Chaos Bound (17 page)

‘Beer doesn’t count.’ I took a breath. Hey, I'd been hurt before and bounced back. This time was no different. ‘Thanks for saving me at the cafe.’

Casper paused by the elevator. ‘I wasn’t the only one fighting by your side. Don’t forget that.’

I stood in a forest of beech trees, knowing I was dreaming. The stone cottage that always appeared in my dreams towered before me with its pokey chimney and roof of twigs and straw. The front door was open, but I stayed where I was, arms crossed. It had been a couple of months since I’d been here, in this strange dreamscape that I’d been visiting since I was a child.

I felt a presence behind me, and turned to see the creature that always visited me. He was tall, with grey clothes that drifted in an unfelt breeze. His face was tight, eyes nothing more than clotted shadows. Great black wings folded at his back, like a grandiose cloak.

His head tilted to the side. ‘You look different. More grown up.’

‘Guess my brain is finally catching on that I’m a big girl now.’

‘Does this mean you have accepted things?’ The creature’s wings rustled behind him with a dry sound.

‘This is my dream. You don’t get to ask the questions.’

‘Don’t I?’

‘That’s another question. Why do you keep appearing to me? What do you really want?’

‘You know why. I want to teach you how to use the gift you were given. I only ask you swear fealty to me, as your father. As your maker.’

My hands tucked into my armpits before I could stop them. ‘I still find it hard to believe you’re my father.’

‘Celestials and hellspawn cannot breach The Weald, daughter, but dreamscapes are more neutral territory. We share blood and that is how I have access to you here. As your father, it is my right.’ He paused. ‘Do you want to know my name?’

I hesitated. In legend, real names had power. It was a forgotten type of magic, an old-style voodoo, but I'd always held some stock in it. So I did the only logical thing and pulled a face that suggested I didn’t care. ‘You could tell me, but I doubt it will mean anything.’

He smiled, his pale lips thinning. ‘Sariel.’

I had expected the name to resonate, to snag in my memory somehow. But it just sounded like a name.

‘You don’t recognise it?’ he asked.

‘Nope.’

‘Always the tough little girl.’

‘I thought we’d established I'm not a kid anymore.’ I gestured around the forest. ‘What’s the purpose of all this? I mean, there’d better be a good one; you’ve been trying to frighten me since I was a little girl.’

‘That has never been my intention.’ Sariel’s teeth clicked together sharply with each word. ‘I always have let your own mind guide the manner in which we meet.’

‘You do realise what you look like?’ I asked dryly. ‘Like a walking jack-o’-lantern.’

‘This is not my real appearance,’ Sariel said. ‘It is how you saw me as a little girl. I guess like most things in childhood, it has become a favoured remembrance.’

His appearance blurred as if he was a reflection in a pond, then cleared, revealing a different image. I'd been expecting flowing white hair. Blazing eyes. Golden skin, and a white tunic. The man that stood before me had a narrow jaw, thin nose and slicked back salt and pepper hair. His eyes were black, and he wore a dark blue pinstripe suit with white spats and a pink handkerchief tucked in the front pocket. He looked like one of the rat pack, and I was somehow disappointed.

‘Do you even have wings?’ I arched an eyebrow.

Sariel’s shoulders shivered, and two ebony wings stretched to their full, twelve-foot span. At least that was impressive.

‘I thought angel wings were white,’ I said.

‘I am one of the four guardians of the realm. Those closest to the upper realms have wings the colour of purest snow.’ Sariel tapped his nose. ‘I'm close enough to the action that humanity has contaminated me with their pollution.’

‘Sounds like a thankless job,’ I said. ‘Guess you’re still hoping we’re going to share matching decoder rings?’

Sariel gave a deep, booming laugh. ‘Angels don’t feel much connection to any kin they spawn with human females. They’re considered nothing more than mutts.’

‘Thank you. There’s another five years of therapy.’

‘I don’t see you like that, Lora. I see you as much more.’

‘A mutt with potential, eh?’

His smile faded. ‘I wasn’t sure you were the one, since you rejected your heritage so wholeheartedly. At one point, I had hopes you’d give me a child I could mould into what I needed, what I intended.’ He sighed. ‘But with your talent for driving men away, I realise this is a futile hope.’

‘Thank you. Make that ten years of therapy,’ I snapped.

