The Spirit Box (The Freelancers Book 1)

by Lee Isserow

  He indicated for her to turn around. A foot behind her, the rest of the rug was off the floor, hanging stiff in the air. She jumped off it, eyes fixed on the rug in case it lunged for her.

  “This is insane. . .” she said.

  “You don't know the half of it. Imagine being me, discovering your grandfather has a foot fetish.”

  “That's not the part I'm talking about. I don't know any of what's going on. Spill already! What the bloody hell is a doubledip?”

  “Dybbuk,” he corrected.

  Despite already being exhausted, and knowing all too well that he had used enough magick over the course of the day to give him a hangover that would last the week, if not the month, Rafe felt for the woman. Not because he found her attractive―at least not just because of that. He felt for her because he knew exactly how she must be feeling. Having her world turned upside down, truths turning out to be lies. She deserved the kindness he had never been shown, to be told the reality that so few mundanes ever discovered. If it meant he would have to wipe her mind at some later date, so be it. But for now, the truth was a pure gift that she would appreciate―hopefully.

  Finally finding the peppermint growing on the top of a shelf, he made a pot of tea, found some honey and cups that were almost clean, and translocated a cake from his favourite bakery. All set out on the table, she mumbled thanks, even though her expression did not reciprocate. The presentation was more for his benefit than for hers, giving him time to try and put the facts she needed to know in order.

  He poured the mint tea into the cups, and began slicing up the apple tart. “Well, we should probably start at the beginning. . .”

  Chapter 31

  The human mind cannot even begin to comprehend

  “The universe is far stranger than you know. Reality exists on many planes, realms, each of which make up a facet of this: the Natural World.

  “The ones that are easiest to comprehend are the Nigh Realms, one for every element, every force. And everything that exists here also exists there in some way. A realm of fire for fire that burns here, a realm of mirror for our reflections. . . And then there are the Outer Realms, which the human mind cannot even begin to comprehend.

  “The Outer Realms are inhabited by. . . creatures, is probably the best way to put it. But they are unlike any creatures you can imagine. Beasts of cosmic proportions, the size of moons and suns, the largest and oldest growing to the size of galaxies.

  “Every now and then, one of those expansive creatures decides that their own infinite realm is not good enough, they decide to spread out, or have the desire to colonise, or be kings of other worlds. . . and so they attempt to traverse through to our realm.

  “It's not an easy thing to do, to cross over. Some will perish en route, others make it through and discover that the path had left them exhausted or pale reflections of their former mighty selves. And so they slumber, for millennia, aeons, as they recuperate. Knowing that as immortal beings, they have all the time in the world.

  “When man first emerged from the primordial ooze, he never questioned where that sludge came from. But as far as we understand it now, the initial building blocks of life came from the beings of the Outer Realms, whether that be bacterial organisms that lived inside them or on their skin in a symbiotic relationship, they filled the planet's oceans, and eventually life as we know it was born.

  “As a result, the blood of the first men was brimming with magick, as was the blood for the first humans. The only difference between them was their adept, the realm they were connected to, whether it be light or shadow, fire or water, mirror or blood, and so on.

  “But with every generation, the magic got watered down as the species interbred, over and over for millions of years. By the dawn of the twenty-first century―that is to say, seventeen years back― it was reckoned that less than a single percent of the human population had enough of that archaic blood still flowing through them to even be considered vaguely magickal.

  “But it wasn't just humans that bred. At the depths of the oceans, the slumbering giants sometimes woke and came out from their resting places with a ravenous lust to spread their seed. Other times, they met one of their own kind―albeit whilst both were unconscious. Like sleepwalking, tentacles found. . . entry points and what have you, it's natural, albeit fairly disgusting to try and picture. These direct couplings, whether intentional of unintentional, resulted in the birthing of what came to be known as a Demithulhu, whether they were born from Cthulhu or not, just kinda became the standard term, y'know?

