Dark City (The Order of Shadows Book 1) (3 page)

When Dauple finally came out of the house, I helped him stow the bodies in the hearse and climbed into the passenger seat.

The drive to the hospital was mercifully quiet, aside from the excitable tap of Dauple's finger on the steering wheel. It was that odd time of year when the last fiery throes of summer were tempered by the imminent arrival of fall. A time of shadows and winds that seemed to hail from somewhere else entirely.

Dauple pulled into the bay outside the emergency room. A tired-looking security guard knocked on his window. I climbed out and gave him
the look.
A
you're wishing you were somewhere else and your gonna forget you ever saw me
look. It took a few seconds to sink in. Most human minds are shockingly easy to manipulate. I suppose it's because we're all so desperate to live in blissful unawareness, especially when it comes to the nightmares that shift and stalk around us. Given the choice, we'll cling to business as usual, whatever the hell that is.

I unlocked the passenger door and helped the girl out. She looked less haggard now but the black bags under her eyes were still prominent. As were the welts and scratches where she'd attacked the imaginary itch that plagued her wrists.

The hospital receptionist's attractive brown eyes flitted from me to the girl, then back to me with a flicker of disgust. Clearly she thought I was responsible for the girl's state and as I glanced into the large mirror behind her, I saw why.

I looked like shit, my dark clothes ragged and frayed, spatters of blood on my sweater. I pulled my trench coat around me and secured two of the buttons, but it was too late. My throat and face were a map of purple bruises and I looked far older than my thirty something years. I smoothed my long dark hair back but the pomade just looked like filthy grease beneath all that overhead lighting.

"What happened to her?" the receptionist asked. The nurse beside her glanced at me, his brow furrowing. He walked towards another security guard; this one seemed more attentive than the one posted outside.

"Someone spiked her drink," I said. I hoped it would stop the conversation, but knew it wouldn't. "You need to get her help."

"I need to get some details-"

I picked up a pen from the clipboard on the top of the desk. The hospital was brimming with magic, most of it weak, but with the sheer volume of people inside, quantity over quality.

I charged the pen with a simple spell and passed it to the receptionist. Her pupils dilated, her mouth softened and she gazed up at me, awaiting instructions. "Her drink was spiked," I repeated. "She needs urgent attention. You don't need any more details."

The receptionist nodded and called for the nurse. He came over and took the girl's shaking hand. I waited until he led her down the corridor, then I turned on my heels so fast my shoes squeaked on the polished floor. I had to get away from the harsh buzzing lights and the swell of nausea, anguish and pain surging along the corridors.

Dauple was gone by the time I emerged. That suited me. I didn't want the crazy bastard knowing where I was going.

I hailed a cab and slumped in the back. The city passed by in a blur of dark towers and garish lights, and above everything that red swollen moon casting its devilish gleam.

"Happy birthday," I mumbled. There was a bottle of bourbon waiting at the apartment, and sleep wouldn't be too far behind.

Or so I thought.

T
he cab pulled
up outside the old Victorian house I called home. Well, the top floor at least. The battered old taxi looked distinctly out of place nestled amongst the sleek Audis and BMWs parked along the street.

I paid the driver, then waited for him to leave before slipping through the gate and up the flight of wide steps that led to the house. I'd been living here for the best part of a year, but it still amazes me that this is my home. For most of my life my only reason for being anywhere near a nice leafy street like this was to visit clients.

Clients like my landlady, Mrs. Lyra Fitz. I'd met her while moonlighting as Morgan Rook; part-time spiritualist, exorcist and banisher of bad spirits.

Lyra had a particularly nasty problem with a poltergeist in the cellar, and a banshee in the attic. Yeah, she'd really hit the supernatural lottery that year, but it wasn't surprising. Spirits, pucks and spooks were attracted by Lyra's
gift
, as well as that underlying touch of madness she could never quite disguise.

I drove out the unwanted guests and she repaid me by renovating the attic and letting me move in, virtually rent free. Given the cost of living in this city and the paltry wages the Organization paid, this was a godsend. It also made me both lodger and caretaker when it came to clearing the premise of any supernatural entities, oddities or occasional insanities.

I slid my key almost soundlessly into the front door and made my way up the flight of plushly carpeted stairs as the gentle strains of Erik Satie's 'Nocturne no 1' chimed from Lyra's apartment.

For a moment, I thought I might make it past without her noticing, but a shadow fell across the gap under her door.

