Turned: An Uncanny Kingdom Urban Fantasy (Branded Book 2)

by David Bussell

  I wasn’t alone.

  And I was in terrible danger.

  2

  Whatever the creature was, it was taking its time. I had the distinct impression it was trying to scare me.

  It was working.

  Normally in this sort of situation, with an unknown beast stalking me, ready to leap and tear my throat out at any moment, I’d draw on the surrounding magic and cast a spell that would turn the thing into confetti. Sling a spell first, ask questions later, that was my usual way of dealing with threats. But there was no surrounding magic. I extended my senses as far as I could, invisible tendrils firing out in all directions, desperately searching for a hint of the strange to draw upon, but everything was cold.

  This was a dead place.

  The creature unleashed a low, rumbling growl that shook the floor beneath me. I was in deep trouble. I tried to ignore the blood, the chunks of my dead masters, and I reached out again to try and make sense of what I was up against.

  A voice—

  A single word, repeated staccato—

  Kill-Kill-Kill—

  The words rolled in my head as I came upon the thing stalking me. It was a slippery creature, hard to get a clear grip on, but it was obvious it wasn’t the person behind this attack. It was a booby trap.

  Okay. It was time to take stock.

  I had no magic to draw on, only the weak power I already had stored inside of me, and even that was dulled by my surroundings, as though my magic was shrinking back in confusion at the emptiness around me. Did the creature keeping just out of sight know that? Did it realise I was running almost on empty? That I’d be bringing a slap to a gunfight?

  No, I didn’t think so. It was just toying with me; that’s the only reason it hadn’t already pounced. It wanted to make me scared to death, before death actually came calling.

  ‘Whatever you are, this is already getting boring. Just show yourself, but beware: I have enough juice in me to make your head go pop. Understand?’

  A bluff, but I sold it as best I could. From what I could sense, it was a simple attack beast, left to take care of anyone who stumbled into the dead coven. To take care of me. It was the monkey, not the organ grinder.

  ‘Do you hear me, you dumb creature? Show yourself or get the hell out of my house!’

  A growl and the floor shook—

  A wall in front of me exploded—

  A creature erupted into the room, busting through plaster and brick as though it were matchsticks and spit. The thing looked a hell of a lot like the dog-monster Rick Moranis turns into in Ghostbusters; horned, eyes burning with red fire, a mess of sharp teeth.

  It raised its great head, drool dripping from its mouth and splashing onto the floor, mixing with my masters’ spilled blood. I had to choose my next words carefully.

  ‘There, there,’ I said. ‘Good dog…?’

  Yes. Not ideal.

  A thought struck: This monster was created by magic, which meant it must have magic available for me to feed on. I ignored the fact that I should have already been able to sense any magic in my vicinity and tried to reach out to it, to draw in some of its power, but whoever had created this thing was no idiot. Some sort of extra spell had been cast upon the beast that made my mental feelers slide off it every time I reached out, like I was trying to push two magnets of the same pole together. So that was why I hadn’t been able to sense its presence, or its magic. The thing was shielded from me. Whoever had ripped apart my witches and left this booby trap didn’t plan on making things easy.

  The thing took a step forward, a floorboard cracking beneath its heavy, cloven foot.

  ‘Stop! Stay there! Don’t take another step or you’re for it!’

  I raised a hand by way of a threat, a weak cloud of sparks swimming around it, as though at any moment I was about to cast a furious spell upon the damn thing.

  ‘You will tell me your name, and the name of your master, or I will—’

  —I didn’t get to finish the sentence. The creature snorted and began to charge, drool trailing from its mouth.

  I flung the weak defence spell I’d conjured in the creature’s direction as I turned and bolted from the room. I didn’t bother to check for damage, I knew the energy I’d unleashed would have affected the beast about as much as running through a cobweb.

  A second more and the thing was going to be on me; I stopped sharply and threw myself through the open door to my left and into another room, the monster tumbling past and away, unable to suddenly halt its momentum.

  I landed on the floor, shoulder jarring, but I didn’t have time to notice the pain. I rolled onto my knee and turned to the open doorway; I could hear the thing scrabbling to stop and turn. I didn’t have time to run back out the door and head in the other direction, which left me only one option: the window.