  “One of these, or at least one of their great great grandchildren, was what we call the 'Dybbuk'. It was named by the guys who originally caught it, might be it's actual name, but these things are generally much more unpronounceable, 'jogplogacloth' or 'Azahopscotchacrotchaplop'. Either way, this was a nasty bastard. Incorporeal for the most part, stuffed himself inside people, first in dreams that drove them mad, then inside their actual bodies―all in the hope that one of these bodies might be able to lead to a successful copulation. Which is why I asked whether it had. . . mated with you in the Natural World, rather than the Dream Realm.

  “So, you see what the stakes are here? One of these things is bad enough, but two―or more, that's a damn nightmare.”

  Ana had no response. Rafe's story was absolutely insane. But what was more insane, was that she believed every single word of it.

  Chapter 32

  A bloodline thing

  “You think it's in the box my grandmother left me―why a box?”

  “What can I say, Jews like boxes. . .”

  “That's the weirdest bit of anti-Semitism I've ever heard.”

  “It's not anti-Semitic. They caught the damn thing originally, Hassids or whoever, gave it the name. And they like boxes―have those little prayer boxes on their heads and arms, stick boxes on their door frames, store their scrolly-bible in a box, Ark of the Covenant was a box―it's a cultural thing.”

  “Do you have any idea how stupid that sounds? Because that sounds stupider that the whole 'Outer Realms' thing.”

  “I do,” he said with a knowing smile. ”The love of boxes might be a series of cultural coincidences. All leads to the same conclusion, Rabbis caught the damn thing, and put it in a box, because a box made sense.”

  “A wine box?”

  “Box is a box.”

  “Except, according to you, it can get out of this box.”

  “Somebody let it out.”

  “Who?”

  “Million dollar question.”

  “Someone who wanted my grandmother dead?”

  “And wanted you dead too, seeing as they let it get re-gifted. . .”

  “Who would want me dead?”

  “That's just rephrasing the same question. . . It's not just about the two of you, it's about three others, in America, Canada and Australia, all had their backs blown out over the last two months―” He stopped mid flow, realising he hadn't been particularly tactful with regard to the way Ana's grandmother had died.

  However, she didn't seem fazed by his poor choice of phrase. Her eyes were steel, fixed on him, no sign of tears, let alone fear.

  “I want in.”

  “What? No, I can barely look after myself, let alone have a mundy running around―”

  “A what?!”

  “Oh, uh. . . we call non-magickal people 'mundanes'.”

  “That's rude.”

  “I've been called worse. . .”

  “Don't doubt that for a second,” she scoffed. “So what's your next lead?”

  He broke eye contact, and chewed on his lip as tired cogs in an exhausted brain creaked whilst they attempted to turn. “Bloodline.”

  “What?”

  “Could be a bloodline thing. You got any―or did you have any―relatives in Canada, Australia, America?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Right. . . You didn't know your grandmother was your mother, so you're not a great source―”

 
“Hey!” she said, punching him in the arm.

  “If it is a bloodline thing,” he said, ignoring her and trying not to smirk too much. “They're going to try again, aren't they. . . Not with you, not while you're here, but ―”

  “My mum!” she said, darting towards the door.

  “Wait!” he shouted, as he grabbed hold of her shirt.

  Her hand shot back, took hold of his wrist, twisting it a half turn in the wrong direction. Rafe fell across he coffee table, throwing mint tea across the dark hardwood floor.

  “Ow!” he grunted, as she let go and he picked himself back up. “You are absolutely terrifying for a mundy,” he muttered.

  His grandfather-rug scooted along the floor between them, soaking up the mint tea with a quiet slurp.

  “Really?” she said, eyes fixed on the anthropomorphic rug. “Your furniture is alive, and I'm terrifying?”

  “Barely any of it is alive. . .”

  The walking stick clanged back and forth of its own volition in the umbrella stand.

  “You're not helping my case, Sticky,” he grunted, as he hobbled over to a closet, pulling out a coat and throwing it at Ana, whilst he dug around for shoes, dropping a pair by her feet.

