Spectre's Rest

by Nick Moseley

  Then it shrieked.

  The sound tore clean through Trev’s confidence and turned the dial in his brain marked “FEAR AND DREAD” up to eleven. He staggered back a few steps under the weight of it before The Twins gave him a blast of psychic feedback that broke the spell.

  ‘What the hell?’ he gasped.

  Banshee! yelled Caladbolg and Tyrfing in unison, and the creature flew at him.

  Trev raised Caladbolg in a hasty parry as the banshee’s clawed hand swiped through the air towards his face. He was expecting the creature to be insubstantial, composed as it was of energy, but its blow crashed against his blade with enough force to push him back a pace. Startled, he only just managed to deflect its follow-up strike with Tyrfing.

  The banshee shrieked again and darted away, circling Trev and probing at his defences. After three or four feinted attacks, it swooped in again. Trev was better prepared this time and slipped to the side, blocking with Caladbolg and launching a counter-attack with Tyrfing. His strike passed straight through the banshee’s torso without meeting any resistance. Surprised, Trev stumbled. He managed to turn it into a forward roll in time to avoid being decapitated by the banshee’s claws.

  ‘Seriously, what the hell?’ he said, as the creature backed off once more.

  It’s composed of energy, laddie, but it also contains those crystal fragments, said Caladbolg. It can use those to make parts of itself a wee bit more solid.

  The claws, most often, said Tyrfing.

  ‘I noticed!’ said Trev as he fended off another attack. ‘How do I stop it?’

  The crystal binds it together, Tyrfing said. If you destroy the crystal, the energy will dissipate also.

  ‘Easy for you to say,’ said Trev. He circled away from the wall to give himself more space.

  ‘Hey Trev!’ called Corbyn. While Trev had been busy fighting the banshee, the vampire had dodged around them and retrieved his gun. He was standing over the unconscious forms of Ingersoll and Rahman. ‘I’m enjoying the show so far, but I thought I’d give you the opportunity to say goodbye to your friends!’

  He thumbed back the gun’s hammer and aimed it at Ingersoll, grinning, but the expression was wiped from his face as the banshee, its attention drawn by the shouting, broke away from Trev and streaked towards him.

  ‘No, no, not me!’ he yelled.

  He fired a single shot at the banshee – which had no effect – and then tried to dodge out of the way. He avoided the first attack but was blindsided by the second, which raked across his back. The banshee’s claws shredded both his clothes and the flesh beneath, sending a spray of cloth and blood into the air. Corbyn fell to the floor, raising his arms in a feeble attempt to defend himself as the screaming banshee hurtled back to finish him off, mouth agape.

  ‘Oi! Celine Dion! Over here!’ called Trev, charging to intercept the creature. As much as he hated Corbyn, he wasn’t going to stand by and watch him torn apart. Well, he might have had Bad Trev been in charge, but it was under control for now.

  The banshee swooped back in Trev’s direction. ‘Advice please!’ he said.

  Focus your energy at the spot where the blow lands, lad, Caladbolg said. We’ll help you, but you’re going to need to use most of your reserves for this. Don’t be miserly, now!

  The banshee dived at Trev once again. He stepped into its attack, swinging both blades at its right claw. As the swords hit, he forced a jolt of energy through them and into the banshee’s arm. There was a flash of sparks; the effect reminded Trev of burning iron filings with a Bunsen burner at school. The banshee howled and shot away from him.

  Good, but you have only scratched the creature, Tyrfing told him. You shall have to use more energy. Much more.

  ‘If I use too much I won’t have enough to keep you two working,’ said Trev. ‘And then I’ll get clawed to death.’

  All or nothing, lad, said Caladbolg. Have courage!

  ‘I need a beer,’ Trev muttered. ‘Nobody should have to fight one of these things sober.’

  He set himself and waited for the angry banshee to come at him again. The creature duly obliged, rushing him in a cloud of claws and fangs. He called up every last scrap of energy he had and held it ready. As the banshee reached for him, he threw himself forwards.

  ‘Piss OFF!’ he bellowed. The energy left him in an eruption of light, hammering into the crystalline fragments in the banshee’s arms. They exploded in a huge cloud of sparks. Trev was sent sprawling, one arm across his face to protect his eyes. Both The Twins shut off, their hilts clattering onto the floor next to Trev.

