by Andy Hyland
Contents
Before we begin…
Prologue
Chapter one
Chapter two
Chapter three
Chapter four
Chapter five
Chapter six
Chapter seven
Chapter eight
Chapter nine
Chapter ten
Chapter eleven
Chapter twelve
Chapter thirteen
Chapter fourteen
Chapter fifteen
Chapter sixteen
Chapter seventeen
Chapter eighteen
Chapter nineteen
Chapter twenty
Chapter twenty-one
Chapter twenty-two
Chapter twenty-three
Chapter twenty-four
Chapter twenty-five
Chapter twenty-six
Chapter twenty-seven
Chapter twenty-eight
Chapter twenty-nine
Epilogue
So What Happens Next?
Author’s Notes
For Steve, Celia, Alex and Jane. In case they felt left out.
Before we begin…
Congratulations on your fine choice of reading material.
Just to make sure you’re all set up and ready to go, I feel I should point out that this is a sequel to ‘A Mage’s Gambit: New York Falling’. Whilst you’re more than welcome to delve straight into this book, I’d really suggest you read that one first. But, hey, it’s up to you.
Also, if I may be so bold, there’s an important little short story (Devil’s Choice) that sits between the two books. You can get this entirely free of charge by going to www.andyhyland.net/aware and signing up for the Aware mailing list – only your name and email address are required.
Of course, you don’t need to do either of these things, and you can simply just jump straight in if you want. Just one of the many freedoms you have in life.
Enjoy!
Andy Hyland
[email protected]
Prologue
Eddie St Clare scurried around the room, shoving papers into drawers and using his shirt sleeve to eliminate any last vestiges of dust from the glossy surfaces. Finally, he stopped in a corner and surveyed the place. Not bad, even if he did say so himself. And all his own work. The arguments he’d had over that, especially with Julian. “Get cleaners in, get a real estate guy involved, use the professionals.” He’d put up with that whining, nasally idiot for too long. Maybe the argument last week was what he’d needed. Julian had stormed out and hadn’t called. Good riddance.
It was, after all, a penthouse loft in Hell’s Kitchen with great views. How hard could it really be to rent it out while he went travelling? Why should some idiot pocket twenty per cent of everything coming in for so called ‘management services’, which probably involved sitting at a desk and doing nothing for months. More money in his own pockets, this way, and now there would be no Julian leeching it away either. No, it was better this way. Definitely.
The buzzer rang, and Eddie trotted over to the intercom unit by the door. “Hi, come on up,” he blurted, without bothering to check who it was. For one awful moment he considered that it might be Julian come scurrying back. “No,” he said to himself, breathing deeply. “Calm thoughts, Mr St Clare. You can do this. You can so do this.”
He waited by the door, listening, perfectly still. There it was – the chime of the elevator arriving just along the hallway. Calm, measured steps. A swift knock at the door, three quick raps. Eddie set his shoulders, put his best smile in place, and opened it.
“Mr…I’m so sorry, I didn’t catch your name when you called?” Good job Julian hadn’t been here to experience that little lapse in protocol. Still, what did it matter – the guy had shown up.
“Balam,” the man said in a rich voice full of honey. “I am Balam.” He was a head taller than Eddie, who for a moment thought the visitor would have to stoop to get in the door. That would not have been a good start.
“Well, welcome, Mr Balam,” said Eddie, stepping aside and waving him in. As well as being tall, the guy was well-built, not that Eddie was checking him out or anything. Wide in the shoulders – almost too wide, and confident in the way he held himself. There was something halting and stilted in the way he moved, though. Eddie put it down to being new around town. He had that look about him – the way tourists gawped when you saw them wandering around, heads swiveling, drinking it all in.
