Uncanny Kingdom: An Eleven Book Urban Fantasy Collection (Uncanny Kingdom Omnibus 1)

by David Bussell

  ‘As you can see,’ Anand went on, ‘the mutilation occurred some time ago and has already been treated surgically.’

  Stronge nodded. ‘I can see that. So, what’s the second of all?’

  ‘I found heavy post-mortem bruising on the cadaver’s right hand. Most likely caused by the murder weapon as it ricocheted off the victim’s skull.’

  If the bruising really had happened after Fergal died, which all signs pointed to, someone had gone to some major lengths to frame him.

  ‘You mentioned a third thing,’ said Stronge.

  ‘I did,’ replied Anand, ‘And I saved the best till last.’ She paused for effect. ‘From what I can tell, the body’s been exsanguinated.’

  Stronge sighed. ‘Let’s pretend for a second like I don’t know what that word means.’

  But I knew what it meant.

  It meant sucked dry of blood.

  It meant vampires.

  6

  Here’s what vampires aren’t:

  Adolescent dreamboats with devastating cheekbones and pallid skin that sparkles in the sunlight.

  Sophisticated gentlemen dressed in top hats and tails who sup delicately on lusty young virgins.

  Brooding teenage girls with dairy heifer eyes and needle sharp fangs who leave their victims with nothing more challenging than a light headache.

  So what are they really?

  Parasites.

  Killers.

  Bloodsucking freaks with an unquenchable thirst for the old Type O.

  From the looks of things, these vamps were smarter than the average though. They were posing as night shift paramedics, rolling around town after sunset, picking up donors and carting them off in their mobile blood bank. They were careful enough to only prey on people who wouldn’t be missed too, which told me they definitely had a couple of brain cells to rub together. No, these weren’t your regular sun-dodgers. If I was going to go at these two, I’d need to go prepared.

  While Stronge followed some leads on Popeye the Bludgeoned Man, I continued to work the dead junkie angle. Since I’d recently stepped up my caseload from regular homicides to things of a more supernatural nature, vampire paramedics were right in my wheelhouse. I had to be careful though. When it came to bloodsuckers I only knew the basics. I needed to discuss the matter with someone a little more knowledgeable on the subject, which is how I ended up paying a visit to my old friend, Jazz Hands.

  Jazz owns a dilapidated magic shop tucked down a King’s Cross back street. The shop’s called Legerdomain, a clever little pun that she must have dreamed up back when she had a sense of humour. As I entered—still in my ghost form—a bell tinkled; an early warning system Jazz had installed to alert her of any uninvited paranormal visitors. The shop was full, as ever, of alluring little objects: things that vanished, things that appeared from nowhere, things that floated in thin air. All of them stage tricks. The real magic was kept strictly behind locked doors, away from prying eyes.

  ‘What is it now?’ asked Jazz Hands, peering at me across the counter through a pair of violet-lensed glasses.

  She’d fashioned the specs herself to be able to see phantoms, or more accurately, to see me. As far as I knew, I was the only ghost who ever dropped by. The only person who visited the shop at all according to the thick layer of dust that blanketed the place.

  ‘I came to pick your brains,’ I told her. A bad turn of phrase, now I thought about it, remembering the smashed-up skull back at the morgue.

  ‘I see,’ Jazz Hands replied, fussing at a loose thread on her sleeve. Today, like most days, she wore a grungy, moth-eaten jumper and a folksy scarf that tethered her cloud of frizzy auburn hair to the rest of her head. ‘And which denizens of the underworld do you plan on doing battle with this week?’ she asked. ‘Werewolves? Abominable snowmen? Creatures from the Black Lagoon?’

  Jazz wasn’t too thrilled about what I did for a living, but I had her over a barrel on the matter. On one hand, it filled her with maternal dread whenever I pitted myself against the supernatural and risked what little life I had. On the other, she didn’t want me going to the Bad Place when I inevitably did end up answering to the Big Man, and the only way I was buying my way out of that was by playing boy scout. Pure thoughts and good deeds, those were my tickets to paradise, and Jazz Hands knew it. Didn’t mean she had to like it though, and I could understand the dirty feeling it gave her. In many ways, she was as much an enabler to me as I was to old Frosty.

