Dark City (The Order of Shadows Book 1) (10 page)

M
y hand
automatically lurched toward my holster, the one that wasn't there.

"A word, Morgan."

The silken yet husky tone was unmistakable. Underwood. He stood in the shadows behind me as impeccably dressed as ever. His sharp charcoal grey coat with that freshly pressed cream colored shirt and the black silk tie made me feel like a bum.

His fedora was tipped at an angle over his long pale face, emphasizing the glint of his lilac eyes as he gave me a tired half-smile. "You've been busy." Underwood glanced at the wealth of cuts and bruises on the side of my face. "Despite my request for you to stay out of it."

"I-"

"Not here." Underwood glanced around. "Somewhere private." Fury simmered below his polite, cordial tone as he led me down the alley past a number of seedy shops and bars. Figures gathered outside the doorways. I knew I was unlikely to run into trouble, especially with Underwood by my side, but I assessed them out of habit; the large woman that must have been part giantess, a pale, ratty-faced sorcerer and a group of twitchy addicts with bright roving eyes. Their gaze grew hungry as they glanced our way, but no one bothered us.

We walked in silence, then Underwood guided me down an unmarked alley I'd never noticed before. He stopped in front of a heavy arched metal door with a facade of golden filigree and fed a dull silver key into the lock. As he opened it, he nodded for me to enter.

The air inside was inviting, warm and fragrant with roasting meats, fresh bread, sautéed onions, the bouquets of spices that were familiar, and some that were not. My mouth watered and I realized I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten.

Underwood locked the door and led me down a flight of plum-colored carpeted stairs. Twinkling music rang out in a delicate melody played by something that sounded like a cross between a mandolin and a harp.

The dining room at the foot of the stairs was long and wide, the formal tables were tucked into a series of nooks and the large central space was occupied by an ornate marble fountain carved into the form of classical sylvan riverside. Stone dryads frolicked in the stream and basked in the water cascading from the mouth of a giant copper fish.

A maître d' approached us. He was smartly dressed in black and white and his eyes were the color of honey. They scanned me, fast, judging, unimpressed, but they gleamed as they found Underwood. "The usual, Mr. Underwood?"

"Yes. And a..." Underwood's brow furrowed as he glanced at me. "And a pint of stout for my friend. It's too early for bourbon."

The maître d' led us to the far end of the room. We passed nooks filled with diners, their conversations low and impossible to hear. I recognized one; a notorious dealer of arcane art, and I noticed the two ladies sitting with him were both cloaked lycanthropes. A female demon sat in the next alcove reading quietly on a tablet as she sipped from a delicate glass filled with bright blue fire.

The maître d' paused.

"Sit." Underwood gestured to a table enclosed by ornate mahogany walls and an intricately carved ceiling. A formal scarlet tablecloth embroidered with gold thread set off the elegantly trimmed china and fine linen napkins that had been folded into the shape of white swans.

There were no menus.

Underwood sat in the far corner, and I took the seat opposite him, feeling like a naughty schoolboy waiting for the lecture to begin. He sat in silence and only once our drinks arrived, his a glass of dark red wine, did he speak.

"I thought we had an understanding, Morgan. I assign a job, you complete the task, I compensate you. Granted the pay's low, especially considering the risks. But we work with what we have and the Organization doesn't have much." He took a deep breath and spread his ringed fingers against the tablecloth. "Now, despite the courtesy I've always shown you, you've chosen to defy me. Why?"

"It's not that simple-"

"But it is. I told you to stay out of this business, and you didn't." Underwood gave me a long, hard look. "I heard an off-world demon was raised. You know the penalty for such deeds, seeing as you enforce them." His almond-shaped eyes narrowed as he took another sip of his drink.

"You know I didn't raise that demon."

"Maybe. But I have witnesses that put you at the scene. Yours aren't the only eyes I have in the city. Not by a long shot."

"The place was rigged. Someone set a trap. The demon would have been triggered by any magical presence it detected. I chased it down, it self-destructed, end of story."

Underwood's gaze locked on to mine. "You mentioned a friend, one who had the same markings as the first victim. I assume that's what drove you to the crime scene."

My words caught in my throat. I nodded.

Fleeting pity passed through Underwood's eyes, and then they hardened. "As you're well aware, I'm not one for repeating myself or wasting time, mine or anyone else's. So let me cut to the quick. I understand your particular interest in these crimes, Morgan, but I told you to leave it to the Organization. That order still stands."

I took a heavy sip of stout, glad for the liquid courage. While I wasn't frightened of Underwood, I was definitely wary. I'd heard stories about people who had crossed him, none of them came off the better for it. "Why?"

"I've already explained, the matter's being dealt with."

"By who?" I matched his stare.

"By our
betters.
" There was both irony and resignation in his voice.

"Meaning the Council."