Mr Balam walked to the center of the room and turned slowly. His skin was the rich leathery tan you saw in the faces of retired couples in Florida, and his hair was deep brown with a hint of red, swept back to reveal a pointed widow’s peak that came down low on his forehead. The eyes were dark – almost totally black – but no, that must be a trick of the light. Had Eddie overdone the mood lighting? The last thing he wanted to do was put the guy off. Oh great – now the lights were starting to flicker. Should he mention that, assure him it didn’t normally happen? No, best let it ride.
“As you can see,” Eddie began, launching into his carefully prepared spiel, “it’s a good sized room. I’ve always found it more than adequate for entertaining, and the kitchen was only fitted last year – top spec, naturally. As far as bathrooms are concerned -”
“The roof,” Balam interrupted, his voice patient but insistent. “I believe there is a roof, yes? With a view?” For one brief moment Eddie had the distinct impression that Balam was looking at him, and yet not looking at him, all at the same time.
“Roof? Oh, sure,” Eddie said, now off his stride but recovering quickly. “Please, come this way.” Odd. He didn’t remember mentioning the roof in their brief conversation, but clearly the man had done his research. That was good. That meant he was a serious prospect. The deal might even be done tonight – a firm handshake with the paperwork to follow tomorrow. He could only hope that Julian heard about it somehow.
Balam followed Eddie up the stairs, his pace steady, his footsteps even. There was something about him that was off somehow. But the guy looked normal, he was wearing a good cologne – Eddie would ask him what it was, strike up a rapport – and he spoke politely. His accent was marked, and at a guess English wasn’t his first language. But his poise, his suit – he was a solid guy, no doubt about that. Not the sort of person who would try to haggle down the rent. No cheapskate.
“Here it is then, in all its glory,” Eddie said proudly, throwing his arms wide. “Check that out.”
The view was one of the main reasons Eddie had gone for this loft. Hell, who was he trying to kid? It was the only reason he’d gone for it. There were better locations, better layouts, more square footage, elsewhere – he’d checked out dozens. But this view kept him coming back for three nights straight – probably pissing off the realtor, who’d remained pleasant nonetheless – until he’d finally pulled the trigger and paid cash. Three years’ saved bonuses from the bank, all gone in one transfer and three signatures. Still, it had been worth it. And even though his career at the bank had come literally crashing down when the headquarters of Willis, Beck and Thornton collapsed, and he badly needed the break and to get away, he’d always look forward to coming back here.
Balam was also impressed, Eddie could tell. He walked forward to the balcony and stood still, only his head moving, sweeping slowly from left to right. The brightly-lit view of downtown, away to the south-east, was breathtaking. Office blocks, high towers dominating and filling the skyline, bustling streets, the fast-moving headlamps of the cars. Human civilization at its absolute peak. Forget nature – this was what it was all
about. The rush of life.
“Do you live in New York at the moment?” Eddie asked after a couple of minutes, trying to strike up a conversation.
“No. I come from quite some distance away,” Balam said, still with his back to him. “I have heard about this place, this city, for so long. I have met many who have travelled here. I arrived here a few weeks ago, but I’ve been waiting for some colleagues to join me before making any firm plans. It is…quite something, this island of yours.”
“It is that,” Eddie agreed, nodding eagerly. Clearly Balam shared his love of the view. “So do you want to go back downstairs, check out the kitchen?”
“No, that won’t be necessary. I’ll take it.” Balam gestured towards downtown Manhattan. “I’ll take it all.”
“Well…that’s great. I suppose I’d better get all your details. Come on down. I’ll get the lawyer to draft everything and we can finalize it all in the morning. Did you have a date in mind, for when you’d like to move in?” Eddie spoke as he trotted down the stairs. Balam came after, his pace still steady, still even.
“I meant to ask,” Eddie said, scrabbling through a drawer for a pen and a notepad – they must be here somewhere, “how did you find out about this place being on the market? I was drafting the advert when you called – it never went out in the end – wanted to give you first refusal. I suppose someone mentioned it to you – but I didn’t tell that many people, and I can’t work out…”
Something about the silence, the lack of response, suddenly unnerved Eddie. He looked over his shoulder. Balaam had taken off his suit jacket and lain it neatly across the back of the beige sofa. Now he was methodically rolling up his shirt sleeves.
