A Game of Witches (The Order of Shadows Book 3)

by Kit Hallows

  You’re a weak, weak soul. You shame me, my other whispered, his voice growing distant as he returned to whatever dark corner of my soul he slept in.

  “Go to hell,” I whispered.

  I found the final guard at his post near the house, snorting a dab of coke from his fingernail. I dropped him before the buzz hit his system and left him lying unconscious. Then I searched for a way into the house. I was more shaken from the ferocity of my other’s violence than I could remember ever being, but I was determined not to show it.

  34

  The windows along the patio were unlocked. Sloppy, but then again, almost half of Nagle’s guards seemed to be coked up. I climbed in near the kitchen sink, crouched on the granite counter and leapt to the tiled floor. The room was pristine, tens of thousands of dollars poured into worktops and appliances that didn’t look like they’d ever been used. It was like a showroom, but to what end? The thought of someone like Nagle throwing a dinner party or impressing a bunch of thugs with his commercial range was ridiculous.

  I made my way into the foyer and each step echoed on the cold polished marble floor. The walls, curtains and trim were decorated in shades of beige and ivory and the paintings that hung on the wall along the spiral staircase stood out like a sore thumb against the calm neutral backdrop. They were huge canvases spray painted in bright garish colors. No doubt commissioned from clients that specialized in graffiti and tags. A testament that despite his privileged upbringing and opulent surroundings, Nagle was still from the street.

  “Bullshit!”

  His voice echoed from an upstairs room, in a tone that was both agitated and angry.

  “That’s total fucking bullshit right there!”

  I slipped up the stairs slowly, toward what sounded very much like a reoccurring tantrum. I opened the door to the room, and glanced inside.

  The lights were off but a bright technicolor glow filled the room. Nagle was still sprawled among the beanbags, game controller in hand. A huge flat screen took up most of one wall and he stared at it furiously, as his avatar, an exaggerated muscleman in a t-shirt and commando pants, navigated a warehouse full of hostile enemies. Guns blazed and the sound was almost overwhelming amid the flashing light.

  The screen turned red as Nagle’s character got shot in the back. “Fucking bullshit,” Nagle said again, his voice lower now, almost resigned. He reached toward the table beside him and cracked open another beer from a six pack. I slipped in behind him, grabbed the remote and switched off the TV, plunging the room into darkness.

  “What the fuck!” Nagle turned to switch it back on, saw me, and flinched away. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Do you ever made statements that don’t contain a variation of the word fuck?” I asked, as I opened one of his beers and took a nice long swallow. It was good stuff.

  Nagle grabbed his tablet and hit an app that switched the lights on, then he looked me up and down like I was some unfortunate thing the dog had dragged in. “I don’t know who the fuck you are, man. But you’re fucking-”

  “McCabe? He’s down for the count. So is most of his detail. Apart from the ones who are…dead. I’m Morgan by the way.”

  Nagle scurried to his feet and ran for the door but I’d already placed an enchantment over it. As he reached it he screamed, the sound high and girlish. He grasped his temples and gave a low moan, like his head was about to explode.

  “Yeah. Hurt’s, doesn’t it? I’d stay away from there if I were you. Come back and sit down. I’ve got a few questions for you. My advice is to answer thoughtfully and carefully.”

  I caned the rest of my beer, as Nagle slumped back onto his beanbags. His brow furrowed, and I could see dark, vengeful thoughts drifting through his addled mind but that didn’t worry me.

  “What do you want?” he asked, his tone almost accommodating.

  “You know, I could prize your mind open like a clam and get whatever information I want. But I’ve already been through a long line of sewers in the last twenty four hours, and I’m sick of being up to my neck in other people’s shit. So here’s how this is going to go. You’re going to tell me who hooked you up with the black spice. Names, locations, anything I ask.”

  “Go fu-”

  “No.” I crouched before him and clasped his jaw. “Look into my eyes.”

  He shook his head, but I tightened my grip and made him look. “See?”

  His eyes widened.