"We're just pawns," Underwood continued. "The little people. Which makes the magical world no different to the human one. There are hierarchies in both, pecking orders, kings, king-makers and peasants. Law and order, chaos and disorder. Our job is merely to keep things in check. To prevent the occult from being seen. To ensure
they
remain unaware of our presence in their world, and in doing so, thus far, we've prevented a bloodbath of biblical proportions."

"By
they
I take it you mean humans. You seem to forget I'm one myself."

Underwood's laugh was short and hard. "You're more us than them. Even though I often suspect you wish that wasn't so."

He was right. The idea of a normal life free from constant conflict and turmoil was appealing. A life where I was only judged by banal details like my bank balance and social status, rather than my prowess or grasp of magic, or lack of. "So the Council's overseeing the investigation? They don't usually show this much interest in our affairs. What's so different about these killings?"

"You know we don't talk about the Council, Morgan. You work for the Organization, not them. At least not directly. That's all you need to know"

Right. The Organization being the iron fist to the Council's supposed velvet glove of learnedness, justice and order. "All I need to know," my voice grew louder, not that I cared, "is who killed my friend. And how to find them so I can wipe them out as slowly and painfully as possible. That's all."

Underwood finished his drink and set the glass down. "I don't make the rules, I'm just an intermediary. My remit was very clear. Stay away from this case and leave it to my esteemed partners to deal with."

"So they can pass it on to agents like Raspailkin, Ebomee and Osbert?" I shook my head in disgust. "Each of which is a hair's breadth away from being the kind of scum we hunt down."

"Scum or not, they know how to follow orders and maintain professionalism in their work."

I snorted.

"Don't push me, Morgan. Take a holiday. Go somewhere warm. Or go somewhere cold if you prefer. Whatever suits you. Just go away and stay out of this business." Underwood put cash on the table, more than enough to cover the check and leave a very generous tip, then he stood. "Stay, have a few more drinks. Toast your departed friend or drown your sorrows. It's on me."

He began to walk away, but stopped. "Do what I tell you, Morgan, and maybe we'll both survive to fight another day."

I sipped the rest of my pint as I waited for him to leave, then I got up. I didn't feel too steady on my feet; the beatings, pain and stress of the last few days had begun to take their toll. The waiter watched me with a look of displeasure and someone in one of the nooks laughed as I passed by.

I didn't care. They could all go to hell.

I had places to be, and monsters to see.

I
was
glad to get away from Nightfall Street, to be back in my world. Glad to be home. I loaded my gun as soon as I walked in the door and double checked my kit. I had enough crystals, to keep me going for at least a few more encounters, but I'd be needing more, and soon.

My head swam with exhaustion so I took a cold shower, I changed into my work clothes, a black sweater, jeans and boots, followed by an even blacker cup of coffee.

It was time to find the notoriously slippery Argyle Screed. From what little I knew, he moved around a lot, but mostly operated out of a dive on the wharf. Screed was never far from the water, as allegedly most of his trade was smuggled in aboard nocturnal ships.

I had no specifics on exactly what that trade was. There were rumors, exotic forbidden spices, rare magical artifacts, even people. All of which should have placed him high on the Organization's priority list, but he wasn't. Whether this was down to bribes or blackmailing of high level officials, namely the Council, was pure speculation.

The prospect of going to the wharf wasn't a happy one. I had no idea what I'd find there, but I was fairly sure it wasn't going to be high tea. The whole area brimmed with lowlifes, and there was a good chance I'd encounter people and entities I'd already crossed swords with. Old enemies.

I locked the apartment and headed for the stairs, keeping to the shadows as I slipped by Mrs. Fitz's apartment. I'd almost made it when I heard the telltale
click.

Her door opened wide, spilling light across the hall and illuminated my foot before I could yank it back into the darkness. "Why are you lurking, Mr. Rook?" Mrs. Fitz's pince-nez glasses flashed as she gazed at me. "And where have you been?"

"I've been pretty busy-"

"Did you hear them?"

"Hear who?"

Mrs. Fitz shook her head. "The cats! Who else? They were tramping across the ceiling like furry trolls dancing the two-step at some macabre ball." She narrowed her eyes. "But I must have imagined it, mustn't I?"

"You must have. I don't own cats." It was true. Kind of. I didn't own cats because, like most human slaves to the feline empire, they owned me. "Look, I-"

"I had another dream, Mr. Rook. It was horrible." Mrs. Fitz sighed. "Dreadful."

"What happened?"

She pursed her lips. "The pale man. He was in a huge dark...building...a place of great suffering. There was a room at the top of the stairs, and cells with people screaming and whimpering as devils tormented them. He stood at the threshold of the turmoil and even though he had his back to me, I could see well enough that he was gathering shadows in the palms of his pale hands."

"Gathering shadows?"

"Yes. He held his hands under a fountain of shadows, they flowed into his palms, they made him stronger. I could see it all so clearly. I tried to get away but my feet were stuck rigid, and then he turned..." The fear in Mrs. Fitz's eyes became guilt as she added, "It was you, Morgan. And then you whispered."

"Whispered what?"