  The banshee thrashed in the air, its shape beginning to blur and separate. As a dazed Trev watched, the creature simply came apart, fading away with a last despairing wail. He coughed and rolled onto his side before dragging himself up off the concrete.

  He collected The Twins from the floor. He felt hollow. Usually he could sense the reservoir of energy stored in his core, but now there was almost nothing. Just a faint trace remained. He checked the vapour weapons, which could retain a reserve of energy themselves; Caladbolg was completely drained, so he holstered it. Tyrfing still held a little power. He kept it in his hand as he approached Corbyn.

  The vampire was struggling to sit up. The wounds he’d received would probably have killed a normal person, but Corbyn’s physiology was far from human. The bleeding had stopped, and Trev knew that the horrific gouges across the vampire’s back would already be closing. From Corbyn’s expression, though, it didn’t seem like the process was painless. Trev had a go at feeling sorry for him, but couldn’t quite manage it.

  ‘Do you have any idea how irritating you are?’ Corbyn said. ‘Just die, you arsehole.’

  Trev gritted his teeth. Bad Trev was trying to assert control. It would be easy to just dispose of Corbyn while he was still injured, wouldn’t it? All the possible witnesses were unconscious, so there would be nobody to contradict him if he said the vampire had been killed during the fight. Trev could have his revenge and sleep soundly knowing that there was one less person out there who wanted to kill him.

  Tyrfing flared to life in his hand. He walked forwards until he was standing over Corbyn. The vampire must have seen something in Trev’s face, because his tone went from snarling and aggressive to conciliatory.

  ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘My offer still stands, all right?’ He hauled himself into a sitting position, gasping with pain. ‘You don’t even have to let me go. Just don’t kill me. I’ll owe you a favour. Deal?’

  ‘Stop trying to negotiate,’ Trev said. ‘You haven’t got anything I need or want.’

  He raised Tyrfing. The black flames of its blade flickered, the last dregs of energy running out.

  ‘Hang on,’ said Corbyn. ‘Hang on!’

  Trev swung the weapon at the vampire. Tyrfing’s blade swept through his legs, then snapped left and right to hit both his arms. With all his limbs numb, Corbyn fell heavily back to the floor. His head bounced off the concrete with a dull thump.

  Tyrfing shut off, its energy exhausted. Trev holstered the hilt and took a couple of deep breaths. Bad Trev subsided, thwarted for the time being.

  ‘Trev,’ said a voice. He looked round. It was Carter. The blond man was upright and leaning against a pillar. ‘Bloody hell. I thought for a moment you were going to kill him there.’

  ‘For a moment,’ Trev replied, ‘so did I.’

  Four

  Their backup arrived within the promised hour. Trev and Carter had bound Corbyn hand and foot with a set of plastic ties that the Custodian had been carrying. The vampire let fly with a comprehensive list of swear-words as he was carried out to the waiting van. Trev gave him a wink and a wave as he went past.

  The backup team consisted of four Custodians. Three of them were stern-faced men that Trev didn’t recognise, but their leader was a woman called McKenzie, with whom he’d worked before. She was tall, with red-brown hair pulled back in a short ponytail. She looked just as tired as Trev felt.

  �
�All right?’ she said, walking over to where Trev had perched himself on a windowsill.

  ‘Been better, been worse,’ Trev said. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Same,’ she said. ‘Busy night.’

  One of McKenzie’s team had medical training and he was examining Ingersoll and Rahman. Trev nodded in his direction. ‘What’s the diagnosis?’

  ‘They’re fine,’ McKenzie said. ‘Corbyn gave them both an injection of tranquiliser. We found the syringes. They should both be OK once it wears off.’

  ‘Good news,’ Trev said. ‘How’s Carter?’

  ‘Nasty cut on the back of his head, but that’s about it,’ said McKenzie.

  ‘Cool.’

  Trev allowed himself to relax. The tension drained away, replaced by fatigue. He was very keen to get home to bed, though he wasn’t sure if he even had enough strength left to haul himself off his seat.