Sariel tilted his head towards the darkening sky. ‘Our time is drawing close, dear daughter. You don’t enjoy the sound sleep you used to.’

He clicked his teeth together a few times, then said, ‘The time comes when you will have no options left. Then, you will come to me on your knees, begging for me to accept you and show you your path.’ He took a step towards me and a rich, caramel cologne reached my nose. ‘My interest in you, daughter, is to see you walk the path you were created for. Then, perhaps, you can show others the way. Show them the blessings they may receive when they give their thanks to someone who listens.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about anymore.’

Sariel brushed my comment aside with a wave of his hand. ‘A choice will be given to you, Lora. Then you will see that there is really no choice at all.’

I woke the next morning in one of Casper’s spare rooms with a dry mouth, thumping headache and a strong desire to get back home. Seth and I said our goodbyes to Casper and soon enough, we were heading back to The Weald. The drive began tensely, but improved after we stopped at a drive-thru. Seth and I were almost back on speaking terms after a round of takeaway coffee and greasy breakfast burgers.

We arrived back in Harken mid-morning, local time. Seth had to go to work, so he dropped me off at his house with strict instructions to stay there. I waited until he’d left before sending a Mercury Boy to Blackgoat with a message for Crowhurst to come and pick me up.

In the meantime, I was a woman on a mission. Being careful of my side, I changed into fresh clothes, then dragged a brush through my hair. While I braided it back, I mentally compiled a list of things to do. Roman had to be found, and fast. Then there was finding out who had tortured Jonas Grundler, and handing the name over to his mother. Third on the list was worrying about my trial at the Order. I guess the list wasn’t long, but those three things crowded my mind to the point where I felt I needed a serious lie down.

Crowhurst turned up an hour later, the sound of his horn alerting me he was waiting, though very impatiently. Casper’s history book caught my eye, lying beside my overnight satchel. I hesitated. I had to admit his implication about nefarious doings within the Order had caught my interest. I emptied my satchel of the random outfits I'd packed for my stay at Seth’s and shoved the book inside. No doubt I'd end up at Blackgoat at some point, and figured I could have a quick skim of it then. I slung the satchel over my shoulder and hurried downstairs, grabbing my cane from the umbrella stand by the door.

Crowhurst shoved the car into gear when I got in. ‘Where are we going?’

‘I’ve got a few errands to run.’

‘Uh huh.’ Crowhurst’s lips pulled tight. ‘You think I’m your personal Mercury Boy then?’

‘I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important,’ I pleaded. ‘And I’ll be quick. Then I need you to take me to the morgue. I want to look at Grundler’s body.’

‘I already did that.’ Crowhurst swung the wheel as he took a sharp corner, scaring a flock of geese.

‘I need to look at the body myself,’ I said.

We swung by the harbour district, where I checked in with some of my contacts, but no-one had any news about Roman. Finally, Crowhurst made noises about the time, and I conceded temporary defeat.

Grundler’s body was being held at the City West Morgue. It was a low, flat building positioned a little too close to the meat district for my liking. I bribed the attendant, and he pointed the way to where Grundler was being stored.

The corpse room was unnaturally cold, created by church sanctioned spells that helped preserve the bodies. Pallets lined both walls of the corpse room, some holding bodies covered in white sheets.

Crowhurst rubbed his arms. ‘Let’s be quick. I hate this place.’

We stopped by one of the white sheets, which Crowhurst pulled back. Grundler’s skin had a grey tinge, his ruined eye sockets nothing but a pulpy mess and a grisly hole gaped in his chest. I pulled the sheet down further. Old bruises, mottled grey and purple, splotched his skin. Crowhurst stood on the other side of the slab. He held up one of Grundler’s arms, indicating where the wrist was ringed with a deep bruise. Looking down, I saw a similar bruise on the other wrist. I moved to the feet, seeing identical marks.

‘Looks like he was chained up somewhere,’ I said.

‘A pet griorwolf.’ Crowhurst’s tone was mild and detached, but his jaw clenched tight.

Something else caught my eye and I leant forward. Small pinpricks dotted Grundler’s inner elbow. ‘Did you see this?’

‘I thought it was a rash.’

‘They look like needle marks to me.’

Crowhurst bent down, squinting. ‘A needle mark is bigger than that, and bruises a lot more.’

‘Sure, if you’re using Weald syringes. Those big silver needles are huge and can make a real mess.’ I shook my head. ‘I'm talking about Outland needles. What’s the bet they were loaded with rapture.’

