by Lee Isserow
*
London was full of potential places for breakfast, and with Rafe's refilled coffers, all of them were within his means. Despite being able to afford the finest of cuisines, on instinct, he walked through the doors of the nearest greasy spoon cafe that was still open, and proceeded to order a full English breakfast. It was a curiously British thing, the notion of an “all day” breakfast. And curious still, was the dish itself, which was close to a national delicacy, if such a thing existed on the island.
The British notion of 'breakfast' still didn't really sit right with him. It was similar to the fried breakfast one could get back in Australia, but in England they seemed to care less for what was actually on the plate, and more for ensuring everything was saturated in oil. It consisted of barely cooked bacon, trotter-and-snout sausages, both of which were lathered in grease. On the side there were tomatoes―often canned rather than fresh, alongside over-fried eggs, burned baked beans in a sickly sweet tomato sauce, two slices of heavily buttered white toast, and the ever-present half-inch tall cylinder of pigs' blood, suet and oatmeal that they insisted on calling a “black pudding”. The name was only half a misnomer: it was often black in colour, but it was certainly not a pudding by any stretch.
Despite being suspicious of the mountain of fried foods laid out in front of him, his appetite was greater than his reluctance to drink so much sunflower oil down in one meal. He scarfed everything on the plate, drowning the mouthfuls with sips from a mug of overly sweet instant coffee, that appeared to have close to a half pint of milk in it. Although his stomach was appreciative of finally having its hole filled, it was not particularly grateful at so much food being deposited in it quite so quickly. However, its complaints became fewer once digestion had begun.
That job would pay for the rest of the month, maybe two if he spread out meals and didn't eat particularly healthily. He could concentrate on the investigation again. . . the damn box. Wherever the hell it was now.
He went through the facts again, laying them out in his mind's eye. It wasn't in the old lady's house, probably taken straight after her murder by whoever―or whatever―sent it.
Something about that notion didn't sit right. Sure, the back door was open when he burst into the house, but what if it wasn't left open from an intruder. He pictured the woman's body, lying faced down on the carpet. Her feet were by the back door, as if she had just unlocked it, slid it open to get some air maybe, just before the manifestation emerged from her.
If that was true―and he was aware of just how big an if that was―then nobody stole the box. Given that the creature had only just burst out of the woman, the box might have been more. . . sentient than it would have been under normal circumstances.
This was all supposition, but as he stared into middle distance and pictured the events, it almost made sense. The creature shrouding the box as he burst into the house, hiding the damn thing from his perception, like how he shrouded his face to stop the cameras and residents of the Earl's manor being able to recognise him. If that was true―another massive leap of an if―then the thing was aware he meant it ill.
Rafe knew full well that sentient objects were par for the course within the magickal spectrum. Hell, he owned a good number of animated-inanimate objects.
If he was right, then the box had been in the damn house all along. . . and given how close the funeral had been to the death, it was possible that they had already held a will reading, begun to distribute her possessions. The box would have been amongst them, handed down to the daughter or granddaughter.
The granddaughter.
Her face appeared in his mind's eye, Rafe remembering it so very well from their awkward interaction at the cemetery. He was surprised that he could picture her so clearly, given that for the most part, his memory felt like it was a thick soup of half-remembered places and faces.
She was beautiful, thick full lips that he caught trembling ever so slightly as he walked into the building. Those sparkling green eyes, so bright and innocent, as if this was the first truly awful thing that had ever happened to her. He tutted to himself, trying to stop thinking about how good she looked, walking towards him as he stood at the door, black skirt hugging her thighs, looking so conservative in that blazer, the blouse under it open a button more than it probably should have been for a solemn event, revealing the slightest hint of cleavage.
He sighed at himself. He shouldn't have been thinking like that. There was a damn job to do. Attraction, and certainly that kind of attraction―the kind that was burgeoning on animal lust―had no place right now. He had been single all this time for a reason. The people he got attached to, especially if they're involved in an investigation, had a tendency to die horrible, grotesque deaths.
He didn't want that for anyone ever again. Certainly not for the stunning young woman who had already experienced so much tragedy heaped upon her. A tragedy―he reminded himself―that was all his fault, for not being faster and smarter at the damn job.
Wiping the remains of the evening-breakfast from his lips, Rafe resolved to make sure she was safe, not because of his attraction to her, but because it was the right damn thing to do.
The black pudding stared up at him, untouched on the plate. He took the napkin and wrapped it around the cylinder of fried blood. Briefly, his eyes danced around the room to make sure nobody was looking in his direction as he placed it in his pocket, knowing it might be useful. After all, he thought, even though it had been fried to death, blood is still blood, and you never know when some pigs blood might come in handy. . .
Chapter 23
The warm embrace
Ana's legs were exhausted all over again. More than that, her entire body was exhausted, limbs like lead weights. Her head was a thick fog mingled with fractions of half-thoughts, that never materialised for long, and were almost instantly lost and forgotten.
