by Lee Isserow
THE LOITERERS
Lee Isserow
ABAM.INFO
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Copyright © 2017 by Lee Isserow
Published by ABAM.info
Interior design by Pronoun
Distribution by Pronoun
ISBN: 9781537886527
TABLE OF CONTENTS
The Loiterers
Rafe and Ana return in:
THE LOITERERS
~
~
ANA HAD BEEN WORKING WITH Rafe for close to a month since their lives became intertwined by the spirit box. He was as much her de-facto teacher as he was her employer. Not that he was particularly comfortable in either role–he could just about look after himself on a daily basis without having a smart-mouthed sidekick to worry about.
Not that he ever intended to refer to Ana as his ‘sidekick’ within earshot, because she would most likely punch him in his misspeaking face before the word had even left his lips.
“So, I’ll be like Wonder Woman?” Ana asked, the words saturated with giddy excitement at the casting Rafe was attempting to teach her.
“No. . . You’ll just be able to manifest magickal rope.”
“Like Wonder Woman!”
“She has a lasso.”
“And what are lassos made out of. . .”
Rafe stared at her blankly, and Ana rolled her eyes in response before she let out a long, grumbled sigh, and attempted to replicate the gestures he had demonstrated for her.
She held her fists out ahead of her, and the bones of her thumbs and first fingers ground against one another as she set her intent. She took a breath, arced her hands apart and shot out her first and middle fingers to draw two spirals in the air that twisted around one another and met at her naval. She recognised the arc and twist motion as urban magick, a gesture that looked as though she was weaving or sewing grand strands together. She held on tight as her intent manifested, and a gleaming golden rope barely a few inches long appeared between her hands. As she pulled her fists apart to the left and right, the rope grew in length and thickness, to become two feet long and an inch thick.
“Nice,” Rafe said, in an attempt to commend her.
His words functioned as more of a distraction than a commendation.
“I’ve got a question. . .”
“Does it pertain in any way to what I’m trying to teach you?”
“Why is your grandfather’s spirit sewn into a rug?”
“So, what you’re saying is that it’s not related. . .”
“I just don’t get why a rug. . .”
“Well, I thought about turning him into a clock, but that seemed a little too clichéd. . .”
“That’s not why they’re called grandfather clocks. . .”
Rafe stared at her with a solid, knowing gaze that seemed to impart that that was exactly why they were called ‘grandfather’ clocks.
“Wait, is that why they’re called grandfather clocks?!”
“Well, sometimes people wanted their grandfathers to remain with them after their passing, closer than in a grave, and so–
“Enough with the soliloquy. . . feel like you give me a damn spiel every time we have a case.
“Only on the big ones. . .”
“It feels like every case has a data dump.”
“Would you prefer going into a case without knowing the whys and hows?”
“I’d prefer not having to listen to you talk for five minutes with barely a breath.”
“Well, next time we have a case, I’ll be sure to get someone else to impart helpful information your way. . .”
“Can we go lasso stuff now? What’s the point in making a magickal rope if I don’t get to lasso stuff?”
~
After an hour of lassoing branches and rocks in Death Valley, Ana was well and truly over the idea of using her newly learned casting as a lasso.
“I never thought lassoing would be so boring. . .” she said, as she conjured a door back to Rafe’s living room.
“Told you.”
“You did not. You barely attempted to discourage me.”
“Not my fault my sarcastic demeanour isn’t not enough to discourage you. . .” he said, as he held the door open for her.
“You’re always sarcastic, so it’s really hard to tell when–” Ana’s words trailed off as she stepped across the threshold.
“I don’t have a cat, so it couldn’t have caught your–” Rafe found himself similarly speechless as he entered the door, and discovered the living room in a state of disarray. “What the hell?”
He rushed over to the sentient walking stick, that was frozen in place in the umbrella stand by the door.
“Are you okay?”
The walking stick quivered, unable to move any more than a few millimetres in any direction.
“Is grandpa okay?” he shot over his shoulder.
Ana kneeled down, and discovered the rug was in an identical state. “Calling a rug ‘grandpa’ is so weird. . .” she muttered, raising her voice to tell Rafe “He’s trying to move, but can’t. . .”
Rafe threw a sigil at Sticky, and then at the rug, freeing them from the hold of the casting that had been put over them.
“What the hell is going on?” Ana asked.
Rafe glanced to the door. It was ajar.
He huffed quietly to himself. “Someone broke though my wardings. . . tossed the place. . .” He looked around, trying to work out what was missing from the mess that had been left.
“What were they looking for?”
“No idea. . .”
Sticky flew across the room from the umbrella stand, and began to point frantically at the closet. The door was wide open, and all of Rafe’s most dangerous collectables strewn about the place.
He peered in and looked around anxiously, unwilling to touch anything without adequate protection.