‘You can buy Outland syringes on the black market, but they aren’t cheap,’ Crowhurst said. ‘Grundler didn’t strike me as the type who had that kind of money to throw around.’

‘I’ll wager he wasn’t injecting himself willingly,’ I rubbed my chin, thinking. ‘We both know someone who does have that kind of money though.’

Crowhurst met my eyes. ‘Ivor Grogan.’

We left the morgue, both subdued, and got back in the car. It was just after noon and, while I was hungry for lunch, I couldn’t bring myself to suggest food after seeing the Grundler.

‘Why?’ Crowhurst asked as he cranked over the engine key a few times before the car rumbled to life. ‘Why would someone torture griorwolves? Why inject them with drugs and beat them?’

‘I don’t know.’ My mind ran over Grogan’s country estate, and the security measures. Breaking in to take a peek around would be almost impossible, and extremely dangerous. ‘I've got an idea of someone who might be able to help us.’ I looked at Crowhurst. ‘Who did Gideon end up putting on the Nicola Grogan bodyguard job?’

Crowhurst rolled his eyes. ‘You didn’t hear? The Iron Horse theatre cancelled the contract with Blackgoat Watch when Gideon couldn’t provide a female guard for Nicola. I heard the Sisters of No Mercy were approached.’

‘Let’s go visit the lovely Nicola. Something tells me she wasn’t too pleased with her daddy’s marriage announcement. Maybe if I shake her hard enough, something will fall out of that pretty little head of hers.’

Crowhurst dropped me outside the Iron Horse, before driving off to find a park. Pedestrian traffic was light, so I spied Cloete almost straight away. She was slouched outside the front door with a vicious look designed to keep anyone from making suggestive propositions. She’s stolen that snarky look from me, and it didn’t look like that was all she’d pilfered in recent times, as she was clearly on a protection detail.

As I got close, I wrinkled my nose, liquor wafting off the otherkin like she’d bathed in it. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Looking after that spoilt bitch actress.’

‘Is someone else on the job with you?’ I asked.

‘Nope.’

‘Then why are you out here?’

‘I needed some air. That bitch actress gets on my nerves.’ Cloete straightened her back, tilted her chin higher. ‘Are you going to leave Blackgoat?’

I leant on my cane. ‘I'm kind of too busy with my own problems, Cloete, to keep repeating myself. I've got a torturer of griorwolves to hunt, my name to clear with the Grigori, and a destiny I'm trying to dodge. Your mother is the icing on the cake my thighs don’t need right now.’

Cloete frowned, tail whipping about behind her. She pulled a flask from a pocket and offered me a swig. ‘Mother is going to eat you alive.’

‘You might be right, but I have two things you don’t: a spine, and some fucking loyalty. So you can tell your mother to bite me.’ I brushed past her, ignoring the offered drink.

The girl on the desk recognised me and waved me in. A glance over my shoulder showed me Cloete was staying where she was, head bowed. My heart gave a twinge of concern and I tried my best to dismiss the feeling. I had no time for Cloete at the moment. She’d made her bed, and now she could drunkenly vomit in it.

I didn’t quite make it to Nicola’s dressing room before a commotion sounded behind me. I turned to find the theatre’s manager, Stonehouse, lumbering towards me with a flustered look, boots clicking against the floorboards.

He stabbed a finger at me. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you quit. Don’t bother trying to beg for your job back, I’ve already hired someone else.’

‘I need to ask Nicola a few questions.’ I tried Nicola’s dressing room door and found it unlocked. I shoved the door open and stepped inside. My eyes fell on the curtains, now pushed aside and revealing an open window to the side alley. ‘She’s not here,’ I told Stonehouse.

He pushed past me. ‘Nicola darling?’ He stopped when he saw the open window and turned to me, face ashen. ‘She’s gone out the window.’

‘Thank you, Mister Obvious.’

‘Her father is going to have me castrated.’

‘Maybe she’s taking the air.’

‘She’s supposed to go on stage soon.’

I walked around the room, checking for clues. ‘Do you know where she might have gone?’

‘No.’ Stonehouse looked sick. ‘I mean, she wouldn’t. Would she?’

I levelled a stare at Stonehouse. ‘She wouldn’t what?’

‘Run off with that boy,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘If she did, Grogan will slit my throat.’