Ghosts of Winter: A Dark Shapeshifter Urban Fantasy (Echoes of the Past Book 2)

by H B Lyne

  Stalker nodded. He was right, again. She was spotting a pattern here, Claws was always right. It was probably best not to voice the thought, it might go to his head.

  The two of them slept at her flat that night, she let him sleep in her bed and she curled up at his feet as a cat. In the morning they got up early and went over to Grove Street. Stalker got up the courage to check her phone on the way. There were more messages from Rhys, though their frequency was reducing.

  Please hear me out.

  Please meet me.

  I don't know what you thought, but I'm not a bad guy, please talk to me.

  I want to work this out with you, please.

  I'm crazy about you and I was crazy to hide this from you.

  She deleted them all. She acknowledged to herself that part of her wanted to test his persistence. She wanted to know if he was going to give up. If he was evil then his persistence might go to extremes, she knew that the Spiral Hand were experts in manipulation and she refused to let him manipulate her. Everything would be on her terms and in her own time.

  They arrived at the house to find Eyes on the phone, the others listening patiently. Eyes glared at them as they walked in and Stalker instantly felt bad about not letting them know where she and Claws were. Eyes finished the call and turned on Stalker.

  'I'm glad you two are all right. A call next time would be nice. Right now, Scribe needs our help.'

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The Lightning Lords stood on a street corner in Northgate, north of St. Mark's. People bustled past in thick coats and bowed their heads low against the icy winter wind as they made their way to work. It was rush hour and the road was heavy with slow-moving traffic chugging out thick smoke. Stalker thought of Tar Peter and wondered what these conditions meant to him. It was the first time she had given much thought to how a demon lived.

  They were a few blocks away from the heavy industrial area of Caerton, in a more commercial area. But it was a rough neighbourhood with many homeless people and a plethora of shelters, food banks and a thriving soup kitchen. The Lightning Lords stood outside the soup kitchen now, waiting for Scribe to meet them.

  Stalker saw him walking briskly towards them through the throng of pedestrians, and they greeted each other warmly.

  'Thanks for meeting me and allowing me to come,' Scribe said quietly.

  'Not a problem,' Eyes replied. 'What are we doing here?'

  Stalker looked over his shoulder at the building on the corner. The windows were boarded and the big wooden door held a sign declaring the place open. It looked like it had once been an office building, but had long since been abandoned as such.

  'We're looking for a man called Henry Smith,' Scribe said, leaning close to the pack and keeping his voice low. 'He's a vagrant and known around here, he comes to this place most mornings for breakfast. He has the key.'

  Scribe led them inside. There was a small lobby and a set of double doors stood open, leading through to a large hall. In the hall was a long serving station with heat lamps and a single volunteer positioned behind it. The hall was filled with long tables, where half a dozen people sat eating hot porridge. Scribe looked around and shook his head. 'He's not here.'

  Stalker strode over to the serving station and waited while someone was served. The volunteer, a man in his fifties with greying hair and kind eyes, looked her up and down with a frown.

  'Hi,' Stalker said with a smile. 'I'm looking for Henry Smith, I'm a friend of his. I heard he comes here for breakfast.'

  The man looked at her carefully for a moment, considering her. He gave a small nod of approval.

  'You just missed him. He left about ten minutes ago.'

  'Oh, okay, thanks. Do you know where he was going?'

  'He panhandles about five minutes from here, near the cash machine.'

  'Thank you,' Stalker said and walked briskly back to the others to relay the information. They set off and found the cash machine easily enough but there was no sign of Henry.

  'Spread out, he must be here somewhere,' Eyes instructed. They went off in pairs to search the surrounding streets and alleyways. Stalker and Scribe went together down a side street that was wet and strewn with rubbish. About halfway down the street was a little coffee shop and just outside it, in a boarded up doorway, was a hunched figure in an old coat with a small tin on the ground in front of him. Scribe gave Stalker a curt nod and came to a halt in front of the man.

