by Edward Cox
‘I have told you everything I know,’ Mr Taffin assured him. His eyes flickered to the brown paper package again.
‘I doubt that,’ the agent growled. He deactivated the rifle’s power stone with his thumb and slid the weapon into a holster upon his back. ‘But for your sake, I hope you’ve told me enough.’ He then snatched up the package from the crate beside him and threw it at Taffin, who caught it clumsily. ‘Now take your drugs and get out.’
‘Much obliged,’ Mr Taffin said, giving a quick bow. He turned to the door, relieved that he would soon be out of the Relic Guild agent’s company, and he clutched the package to his chest, protectively, triumphantly.
‘Oh,’ he said from the doorway. ‘Please relay my gratitude to the Resident, won’t you?’
But the shadowed agent had disappeared.
Chapter Four
Nightshade
Inside the police building in the northern district of Labrys Town, Clara sat alone in an interrogation room. It was a cold room, intimidating – its floor, walls and ceiling all made of smooth grey stone. Clara faced a door that was closed and locked, and lacked windows. A single eye was fixed to the wall to her left. The milky fluid stirred gently inside it: a sure sign that the eye was active, watching Clara with a piercing stare.
She sat on an uncomfortable metal chair before a metal table. Her hands were in her lap, her wrists bound by thick cuffs, and rain water dripped from her ill-fitting clothes. On the opposite side of the table were two more chairs; these were made of wood with padded backs and seats. Deliberately set up like an unwanted guest, Clara kept her expression neutral for the eye on the wall, though she rubbed at the ache where the patrolwoman’s baton had bruised her thigh.
She had only wanted to get her medicine, to change out of a dead man’s clothes, and then to try and make sense of the last few nights’ events. Instead, in the space of an hour, she had escaped the Great Labyrinth only to be caught by the police. Where was her mysterious guardian angel now?
Marney’s kiss still tingled upon Clara’s lips.
At least she had got as far as taking her medicine; at least she had some control over the inner monster … for a while.
The door opened. A man and woman entered the interrogation room. The woman was street patrol. Stocky and broad, she carried her receptor helmet under one arm. Her hair was shaved close to the scalp, her eyes were dark and humourless. Clara recognised her scent – she was the one who had accosted her outside the Lazy House. The baton hung at the officer’s waist, but she carried no gun.
The man, however, had a pistol holstered at his hip. His receding hair was slicked back, and he wore round glasses, the lenses of which were tinted enough to hide the colour of his eyes. The skin of his angular face was as tight and smooth as the press of his pristine uniform. He carried an air of authority, and Clara knew who he was: Captain Jeter, the head of the Labrys Town Police Force.
Clara clamped her jaw and squeezed her hands into fists in her lap. She had endured plenty of run-ins with the police in her time, but never had she gained the attention of the captain.
Jeter slipped Clara’s medicine tin from his pocket and rattled the tablets inside before placing it on the table with a crisp snap. He then took a seat while the policewoman remained standing beside him.
‘Peppercorn Clara,’ he said. His voice was low, soft almost. ‘You have quite the reputation.’
‘So I hear,’ Clara said as casually as she could.
Jeter offered a small, cold smile. The policewoman simply stared at Clara, almost certainly contemptuous of her profession.
Jeter tapped the medicine tin with a finger. ‘Would you mind telling me what these tablets are for?’
‘My prescription,’ she said. ‘I have … seizures.’
‘Really?’ His tone was dry, unconvinced.
Clara looked up at the policewoman, and then back at the captain. She had to be careful. It was obvious that Jeter didn’t know she was a changeling; if he did, she would already be dead. But Charlie Hemlock had somehow discovered she was a magicker. It would probably only be a matter of time before Jeter did, too.
‘The remains of a man were discovered,’ the captain was saying, ‘in a house on the east side of town. This man was a known associate of Charlie Hemlock, and he had been … well, to say brutally murdered would be putting it mildly. And what remained of his body had been stripped naked, Clara.’