  I had to get out of the coven and out of the blind alley; that was my only hope. Either the thing wouldn’t follow me, had been conjured only to stay within the confines of the coven, and I would be safe, or it would follow. If it followed, then my one shot was to make it out of the blind alley and into the street with enough time before it caught up to pull what magic I could from the surroundings to do… whatever I could. I’d have at best seconds to power up. I already knew that wouldn’t be long enough for me to gain enough energy to destroy the thing, but I was out of options.

  The corridor’s floorboards began to crunch as the beast headed back to the doorway. Its giant, snarling head came into view and its burning, hellish eyes looked at me. Looked at me with hunger, desperate to taste my flesh.

  Okay.

  It was now or never.

  This was going to hurt.

  ‘Here, doggy,’ I said, then used the last of my power to throw a chair directly at the thing’s face, hoping to slow it down for even half a second, as I turned, raised my arms up over my head, and threw myself through the window.

  3

  Shards of glass swarmed me like angry bees as I burst from the coven and fell hard onto the cobbles outside. I heard the beast, its roar barely muffled behind me.

  ‘Get up!’ I yelled, and pushed myself to my feet, hands criss-crossed with livid red cuts from the shattered window.

  I’d made it outside, now I just had to make it another twenty metres to the end of the blind alley, to the streets beyond with their wash of background magic that I could pull on. I could do it.

  Maybe I could.

  Had to do it.

  I took a step and my knee almost buckled beneath me. The adrenalin was pumping so hard that I hadn’t realised how hard I came down during my escape. I staggered, but managed to keep just about upright, even if I did step more sideways than forward.

  ‘Come on, you can do it—’ I gritted my teeth and kept moving. I had to make it to the street before the animal took me down. Had to. Had to!

  ‘Well, look at you.’

  The new voice seemed to come at me from all angles and I spun around looking for a source, even as I tried to keep moving toward the street.

  ‘Such willpower. Such determination. I find myself admiring you.’

  ‘Show yourself!’ I yelled, though I really hoped they would ignore the request. I was as weak and empty as I’d ever been. A kitten could have taken me down at this point.

  ‘Keep going, Stella. Don’t make it easy for me. I want you to struggle and hope and strive, it makes the inevitable all the sweeter.’

  The voice speaking seemed to change from word to word, making it impossible to pin down. Impossible to try and work out who it might be. I knew every sorcerer, every member of the Uncanny that passed through London; if I heard their true voice, I’d know who it was in an instant. Another trick; more powerful magic used to evade and disorientate.

  ‘Why’ve you done this to my coven? Answer me!’

  ‘No,’ said the voice. ‘But you should know… they screamed for mercy, Stella.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Oh, they begged me for it. Even as I tore
strips of flesh from their bones with my teeth. They tasted… weak.’

  I stopped in my pursuit of the street, rage clouding my senses. ‘I’ll find you! Whoever you are, I will find you and I will kill you! I promise you!’

  Mocking laughter swirled around me, only to be replaced by the crashing of the coven wall as the beast leapt through and into the blind alley.

  Bashed-up knee forgotten, I turned and ran, the creature howling and giving chase.

  I wasn’t going to make it.

  I could feel the ground shake beneath me as the animal grew closer with each bound, felt its hot breath begin to beat against the back of my neck. Five metres to go until the end of the blind alley, until the street and its magic welcomed me.

  It would be about four metres too far.

  Out of options once more, I screamed and threw myself to the side, hurtling into the wall, lucky not to bash my brains in against it. The beast roared in surprise and tried to stop, stumbling over itself and rolling out of the alley, screaming in fury at having been so close only to be foiled once again. The creature was vicious and strong, but it wasn’t smart.

  I pushed myself back up and ran for the street. I almost smiled as I stepped out of the blind alley and the dead veil, the absence of magic, was pulled away from me. I inhaled a great gulp of the natural background power of the place as shoppers screamed and sprinted from the insanity that had just intruded onto their day, browsing the Hammersmith high street shops. My every nerve ending tingled as the magic, weak as it was, washed over me and soothed my jangled nerves.