  “I don't think these will fit me,” she said, picking up the size tens.

  “Give me the benefit of the doubt, Miss Brooks.” He gestured again for her to try them on.

  They were indeed too big―way too big―but as she did up the laces, she caught sight of his fingers dancing through the air, and as he stopped moving them, the shoes contorted and bent around her feet, becoming a slender, perfect fit. The excess material transformed into an inch of heel, and climbed up her leg. By the time they ceased their transition, she was wearing knee-length boots, with a zip down the side.

  “So, what you're saying. . . is that magic is real?” she asked, just to clarify.

  He nodded, trying to ignore the soft pounding just behind his eyes, and dialled Tali.

  “Need a door, Miss Brooks's mother-sister's house.” An elbow shot into his ribs. He laughed it off as the door appeared, and reached for the knob.

  Ana had no idea what might be lying in wait for them on the other side, but in that moment, she felt like she was ready for anything.

  Chapter 33

  Crimson waterfalls

  Rafe and Ana stepped through a black, glossy door that stood in place of where the front door once was. The hallway was dark, house sitting silent in the night. Ana took the lead, darting up the stairs, her footsteps in the boots cushioned by a combination of minor enchantment and plush carpeting. Rafe followed, despite something in his gut telling him that he should hold back, scout out the ground floor before bursting into a middle aged woman's room and likely scaring seven shades out of her in the process.

  There was something he couldn't quite put his finger on that wasn't letting him be that flavour of cautious. Something about this woman that made him want to follow her to the ends of the earth.

  As they came to the first floor landing, Ana's stride instantly switched to a snail's pace, as if had just dawned on her that running at full pelt into her mother's―her sister's―room at the dead of night was a terrible idea. Reaching for the handle to the bedroom, she glanced back over her shoulder at Rafe. His eyes were wide, ears pricked, right hand slipping into his pocket.

  She was about to ask why he had an intense look on his face, ask what was bothering him, ask what was in his pocket―but then she heard it for herself.

  A low, guttural exhalation was coming from behind the door. One part growl, two parts lustful sigh, and all parts a hundred percent disturbing.

  Rafe motioned with his left hand for her to back away, then traced his fingers back through the air, circling them on themselvs before opening his palm up flat in front of him. Withdrawing his right hand from the pocket, he closed his fingers around the half of the black pudding he had left, squeezing it tightly in his fist. Fingers of blood came from above to meet the tips of fingers clean, closed at first then spread wide. The fingers all came together as he brought his hands upright, held in front of his chest as if they were binoculars. Kicking the door open, he leaned round as it arced, to make sure that there was indeed a creature present before sealing the sigil by lining up his thumbs and throwing his fingers apart.

  Ana couldn't help but notice that the light Rafe cast was so different from this perspective than it was when she was under attack from the Dybbuk. For the briefest of seconds there was just a glimmer, a spark in front of his palms. It seemed to inflate instantly to the size of a grapefruit, gleaming like a miniature sun, that contracted on itself in an instant, darkness in its place for an iota. An explosion of microscopic fireworks butterflied out from that black void and shot across the room, turning from sparkling streaks into ethereal rays of light, that weren't white, as she had seen before, but yellow and purple. It seemed to turn the moisture in the air to mist as it tore through it en route to the Dybbuk sitting on her mother's chest. It all happened so quickly, in the blink of an eye, and yet Ana saw every moment of it, and the way Rafe's fingers moved in the air beforehand made some kind of sense to her.

  She followed behind him, shielding her eyes as the creature dissipated in the light, and ran to her sister's bedside. The older women's eyes were open wide, but she looked as though she was frozen in time. There was breath running back and forth through her lips, but it was in short and shallow sharp bursts in and out. It sounded unnatural, like some kind of unconscious hyperventilation, the likes of which Ana had never seen before.