  “Yes, you do see, don’t you? Want to see even more?”

  “N…no. No!”

  “Good.” I opened another beer and flicked the vintage style ring pull at him. “This is nice stuff. Fancier than what I usually buy, but I guess the price is just peanuts to you.” I waved my hand around the room. “Seems I’m in the wrong game. Clearly trafficking in misery pays much better than trying to prevent it.”

  He said nothing, just stared at his bright white sneakers like a petulant child.

  “I don’t appreciate long drawn out silences during my Q and A sessions. So speak up, before I have to hurt you. Where did you get the spice?”

  “I got it off some messed up bitch. Said her name was Wyght.”

  Seemed I was suddenly one rung from the top of the ladder. “How did you hook up with her?”

  “She came to me. Appeared at the end of my bed in the middle of the night like some kind of fucking ghost. I don’t even know how she got in-”

  “What'd she offer you?”

  Nagle’s brow furrowed even harder. Clearly he was not used to being questioned, which made me want to do it even more.

  “The spice, man! She made me try it right there and then. It was good. Different, but different’s good. Different can be worth a lot of money. I asked her how much she had and what she wanted for it. She named a fair price. I had more than enough cash in the safe but she told me to pay her after the stuff sold. Unbelievable, right? So I’m thinking-”

  “You’re going to stiff her. Teach her a little lesson, for slipping past your security detail.”

  “Yeah.” He shook his head. “How did you know?”

  “You’re really fucking predictable. Now continue.”

  He pursed his lips and a hard edge crept into his stare. He wanted to come at me, but he wasn’t quite as stupid as he looked. He’d sized me up and knew he was going to lose. Tonight at least.

  “She said she’d get me as much as I wanted, I agreed to take delivery at one of my places downtown. I wasn’t there, but McCabe was. Wyght didn’t show, this other bitch did and she had a man with her. He was carrying a crate filled with kilos and kilos of the stuff. McCabe said the dude looked like he was totally out to lunch.”

  “Probably a thrall. Continue.”

  “So we broke it down and started selling it. It took a while to shift at first, people are weird about new shit. But once word got out, we couldn’t keep up with demand. Nice, easy bank, the way I like it.” Nagle grinned but as he glanced back my way his smile faltered. “So I set up another meet, and they handed over even more, but this time they told us not to sell it. Told us we had to hold it back.”

  “And did you?”

  “Fuck no. We carried on selling the shit out of it. Then Wyght turned up again, woke me with her fingernails at my throat, like she was about to tear it open.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t get to my gun. If I’d had it, I’d have painted her all over the fucking walls.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She was pissed, said I’d been told to hold that spice back 'til Halloween. I told her she was stupid, it was bad for business, it made no sense. Then…” The fire in his eyes dimmed, and he shrunk back into his bean bag like the overgrown child he was. “She made the room go dark. Like black. And her wrist started glowing. It was freaky shit.”

  “A silver spiral.”

  “Yeah. That was it. And she asks me if I want to live, or die in eternal torment.” Nagle reached over to the table and picked up a small glass vial. He tapped some coke out on his nail and snort
ed it. His eyes skitted from me to the floor and then back to me. “I ain’t, what do you call it, super…”

  “Superstitious.”

  “Yeah, that. But there’s something really fucked up about that woman. Something… cold.” He shivered.

  “What happened next?”

  “She asked if I understood the situation and told me she better not see spice on the streets till’ Halloween. I agreed. What else could I do?”

  Why Halloween? What the hell was Wyght up to? “So you’ve still got the spice?”

  Nagle shook his head. “No way, it’s gone. I got rid of it. Didn’t want the hassle.”

  “Like hell you did. Where is it?” I pulled my sword, relishing the shock in his bloodshot eyes.

  “What the fuck? Why you carry a fucking sword, bro?” Nagle laughed.

  Right up until I placed the point under his chin. “Where’s the spice?”

  He was about to lie again so I pushed the tip of the blade just enough to break the skin and force his head up until he met my eyes. “I can tell you’re lying. Do you understand?”

