by M. V. Stott
There were three bodies on the floor.
Three bodies, but more than three pieces.
Kala, Trin, Feal—my masters, my creators, my coven’s high witches—had been torn to pieces and scattered around the room.
Eyes wide, hand to my mouth, I stepped inside.
‘No…’
Blood was sprayed across the grey brick walls and splattered across the floorboards, collecting in congealing red pools. It was a horror story. A world gone mad.
This couldn’t be happening.
Nothing was capable of doing this to the witches of the London Coven. Together, when connected, the three of them wielded enough power to crack open mountains, to turn the oceans into sand, to make demons weep, and yet my shoes were soaking in a pool of their collective blood.
I crouched and placed a hand on a hunk of meat that could have belonged to any one of my masters. It, like the coven itself, was empty. Not just of life, but of magic. Of power. Something had broken into a place it was impossible to plunder, bypassed the magical safeguards it was impossible to survive, and torn to…
…and murdered my masters. Murdered three creatures of immeasurable power. And then, to finish things off, they’d drained every last drop of magic from the place.
Impossible on top of impossible on top of impossible.
I stood, angry. Angry that I’d allowed fear to infect me. I hadn’t been created to feel fear, I’d been created to instil fear, and to bring about justice. I cradled the anger and blew upon it, igniting it like the first spark of a new fire. It didn’t matter that this was impossible, it had happened. It didn’t matter that the kind of power needed to have achieved any one of the unimaginable things done to this coven would be enough to turn me into a puddle of bubbling goo.
None of it mattered.
All that mattered was that the coven had been breached, and my creators, my mothers, had been murdered as though they were nothing. As though they were less than nothing. They’d been ripped and shredded and tossed aside. My nails dug into my palms and drew blood, but I didn’t flinch. It felt good.
I was going to find out who was behind this and do something impossible myself.
I was going to get bloody, horrifying revenge.
I was nothing but a lowly familiar, but I swore to every god I knew that I was going to avenge my slaughtered coven.
‘Listen to me,’ I hissed, ‘and listen closely. You have made a grave mistake. My name is Stella Familiar, and what has happened here today will be met with a fury you cannot even imagine. Do you hear me? I know you can. Whoever did this, I will find you, and when I do, I will rip your beating heart from your chest.’
A noise—
A movement in the corner of my eye—
I wasn’t alone.
And I was in terrible danger.
2
Whatever it was that was inside the coven with me, it was taking its time. It was trying to scare me. And it was working.
Normally in this sort of situation—with an unknown assailant stalking me, ready to leap out and tear my throat from my neck at any moment—I’d draw upon the surrounding magic and cast a spell that would turn the creature 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 Uncanny to draw upon, but everything out there was cold.
This was a dead place, in more ways than one.
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. No, this creature was a booby trap.
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 view know that? Did it realise I was running on empty? That I’d brought 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. Show yourself, but know that 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. Whatever this creature was, it was the monkey, not the organ grinder.
‘Do you hear me, you dumb beast? 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 brick and plaster as though they were matchsticks and spit. The horned monster dog bore down on me, eyes burning with red fire, its slavering maw a jumble of razor-sharp teeth. It raised its great head, drool dripping from its mouth and splashing on the floor, mixing with the spilled blood of my masters.
I had to choose my next words carefully. ‘There there,’ I said. ‘Good dog…?’
No, not ideal.
A thought struck me: 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, 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 demon dog took a step forward, a floorboard cracking beneath one of its heavy, cloven feet.
‘Stop. Stay there. Don’t take another step or you’re done for.’ I raised a hand by way of a threat and formed a weak cloud of sparks that swam around. I could only hope the monster took it for the beginnings of something more powerful. ‘You will tell me your name, beast, 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 wasn’t sticking around to check for damage. I knew the energy I’d unleashed would present the beast with about as much of an obstacle a cobweb.
I ran some more, arms pumping. A second more and the thing would be on top of me. I stopped sharply and threw myself through the open door to my left, causing the monster tumble past me, unable to halt its momentum.
I landed on the floor, shoulder jarring, but I didn’t have time to register the pain. I rolled on to my knee and turned to the open doorway. I could hear the thing scrabbling to stop and turn. I looked around for anything in the room I could use, a weapon perhaps, then realised I’d jumped into Trin’s gallery, which was swamped with easels and canvases and little else. I didn’t have time to run back out of the door and head in the other direction, which left me only one option: the window.
My only hope was to get out of the coven and away from the blind alley. Either the thing wouldn’t follow me—conjured to stay within the confines of the coven—or it would give chase. If it followed, then my one shot was to make it out of the blind alley and into the street before it caught up with me. After that, I’d pull wh
atever magic I could from the surroundings to do… whatever I could. I’d have at best seconds to power up, and 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 crunched as the beast headed back to the doorway, back towards me. 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.
I used the last of my power to hurl a chair at the beast’s face, hoping to slow it down for even half a second, then I turned, raised my arms over my head, and threw myself through the coven window.
3
Shards of glass swarmed me like angry bees as I burst from the coven and fell hard on 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 cuts from the shattered window, the leather jacket I wore protecting me from too much more damage.
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 do it.
No, no; I had to do it.
I had to survive, because no one else was going to get revenge for my coven. No one but me. If I died, this would go unpunished. I couldn’t let that happen. Wouldn’t.
I took a step and my knee almost buckled beneath me. The adrenalin was pumping so strong that I hadn’t realised how hard I’d come down during my escape. I staggered and 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.
‘Well, look at you.’
The new voice came at me from all angles. I span around looking for a source, still moving forward, still heading for the street.
‘Such willpower. Such determination. I find myself admiring you.’