  'Hi Henry,' Scribe said gently. He crouched down in front of the greying old man. Henry looked up at him with watery eyes and a smile of recognition passed over his thin lips. 'Do you have something for me?'

  Henry just gazed at Scribe, like he was an angel. Scribe glanced up and down the alley and then moved closer to Henry, placed his hands on the man's cheeks and whispered to him. Stalker could barely hear what he was saying, it sounded like a chant. She kept watch for passersby, but the street was empty. People dashed past the end of the street without looking down it, and the coffee shop was deserted.

  Henry began to cough violently and Stalker's attention snapped back to him. Scribe kept hold of his face and whispered soothing words. Suddenly Henry leaned over and gagged, bringing something up and spitting it out into his empty tin with a clang. Scribe carefully fished it out and held up a very small key. 'Thank you, Henry,' he said and patted the man on the shoulder. Stalker quickly found some money in her wallet, a few notes of low denomination and some loose change. She stuffed it all into Henry's tin. He looked up at her, the glaze lifted from his eyes, and he blinked a few times. He looked into his tin and back up at her with surprise.

  'Thank you, miss,' he croaked. 'That's very generous.'

  'Not a problem, Henry,' she said kindly. 'Thank you.'

  She and Scribe walked away, no doubt leaving Henry confused as to what Stalker was thanking him for. 'He had no idea he had it, did he?' she whispered to Scribe. 'He didn't really know you.'

  'The spell on him allowed him to recognise any Scroll Keeper who approached him. Flames-First-Guardian hid the key with him for safe keeping until any one of us found him. Very clever.'

  They met up with the others and Scribe led them to the bridge that connected Northgate to Old Port on the other side of the river. They jumped down from the footpath onto the bank and trudged carefully through the thick, wet clay under the bridge. There was a narrow door set into the wall, hidden away from human eyes. Scribe glanced around at them and held out the key.

  'Try it,' Stalker urged. Scribe found a small lock and fit the key into it, he turned it and there was a loud click that echoed around the space far more than it ought to have done. Scribe opened the door, it was a little stiff and required a shove but as it opened a light flickered on inside; a wall-mounted torch cast a warm glow around the cavernous room in the river bank. Stalker peered inside and saw tiny writing all over the stone walls. Scribe stepped into the doorway and turned to face them.

  'I can't let you inside, I'm afraid,' he sounded truly apologetic. Eyes gave a sympathetic nod.

  'I can't say I'm not curious to see it for myself,' he admitted. 'But I understand.'

  'Do I have your permission to come and go over the next few days while I work in here?'

  'Of course, just do me the courtesy of a text message to let me know when you come and go, please.' Eyes and Scribe shook hands. Wind Talker couldn't stop peering inside and Stalker felt drawn into the Scroll Archive herself.

  The Lightning Lords drifted away, reluctantly. Stalker decided to patrol the territory, while Eyes and Claws had to work, so the pack all went their separate ways. Stalker set off along the river at a jog, weighed down slightly by the clay that clung to her boots. She traversed the territory with growing confidence, running carefully along railings and slipping through small spaces. All was quiet on the southern border and she reached the east before lunch time. She took more time and care as she moved north through Crossway, covering more ground in order to thoroughly check for signs of movement by the Witche
s. She found nothing and resumed experimenting with freerunning along the edge of Redfield Park. The patrol helped to clear her head, if only while she was running.

  That evening, they ate together at Grove Street, waiting anxiously to hear from Scribe. No one mentioned the winter fae or the sacrifice, though Stalker thought of little else. Rhys punctuated her thoughts from time to time, and Claws glanced at her anxiously every time her phone buzzed with another incoming message.

  They heard nothing from Scribe and decided to get some sleep. Eyes went home to his family, while the others took up their usual positions in the living room.

  The following morning they woke to a knock at the door. It was still early, the sun was barely touching the horizon and Wind Talker went to the door rubbing his face and yawning. He returned with Scribe, who looked exhausted.

  'Have you been up all night?' Stalker asked him.