  He held his palms out. “It’s on East Street. At a dry cleaners. There’s a room in the back where we keep the shit we sell in the city.”

  “Not after tonight. Get out of this business, Nagle. If you don’t, our paths will cross again, and when they do, you’ll be the worse for it. Understand?” I gazed coldly into his eyes. There was a mix of emotions running through his mind. Fury, hatred, defiance. Fear, resignation. The latter seemed to win him over and he gave a slight nod.

  I sheathed my sword and was almost at the door when a blaze of light and noise filled the room.

  I felt each impact and my back arched as a hail of bullets slammed into me and the wall around me. My coat had repelled every shot, but it still felt like someone had thrust a red-hot poker into my spine.

  I turned to find Nagle frantically trying to reload the semi automatic he’d had stashed away. His eyes were wild and his face slick with sweat as he fought to shove in the magazine.

  “I tried,” I said, as I threw the sword of intention. “End!”

  The blade planted itself in his chest. Nagle shook, and bubbles of blood burst from his lips.

  “Trying’s all I can do,” I shook my head as I wrenched the sword from his twitching body. Then I wiped the door handle and beer bottles to eliminate any prints.

  As I ventured off into the cold, crisp night, an owl called out from the treetops.

  It was a sinister, ominous sound.

  35

  The row of shops on East Street was little more than a rundown strip mall. Ugly, dated, worn awnings blighted the facade along with the metal cage-like shutters that covered windows papered with faded flyers and posters. Sale, sale, sale. Everything must go.

  Most of the stores had gone out of business long ago. Those that hadn’t were closed up for the night, including the dry cleaners with the flickering neon sign that announced “Elite Premium Cleaners”. Ironic, given the surroundings.

  I peered into the dark interior. Beyond the huge rotating carousel of starched white shirts, sport coats and blouses wrapped in ghostly plastic, there was a thin strip of light, coming from underneath the door at the back of the shop. That, paired with the sleek, ostentatious car parked on the street behind me indicated I might be in for some trouble.

  I placed a hand over the lock, focusing until I heard the telltale click. Then I pushed the front door open, my gun in hand as I lightly stepped across the frayed carpet.

  Tinny music played, the sound so muffled I couldn’t tell what it was.

  I made my way past the rows of dry cleaning toward the backlit doorway and peered through the keyhole. A pair of legs in dark trousers waited at the far side of the short hall beyond. They belonged to a thug with dark glasses and a shaved head that gleamed like a cue ball below the strip light. He looked bored, pissed off. Like he had better places to be. He snapped his head my way and reached toward the gun in his jacket as I slowly opened the door.

  “Hey,” I whispered.

  “That better not be you again, Carl.” His thick brow lowered, and he snarled as he strode toward the door, his blinkered eyes unseeing. I cracked my gun over the side of his skull, sending him toppling like a felled tree.

  About a half a dozen women were working in the back room he’d been guarding. Three of them whispered to each other in Spanish as they stood weighing and portioning out yellowish brown powder into tiny bags. Another pair pulled bundles of cash from a green canvas bag and quietly fed them through a counter while a woman with long grey and black hair watched. Not one of them looked like they wanted to be there.

  As I entered the room the whispering stopped and the supervisor glanced my way. “Who are you?” she demanded. The others froze, and then backed away from their work.

  “Robin Hood,” I said. I walked over and pulled several bundles of cash from the bag and handed one to each of the women. “It’s time to go,” I told them.

  They all nodded and took off, except for the supervisor. “What are you doing here?” She refused the money I held out to her.

  “Shutting this place down.”

  “Are you police?”

  “No.”

  “Where is Mr. Nagle?” Her eyes were full of suspicion, as if Nagle himself might burst through the door at any moment and punish her.

  “Retired, permanently. I kindly suggested he turn over a new leaf. Now I’m here to advise you to do the same. The problem with Nagle was, he didn’t listen and I had to force the issue.”

  “He is, gone?”