Jeter paused to make an obvious show of studying the over-sized clothes that Clara wore; the rips and tears and dark stains that decorated them. ‘You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?’
‘No,’ she lied quickly, instinctively.
‘Are you sure?’ The captain’s face was stony; his dark glasses like hollows in his face. ‘You had no reason to run from the police?’
Clara shook her head and kept silent.
Jeter sighed. ‘We know you were sold to Charlie Hemlock, and you’ve been missing for three days. But why sneak back to the Lazy House? Why not go straight to the nearest police station?’
There was no way Clara could answer that honestly. She stared down into her lap.
‘Well?’ Jeter snapped.
Clara flinched. ‘I-I panicked, I suppose. I just wanted to be somewhere familiar.’ It was mostly the truth, but even to her the words sounded unconvincing.
‘I see.’ Jeter looked up at the policewoman, who was still glaring at the prisoner.
‘I’m easily bored, Clara,’ Jeter continued. ‘So let’s try coming at this from a different angle. Fat Jacob sold you to Charlie Hemlock, but Hemlock has never been the brains behind any operation. So for whom was he buying you?’
‘I don’t know,’ Clara said truthfully. ‘He never told me who he was working for.’
‘All right – I’ll believe that for now. For what reason were you purchased?’
Clara opened her mouth, but no words came out.
Charlie Hemlock was a sick bastard. There was nothing he wouldn’t dirty his hands with for money. But Jeter’s question was a good one; Clara had never discovered the specific reason why he wanted her.
With a quick glance at the milky eye watching her from the grey wall, Clara shrugged at the police captain. ‘Perhaps you should ask Fat Jacob.’
‘I’ll be sure to do that.’ Jeter stared at her for a moment, and then he picked up the medicine tin, rattling it once more. ‘So when did you last see Charlie Hemlock?’ he asked.
Clara licked her lips. Her mouth began to work, but again she dared not answer.
‘You whores should really learn when to help yourselves,’ Jeter said with a sigh. ‘I have a murder victim, Charlie Hemlock is as elusive as ever, and his mysterious employer has purchased a whore. You are the one link that connects them all, Clara, yet you really believe you can convince me that you know nothing?’
He leaned forwards and clenched his teeth. ‘It’s a ridiculous belief – especially as you were seen tonight, emerging from the Great Labyrinth.’
Clara’s breath caught.
‘I somehow doubt you managed to climb over the boundary wall, Clara. So it would seem that you have knowledge of these secret entranceways that are rumoured to exist. Tell me I’m wrong.’
What was she supposed to say? That Hemlock somehow got her inside the Great Labyrinth? That she left him there at the mercy of an empath; that she only escaped because of magic? Clara desperately willed Marney’s box of secrets to edge open in her mind and show her the way out of this mess. It didn’t happen. From all directions, it seemed, she was in deep trouble.
Clara recoiled as Jeter slammed his hand down on the table.
‘How did you get into the Great Labyrinth?’ he shouted.
‘Hemlock took me there,’ Clara blurted. ‘I don’t know how. I-I got away from him. He’s still there as far as I know. That’s the truth.’
> ‘Is it? Because I have to wonder, Clara – are you in league with demons?’
‘What?’
‘Did you feed Hemlock’s soul to the Retrospective?’
‘No!’
Jeter sat back in his chair and clucked his tongue. ‘You’re in serious trouble, Clara, and if you insist on telling me lies, then I shall have to draw my own conclusions.’
‘I’m not in league with demons,’ she whispered.
‘Perhaps that’s the truth.’ Jeter slipped the medicine tin into his pocket, and then checked the time on his pocket watch. ‘I should warn you,’ he said, rising from his chair, ‘I’m not the only one to take a personal interest in this case.’
Clara’s throat tightened as Jeter pointed to the eye on the wall.
‘The Resident is watching you.’