  I explained the situation with the vampires and how I was trying to chase them down. ‘Before they can bleed anyone else dry,’ I added for effect.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she replied. ‘You say the victim was drained in an ambulance, but that his body was found on Hampstead Heath next to another corpse?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I don’t know for sure, but I’m guessing the vamps bashed the big guy’s head in and dumped Fergal’s body to cover up their part in the murder.’

  ‘Hm. Why would vampires clever enough to employ a mobile blood bank think the police too stupid to determine a body’s actual time of death? And besides, so long as the vampires were draining one corpse dry, why leave a second one full of blood?’

  She was right, something didn’t fit. My brain tied up in a knot thinking about it. I’d just gotten going on this case but it was already starting to look like a 500 piece puzzle. ‘You’ve got a point,’ I admitted, ‘I don’t have all the answers. I reckon I know where I can get them though...’

  ‘If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking—’

  ‘It’s gotta be done, Jazzer. I’ve gotta Van Helsing this shit.’

  ‘You can’t be serious? Taking on two vampires? Vampires are undead, Fletcher, which means they can hurt other undead, including ghosts.’

  ‘It’s the only way Fergal gets his wings. Otherwise he’s stuck here forever.’

  ‘You have no idea how powerful these creatures can be.’

  ‘Then tell me. Help me know what I’m going up against.’

  Jazz Hands’ eyes betrayed a complicated cocktail of emotions: pity, dread, devotion, but mostly just plain aggravation. Eventually, she reached under the shop counter and came back with a loosely-stitched tome stamped with the words “Codexul Vampir.”

  ‘A vampire’s power is determined by a variety of factors,’ she explained, ‘but mainly their age and bloodline.’ She consulted an index, then carefully peeled back the book’s pages to arrive at a fragile sheet of parchment that looked as though it were made of animal skin. ‘Here,’ she went on, pointing to some chicken scratch written in a language I didn’t comprehend. ‘A list of powers that have been attributed to nosferatu over the centuries…’

  She ran through a menu of potential traits—immortality, night vision, superhuman strength, hypnotism, bites that caused paralysis, the ability to turn into a cloud of gas—the list went on and on. A much shorter list described their known weaknesses, which amounted to little more than an allergy to silver, an intolerance to sunlight, and, for reasons quite beyond my grasp, a tremendous fear of antique clocks.

  ‘What about wooden stakes through the heart?’ I asked.

  Jazz looked me up and down, judging me by a set of standards I could only guess at. ‘Show me one creature that does respond favourably to having a stake hammered through its heart.’

  Fair point.

  ‘In any case,’ she went on, ‘given a vampire’s vulnerability to the light of day, you’d be much better off armed with one of these…’

  Making a rare trip from her stool, she went to the framed picture of paranormal debunker James Randi that hung behind the shop counter. Unfastening a hidden catch, she swung the picture aside on an invisible hinge to access the wall safe beyond. Turning her back on me to conceal the strong box’s combination—as well as its contents—she delved inside and removed a ceramic sphere about the size of a tennis ball. She set it down gently on the shop counter and I squatted t
o get a look at it. It reminded me of a Christmas bauble.

  ‘Go on then, what is it?’ I asked.

  Her eyes took on a smug twinkle. ‘In laymen’s terms, bottled sunlight,’ she said, folding her arms like a genie granting a wish.

  ‘Is that all?’ I replied, feigning disregard. Jazz Hands was an easy wind-up, and it always tickled me to tweak her foibles.

  She placed her palms on the counter and leaned across to me. ‘Do you have any idea of the skill and patience required to produce a magical grenade capable of emitting enough UV light to destroy a vampire?’ she asked.

  ‘I dunno,’ I said with a shrug, ‘not that much I’m guessing.’

  ‘“Not that much”?’ she screeched. ‘You ungrateful little shit! When I think of all the work I put in on your behalf! The hours! The back-breaking toil!’

  I held up my hands. ‘Whoa, Jazz, you are easier to play than a wind-up music box.’

