The Prince of Darkness (The Freelancers Book 3)

by Lee Isserow

  But that moment, of sharing something that he had never had a reason to mention to anyone, it made it feel like they were back in their groove, if only for a handful of seconds.

  The smile fell from Ana's lips, as she realised something. “You didn't answer me. . .”

  Rafe could tell what was coming, and felt his own smile disappear too. He wished he could stop her there, reverse time and go back to that moment, freeze it, relish the iota of a second in which this all felt like just another dumb job. But she would not let him move backwards.

  “What kind of side-effects could there be from trying to create an entirely new world?”

  His eyes dropped to the ground, probed the cracked paving beneath their feet, settled on the plants that were doing their best to break through the gaps between the stones. A sigh left his lips. “To start with. . . ” his eyes shot up and met hers, and Ana saw true terror that hid behind the facade of a steely gaze, “You could destroy this world in the process.”

  Chapter 19

  Unwavering confidence

  Jules watched from the rooftop of a building opposite Bloomsbury church as a number of black glossy doors pushed their way out from the old stone. Reinforcements. He should have known they would be on their way, shouldn't have wasted so much time running around the damn world, let alone spent time talking to Three. They appeared to be expecting him to swoop in and kidnap them, he didn't need to have a damn conversation once that task had been successful. . .

  He grunted to himself, all too aware that self-flagellation wasn't going to accomplish anything. The longer he left it, the more time the Circle would have to call in additional units. He leaped from the top of the building, and shadows darted out from the sewer grates below. They grabbed hold of him as he plummeted towards the ground. The sentient darkness wrapped around his legs and torso, slowed his descent, and insured that he came to a stop, rather than ending up as an unfortunate stain on the pavement.

  Jules suddenly found himself possessing a worryingly cool head, calm unwavering confidence that flowed through his entire being. He had worked with the Circle, been in their inner sanctum, and whilst he hadn't the chance to browse their roster of operatives directly, he had heard discussion in which they mentioned just how few adepts they had at their disposal, and how rare they were.

  Even though they had dispatched many operatives to buzz around the church grounds, they were just magickians. . . Powerful as they might be, with some that could potentially be equipped to see through realms, they were no match for an adept. And that gave him the advantage.

  The shadows unfurled themselves from his body and coalesced next to him, and took the form of a man of exactly his proportions. A doppelgänger of darkest black. The Circle had put an army between him and his objective, so Jules would bring his own damn army. . .

  He called more shadows from beneath the city, created more duplicates, and to make himself blending in with his soldiers, coughed up the shadows from inside his own body, and had the darkness creep over his skin to disguise him as one of his shadow men.

  There was no way to know if it would work. Not until his plan was underway. . . There was the chance that whatever enchantment allowed some of the Circle operatives to see him whilst he was hidden in the Shadow Realm would allow them to tell him apart from his drones. But hopefully his troops would be fast across the church grounds, and by the point they close enough for the operatives to be able to tell the difference between him and the simulacrums, it would be too late for them to react.

  He looked around at his army, that numbered two men of shadow for every Circle agent he counted traces of, by the glimmers and refractions of light. He tried to shake off the cockiness that punctuated his plan. That level of ego would bring nothing but failure. He took a deep breath, tried to remove all traces of that unhelpful arrogance from his train of thought. And as soon as it appeared to be gone, threw his arms out wide and created a myriad portals for him and his mindless minions.

  They leaped through simultaneously, each of them arrived at different places across the churchyard. The Circle operatives burst into action and cast to attack or restrain whichever shadowy figure was closest to them. Their frantic movement as they drew out sigils was exactly what Jules was hoping for. The sun's rays distorted through their enchanted tactical gear, prismatic light danced as they threw their hands through the air, which made it all too easy for him to track their locations. Before they could seal their sigils the shadow men's chests exploded open like ragged, ebony butterfly wings, that fluttered backwards for only the briefest of moments, then came whipped around their victims, and ensnared each of them in an inky cocoon.

  Jules walked calmly to the door of the church, and glanced back over his shoulder at the bodies encased in shadows, each of them rolled and vibrated with a frenzied vigour as the operatives trapped within tried to fight the vice-like grip of the darkness that had trapped them. But there was no escape. Their arms were held tight to their sides, fingers stretched wide to stop them from casting.

  Easy prey, he mused.

  An uneasiness came over him, and Jules quickly took the thought back. That line of thinking, with him as the hunter, them as his victims. . . that wasn't right, it wasn't normal, it wasn't him. . .

  It was the kind of thing that someone else would think, someone who thought of this kind of wanton violence and destruction as sport. The fact that the notion even crossed his mind terrified him, and he tried to make himself forget that it ever crawled out of some dark recesses of his subconscious.

  He shook off the fear that brewed in the back of his mind, and refocused his attention. He had to make sure that despite the Circle operatives being trapped, they could still breathe. They would live through this, perhaps be battered and bruised and embarrassed at having been taken out by such a clunky ruse, but they would be alive.