She had spent hours forcing herself to keep moving, walking in any direction that was well lit. Whilst her movements were aimless, they were still smart, purposefully avoiding dark streets and alleys. She knew all too well that nothing good could come from walking through shadows. The more she walked, the slower her mind was working, as if expending energy with her limbs meant there wasn't enough coal to keep the furnace of her head running. It was close to serene, being unable to think. Her mind was becoming a void, silent, even with the sounds of the street and scant human traffic around. It calmed her, and given that there were no further incidents of the possession, or haunting, or whatever the hell it was that was plaguing her, she felt oddly confident that she could go home and actually sleep through the night.
As soon as she pulled the covers up on the bed, she could feel the warm embrace of blissful slumber. Its arms around her, beckoning unconsciousness, holding her close and tight.
Too tight.
It was holding her down, pulling her into a world of darkness and slamming her onto an ebony floor. Her movements were restricted by what seemed like too many limbs for any one creature, each of them tipped with long, sharp talons.
Although there were clawed hands restraining her, the thing itself appeared to have no fixed form. The skin was constantly shifting and contorting, as if it were smoke made semi-solid. Lying on her back, she could see it as it stared at her with black hollows for eyes, mouth wide and twisted, a grin curling up the sides of its face, snarling to show off a thousand teeth that looked like shattered glass.
She tried to fight, to break free from the monster's clutches, but it was too strong, and holding her with too many gnarled hands.
But Ana wasn't going to give in. She wasn't going to be a victim―she was fed of being a damn victim. Ever since hearing of her grandmother's death the world felt like it was ganging up on her, and she wasn't going to take it any more.
She twisted her hands as far as they would turn at the wrist. The joints ached, but she knew that if the creature would be allowed to attempt to violate her again, that pain would be worse.
Somethi
ng slithered across her neck. Solidifying into rough, bony fingers, but she wouldn't let herself be perturbed―by the the damn thing, nor her own agony. She grit her teeth, twisted her wrists to the point they felt like they were going to crack, and dug her nails into the meat of the hideous fiend that held her down.
The beast screamed an ungodly shriek that seemed to emanate not from it's mouth, but through the entire thing's body. Ana's eyes burst open.
She was back in her bed, no longer in the darkness of the dream world. In her room, in her house.
But so was the creature.
It no longer had a myriad amorphous limbs holding her down, and yet she could not move. As if her mind were wide awake, but her body was still fast asleep. It sat, perched on her chest, head elongating down towards her, its snarling face looming right over hers. The demon's mouth contorted into a wide and toothy smile, as if had enjoyed her attempt at escape in the dream realm.
Ana tried to breathe, but the weight of the monster was stopping air from entering her lungs. And it seemed to be aware of this, suffocating her with glee. A sickly long tongue slicked out of its mouth, snapping like a whip as it came towards her, running along her cheek. It felt like sandpaper scraping across her smooth skin, leaving the aroma of rotten eggs in the air around her.
She fought with all her might to gain control of her limbs, but they would not respond. She was helpless, and could tell the creature was becoming engorged, preparing for a violation that she could only imagine would be a thousand times worse than the one she had dreamed.
Thunder rumbled from the distance, lasting longer than any thunder clap she had ever heard. It grew closer, louder, and Ana realised it wasn't thunder―it was footsteps.
Light flooded the room from the doorway. The creature squealed in agony as the rays hit its skin, the light tearing straight through it, turning from white to sapphire as it punched through the hideous thing's flesh. The physical form sitting on Ana's chest dissipated in an instant, turning into smoke that hung in the air momentarily, before coalescing, loop-de-looping and shooting straight through the floor.
She gasped for breath, her body back in her control, lungs desperate for air.
Sitting up, she looked over to the source of the light, catching the silhouette of a man standing in the doorway as he turned on his heel and ran.
Ana burst out of her bed, pursuing him across the hall. He grabbed hold of a door knob at the end of the corridor and wrenched it open, glancing back over his shoulder as she approached, slamming it behind him.
Ana grabbed hold of the handle as the latch hit the strike plate and froze―it wasn't her handle, wasn't her door. There was no door in the hallway, and certainly not one that was painted glossy black, with an identically textured frame surrounding it. She had never seen the door before in her life.
All she knew was that whoever the hell broke into her house and threw light around had seen the monster that had been assaulting her―possessing her―and she wanted some bloody answers.
Turning the handle, she pulled the door open, a musty smell of old books and stale air wafted out into her hallway, and she stepped through. Ana had no idea what was on the other side, but was certain it had to be better than whatever was waiting for her if she dared go back to sleep.
Chapter 24
Calm and reassuring vibes
“Dammit!” Rafe grunted to himself, pacing back and forth in his living room. He was right, the box was after the girl now―hell, he had saved her from the bastard.
But he had also been caught. She saw him. He couldn't go back to retrieve, let alone destroy the damn thing until she was asleep or out of there.