  “Yes. His men too. They won’t bother you again.”

  She gave me a slow careful nod before taking the cash.

  “Where’s the spice?”

  “Over here.” She walked toward a wall covered in whiteboards and old instructional diagrams for the dry cleaning machinery that had long since been removed. Then she flipped over a tiny faded picture of an unfortunate looking cat and pushed the button hidden underneath it. A small section of the wall slid open and she nodded for me to follow.

  Inside were shelves laden with brick size bundles of shrink-wrapped black spice. “Is there a bathroom around here?” I asked.

  She led me back to a filthy broom cupboard with a toilet. The seat was broken and the roll holder half hung off the wall. “It’ll do. Give me a hand and you can take what’s left of the cash,” I said, as I walked back to the stash, grabbed a few bricks of spice and sliced open the wrappers. She watched wide-eyed as I poured the contents into the bowl and flushed.

  “Yes, okay.” she said as she grabbed a box from the floor and swept the contents of the packing table into it with her hands. For a moment she almost smiled and I got the sense she’d wanted to do something like this for a long time.

  “Is there any more?” I asked as she pulled the last bundle of spice from the shelves.

  “No, we got it all.”

  I was about to search a desk in the corner for anything of interest when my phone began to buzz.

  - D.H.

  “I thought this was your day off, Haskins.”

  “So did I. But I got an unusual call, so I figured I better check it out. Turns out it’s another kook that went gaga on that black spice shit. Mirror. Crazy eyes. The whole nine yards. You need to get over here quick ‘cause this one can't wait. She’s the daughter of a high-ranking Japanese diplomat, which means there’s gonna be serious heat if you don’t get it fixed.”

  “Send the address, I’ll get there as soon as I can.” I hung up and glanced at the woman as she turned the radio off and tucked it into a tote bag. “You got a car?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  “I’m going to need a ride.”

  “Sure.” She smiled, and the gesture took years off her harried face. “Let’s go.”

  36

  The address Haskins sent was on the swanky side of town, in a neighborhood I’d never been to. It was a different world, one that made me feel like ev
en more of an unwanted stranger than most. We pulled up outside a pristine white tower of penthouses, their wide balconies stretching up into darkness.

  “Nice,” the woman from the dry cleaners said. I’d considered asking her name but, under the circumstances, I knew she’d only have made one up, and I couldn’t have blamed her for that.

  “It sure is. Thanks for the lift,” I said as I climbed out of the car.

  “Thank you,” She waved and gave me a quick, sweet smile before she sped away, hopefully to start a new life and leave the past far behind her.

  I wished I could do the same, but instead I stepped through the revolving door and into the bright warm lobby. A concierge eyeballed me from behind a polished desk and his calculated smile faded as soon as he got a good look at my clothes. “Sir, I’m afraid-”

  “You’ll be more than afraid if you say one more word. Believe me.” I stared into his eyes until he looked away, his bravado melting away like a snowflake. I strode to the closest elevator and hit the button for the seventeenth floor. The doors dinged in a soft, tasteful way, and I caught my reflection in the mirror as the elevator began to rise.

  It was a pretty harsh insight into what the concierge had just seen. I looked like bad news swept in from the wrong side of the street. Battered, bruised, my eyes ringed with dark tired circles. I needed a break, a place with fresh clean air and a conspicuous absence of people.

  But that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.

  I grabbed a vial of Rimeberry essence from my bag and gulped it down, shivering slightly in revulsion as its curative powers worked their magic. Some of the pallor faded from my face and the shadows around my eyes softened. They’d be back; the potion was little more than a temporary fix. But for now, at least I looked semi-presentable.

  Ding

  I stepped out into a round wood paneled room with four carved wooden doors. Each one led to an apartment, identified by an elegant N, S, E or W marked on the points of a large star compass design in the middle of the inlaid granite floor. It was almost mind boggling, the way the place reeked of opulence, and to witness the decadence of moneyed people whose lives were spent in such rarified, sheltered places.