  Of course, they would not be released until Jules deemed it so. And he would not call for their freedom until he had completed the task at hand. . .

  Chapter 20

  They would not stand in his way

  The interior of St George's church continued the temple-like motif of the grand, imposing structure of the exterior. Rows of pews flanked by giant windows from which daylight poured across the gleaming white stone walls and marble floors. Massive columns held arched ceilings aloft, from which dangled a number of tiered chandeliers that emanated the most subtle of incandescent glows.

  To the far side, a priest was pottered around, whilst a small number of parishioners sat in the pews and conversed with one another. All present were entirely unaware of the short skirmish that had occurred just beyond the doors. They were all mundanes, going about their daily lives with not even the slightest inkling that beneath them sat the most humble looking of water features, that was in truth an object of unimaginable power.

  As the door slammed shut, Jules's footsteps echoed across the church. With the most subtle of movements, he cushioned his shoes with shadows stolen from beneath the rows of chairs, and continued to walk along the aisle. The parishioners seemed unaware of his presence, apparently caught up in their discussion. The priest, however, turned in his direction, a slim smile crawled across his face, kindly old eyes twinkled at the arrival of the visitor. He shuffled down from the pulpit, walked towards Jules, and the two met at the centre of the grand, old building.

  “You're a little early for mass, doesn't start for another hour I'm afraid.”

  Jules tried his best not to scoff out loud. Regardless of his actual reason for being there, he was pretty certain that if the pastor knew of his 'lifestyle', let alone the fact that he and his husband were raising a child together, the old man would not be so gracious about welcoming him into this house of God.

  “Beautiful building you have here,” he said, making sure to maintain eye contact whilst he raised his right hand and drew out a circle in a clockwise motion with his middle finger, as his first finger traced behind it.

  “Hawksmoor,” the pr
iest said, enthusiastically. “Marvellous architect, truly inspired designs.”

  “That he was, and that it is.” He pulled the two fingers into his palm, and closed his fist around them. “I've kinda relished the opportunity to see these buildings myself. . .”

  “American, is it? Are you just visiting?”

  “Lived here for a little bit now,” Jules said as he ran his left hand over the knuckles of the right. “But much to my chagrin, I haven't had a reason to check out these places until now.”

  “A reaso―” the priest's words were taken from his throat as Jules's fingers bust from the fist. All thoughts frozen in time, flung to the farthest reaches of the back of his mind, from whence they would not return until the mesmerisation wore off.

  Jules arced his hand around the room, his casting mesmerised each of the parishioners in turn. A purple light filled their vision for the merest fraction of a second. Their pupils shrunk to the size of pinpricks, and remained as such. They were motionless, unable to think, unable to move, unable to act. Jules did not want to have to hurt them, and figured this was the only method by which he could ensure they would not stand in his way.

  He stepped past the flesh and blood mannequin the priest had become, he began to survey the room, and looked for the entrance to the wellspring. He had not been told where the entrance was, only that unlike the previous to churches, it was not attached to the bank itself. Jules breathed a sigh of relief at that small nugget of good fortune, no matter how many lines he was crossing to access the wellsprings, a bank job on top of a prison break would make him public enemy number one as far as the Circle was concerned. . . if he wasn't that already from sullying two wellsprings, breaking into the bank would certainly cement the title.

  He lay his hands on the walls of the church. They all appeared solid, no obvious signs of enchantment. As he navigated around, and one of the pillars caught his attention. It seemed to radiate an energy he had felt before. It was subtle but reminded him of the closed grey door at the market, which required a massive sigil to be walked out across the concourse. For a moment he feared that the same thing would be required at the church, and couldn't even begin to comprehend what that sigil might look like, let alone where it might begin, and what route he might have to take to cast it.

  A cooler head prevailed, he pushed the bubbling anxiety down, and glanced around the church. This was an entrance to the wellspring, which meant that others had come before him to visit it. . .

  He closed his eyes, tried with all his might to remember a sigil he had only seen used only once. His fingers took to the air ahead of him and pirouetted back and forth as he inhaled deeply, and exhaled long and slow. The breath was hot as it left his lips, and back smoke filled the air around him.

  Jules stepped to the side and the smoke searched through the memories of the place he stood, until it found what he was searching for. It took the form of a figure, and at Jules's command the re-enactment played forward, the smoky man stepped directly into the pillar and disappeared.

  A smile came to Jules's face. His hypothesis was correct, and now all he needed to do was wind the man's steps backwards, follow his path as he walked the sigil around the church, and soon he too would disappear into the pillar, and be all that much closer to getting his hands on the wellspring.

  Chapter 21

  Pearlescent void

  As he left the confines of the church, Jules found himself in what looked like a cavern, but this was like no cave he had ever seen before.

  He lay his fingers on the wall, it appeared that they were not made from rock, as he expected, but mud. It was thick and wet between his fingers. A dark sludge that did not seem to depart, no matter how much he rubbed it on his clothes. He shrugged it off, would deal with it later. It was not of concern, not when time was of the essence.