Clara’s heartbeat quickened, but she dared not look at the eye. The Resident … the governor of Labrys Town …
‘Think on that for a while,’ Jeter said. ‘Perhaps the promise of being taken to the Nightshade will loosen your tongue.’
The police captain turned and headed for the door. ‘Lock her up,’ he told the policewoman as he stepped out of the room; the woman took obvious relish in grabbing Clara and yanking her to her feet.
In a small communal garden opposite the police station, Samuel hid in the shadow of a tree. The rain had lessened, and the smell of flowers and fresh cut grass was as thick as the drizzle that misted the air.
Though it was humid, Samuel kept his coat on. There were few townsfolk roaming the streets that time of night – most of those that did were enjoying themselves in the clubs and taverns down Green Glass Row – but a gun-wielding bounty hunter would still be easy to spot, and his coat provided good cover. But Samuel’s mood was sour, and not just because of the stifling atmosphere of Ruby Moon.
The needle of the spirit compass pointed directly ahead at the police station across the street. Through the glass door, Samuel could see a duty sergeant sitting behind a desk, talking to two constables. The building wasn’t particularly big, not like the police headquarters in the central district. Like so many official houses in Labrys Town, it looked almost bland, with so few windows in its grey stone walls.
A couple of hours ago a whore with a huge bounty on her head had been in Samuel’s sights. Now she was safely protected from his guns, though in no less of a predicament. She had been arrested, and there was no way Samuel could just walk into the station and deal with her. Even Old Man Sam wasn’t good enough to take on the Labrys Town Police Force.
She’s a magicker, Marney had said, did you know that, old man? Of course he did. He just hadn’t cared.
But he cared now.
Bounty hunters kept their ears to the ground, always listening for the next contract – the client didn’t find you, you found them – that was how it worked. Samuel was good at hiding himself between jobs, but this time someone had tracked him down. His employer had remained anonymous, as was often the case in the Labyrinth; dirty deeds were always safer if the ‘dirt’ was on another’s hands. Samuel’s employer had sent an avatar, a ghostly presence of blue light. This avatar had discovered Samuel’s hideout, and had come offering a generous contract for, as it turned out, killing a changeling.
If there were any practising magic-users left in Labrys Town, they would keep themselves well hidden through fear of discovery, arrest, execution. Samuel’s employer had to be a magic-user; no one could conjure an avatar unless they were an adept. But things were no longer making sense to the old bounty hunter.
The girl was a changeling, and, as such, to any magic-user who had managed to stay hidden so far, she was worth much more alive than dead. The blood of a changeling was an efficient catalyst for creating powerful spells, yet Samuel had been employed to kill Clara, not harvest her blood. It just didn’t add up.
From the shadows of the tree, Samuel watched as two patrolmen walked along the street towards the police station. The violet light from streetlamps gleamed off their black, bowl-like receptor helmets. They entered the station, removed their helmets, and conversed briefly with the duty sergeant before wandering off further into the building – probably ending their shifts for the night.
Samuel was caught by indecision, an unfamiliar state for him. He knew what he had to do next, but it was difficult for him to accept it. He struggled to believe what he had witnessed. Perhaps he was mistaken. He closed his eyes and once more replayed events in his head.
Marney was shot by an ice-bullet. Golems claimed her frozen body and dragged it through a portal. On the other side of the portal, in a chamber bathed in silver light, a man stood watching. There was some kind of plant or tree behind him. He wore a dark cassock. His hair was long and white; his skin almost as pale as an albino’s. In Samuel’s memory, his face was serious, but there was a smile on his lips, as slight as it was grim. He appeared ageless, looking exactly as he had when he had last been seen in Labrys Town. He was absolutely the man Samuel remembered from a long time ago. But it just couldn’t be him. That man had died during the Genii War.
A snapping sound fizzed in the damp air, accompanied by the squeal of metal on metal. The old bounty hunter opened his eyes to see a tram pulling up outside the police building. It had a large square of dull silver riveted to its side. As Samuel looked at the symbol, he felt his resolve hardening.
