did. I had taken two steps when a crack split the air. Crowhurst stumbled behind me. I spun to see the Skuller brother running off, still slapping his body. The wheellock had been dropped on the ground, muzzle smoking. Crowhurst was doubled over, one hand clasped against his upper arm.

  “How bad are you hit?” I tried to look, but he stumbled away from my hands.

  “Don’t touch me.” His shoulders jerked up and down, breath raspy. I moved to him, m
y hands light on his shoulders, trying to get him to straighten up.

  “Don’t be a baby, Crowhurst. It just looks like a flesh wound.”

  “I said; don’t touch me.”

  His voice came out deep and guttural, the words rolled into each other. My hands froze, a little warning light going off in my mind. I backed up a few steps. A City Watch whistle sounded close by. I pursed my lips. Whatever issues Crowhurst had, he needed to pull it together and fast.

  “We’ve got to get out of here.” I went to grab him, then hesitated. Was it my imagination, or did his shoulders suddenly seem bigger? Crowhurst let out a long, noisy breath and straightened with a grimace, hand pressed over his bloody arm. Something indecipherable had shifted in his face. The wise-cracking persona had fallen away, leaving behind something blank and frightening in his blue eyes. On a whim, I squinted, trying to bring his aura into focus. I blinked in surprise when I found nothing to see. It was like he knew how to block an aura reading, but that was tough to do unless you were ready.

  Crowhurst smiled, but his eyes were cold. “Don’t try too hard to read me, Lora. You won’t like what you see.”

  “I can’t read you at all.” Cloete’s words flashed through my mind. “But I know you’re no tinker.”

  Crowhurst twitched his shoulders and like a switch, the carefree personality came back. “Hey baby, I wasn’t lying, I was a tinker at some point in my career.”

  “Whatever. I’m out of here.” I rolled my eyes and started to hurry off.

  “Where are you going?” Crowhurst called after me. “I have a car.”

  My feet stopped abruptly. I turned slowly, unsure I’d heard right. “You’ve got a car? Here, in the city?”

  Crowhurst rocked back on his heels with a cocky look, his wounded arm all but forgotten. “Sure I do. Gets me the good times with all the ladies.”

  “Alright. I call your bluff. Then let’s see this mean machine of yours.”

  I followed Crowhurst as he cut through a side-alley and through another neighbourhood street, heading back towards the heart of Applecross. Halfway down a street dominated by tea houses and bakeries, we came upon a little car with smashed headlights and faded paintwork. It was parked on the curb by a pastry shop with a closed sign in its window. A dog was pissing on one wheel and street kids were scrambling onto the roof to slide down the windscreen.

  “You brats get off!” Crowhurst raced forward, shaking a fist. The kids leapt off the tiny car with ease, running down the darkening street and giggling.

  “This is it?” I had to admit, I was impressed. It took a lot of work, money and effort to import a car.

  Crowhurst swung a kick at the offending dog, missed and got nipped for his troubles before it ran off. “This is it, baby,” he grimaced, shaking his bitten ankle. “This car is all mine. I imported her ten years ago. Had her towed to a tinker who put in a clockwork engine. Course, that was before taxes on blue-fire steel weren’t astronomical. The stuff they import now is too soft for engine work.” Crowhurst rapped his knuckles against the car top. “This baby works like a charm in the Outlands as well.”

  He unlocked the car and hopped in, leaning over to push the passenger door open. I threw my cane in the back and squeezed in, buckling my seatbelt and smelling pine air freshener. Twisting, I peered into the backseat. My cane lay on a rumpled brown bomber jacket that covered something long and solid. I lifted one brown sleeve, then turned back as Crowhurst jammed his hat on the dashboard.

  “You’ve got a sawn-off Remington 870 shotgun in the backseat of your car,” I said. “Why is that?”

  Crowhurst gave me a lopsided grin as he cranked a key under the dashboard. The engine ticked a few times before its mechanisms fired up and began whirring smoothly. “I told you. I collect weapons. It’s something of a hobby.”

  Recognising some common ground, I felt myself reluctantly thawing a little towards him. “You can afford the import tax?”

  “Sometimes. Sometimes not.”

  “Is it loaded?”

  “There might be a couple of shells rattling around somewhere. I keep forgetting to put it with the rest of my collection.”

  “Hmmm.” I tapped my chin. “Sure was convenient you were just passing by.”

  Crowhurst just shrugged, saying nothing. We headed for Applecross, going at a slow clip. My mind turned over what had just happened. Gideon didn’t just hire anyone. He’d told me to babysit Crowhurst, but I was beginning to suspect the reverse was closer to truth. Some sort of bigger picture winked at me from a distance, and I wasn’t sure I was going to like it.