"
Go to sleep.
And that was when I woke."

"I see," I said. Even though I really didn't. But once again I felt as if Mrs. Fitz's dreams were gnawing at my psyche like a dog with a rancid old bone.

"You were the painted man." Her tone was almost accusatory.

"It was just a dream, Mrs. Fitz. Forget it."

"I'll never forget it. Never." She shook her head, before giving me a weak smile. "I'm sorry, Mr. Rook. You don't want to hear my stuff and nonsense. I'll bid you a good evening." Mrs. Fitz shivered as she softly closed her door.

I felt unsettled as I thought over her dream. It was the same as the last.

Go to sleep.

Was it a figment of her imagination, or something more? Tudor's words came back to me.

The city's going to hell, the ones who have kept to the shadows are venturing out. Taking what they want.

Was the painted man one of those in the shadows? Was he now venturing out?

I hurried out the front door, into a chill breeze. Now wasn't the time for reflection.

Now was the time for action.

* * *

T
he Seventh Knot
was a sprawling tavern on the wharf. It catered exclusively to the magical and occult communities, which made me one of the very few
blinkered
people to have even noticed its existence.

I stopped in a shadowy alcove and checked my gun for what must have been the third or fourth time. I hoped I wouldn't need it, but this area was definitely one of the more lawless places in the city, a regular Wild West.

The rickety door to the Seventh Knot was covered in stains of dubious origins, not to mention scuffs, dents, and splatters of blood. A din rose from within, cackling laughter punctured the low buzz of conversation and the heavy drone of a band that sounded like Black Sabbath but wasn't.

I walked through the door as if I'd been drinking there my whole life. The rough floorboards smelt of citrus and detergent with a heady undercurrent of blood and vomit. Nice.

Round tables filled the barroom, but most of the clientele sat on the outskirts, tucked into the shadows. I spotted a few humans, at first glance at least, as well as a witch sitting with an ogre.

A few heads turned my way, mostly from a group of wild-haired men in the back corner. They wore black leather jackets with flaming eyes painted on the shoulders.

The Sons of Hades - a notorious biker gang of vampires and half demons. I recognized the one holding court at the foot of the table, a grizzled bear of a man called Dubois. He glared daggers at me.

Or should I say, glared a
dagger,
as his right eye, which looked like a cloudy blue marble, was completely sightless. I'd sent his brother to StarDim a few years back for the attempted consumption of a minor, but not before beating him to a quivering pulp.

Dubois's hand slipped inside his jacket. I flashed a smile, my own hand resting on the grip of my revolver. He stared at me for a moment longer, then turned his attention back to his acolytes and his beer.

The long wide bar was tended by a gaunt young punk with a radiant teal mohawk and innumerable piercings that flashed in the light. I wondered if he had any concept of how badly the brightly colored booze in the bottles behind him clashed with his hair.

"What can I get you?" His plastic smile didn't quite reach his flint-hard eyes.

"I'm looking for Argyle Screed."

"There's no one here by that name."

I stared hard at him.

He blinked. "But if there was," he continued, "who would I say was looking for him?"

"That was clumsy." I didn't like this man at all. I felt like I could almost smell his soul, and it was rotten to the core. "Just tell me where Screed is."

He put his hair-spray through its paces as he shook his head. "You should leave."

I ignored the sticky patch on the bar as I leaned in, my face inches from his. "And you should direct me to Screed, before I lose what's left of my patience."

He muttered and began to wipe a pint glass with a limp filthy rag, adding more dirt than he took off. I reached over, grabbed his shirt and reeled him in like a fish.

"Get the-" He froze as I opened my other hand and blew a scattering of powder into his face.

The effect was instantaneous. Horror clouded his eyes, and his hands began to tremble.

I released him and turned as I heard a movement behind me. Two of the braver members of The Sons of Hades were right at my back. Vampires...so much for that useless mirror at the back of the bar. Light glinted on the spiked knuckleduster encasing the closest's one's fingers.

"Finish your drinks, and get the hell out of here." I pulled my gun out. They looked at each other, before making the right decision.

I turned back. The barkeeper was shaking uncontrollably as the hexdust and nightshade mix took him into his own personal hell. I slipped a hand into my pocket, charged up with the chunk of crystal, and closed my eyes before slipping into his mind.

It was awash with black scratchy hallucinations and all manner of phobias.

But mostly it was filled with rats.
Hundreds
of rats.

They crawled across the bar and up his hands and arms, before scurrying down his shaking legs. One tiny rodent nestled in his mohawk. His high-pitched scream was cut short as an imaginary rat ran into his mouth, its tail whipping his lips as it crawled ever deeper.

I bypassed the hallucinations and found his store of memories.

It didn't take much rifling to find what I was looking for. As soon as I had what I needed, I flitted back into myself and handed him a vial of coral-colored liquid. "Drink it, and it will all go away," I told him.

His hands trembled as he snatched the vial, and by the time his rats had faded to ghosts, I was gone.