Rafe marched over to a shelf and pulled out a large metal dish. Bringing it over to the coffee table, he made some space for it by throwing his arm across the surface, sending books to the floor. There wasn't time to be neat, he had to know what the girl was up to right damn now.
He went through one set of cupboards, then another, until he found a dull green glass bottle, and poured a drop of the contents into the dish. He set the bottle on the floor, and went over to a chest and rooted around until he found a silver chalice. Tugging it out of the box, he reached inside and pulled on the duct tape that was stuck to the centre, a small vial taped to the inside of the old goblet. He popped the cap off, and let a single drop of the oil in the vial fall into the bottom of the chalice and set it down on the coffee table next to the dish. It gurgled and gasped as the oil expanded, pulling moisture and water vapour from the air to fill itself with mystically charged liquid. Once it had settled down, he poured the contents of the now-full chalice into the metal dish. The two liquids engaged each another, becoming thick and black, reflecting Rafe's face back as he stared down at it.
“Ana Brooks,” he said, picturing her in his mind's eye, trying not to be too salacious with the image his memory conjured forth.
The darkness of the liquid cleared, and he saw her. Those bright, beautiful eyes, delicate features. She looked shocked, terrified, but also confused. Rafe laid his fingers on the surface of the dark liquid, drawing them back to see her location a little better. She was standing by a door in the corner of a dim room, walls lined with bookshelves and cabinets, floor littered with boxes and chests, an old rug that looked familiar, and a strange little man bent over a metal dish sat on a coffee table.
“Oh. . . shit,” he said, slowly raising his head to see Ana staring at him from the far side of the room.
“Who the bloody hell are you! Where am I? What the hell is going on?!”
“Well, uh,” he said, rising to his feet. “That's a lot of questions, and. . . well, I'm happy to answer them.” He began edging towards her slowly, surreptitiously tracing out a sigil to mesmerise her, as he took slow, calm steps in her direction.
Ana's eyes darted across the room skittishly as he drew nearer, arm shooting out for an umbrella stand, retrieving an old, leathery walking stick. She held it tight with both hands and raised it like a bat. “Don't you dare take another step!” she instructed. “Tell me what the hell is going on!”
“Okay, sure, yeah,” Rafe said, raising his hands in the air and taking a step back. “But can you be careful with that? Thing's like family.”
“Do I look like I give a damn about your bloody heirlooms? What the hell were you doing in my house?!”
“Well, I. . . I heard screaming.”
“There wasn't any bloody screaming!”
“There was some screaming. . .”
“I wasn't screaming.”
“Well somebody was. Came to check you were okay.”
“'Came to check'? From where?”
“I'm a neighbour.”
“No you're not! You said you were my grandmother's bloody neighbour!”
“I was passing by. Just an innocent by-passer.”
“You've been stalking me!”
“Excuse me?”
“First at the funeral, now here―”
“Technically, you followed me here. . .” Rafe trailed off as something struck him. She shouldn't have been able to operate the door and follow him back into his home.
Ana's eyes danced around the room again. “Where the bloody hell are we?”
“My home.” He sighed softly, deciding the only way to calm her down was to give her all the information she wanted. “Technically, we're in Antigua, but the front door leads out to London.”
“Antigua?! We were just in my bloody house!”
“Yeah. . . I'm still not clear on how you're here either.”
She waved the walking stick around again to ward him off, and composed herself. “What the hell is going on―do you know what that damn thing was?”
“Yeah,” Rafe said, trying to send calm and reassuring vibes with his expression. As the walking stick swung for his face again, it did not appear that his attempt was working. “It's kinda a long story.”
“And who the hell are you?”
“That's a shorter, but still kinda long story.
. .“
Chapter 25
Pathetic excuse for a man
“A freelancer?” Ana scoffed, as if the job title the man had given her explained anything.
“That's the technical term, yeah.”
“Which means what exactly? You're some kind of temp?
“No. . . I'm a highly trained. . .” He trailed off, as he recalled that there were some things mundanes didn't need to know about the world they lived in. “I find things people want, get rid of things people don't.”
“And all this is. . .” she signalled to the shelves and cabinets full of objects and books.
“A collection. Books have been in the family for generations, same with most of the other stuff. Some of it I picked up in the line of work, really dangerous stuff is in my archive.” He gestured to a frail looking wooden door that looked more like a closet than a secure vault for dangerous objects.
“What is this, some kind of weird family business?”
“Pretty much.” He shrugged. “My father, his father before him, his father before him, long back as we know.”
“What did all the women in your family do? Bloody cook and clean?!”
“No. . . They had a tendency to, uh, die. In childbirth, if not in the line of duty.”
“Oh.”
“Bet you feel bad now for ribbing me now, huh?”
“Yeah. . .”
“So, can you put the stick down?”
“Wait. So, matriarchs in your family tend to die in childbirth, and your forefathers continued to impregnate women!?”
“You're looking at that the wrong way.”
“Am I now?”
“The heart wants what the heart wants―”
“Doesn't the heart want not to kill the person you love?”
“I don't think I explained any of that particularly well. . .”