“What did they get?” he asked the stick. “A painting? A hexed box? A book?”
The stick nodded rapidly at the last of the list, almost thwacking Rafe in the face in the process.
“What book?” Ana asked.
Rafe kicked around the mess, then turned on his heel and stomped over to the door. He popped his head out the alley off Oxford Street, looking left then right.
“Was it them?” he asked the stick, to another dangerous nod.
“Who?”
“The arseholes who’ve spent the last six months loitering outside my damn door.”
“Oh, I think I met them. . . and kicked their arses.”
“Not well enough to put them off coming back. . . dammit!”
He shuffled over to a trunk and wrenched the heavy lid open, searching around inside as Ana watched with an incredulous stare, all too aware that he still hadn’t answered her question.
“So. . . What book?”
“Vril relic, The Coming Race.”
“Is that a sex thing?”
“No,” he grunted.
“It sounds like a sex thing. . . like. . . an ejaculation relay.”
“Why does your mind always go there?” He threw handfuls of trinkets across the floor.
“What are you looking for in there?”
“Need to track the books down.”
“So, what, you got a magickal GPS?”
“Nope,” Rafe said, tug
ging a small plastic handheld device out of the trunk. “Actual GPS.”
He stormed towards the door, and Ana sighed at the lack of explanation as she trundled after him through the streets of London.
“Do you have GPS trackers on all your stuff?” she asked.
“Just the dangerous ones. . .” he said, barely paying attention to her words, let alone the pedestrians ahead of him on the street. His eyes were fixed on the two inch square screen on the device in his hand, a beacon indicating that he was heading in the direction of the book.
“Did you steal it?” Ana asked.
“Steal what?”
“The book.”
“Depends on your definition. . .”
“When I met these guys, they said you stole something from them.”
“Steal is a relative term.”
“Was it theirs before it became yours?”
“Technically, it was Hitler’s before it became theirs.”
“What?!“
Rafe glanced ever so briefly at Ana, before he diverted his gaze back to the screen. “Hitler was a member of the Vril, and The Coming Race was one of their foundational texts. . .“
“So, you stole it to add to your burgeoning collection of Nazi memorabilia?”
Rafe rolled his eyes. “Hitler’s copy was enchanted by the Illuminati that chose him to lead–”
“Wait, what?”
“To make whoever wielded it believe that they had what it took to heal, remove pain–”
“Can we go back to the ‘Illuminati chose Hitler’ thing?”
“In Hitler’s case, he used it to heal Germany’s divide. . . but in the hands of someone who isn’t in charge of a country, they think they can literally heal people, and literally take pain away. . . When I got hold of it, the previous owner was busy taking pot shots at EMTs to keep them away from accident victims.”
“That seems ironic.”
“They figured if they injured an EMT, they’d just heal them up too.”
“This all seems incredibly moronic.”
“Yup. But in the wrong hands, it can be devastating. . . There!” He pointed across the road, where the two men Ana recognised from her previous altercation were walking down the street at a snail’s pace, eyes transfixed on the book in their hands.
Rafe darted across the busy street, only barely missing the grills and bonnets of cars that seemed almost intent on mowing him down. Ana scoffed and conjured a door. As she walked through it and appeared on the other side of the street, Rafe somersaulted out of the way of a cyclist who was trying his best to disembowel the magickal pedestrian with his handlebars, and landed in a crumbled heap by her feet.
He chose to ignore Ana’s judgemental stare as he picked himself up and led the charge after the two thieves–but the cacophonous melange of car horns as Rafe crossed the road had inadvertently drawn their attention away from the book–and warned them that they were being pursued.
The one who held the book appeared to clutch it tighter as the other conjured a door, and tugged it open, he gestured for the first to go ahead of him before he slammed it shut behind them.
Rafe got to the door just as it was about to recede back into the brickwork of the building, and wrenched it open. A baking heat hit him in the face, accompanied by blinding sunlight. He grit his teeth and strode across the threshold, followed by Ana, who trudged along behind him, feeling more like a glamorous assistant than a partner at that juncture.
She picked up speed through the thin cobbled street and caught up to Rafe, at which point she became aware that they were surrounded by loud shouts and chatter in a middle eastern language she didn’t understand.
“Where are we?”
“Guessing a shuk,” he grunted, pointing at the various market stalls they passed in doorways.
“Like, a market?”
He nodded, eyes fixed on the two men they were chasing. Once again, the one who had his hands free conjured a door and the other went through first.
Rafe pushed through the crowds to get to the handle before it vanished, and was overcome by the chills that blew into his face as soon as he opened it.
He stepped through it and found himself on an almost empty street with the sun hanging low in the sky. Snow caked the ground, two sets of footprints the only signs of life in an otherwise untouched blanket of pure, brilliant white.