  'Yes,' he replied, a crack in his voice. 'I just left the Scroll Archive. There is an unbelievable amount of information in there.' He dropped onto the sofa and they gathered around him, waiting anxiously for him to share some useful information. 'Okay, so I found references to the Plague Doctor from a few hundred years ago. He was around during the last great outbreak and our kind managed to banish him from here and Hepethia, back into Muspelheim.'

  'Did you find the exact wording of the ritual?' Wind Talker asked, his voice full of eagerness.

  'No, but a fae called Winding-Breeze-of-Petals helped the shifters. She might be around today to help again.'

  'How did she help?' Stalker asked.

  'She inhabited masks the shifters wore, like the real plague doctors, masks filled with poppy petals. I guess she protected them from infection.'

  'Okay, that gives us something to try, thank you so much for your help.' Wind Talker helped Scribe up off the sofa and patted him firmly on the back.

  'You're welcome. I'm going to go home and sleep for three days now. Good luck.' They showed Scribe out and didn't waste any time.

  'We won't easily summon a fresh air fae here in the city,' Wind Talker said. 'We might have better luck at the beach.'

  'I'll let Eyes know what we're doing,' Stalker said, hurriedly sending a text to the Alpha as the rest of the pack quickly got ready to leave the house.

  They drove swiftly to the coast in Claws' car, not quite as far out as Father Ash's house, and pulled up just as the sun was properly rising, casting a cool light over a frosty morning. The sand crunched under Stalker's boots as they strode out towards the gently lapping waves. The beach was deserted. Wind Talker grabbed a stick and began drawing a circle in the sand. The others took up positions just inside the line. Stalker took a small bottle of pine oil from Wind Talker and opened it as he cut his palm and raised it to the sky. She sprinkled the oil into the centre of the circle and carefully replaced the cap. 'We call upon the fae of fresh air, the breeze and cleansing breaths. Winding-Breeze-of-Petals hear our call.' Wind Talker called to the sky.

  Stalker looked around them, checking that they weren't being observed, and for any supernatural activity. Everything was still and quiet and the air smelled of salt; she could feel the spray from the sea on her face.

  Suddenly the wind picked up and whipped around them. Stalker stumbled slightly against the gust to her back but quickly righted herself. In the centre of the circle a small hurricane swirled across the veil, it spun on the spot, whipping up the sand and lifting Weaver's long hair around her face. Stalker shuddered against the cold.

  Wind Talker dropped his hands and looked a little disappointed. 'Greetings. Thank you for answering my call. We were hoping to find Winding-Breeze-of-Petals.'

  'Not here,' the elemental whispered. 'Living in human form for a time.'

  'Can you give us the name of the human?' Wind Talker asked, frustration creeping into his voice.

  'Josie Ansell.' The elemental disappeared in a flurry and the pack were left staring at one another.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  'It's an unusual surname,' Claws said as the pack set off back to Grove Street. 'I can track her down.'

  'Good,' Wind Talker said briskly.

  'I'll be at my office,' Claws said. 'I have other work to do as well but this will be my top priority.'

  When they got back to Grove Street, Claws left for work and Stalker found herself alone with Weaver and Wind Talker for the first time since their falling out. She gave them an awkward smile and went straight out into the garden. She felt frustrated and overwhelmed, she was going to have to find something to hit soon, the tension inside her was painful. She took a few minutes to read some of Rhys's messages. To his credit, he wasn't giving up, despite her lack of reply.

  They were all much the same, pleading with her to hear him out, trying to reassure her.

  There is so much I want to say to you, but I'm not doing it by text message. Please meet with me. Not at my place if you don't want, I understand that. Anywhere you want. Please.

  She felt a tear run down her cheek and she brushed it away angrily.

  I'm a bit busy ATM. With all that stuff I thought I couldn't talk to you about. Pending apocalypse. But I have read your messages and I am willing to hear you out. I'll be in touch.

  She hit the send button.

  Thank you, thank you a thousand times over. I hope you're ok xxx

  Maybe she was making a mistake. Maybe she should have continued to ignore his messages, delete them without reading them and wait for him to get bored and give up. If he was evil then she was putting herself and her pack in danger by agreeing to have contact with him.