  ‘So what happened?’ McKenzie asked. ‘Carter told us Corbyn set a banshee on you. That true?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Trev.

  ‘Well, if he wasn’t in trouble before, he bloody well is now,’ McKenzie said. ‘Just owning a banshee ball is a serious offence, let alone using one.’

  ‘Banshee ball?’ said Trev. ‘The crystal egg thing it came out of?’

  ‘Yes,’ said McKenzie. ‘Those things are basically a prison for a human soul. You trap one in there and then charge it with psychic energy. It’s torture, basically. There’s no way for the soul to escape. Sometimes one might be trapped for centuries before the crystal is broken. When it does escape, it’s insane and angry. They’ll attack any living thing they see until their energy runs out and they can finally die.’

  Trev shivered. ‘I can see why they’re illegal.’

  ‘No shit,’ said McKenzie. ‘They’re very rare these days, fortunately. Corbyn must’ve been hanging on to that one as a last resort.’

  ‘And nearly killed himself with it,’ Trev said. ‘Clown. Good job they let me borrow The Twins tonight, or we’d all be dead.’

  McKenzie snorted. ‘Daft, isn’t it? “Sorry Trev, we can’t let you have a gun. But you can use these two magic swords that can cut through pretty much anything”.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Trev said, summoning up a smile. ‘They’re right not to give me a gun, though. I’m lethal with one, but in all the wrong ways.’

  ‘We’ll get you some training,’ McKenzie said. ‘I bet this wasn’t how you expected to start your week, was it?’

  ‘That’s Mondays for you,’ Trev said. He checked his watch, which told him that it was seven fifteen a.m. ‘Though they usually take a bit longer than this to go to shit.’

  ‘Let’s help get the casualties into the van and we’ll give you a lift back,’ said McKenzie. ‘Come on.’

  Trev grumbled but did as he was asked. It was still dark outside and they managed to get everyone into the vans without incident. Trev slumped back in his seat and was fast asleep by the time they joined the rush-hour traffic.

  McKenzie woke him as they pulled into the underground car park of the Custodians’ Birmingham HQ. It was a nondescript grey office block in the city centre, and as far as the general public knew it was the premises of Gamble & Fiennes, an accountancy business. The Custodians’ base was actually beneath the building, in an old Cold War bunker that had been conveniently “lost” from the official records.

  By the time they arrived Ingersoll was awake, albeit rather groggy. Rahman was still unconscious. Trev helped McKenzie’s team get everybody inside and headed for his car. He was due to return for some training that afternoon. Until then, he was going to go home and get some sleep.

  Trev’s car was an ancient Rover with more miles on the clock than the Millennium Falcon. It clattered reluctantly into life and he aimed it in the direction of Brackenford, his home town. The traffic was awful and he made very slow progress until he escaped the city centre. It was half-past nine by the time he lurched to a stop outside his flat.

  He lived above a newsagent’s shop, so he ducked in and bought a newspaper and a bar of chocolate before trudging up the stairs to his front door. His flat was small, which wasn’t Trev’s fault, and untidy, which was. He got out of his dirty clothes and collapsed onto his bed as the full force of his tiredness hit him. He was asleep within seconds. This was a record even for Trev, who ranked sleeping as one of his top two favourite activities.

  It was four o’clock in the afternoon by the time he woke again. He was supposed to be back at the Custodians’ HQ by six, so he had a shower and a bite to eat. The sleep had allowed him to recharge a little psychic energy, so he no longer felt quite as empty. Even so, he hoped the Custodians wouldn’t get him doing anything too strenuous that evening. He didn’t want to be burnt out right at the beginning of the week.

  His mind wandered to the subject of the traitor in the Custodians’ ranks. That was his sole reason for joining, really. He had to admit that he had some respect for them as an organisation – they had a difficult role, and they did a decent job of it considering the limitations of their budget and available manpower – but he’d never been one of those people who can’t help throwing themselves into danger. Prior to his Sight manifesting itself when he hit thirty years of age, he’d had a nice, comfortably dull existence. A job he was good at, a few close friends, and a couple of hobbies. Things had been straightforward.