  So sudden was the rush that I closed my eyes, a beatific smile upon my face, and I almost forgot about the giant devil dog that was about to feast on my guts. My eyes opened again and I took up an attack pose, legs spread, arms up and outstretched, ready to unleash whatever spell came to me in the moment.

  I didn’t have time to consider my attack.

  The animal was already up and just metres away from me, teeth bared, the fire in its eye sockets roaring with fury. As it leapt toward me I felt myself shake in terror. I always thought, when death came for me, that I’d be able to face it boldly, but here I was, shaking like a child. Shaking and unable to form a clear thought as six or seven half-formed invocations crashed through my mind and the certainty of death seized my heart.

  I closed my eyes and braced myself for the end.

  End of Extract.

  Intrigued? Then click the link below to grab your copy of Familiar Magic today…

  FAMILIAR MAGIC

  Ghosted: Fresh Hell

  Here’s a SNEAK PEEK at the first Ghosted book, another series set in the Uncanny Kingdom universe…

  What happens when an exorcist who spent a lifetime evicting ghosts gets murdered and becomes one?

  When Jake Fletcher died, he discovered a horrible truth. The souls he thought he'd been dispatching to the afterlife are no more. He wasn't sending them to a better place, he was obliterating them.

  To atone for his mortal sins, he becomes a detective: a phantom PI. Now he helps other restless spirits depart the earthly plane by bringing their killers to justice.

  1

  It was half past midnight when the screaming started.

  It came from the east bank of Regent’s Canal, not far from Camden Lock. The person who called it in said they heard a commotion outside their narrow boat and pulled back a curtain to find a figure running along the towpath, screeching at the top of their lungs. The witness said they couldn’t understand why the screamer was making such a racket, not until they slammed their palm against the boat’s porthole and painted it with a big, red handprint.

  The victim didn’t have any skin.

  They’d been flayed alive from head to toe, peeled like a prawn, yet somehow they still had it in them to be running barefoot—literally barefoot—alongside the canal.

  The victim ran some more after that, but didn’t make it much farther before they took a tumble over the bank and toppled face-first into the water. It probably won’t shock you to learn that they were pronounced dead on arrival.

  When I picked up the message from DCI Stronge that the Marine Policing Unit had fished a skinned corpse out of the drink, I took an interest right away. Things like that—bizarre, gruesome murders—they’re right in my wheelhouse. All my life I’ve had a preoccupation with the macabre: the creatures in the shadows, the lurkers beneath the floorboards, the monsters in the closet. Believe it or not, back in a past life I used to be an exorcist (although obviously I’d prefer if you did take my word for it, otherwise this story is going to be a really tough sell).

  I suppose I should introduce myself. My name is Jake Fletcher. I’m six-feet tall, I fill out a suit real nice and I’ve been told by more than one woman that I have—and I quote—“nice teeth.” Oh, and I’m dead. Dead as a doornail.

  Now, don’t start giving me any of that, “Ghosts aren’t real, Jake”, bollocks, all right? You’re just going to have to go with me on this. I’m dead, ghosts are kosher, and Two Broke Girls is the nadir of human accomplishment. These are the facts. Deal with them.

  Where was I again? Oh, right, me being an ex-exorcist…

  You’re probably wondering how I wound up being one of those in the first place, right? I mean, it’s not exactly your run of the mill, garden variety profession. My school careers advisor had me pegged as a newspaper reporter or an English teacher, but I guess I was always destined to work with the dead. I was born with The Sight, you see, a special sensitivity to the Uncanny. No one knows how it works exactly—whether it’s a sixth sense, an overactive pineal gland, or just plain bad luck—but I have an ability to see the spirits of the dead. Ghosts, phantoms, spectres, whatever you want to call them, I can see the lot, and more besides. If I was to show you some of the “besides” that I’ve seen, you’d lock yourself in your house and soil yourself for seven days straight. It made for a challenging childhood—Jesus, it did—but it set me up just right for a career evicting spooks.