‘Show yourself!’ I yelled, though, in truth, I hoped whoever was addressing me didn’t deliver on the demand. I was as weak and empty as I’d ever been. A kitten could have knocked me down.
‘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 seemed to change from word to word, making it impossible to pin down. Impossible to 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 have 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 tracks, rage clouding my senses. ‘I’ll find you! Whoever you are, I will find you and I will kill 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 howled and gave chase. I wasn’t going to make it. I could feel the ground shaking beneath me as the animal grew closer with each bound, feel its hot breath beating 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.
The beast reared up on me, claws cleaving the air. I screamed and hurled myself to the side, crashing into the wall so hard it’s a wonder I didn’t dash my brains out. The creature tried to stop, but stumbled and rolled out of the alley, roaring in frustration at having come so close. The beast was vicious and strong, but not gifted with brains.
I pushed myself back up and ran for the street, grinning madly I stumbled out of the blind alley, and the dead veil—the absence of magic—was pulled away from me. While the shoppers of Hammersmith High Street screamed and ran from the insanity, I inhaled a great gulp of power. My every nerve ending tingled as the magic, weak as it was, washed over me and soothed my jangled nerves. So dizzying was the rush that I closed my eyes, a beatific smile spreading across my face, and almost forgot about the giant devil dog 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.
I didn’t have time to consider my attack.
The animal was already just metres away, teeth bared, the fire in its eye sockets raging hot and red. As it leapt for me, I felt a weakness in my knees. I always thought, when death came for me, that I’d be able to face it boldly, but there I was, shaking like a coward. Unable to form a clear thought as six or seven half-formed invocations formed a knot in my head, and the certainty of death seized my heart.
I’d failed.
I would die, and my witches murders would go unpunished.
I closed my eyes and braced for the end.
End of Extract.
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FAMILIAR MAGIC
Dark Lakes: Magic Eater
Here’s a SNEAK PEEK at the first Dark Lakes book, another series set in the Uncanny Kingdom universe…
Joseph Lake doesn’t know who he is or where he came from, and the answer might just be the death of him.
By day, Joseph scrubs toilets and fixes broken light fittings, by night he looks into weird stuff. Local hauntings, unexplained disappearances, satanic cabals dancing naked around ancient stone circles. The usual.
The Uncanny calls to him like a beacon, and he follows its signal wherever it leads, hoping that one day it will shine a light on who he really is.
1
I suppose this all started when I woke up without a single clue as to who I was, where I was, or why I was bleeding from so many different and interesting places.
My name’s Joseph Lake, or at the very least that’s what I’ve decided to call myself. Not the most inspiring of choices, I know, but I couldn’t find anything that felt comfortable, so Joseph Lake it was. The fact it stuck had made me wonder if the name meant something; like maybe it was a family member’s name, or a good friend’s, or even a good enemy’s, but I Googled that thing down to a nub and ended up with nothing. Just one of many deader-than-dead ends I’ve chased aimlessly since I woke up next to that lake.
That was ten years ago. Right now I now found myself stalking the streets of Carlisle in the middle of the night, dressed entirely in black. This may have been my first time following a stranger from a discreet distance, but I’d seen enough movies to know the best colour for a stalking outfit. At first I’d even worn a pair of black shades, though it quickly became apparent that this was not my brightest idea. What with it being the whole night time thing. Yeah, I didn’t feel too smart as I pulled those off and pocketed them, I can tell you.
The stranger I was following was a homeless woman who looked like a charity shop puked up over a passing Helena Bonham Carter. Or, in other words, like Helena Bonham Carter. She’d been throwing up red flags in my head for the last two months, so a good follow seemed in order, and not the friendly Twitter kind.
Anyway, back to my origin story: I was found by a fisherman called Joseph (hence the forename), face down and very, completely naked, beside Derwent Water, which is one of several bodies of water that make up an area known as the Lake District in the far north of England. Yup, you got it, from thence derives my surname.
Actually, that’s a lie, I wasn’t completely naked, I had one sock on. I still have th
at sock. It’s the only physical evidence I have of my past life and who I really am, though it is difficult to extrapolate much from a sock, other than “I wore socks.” Even Sherlock Holmes would want more to go on than that, unless I skipped Sherlock Holmes and the One-Socked Man.
It was chilly out and I pulled my long coat tight around myself as I did my best to keep a discreet distance from the tramp, who seemed to be aimlessly wandering here, there, and nowhere in particular. The tramp had been showing up a lot recently; not just hanging out by the cash machine I always passed, or pushing a trolley around town full of tin cans. I hadn’t just happened across her on my way to work. No, she’d been turning up all over, almost as though there was some design to it. I’d look out of my window, she’d be sat across the street. I’d get to work, she’d be in the car park, going through the bins. It felt a lot like she was following me. So I thought, well, two can play at that game.
So, here I was, following a homeless woman around the streets of Carlisle, Cumbria’s only city, in the middle of the night. No, you have too much time on your hands.
I’m sure most would brush it her appearance off as coincidence, but when you have my kind of strange (and stunted) history, you tend to see the weird shining out from the ordinary. No, this wasn’t one of those situations where you buy a pair of red trousers and suddenly start noticing people wearing those self-same red trousers everywhere. This woman was following me. I was sure of it. Keeping tabs. For… for reasons yet to be ascertained.
A little part of me even hoped it was because she recognised me. Maybe I’d been a tramp too, before… well… before whatever happened happened and I wound up unconscious by a lake wearing nothing but a sock and a fully-body bruise. Maybe that’s why it was so difficult to find anything out about my past; perhaps I’d been on the streets for years.