  'Are you all right?' Stalker looked up to see Weaver in the doorway, her arms crossed and her face full of concern.

  'Not really,' Stalker admitted.

  'I feel like you hate me,' Weaver said and moved over to sit down next to Stalker. She started pulling up weeds and Stalker set about the same task.

  'I don't hate you, or Wind Talker. You're my pack mates, my siblings.'

  'You're disappointed in us though,' Weaver said, not looking at her.

  'I am.'

  'Stalker,' Weaver's voice was insistent and Stalker felt her eyes on her, but Stalker kept working, not wanting to look Weaver in the eye. 'We aren't human, human morality doesn't apply to us and sometimes we just have to do things that we would never have contemplated in our old lives.'

  Stalker narrowed her eyes and shook her head in disbelief.

  'I can't believe you're bringing this up. I think it's best if we just don't talk about it.'

  'We have to talk about it, we have to come to an understanding. We're about to go into battle together and need to be in sync.'

  Stalker dropped her gardening trowel and looked hard at Weaver. She tried to read her face. Weaver was being honest and gentle, she was the same compassionate person she always had been, but with an edge. An edge that simply wasn't human.

  'I won't lose myself,' Stalker said firmly. 'I will not forsake my humanity. I will always strive for a different solution and if that means that you and I will always clash, then I'm afraid that's the way it will be. But I will work with you to the best of my ability and as long as you aren't making cold-hearted plans to slaughter old people, then we should be able to get along fine.'

  'If it's any consolation to you, the old man didn't suffer. It was gentle. He died in his sleep. We simply left a window open and allowed winter to enter. He was living in poverty and couldn't afford to heat his home.' Weaver's eyes were sad and Stalker got the feeling that she was trying to convince herself as much as Stalker.

  'It was a mercy killing then?' Stalker asked, with scepticism on her tongue.

  Weaver got up and went back inside without replying. Stalker wanted her sister back, the one she could hug and cry with, the one she would have told about Rhys. Silent tears fell as she continued to work in the garden.

  After lunch, Claws burst into the house.

  'I've found her. Or where she works, anyway,' he announced. 'It's a club called Silk. I think
she's a dancer there.'

  'I think it's best if we don't find out how you know this,' Stalker said.

  'Ha ha,' Claws said, mockingly. 'It was in the paper a few weeks ago for a big charity event they hosted. I found a picture of the staff and she was credited in it.'

  'Where is it?' Wind Talker asked.

  'Right here in St. Mark's,' Claws replied. 'Convenient, isn't it?'

  'Too convenient, this isn't a coincidence.' Wind Talker wore a puzzled expression.

  'Will there be anyone there in the day?' Stalker asked.

  'We'll have to go and check it out,' Claws replied.

  They set out for the club, which was a little north of Grove Street, in a bustling area of St. Mark's. It wasn't what Stalker had expected, she thought it might be a seedy strip joint, but it was a huge cabaret club with great big signs and show pictures on the front. Claws tried the front door but it was locked. 'Let's see if there's a staff entrance,' he said, and led them around the side of the building. There was an unmarked door half way down the side street and Claws tried it; it opened and he looked at the others expectantly.

  'We have to go in,' Stalker said.

  'Not all of us,' Wind Talker said. 'Stalker, you and Claws go in. We'll wait out here.'

  'Okay,' she said with a shrug.

  Stalker and Claws entered a well-lit, narrow corridor. The left seemed to lead to a door into the lobby. Right led backstage. They followed the corridor and found themselves in a wider corridor with dressing rooms off it, and one big communal dressing room at the end. There was no sign of anyone anywhere. They slipped past an office and heard movement inside, but seemed to mutually agree without the need for words that it was unlikely to be Josie. So they kept going and found their way to the backstage area. Music and voices came from the stage, where a rehearsal was in progress.

  Stalker gave Claws a grin and led him up the steps to the wings of the stage. Half a dozen dancers were there in sweats, blocking a new routine. Claws came up beside her and peered out onto the stage.