“Hey,” said Eddie, figuring out too late that there were several good reasons for using realtors that he’d not exactly considered before. “You okay? It’s not that hot in here, and you won’t have to stay for much longer.”
Balam only looked up at him and smiled. And Eddie saw that it wasn’t a trick of the light, and the guy’s eyes really were black, nearly all the way to the edge, only a sliver of white sclera showing. And his smile, the mouth too wide, not really fitting on the face, just…wrong.
“This pen isn’t working,” Eddie said, shaking it as if to demonstrate how inadequate it was. “There’s one right over there – let me get it. There are a few details I need from you, and then we can get that paperwork started.”
As soon as he thought he stood a chance, he bolted, aiming to veer to the left, jump onto and over the sofa, and make it out the door, which fortunately he hadn’t locked. And then he’d take the stairs – he’d seen way too many films where the idiot victims had jumped into elevators and stood there hitting buttons, wondering if the door would close in time.
That was the escape plan. Eddie made it through the first two and a half steps, dodging left, springing onto the sofa and launching himself over the back of it towards the door. But Balam was quick. So very quick. He stepped to his right, almost casually, lifted a hand and caught Eddie in mid-air by the throat. Then he strolled over to the wall and slammed Eddie’s back against it, winding him.
“Hey,” Eddie gasped. “Look, I don’t have any money here. But take what you want. Please, take what you want.”
“Oh, I intend to,” Balam whispered into his ear. “I always take what I want.”
He released the throat and slid his hand down, his other hand rising to meet it until they were both cupped over Eddie’s chest. Eddie opened his mouth to scream, praying that one of his neighbors would be in and, for once, would pay attention to what was going on around them. But the sound never made it out of his throat.
Balam’s thumbs – why were they so long, Eddie wondered, and had he always had talons? – drove deep, fast and hard, splintering bone, finding and puncturing lungs. Eddie felt the air leave him in a way that he’d never experienced before. Stars danced across his vision. This was it, he thought calmly. This was really it. And it was all true: his life did flash into front of his eyes. It was, all in all, somewhat disappointing. What a waste, he thought. What the hell was I playing at, all this time?
Balam extracted his thumbs, and the first waves of pain started to crash in on Eddie. One of the thumbs turned, and ran gently down the sternum, stripping the shirt away and parting the skin just as easily. Eddie wanted to close his eyes, but couldn’t, held entranced at the sight of his greasy intestines slowly breaking free and cascading in coils to the floor. There was so very much inside him, and a distant, objective part of his mind found time to wonder how it had all fitted in there so neatly.
The darkness was creeping in now, taking over the edges. Even Balam’s eyes, so close, staring so intently at him, swam out of focus.
Moments before his own eyes closed for the very last time, the door to the apartment opened. Julian stood there smiling sheepishly, holding a box of Eddie’s favorite chocolates from that café up in the West Village they’d spent the afternoon at last month. With the low lighting, it took Julian a couple of seconds to figure out something was wrong. “Hey! What are you doing? You get off him.”
Balam smiled at Eddie and winked.
And Eddie’s final thought on this Earth was to consider, with some satisfaction, that at least that bitch Julian was going to die too.
Chapter one
He didn’t look like much, this guy in front of me, but by all accounts he was a mean son of a bitch, and nobody else was prepared to deal with him. Short and chubby, with a T-shirt that didn’t come down quite far enough to cover his pale, hairy gut. Piggy eyes that stared out of a sunken, pouty face, and as much as he’d tried to grow a beard, it hadn’t got further than being a patchy mess. The longest hairs on his face came out of a mole on the left cheek. He was known as Big Barry, a nick-name he’d apparently chosen himself, which told you as much as you needed to know about the idiot. And did the guy reek.