  Chapter 29

  Crowhurst asked me where I wanted to go. I hadn’t had a destination in mind when I’d left Seth’s home, so I told Crowhurst to just drive. I didn’t feel like going back to my empty house, and suddenly I wasn’t in the mood to confront Orella. What would she say? What was in the charm and why would she hide it from me?

  We kept to the wide roads and people stopped to stare and point as we passed. A few rickshaw drivers overtook us with curious looks, then we got stuck behind a carriage until Crowhurst swerved around it, honking his horn and waving a fist.

  With my window wound down and the cool air washing over my face, I stared blankly at the shop windows as we drove by. Daylight was fading, tearing streaks of amber across the sky as it went. In the distance, I could just make out purple storm clouds rolling in from the west. We rattled by a group of street lamp lighters, trudging out for their night’s work with their hooked wick poles slung over their shoulders. I closed my eyes for a little while, enjoying the ride and the smooth mechanical sounds coming from the engine.

  “You okay?” Crowhurst asked.

  “Just dandy.” I opened my eyes, seeing we were now close to the harbour. The shadows had increased, but that was more to do with the looming warehouses on either side of the street.

  Distracted by my thoughts, I realised too late that the air was tight and pinching my skin. I opened my mouth to yell a warning, when the world around me gave a pause, and a numbing silence blanketing everything. My mind screamed of mortal danger, but my shout never made it past my throat as a shattering force slammed into the back of the car. Crowhurst spun the wheel, foot pumping unresponsive brakes as the car tilted violently to the left. Tyres screamed on the road, and I smelt the sharp stink of burning rubber. The front of the car smashed into a street lamp and I was thrown forward, slamming my mouth on the dashboard. The car shuddered and then the motor gave out with a hissing sound.

  Gasping, I reached into the backseat and grabbed my cane. With a shove of my shoulder, I was out the door and staggering into the street. Looking around, I tried to orient myself. Pain radiated from my nose, filling my head with waves of nausea and I tasted blood.

  “Crowhurst?” I called, my voice a hoarse croak. I didn’t recognise the neighbourhood. On both side of us, factories loomed tall and dark. The gaslight we’d hit was bent from the impact of the car, but still lit.

  “Here.” Crowhurst limped up to me, small cuts on his forehead, blood matting the hair on one side of his head. “Your nose is busted,” he said, then looked around us, bewildered, and wiping blood that was trickling in his eyes. “What happened?”

  I spat blood on the ground. “Someone attacked us.”

  “Listen.” Crowhurst turned, facing the street we’d just come down. I followed his gaze, listening for footsteps, for anything. Then I heard it as well: sharp heels clicking on stone. As I watched, two shapes broke from the building shadows and walked down the middle of the street. Two large dogs them, their eyes reflecting a pale light.

  “There.” Crowhurst pointed to the ground. I followed his finger to see the shadows of the approaching people reach towards the light, rather than away. In fact, you could see that they were too long and grotesquely twisted. I blinked a few times, wondering if I’d whacked my head a little hard. Then the silhouettes shrank and became normal. I could hear the dogs heavy panting, their nails clicking as they trotted be
side their masters.

  The couple stepped into the light. The man’s face was made of smooth planes, his lips wide and sensuous. His cheekbones were pinched, skin a corpse-white pallor and sunken eyes peered from heavy shadows. The woman beside him eyed us like we were interesting bugs. She had a heavy-set build and wore a gown the colour of peaches. A mane of butter-blonde hair wove over her shoulders, framing a moon face and dark, almond eyes. One of her hands clutched a sack: its bottom stained rusty brown.

  The man halted a short distance from us. His hair was long and raven black and it lifted a little on a light breeze. When he spoke, his voice was a rich baritone that echoed down the street. “Are you the Lady Blackgoat?”

  “Who wants to know?” I eyed the dogs nervously. They looked like Rottweilers, and their muzzles were wet, as if they’d been dunking their heads in a trough. I didn’t see any obvious wounds or rotting flesh, but there was something otherworldly about them, something unnatural in the way they stared at us, unearthly still.

  My stomach was gripped by a very primitive fear and my fingers tightened around my cane. Mind whirling, I tried to think of what I had left in my belt and what defensive spells I could use. I was out of my Sucker Punch Special and didn’t have much casting salt in my belt.

  “We have been hunting for you, Lady Blackgoat. We are in need of your help.” The man’s accent was unfamiliar, his words rolling in his mouth like marbles.

  “Who are you?” I asked, stalling.