“I’m not dressed for this. . .” Ana grumbled as she traced her fingers over her torso and legs, winding and weaving to create a glamour with clothing more suitable to the environment.
Rafe struggled with his steps through the foot and a half of snow, and came round the corner just in time to see the door the thieves had conjured vanish into the building they had conjured it against.
“Dammit!” he grunted.
“There’s got to be a way to find out where they went. . .” Ana muttered.
Rafe glared at the wall, and placed his hand against it. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
“Conjure a door.”
“Right there? Where your hand is?”
He nodded.
“What happens if a door is conjured over your hand? Does your hand become part of the door?”
He shook his head.
“Please would be nice. . .” she huffed, as she began to acquiesce to his request.
“Please,” he grunted.
The brickwork of the wall shifted as the glossy black of the door pushed itself out, Rafe’s hand fixed to the surface as it appeared. He reached for the handle with his free hand and turned it. Traffic roared and horns honked as he pulled it open.
“Where are they now?” Ana asked, as Rafe gestured for her to go ahead of him, finally remembering his manners after charging ahead through the last two doors.
As they stepped through, it was clear that the question did not need to be asked–the familiar bright red buses driving on the left hand side of the road gave it away. They were back in London, not far off from where they had begun their chase through two other countries.
“Why would they come back here?” Ana asked.
“Home turf,” Rafe said with a shrug. “Always easier to go on the run when you know where the hell you’re headed.”
Ana turned left and right, trying to catch glimpses of the two men. “So, where are they?”
Rafe glanced down at his GPS device, and took the lead once again. They were nearby, static, and based on a quick glance around the street it appeared as though they were hiding in a cafe.
“Want me to door inside, catch them unawares?”
“No,” Rafe said. “I’ve got a better idea.”
“Is it really a better idea?”
“Well, no. It’s a bad idea. . . but I think it’s gonna work.”
He stepped out into the road into oncoming traffic, hands tracing across his body as a car shot towards him.
Ana stared in horror as Rafe was thrown a full fifteen feet off the bonnet of the car, and landed in a heap on the cold, hard tarmac.
His skin was tattered and torn, bones poked through raw and jagged holes. He was a mess of blood and bruises, and before she had a chance to say a word, let alone run over and use glyphs to heal him, a crowd was forming around him.
She stared in horror.
Frozen in the moment.
Until she saw two figures pushing their way through the mass of bodies that had surrounded Rafe, and understood the plan he had decided to embark upon without explaining so much as the basic premise.
The two men, one with the book clutched tightly in his hands, punched and kicked their way to Rafe and lay their hands upon him, believing they they–and they alone–had the ability to heal his wounds.
Ana burst into action.
She held her fists out ahead of her, set her intent and took a breath. With an arc of her hands, she shot out her first and middle fingers to weave the sigil to manifest rope, and as soon as it was formed, lassoed it around the two men.
The book fell to the ground, and
the thieves struggled against their binding to grab hold of it. But it was no use–Ana’s ropes held tight.
Rafe used the bloody and broken remains of his hands to undo the glamour. His wounds healed, and the crowd dispersed, not entirely sure what they had just seen. It was a curiosity, that was for certain. . . But given how weird London could be on a fairly regular basis, it wasn’t odder than anything they had seen before.
Ana offered Rafe a hand, tugged him back up to his feet, and the two of them loomed over the men with threatening glowers of their brows.
“You’re going to stop trying to steal this,” Ana said, as she indicated to the book.
“Like hell we will!” one of the men shouted. “S’ours!”
“No,” Ana growled. She stretched her hands out wide and a series of sharp cracks rang out. The air ahead of her fingers splintered like shattered glass, the chinks in reality getting closer and closer to the men’s faces with each further crack. “You’re done. You’re going to bugger off, forget about the book, and never come anywhere near here again. I’m a damn mirror adept–you know what that means?”
The men stared in silence as the cracks between realms got ever closer to their eyes.
“It means I can shatter you into a thousand pieces, and send those pieces cascading across the realms–or I could just slice of pieces. . . starting with fingers. . . or genitalia. . . or I could slice up your bones inside your body, leave you flopping around in an alley with tiny shards tearing through your circulatory system. . .” She narrowed her eyes, and made sure that both men saw how deadly serious she was. “So, this is the point where you say ‘Yes miss, I understand’, and leave London right this damn instant.”
The men glanced at each other for the briefest of moments, and both quickly spat out “Yes miss, I understand!”
Ana let a smile crawl across her lips and nodded, letting the rope around the men dissipate. In an instant they rose to their feet, turned on their heels and scarpered off down the street.
The smile came to her face big and wide and triumphant as she looked over to Rafe, who had never been quite so terrified of another human being in all his life.
“Well, that was the stupidest case ever,” she chuckled.