  The Circle would no doubt be aware that their agents had been incapacitated and would likely send yet further reinforcements as soon as they were available.

  He glanced around, searched the darkness for the wellspring, and it dawned on him that there was no illumination in the cave. Everlit candles were so commonplace with magickians, it seemed curious that there were none present. He decided to shrug it off. It's not like the darkness actually impeded him in any fashion. The shadows were his eyes, they were his ears, as much a part of him as any of the senses he had been born with.

  The wellspring was just a few feet ahead of him. He could feel its presence with the darkness, it acted as if it were an extension of his own reach. He could feel the stones that encircled it, that marked out the confines of the shallow waters contained within. He approached it, reached into his pocket for the third of the five coins that he had been given to carry out the ritual.

  With a reluctant sigh he grasped it in his fist, and lifted it towards his lips as he recalled the words that the rough-edged metal disc desired to hear.

  Before those words could leave his lips a massive clash rang out across the dark cavern, and Jules found himself staring straight ahead at his own reflection. Light filled the room, peeled out from the crack between realms. The brightness whipped around him, crawled across the walls, encroached on the ceiling, slipped under the ground beneath his feet. It coated the wet mud in a bright, luminescent white, that looked like vacuum formed plastic.

  A pit formed in his gut. He had seen this before. A textureless, pearlescent void. There were only two magickians he knew of that could implement this casting. One was dead, the other he did not expect to involve himself in such a trivial matter.

  Jules turned on the spot, and discovered that his own reflection was not just straight ahead of him, but in every direction he looked. It was as if he were trapped in a hall of mirrors, with no obvious means of escape.

  “Hey, ritual-man,” said a voice from behind him. Young, female, unfamiliar. . . and yet somehow, it was familiar.

  He turned, catching sight of Shana, an unshaven man in a long coat, and a young woman with dark hair and eyes that shone a vibrant green. She was the one who had spoken, who seemed to be in command of the mirrors that encapsulated him. A mirror adept, who had hid the three of them in her realm to evade detection in the darkness.

  The young woman had a cocky smile on her lips, an eyebrow raised, and an intensity to her stare. He could feel the power that radiated off her, something he had never experienced before, the same feeling that the older generation of magickians said they got from him. . .

  She approached him, took slow, confident steps, the smile became even wider as she neared.

  “I think we need to have a little chat. . .”

  Chapter 22

  Not going anywhere

  Darkness tore through Jules's body, as shadows ripped themselves from inside every organ and vein, artery and orifice. They gathered in mass, and exploded out of his lips. A thick, black torrent of wild tentacles and tendrils thrashed through the air, and converged the intent of taking the three interlopers down. Another crash rang out, a crack in reality appeared directly in front of Jules's mouth, the shadow disappeared off into the abyss of the Mirror Realm.

  Ana's sly smile told him that she was responsible for blocking his attack. He knew she would have to be the first he took down, then the other two would face his wrath.

  Jules closed his fist, and took hold of the shadows deep in her core. He attempted to tug them out to restrain her, but couldn't bring himself to do it. Something was stopping him. Not a physical presence, but an unspoken voice, a lingering notion that hung in the back of his mind.

  “You want to screw around all day?” Ana asked, “Or do you feel like telling us what the hell you're up to?”

  He gritted his teeth, and stared her down. There was a swagger, an overconfidence to her stance, and yet he could not make himself act.

  “You shouldn't stand in my way.”

  “I'll do more than stand in your way, if you make me. . . but I'd rather we didn't have to go there.”

  “You don't know what you're do
ing―”

  “Think you'll find I do. . .” Ana's fingers left her side and danced through the air, and a spider's web of cracks in reality appeared between them.

  “You don't understand what's going on―”

  “So make us understand,” Rafe grunted.

  The pit in Jules's stomach hollowed itself once again, he knew he should not tell them the truth, and yet a part of him was compelled to do so.

  “Not with her here.” He motioned to Shana, and his brow contorted as if to indicate some kind of apology.

  “I am not leaving,” she insisted.

  “I'm not saying a damn word whilst the Circle is represented.”

  “I am here as a friend―”

  “You're here because it's your job.”

  Her lips parted as if to speak, but she had no words. There was nothing that could be said to change the situation.

  “He's not going anywhere,” Rafe told her. “We have him contained, you can go back to the Circle and tell them as much.”

  Her gaze lowered to the floor, and she nodded silently.

  “Tell them I want a medal,” Ana said, with a wide smile.

  “They don't have medals. . .” Rafe muttered.

  “I want a commendation then, or a certificate.”

  “Is she always this blasé?” Shana asked, as she leaned behind Ana to catch Rafe's eye.

  “This is one of her better days. . .”

  Ana nudged him in the ribs, and knocked a little of the wind out of him. Shana looked back between them and Jules, she was not convinced that she was leaving him with the best of minders, and was not even close to being sure that her departure was a good idea. But from the stern expression he shot her, she knew that the only way to discover the reason why he was sullying the wellsprings was to let the two freelancers speak to him alone .