The trams of Labrys Town were uniform, their bulky bodies painted a bland cream colour. But this tram was sleek and utterly black. Its windows were tinted so dark that it was impossible to see inside. The silver square on the side was the only decoration, and Samuel knew well what it represented.
A door slid open. A lone man disembarked and closed the door behind him. He stood before the police building. He was a small man, elderly, dressed in a smart suit and tie. He looked over in Samuel’s general direction and gave a sardonic smile. Samuel swore and stepped further behind the tree. The elderly man then entered the police station, and the duty sergeant jumped to his feet as though he had been shocked.
Samuel looked at the spirit compass in his hand. With a calming breath, he screwed on the cap and slipped the device into his coat pocket. He no longer needed it to keep tabs on the girl.
He knew exactly where she was headed next.
Clara was hungry and her throat was parched. She had thought about asking for some food and water, but she doubted she could keep it in her stomach even if the guards obliged her. Still in handcuffs, she sat in a cell upon a thin mattress on a bunk. Her clothes were drying, but they smelt rank and musty.
The only light in the cell was the dull red glow of the moon coming through a small barred window, high on the wall. It looked as though the sky was clearing.
On the opposite wall was a second bunk. A large figure lay beneath the covers, difficult to make out in the cell’s gloom and shadows. The reek of stale alcohol was strong. Clara didn’t know if this person was a man or a woman, but whoever it was, they were good at snoring – and farting – in their sleep.
Clara wanted to wrap her arms around her body, but the cuffs prevented it. Anxiety clawed at her. Her palms were clammy. She would need to take her medicine again soon, but Captain Jeter had kept it with him. She cursed Fat Jacob; she cursed Charlie Hemlock; but most of all Clara cursed Marney for saving her life only to then leave her high and dry. Where was the empath now? What had she done to Clara?
At least she knew why Jeter had taken such an interest in her, though this knowledge brought no comfort. The Resident is watching you … Clara’s hunger churned her stomach, and she fought the urge to gag. The promise of being taken to the Nightshade loomed over her like the threat of the Retrospective itself.
At that moment, her cellmate moaned, rolled over and noisily vomited onto the floor. Clara groaned and lay down on the bunk, clutching her knees to her chest, as her cellmate rolled over again with a creaking of springs, and th
e sound of snoring once more filled the air.
From somewhere outside, another inmate in another cell shouted some abuse at a guard, and was told to shut up. The argument grew louder and more intense. Clara covered her ears and squeezed her eyes shut, too exhausted to sob, too anxious to sleep.
The Nightshade was the home of the most powerful man in Labrys Town: the Resident. And the Resident was the law. He controlled every district, ruled over every denizen. His name was Van Bam, but few had ever seen him. It was said Van Bam’s eyes were always watchful. Did he know she was a changeling? Did he, too, think she was in league with the wild demons of the Retrospective?
If Jeter’s threat of sending Clara to the Resident was genuine, she would probably never see the sun again. Just as they did in the deep maze of the Great Labyrinth, people disappeared in the Nightshade.
The hunger, the humidity, the smell of vomit and stale alcohol, the pointless shouting raging outside – the entire situation swirled and slashed at Clara’s senses and finally took its toll on her. Hurriedly, she moved to the edge of the bunk and gagged and retched, bringing up nothing more than bile. When she was done, she wiped it from her chin with the back of a shaking hand, and took several steadying breaths.
She stared at the thick chain that connected the metal cuffs around her wrists, wondering how strong it was.
If the effects of her medicine wore off and the metamorphosis occurred, here and now in this cell, if the magic in her veins activated and changed her into the wolf, could she escape? Could she break down the cell door and fight her way through unknown numbers of armed police? Did it matter? Clara blacked out when the wolf came. She never had any clear memory of being the monster – just flashes of images and sensations. She had no control over it. Chances were, if she changed, she would fight and slaughter until someone shot her dead. Clara almost welcomed the idea, wished it to happen: a clean end over a miserable alternative.