  She tried to shake the woman she had called “mum” for her entire life, begged and shouted for her to wake up, but there was no response to her pleas.

  Rafe came around the other side of the bed and inspected the catatonic woman's body. Her nightshirt was pushed up, skin torn in eight places from her waist up to her breasts, where the fiend's long, bony fingers had cut into her. The blood was trickling slowly into the bed below, four pairs of lazy crimson waterfalls making the sheets thick and sticky.

  He could feel Ana's eyes on him, emeralds begging at him―he couldn't let her lose two matriarchs, no matter how exhausted he was, how weak he was feeling, how bad the damn hangover would be.

  Gritting his teeth, he laid a finger to the older woman's belly. Her skin was loose and slightly leathery, but soft to the touch. The tip of his finger glided smoothly across the flesh as he drew out healing glyphs on her skin. A dull ache started to make its way across the right side of his head, coming to a crescendo behind his eyes, pulsing back and forth, as if something was poking him from inside his skull. He knew it was a warning, his body sending every sign it could to declare that he was pushing himself too far―but he wouldn't give up. He was too too weak to heal all eight wounds at once, that was certain, but he could set about fixing them one at a time.

  The blood of the first cut, just above Dorothy's left hip stopped in its tracks, frozen whilst the seven other wounds continued to run. He stared at it, trying to ignore the staccato punches of pain to the back of his vision, that were now vignetting everything he saw with purple shadows and glimmers of stars. The glyph had been completed, his intent was set. There was no reason for the blood to just hang there―it should have started pulling itself back in before healing up the wound. And yet the injury was just frozen in time, the other seven still sapping the woman of life.

  A chill came over a Rafe, followed by a burning hot flush. He could feel sweat starting to drip down his forehead, the cool air in the room sending him back into a chill all over again. His hands began to tremble, his arms and upper body joining them, teeth chattering in his skull. He knew what this was, he had heard the stories, cautionary tales of actual depletion. . .

  “What are you doing?!” Ana shouted, eyes becoming thick with tears that she refused to let fall―she had already cried too much these past days. “Help her!”

  “I. . . I. . .” He couldn't make words. His body was useless, mind stuck in some panic-stric
ken snail's pace.

  Ana stared helplessly at her mother's wounds. She was still her mother, no matter their actual biology. This was the woman that raised her, and she wouldn't let her die, not like this. She grabbed hold of Rafe's hand.

  “Do it again!” she screamed, as a disobedient tear began to escape and trickle down her cheek . “Do your damn. . . drawing. . .” Laying her finger over the top of his, she traced the glyph as she saw him do it, next to each of the eight wounds.

  Dorothy gasped.

  The blood pulled itself from the sheets instantly, running back up the older woman's skin, into the slits made in her flesh. Each of them sealing themselves up as soon as they had their juices returned. The older woman's eyes closed. Her breathing returned to normal. She was soundly asleep, as if no horrific violation had ever occurred to her.

  Ana let go of Rafe's hand, and it was his turn to gasp. The chills and sweats had gone. The migraine had vanished. He stared at her with wide eyes, his mouth open as if to speak, but no words with which to say any of the thousand thoughts that were running through his mind.

  “What?” she asked. “You're looking at me like a crazy person. . .”

  He forced his lips to meet, even though his jaw very much wanted to just let everything lie in stasis, while his head caught up to what just happened. There were more important things to take care of―like locking the damn Dybbuk back in his box.

  Rafe tore out of the room, Ana following behind.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  He was in such a hurry to get back down the stairs that he almost tripped over his own feet as he came back to the ground floor. They had wasted too much time healing Ana's mother-sister, whoever sent the box to this house―to Ana―to her grandmother―would have had all the time in the world to slip in, grab it and get out again. They could be half way to wherever the hell the next victim lived. If that was the case, their trail was about to go ice cold. Ana was out of relatives that she knew of―and Rafe was pretty sure even though he had a slight and sudden reprieve, he was still low on juice.