  I spent a good few years doing the exorcist thing: screaming bible passages, waving burning sage about, cleansing haunted properties. That was until I died and became a spook myself. Yeah, I’m not blind to the irony. And don’t worry, I’m not the bad kind of ghost who makes the walls bleed and writes threatening messages in the condensation on your bathroom mirror. Honestly, I wouldn’t say boo to a goose, nor can I think of a single good reason for doing so.

  Anyway, since I croaked, I’ve taken a bit of a U-turn on the whole “ghost rights” thing. Matter of fact, I’ve become something of an undead activist. Rights not rites, that’s what I say. Because I learned the truth. The real truth about the consequences of what I was doing as an exorcist. But we’ll get back to that later.

  So… ghosts. Most of them end up marooned on the physical plane because they died a traumatic death and need closure to move on. Not me. I solved my murder – had my chance at the afterlife and passed it up. Well, that’s not entirely true. The truth is, I did a runner from the pearly gates. I didn’t feel I was ready to face the Big Man at that juncture. Not after the life I’d led. Not after the things I’d done. I had a feeling he wouldn’t be too quick to hand me a gold card to the exec lounge, at least until I’d cancelled out the stuff I’d been up to while I was still alive. Of course, I hadn’t known then that I was up to no good, but something told me ignorance wasn’t going to earn me a pass with Him Upstairs.

  So, I found my way back here, back to the physical realm, back to London. Now I live somewhere between the two worlds, tucked in the middle and out of sight, like a g-string up an arse crack. I move invisibly in this realm, a rumour drifting through a world of facts. Tell you what, let’s stick with that last one—the rumour/facts line—it’s got a bit more poetry to it than the arse crack thing.

  So, you probably want to know how I wound up dead in the first place, right? Well, you know that expression, “Die young and leave a good-looking corpse”? I managed to get the “young” part right. The “good-l
ooking corpse” part, that’s a whole other story. The quick version: I succeeded in pissing off the wrong person and ended up cut into four chunks, so... not exactly good-looking. Unless a horribly mashed up corpse gets your motor running, in which case, hey, I won’t judge you (actually, what am I talking about? Of course I will, that’s messed up).

  Anyway, my death’s a story for another time – we’ve already got one sliced-up corpse bobbing in a canal, so let’s not muddy the waters with another. The reason I mention it is to remind you that, as a bona-fide “goner,” I don’t have a body. Most of the time I do just fine without one, but seeing as I was about to meet with the police and they wouldn’t be able to see me in my spook state, something needed doing. If I wanted to talk with DCI Stronge, I was going to have to make a quick stop-off.

  2

  I found him sat in the booth of a late-night bar with his arm around a woman. She was presenting enough chest to be charged with indecent exposure. He was ordering table service. Of course he was, he’d always been a wanker. His name was Mark Ryan and I’d known him since we were eleven years old. Since we were at school together. Since he left me with a scar that never healed.

  Mark and me didn’t run in the same circles back then. His circle was all sports trophies and Duke of Edinburgh Awards and hand jobs behind the bike sheds, while mine—thanks to him—was the kind of circle Dante wrote about. Fucking Mark Ryan. No matter what I did to avoid the guy, he’d always find a way to seek me out and give me shit: barging me into my locker, kicking footballs at me, tripping me over in the corridor. Boosting his ego at my expense. I tell you, Mark Ryan was the first person to really make my life hell, and I’ve been closer to the place than most.

  One time, Mark bought a pair of handcuffs into Science class, and when the teacher went out of the room to fetch some lab equipment, he manacled me to a radiator. I know what you’re thinking: that doesn’t sound so bad, right? There are people who pay good money for that kind of treatment. Thing is, Mark wasn’t in it for the kink, he just wanted to hurt someone. The first thing he did was over-ratchet my cuff, making it too tight, cutting off the circulation to my hand. But that wasn’t what really hurt. The real hurt came when the heat from the radiator—which was set to warm a large room in the coldest part of winter—conducted through the metal cuff and into the bracelet I was wearing. That was a new kind of pain. Naturally, Mark and his crew did nothing to help me – just stood back and laughed like jackals, waggling the key at me as I thrashed around, howling in agony.