  She gave me the evil eyes over her glasses. ‘Let us return to the matter at hand. These vampires of yours… I expect you’d like to know where to find them?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ I replied demurely.

  ‘I see. Well, when it comes to setting up a den, vampires tend to look for somewhere secure from light. Somewhere underground usually, most likely a cellar. They tend to cluster as well, so if it’s two vampires working together, chances are they're cohabiting.’

  ‘Okay, that narrows it down some. So, what should I do to find them?’ I asked, thinking out loud. ‘Check property listings within a set perimeter of their feeding territory, zoning in on homes with basements? Go to The Beehive and ruffle some feathers? Find another vampire in their clan and put the squeeze on them?’

  ‘You could do those things,’ she replied. ‘Or you could go to the hospital they work at and get an address from their records.’

  ‘Right. Or that. I mean, if you want to go the obvious route.’

  Jazz smirked.

  ‘Wait, they're not just going to hand that information out, are they? What about data protection?’

  ‘What about it?’ she replied. ‘Is obtaining private records going to be any more difficult than knocking on every house in Camden that has a basement and hoping a vampire answers the door?’

  Fair point.

  I took the UV grenade from the counter and placed it carefully in the pocket of my jacket.

  ‘Take two,’ she said, removing another from the wall safe. ‘Just promise me one thing.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I promise my arse is every bit as tight and toned as you’ve heard.’

  ‘Find the vampire den,’ she said, ignoring me, ‘but don’t go walking in there alone. If you absolutely have to go inside, make sure Stella Familiar goes in with you. This is what the London Coven built her for. Don’t be a hero.’

  ‘Yes, mother,’ I sighed, taking the hand grenade.

  7

  I was hoping not to need Mark again so soon, but a job’s a job.

  The next stage of my investigation—finding the vampire den—would call upon all my powers of persuasion, and though I do consider myself a man of no small charm, I’d need Mark’s good looks to really seal the deal. My natural charisma coupled with his genetic makeup makes for a pretty unbeatable combination. Don’t get me wrong, I'm easy on the eye, but Mark has the kind of classic, chiselled looks you rarely see outside of that filthy rich, country club set. Plus he has a flesh and blood body that your everyday person is able to actually see, which chicks seem to like.

  When I homed in on Mark I found him sat in a chair getting an eighty quid haircut from a late-night barber. It was one of those swanky, hipster places where all the staff wear waxed moustaches and sailor tattoos they haven’t earned. In other words, a typical Mark establishment. The salon was packed, every chair filled, but neither the stylists or customers could see me. To them, I was as invisible as a homeless ninja.

  I glided up behind Mark and prepared to make him my soul mule, when a sudden flash of light bounced off the mirror in front of me. I turned over my shoulder to see a slim black man dressed in a long white coat and a matching wide-brimmed hat. At first I took him for a ghost, but no, he was something else. Something very else. The black man in white was wreathed in a divine light and emanated a faint gospel music, like a distant choir. The guy absolutely hummed with the Uncanny.

  ‘Mister Fletcher?’ he purred.

  The voice sounded familiar but I couldn’t quite place it. ‘Who’s asking?’ I replied.

  ‘My name is Adonael,’ he explained. ‘Angel and celestial attendant of God.’

  ‘Sorry, sunshine,’ I replied. ‘Still none the wiser.’

  He placed a hand on his heart in mock consternation. ‘You really don’t remember me? I have to say I’m disappointed, I rather thought I’d made an impression upon you.’ He cleared his throat, and when he spoke again he did so in the voice of the actress, Whoopi Goldberg. ‘You drifted from the light, Jake. You revolted against God.’ He smiled and returned to his usual masculine, if still a bit effeminate, purr. ‘Remember me now?’

  ‘So you’re the Big Man’s stooge, are you? The one who spoke to me through my Ghost DVD?’

  Yeah, it’s a long story. Needless to say, I’d dealt with the bloke before, but never face to face. I didn’t really know much about him except that he’d been given the job of keeping tabs on yours truly. The rest was all hypothesis, but if I had to hazard a guess I’d say he was some low-level, letter of the law, paid on commission, apple-polishing jobsworth of an angel.