  Now, though, he had people trying to kill him at every turn and other people insisting that he put himself in peril to help them out. All this heroic stuff was badly cutting into time that could be better spent drinking beer and eating pizza. It made his life complicated, and Trev had always prided himself on being a simple man. And yet… increasingly he found his conscience pricking him. As an estate agent it had come as quite a surprise to discover that he had a conscience, and now he’d found the thing it was making a nuisance of itself.

  The previous month a man called Jack Rock had sacrificed himself to save Trev from being murdered. Rock had been a Custodian, but his Sight was too weak for him to do much in the way of fieldwork. He’d rationalised that it was better for him to die instead of Trev because Trev’s Sight was far more powerful and therefore his life was more valuable. Rock had thought of Trev as someone who could really make a difference, whereas Trev saw himself as someone who could really make a mess of things.

  That said, there was no denying that he’d had some success in defeating evil-doers and rescuing innocents, and it had given him a warm and fuzzy feeling. It was just that sooner or later he was going to run out of luck and get killed if he did too much of those activities, so he’d been trying to avoid them. And when he did, he felt bad about it. Like he was wasting the gift that Rock’s selflessness had given him.

  So he’d decided to join the Custodians and find the traitor. Whoever it was had tried to kill Trev twice and had also put a team of Custodians in danger. Finding the traitor would be doing the Custodians a favour, as well as making Trev’s life much safer. Everyone was a winner, and nobody could claim that Trev was shirking his responsibilities. Great.

  The only real problem was that he had no idea how to go about it.

  He couldn’t let on to anyone in the Custodians that he was looking for the traitor in case that person was the traitor. And even if they weren’t, then there was a risk that word of Trev’s activities might get around and let the traitor know that an investigation was underway. As far as Trev knew, the Custodians were unaware that they had a turncoat among their number. That might be a good thing, leading the traitor to believe that they were still undetected and nobody was looking for them. Over-confidence often led to mistakes, or so Trev had heard.

  He frowned in thought as he chewed the last bite of his late lunch. He had a week working with the Custodians. He’d just have to keep his eyes open for anything out of the ordinary. Although when you’re dealing with people who spend their time fighting supernatural forces, “out of the ordinary” is a somewhat subjective term.

  When in doubt
, make it up as you go along, Trev thought as he added his plate to the teetering stack of dirty crockery in the kitchen sink. It’s always worked for me so far, right?

  He was back at the Custodians’ HQ at five to six. At the back of the car park was a pair of lifts. Trev entered one and used the ID card he’d been issued to get the thing moving. It opened into a stylish reception area on the first floor. In front of Trev was a glass-topped desk, at which sat an attractive woman with long red hair. Her name was Maggie. She smiled at Trev as he approached.

  ‘Hiya Trev,’ she said, in a strong Brummie accent. ‘Back for more, eh?’

  ‘At the risk of sounding like a crap stand-up comedian, I’m here all week,’ Trev replied, handing her his ID card. She swiped it through a slot on her desk and logged his arrival. Trev knew that there were hidden cameras watching as well, along with the obvious security guard lurking to his left. The man was dressed in a smart business suit but looked much more like a nightclub doorman than an accountant. Trev suspected that the closest he ever came to “crunching numbers” was calculating his daily dose of steroids.

  ‘You know the drill, I can’t send you down on your own,’ Maggie said. ‘Someone’ll come up to escort you in a bit.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Trev.

  ‘How’s that Granddad of yours?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘He’s fine, thanks,’ Trev replied. His maternal grandfather, Bernard Simms, had been a Custodian for many years and was well known and respected within the organisation. At seventy-eight years of age he was now retired, although he still kept an eye on things in Brackenford to “keep his hand in”, as he put it. Trev didn’t think that the old boy would ever fully retire. He’d probably be late for his own funeral because he’d got distracted investigating something or other. ‘Still keeping busy.’

  ‘Good, good,’ said Maggie. ‘When you see him, tell him I said hi.’

  ‘Will do,’ said Trev.

  There was a beep and a click from the back of the room and a frosted-glass door swung open. A wiry Indian woman entered. Trev judged her age as late thirties. Her long black hair was styled in a plait and she was dressed as if she were going to the gym, in tracksuit bottoms and a long-sleeved T-shirt. Trev recognised her, but couldn’t place her.