“I ordered,” he rasped, “the new Steve Rogers: Captain America issue one. I placed that order three weeks ago. And I came in yesterday and she,” he pointed to to Kelly who flinched even though she was out of reach safely behind the Star Trek merchandise, “told me that all the issues you’d ordered in had gone. I gave the order to some female – all blonde hair and happy, and the dumb bitch obviously never put it in the system. So what are you going to do about that, boy?”
In the space of five sentences he’d disrespected Kelly, labelled my girlfriend Julie, the owner of this particular comic shop, a dumb bitch, and called me ‘boy’. Fortunately, we’d been expecting this little visit by our less-than-favorite customer for a few days now – he’d yelled down the phone at staff members more than once, getting increasingly agitated and abusive. Finally, he’d got his fat ass off the sofa and come all the way down to the Outworld Emporium on Fifth Avenue. By this point, plans had been made, and the necessary personnel drafted in.
“Look,” I said, trying my level best to appear humble and subservient, “clearly there’s been a big error here on our part.”
“I’d say so,” he snorted.
I paused and then continued. “Obviously we want you to feel like we’ve valued you as we should - that you’ve really got what you deserve from us. So I made a call and our customer relations director has come in specially to meet with you and see how we can get this nasty little situation resolved.”
“Excellent. Is he here now?”
“She. Our customer relations director is a she. Women – they get everywhere these days, don’t they?”
“Half the problem if you ask me,” he muttered to himself. “Where is she then?”
“Out back in the meeting room. Please – this way.”
I lifted up the counter and waved him back, closing the door to the rear of the premises as soon as he’d gone through. I nodded to Kelly, who darted out from behind a scale model of the Enterprise D and quickly locked the front door. There was no need for our other, genuinely-valued customers, to experience what was about to happen.
The sou
nd was muffled slightly by the door, so I nudged it open with my foot. Kelly was standing over in the corner, hand to her mouth, unable to believe that I was truly going to allow this to happen. A sweet girl, who knew so very little about me. Long may it continue.
At first it was only Big Barry’s voice you could hear, braying and chiding, angry and sarcastic. Then he quietened down. It was forty-two seconds in – I was timing it – that the first punch landed. It sounded like someone laying into a slab of beef with a baseball bat. This was followed by a low moan and a sob. Then a kick – I’m guessing it was a kick because we still couldn’t see by this point – sent Barry flying backwards through the door. I managed to dodge him, and he slammed down hard onto the floor.
The lower half of Barry’s face was now covered with blood. Most of it came from a mashed nose, but his lips were also split, and two teeth were sticking out at unnatural angles. His face was a picture of absolute terror, which I captured for posterity on my phone’s camera. I’d show Julie when she got back – she’d love it. Mind you, that would mean revealing how I’d been managing her respectable comic shop in her absence, so on second thoughts I’d probably keep it to myself. I’d have to remember to swear Kelly to secrecy as well.
Our customer service director, newly appointed and only holding the post on a temporary basis, stepped through the door and placed a purple high-laced Doc Marten boot on Barry’s groin. Arabella Duval wore an Outworld Emporium T-shirt which she’d demanded as payment for services rendered, but apart from that had on her usual short denim skirt and wore her hair in her regulation Mohawk, purple this week to match the new boots.
She smiled sweetly down at Barry. “I hope this situation has been resolved to your satisfaction, Sir,” she said cheerfully. “We completely understand and fully expect that from now on you will want to do your comic and merchandise shopping somewhere else, probably a long way from here.” She looked down at him expectantly. He nodded, chin quivering. “Good, I’m glad we’ve got that straight.” She pressed down with her boot, making him groan loudly. “And we also understand that you may not find our methods of resolving disputes entirely orthodox. It may even cross you mind to talk to the police or some other authority. If this did happen, I’d like to remind you that we do have your home address and all other contact details, strictly so that we can serve you in as efficient manner as possible. Are we entirely clear on this, big boy?”