  He frowned and hooked his thumbs into the belt of his coat. ‘Take your last look at London, Mister Fletcher,’ he said. ‘You’re coming with me now.’

  ‘I very much fucking doubt that.’

  His face contorted into a scowl. ‘I have been duly sanctioned by the Almighty to retrieve you from this earthly plane and transport your soul to the afterlife, where you will be judged for your mortal—and now immortal—sins.’

  ‘What are you banging on about?’ I asked. ‘I’m already off the naughty step, you told me so yourself. I sent a soul feaster packing, and if that wasn’t enough to put me in the clear I helped banish a nightmare demon, and now—if you’ll get out of the way and let me do my job—I’m going to nip a couple of vampires in the bud. I’m not saying my account’s in the black just yet, mate, but it must be near as.’

  ‘You are a long way from having a clean slate, Mister Fletcher. A very long way indeed.’

  What was this? Crossed wires? Some administrator upstairs putting my name on the wrong form? What had I done wrong to have this traffic warden writing me up a ticket?

  ‘So what is it then? What’s got you so hot and bothered that you decided to come down here and stake out my meat suit?’ I spat, pointing to Mark, who sat oblivious in the barber chair getting his hair cut into something out of a GQ magazine.

  ‘You destroyed a heavenly relic,’ the angel replied. ‘The seraphim sword.’

  Oh right, that thing.

  During my run-in with the soul feaster I’d kind of let it get burned up by witch fire. It was an honest mistake. The kind that happens to the best of us.

  ‘The seraphim sword was an invaluable weapon in our eternal fight against the forces of evil,’ said the angel. ‘It was ancient and irreplaceable, and you are to be held accountable for its loss.’

  ‘It was an accident!’ I explained. ‘An accident that happened while I was saving a bunch of people from getting murdered.’

  ‘Rules are rules,’ he scolded, curtly.

  I was right. The man in white fancied himself a bounty hunter, but he was really just a pious bureaucrat. An errand boy. Yet another thorn in my dead arse.

  ‘Isn’t this all a bit petty?’ I said. ‘I thought you'd be above all that, what with being an angel. Well, I mean, you say you're an angel…’

  ‘I am an angel!’

  ‘Then where are your wings and halo?’

  ‘Wings and halo?’ he sputtered. ‘Where do you think you are, Mister
Fletcher, Sunday School? Angels don’t wear gowns and play harp music, and God isn't some old man with a white beard sitting on a cloud.’

  ‘So, he is a man?’

  I felt pretty sure that information wasn’t meant for my ears.

  The angel went silent, realising he’d been caught talking out of school, then decided he didn’t care. ‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ he told me, and unlatched a set of glowing manacles from his belt.

  Now, I don’t take too kindly to handcuffs. Haven’t done since the day the toolbag sat next to me getting his barnet done chained me to a red-hot radiator. Besides, there was no way I was having this little Hitler getting paid commission for banging me up.

  ‘Sorry, pal,’ I told him. ‘Looks like you’re going home empty-handed.’

  I went to give the angel the old Irish goodbye, but when I tried to teleport, nothing happened. I looked in the wall mirror and tried again, but instead of vanishing, I came apart like a couple of misaligned transparencies and snapped back together again.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s not going to work,’ said the man in white. ‘Now kindly put on the cuffs before I’m forced to do so myself.’

  “Not bloody likely,” I thought, and said, now I come to think of it.

  ‘Catch me if you can,’ I told him.

  I leapt into the customer to my right—a twenty-something getting his man bun trimmed—and took possession of his body.

  The angel laughed. ‘What are you doing, Fletcher? You realise you’re only prolonging the inevitable?’

  Was anything this guy said not a cliche?

  I leapt again, this time into a customer getting his hair styled into little points that made him look like a crap dinosaur.

  ‘Stop it,’ demanded the angel.

  Again and again I leapt, moving from one body to another.

  Find the lady!

  The angel knotted his brow as he began to lose track of me. To make things even more challenging, I planted some suggestions in my hosts as I did the rounds, leaving each of them with an impression that they were dancing at a Christmas disco. Customers and hairdressers alike formed a line, each with his hands on the waist of the man in front.