The stairs leading to my apartment were so close. If I could just reach...

Click.

The door opened and Lyra appeared. She leaned against the frame, as if posing for a photograph. She looked up at me, elegant even in her bath robe. The shadows accentuated her cut-glass cheekbones and the long silvery blonde hair that was piled high upon her head.

"There you are." Her pince-nez glasses flashed over her azure eyes.

"Here I am." I nodded to the stairs. "I'm just going to-"

"You look terrible, Mr. Rook. And you're hurt!"

I rubbed the bruises on the side of my face. "It's nothing-"

"They're at it again." Lyra stared at me with that singularly unnerving gaze. "The cats." She shook her head. "Plotting."

According to Lyra Fitz the entire planet's controlled by cats. And rather than accept her gift of clairvoyance and second sight, she planted the blame of all visions and odd occurrences squarely upon a feline New World Order. Naturally this was a perfect soup of insanity.

"They must be having a convention," she said.

"A cat convention?"

Lyra narrowed her eyes, as if trying to work out if I was mocking her. I wasn't. I was humoring her.

"The streets were packed full of cats this afternoon. Did you see them? I've never seen so much fur in one day, not since Beijing. They're bringing me nightmares." She shook her head. "Ghastly nightmares."

Now this caught my interest. On top of being a very gifted empath, Lyra often has prophetic dreams, and more than a few have been helpful in my investigations. "Nightmares?" I tried to keep my voice as casual as possible.

Her painted eyebrows rose up and she gripped the doorframe with her porcelain-like hand. "I dreamt of a house on a hill, where endless smoke spilled from a canvas. Behind it was a deep black hole."

I did my best to contain the growing unease passing through me and remained silent as I waited for her to continue.

"The black hole pulled everything into it, the earth, the stars, the planets. It smashed them together until they were nothing but dust. And standing behind it all was a man. He waited in the shadows. I could barely see him. His face. It was painted."

"Painted?"

"Yes, white, like a corpse. And he wore a red scarf around his neck, like it was there to hide something. There was sadness, and emptiness in his eyes. And destruction. I didn't like him at all..." Lyra shook her head, and then gave me a weak smile. "Damn cats and their damned nonsense."

I had no idea who the man was, but everything she mentioned harkened back to my hallucination of the asylum. I wanted to press her further, but I could see she was getting agitated and it was late. "Well, you can sleep safe, now. I'm back, I've locked the door and-"

"They don't need doors. They were in the television earlier, if you please."

I reached out and took her thin hand in mine and gave it a gentle squeeze. "You look tired, Lyra. Get some sleep and try not to worry. I've got everything under control."

She searched my eyes. "If you're sure?"

"Totally sure."

Lyra nodded and stepped back through her door. She closed it softly behind her, plunging the hallway in shadows.

I continued up the stairs to my apartment and opened the psychic locks that sealed the place shut. Usually these kinds of charms only last a couple of hours, but the other great thing about this house is the reservoir of magic that surrounds it. There's a Kabbalist two doors down, a Satanist over the road and a Wiccan in the basement apartment. Which means I can tap into their energy and set a spell that pretty much stays charged all day.

I looked down as I stepped through the door, eager to make sure none of my guests escape down the stairs. If they did, the jig would be up.

There were only five in the apartment tonight. A Persian on the sofa next to the two Siamese sisters, a Bombay on my turntable, and Alfred, a British Shorthair who liked to sleep on my shoes.

None of the cats were mine, they'd just adopted my apartment as their second home. A place for them to go to when they feel like slumming it or having an extra meal.

Their eyes glinted as I lit the candles. "Evening, ladies and gents." Even though I was battered, bruised and totally unnerved, I was glad for their company. Having them around helped take the edge off.

They glanced up with their green, blue and topaz eyes as I made my way through my threadbare apartment and lit the two candles on either side of the framed photograph of Willow. She gazed back, frozen in time, her long brown hair whipped around her in the wind, her hazel eyes mocking me, just as they had when I'd asked her to pose for the picture. And the ghost of that ever-wicked smile forever dancing on her lips.

A smile I'd never see again.

I kissed my fingers and touched the photograph, then I pulled a bottle of whiskey from the shelf and poured two fingers into a glass. "If I'm going to get maudlin, I might as well go for the good stuff."

Liquid heat stung my throat as I took a long deep swallow and toasted Willow. "To you, my witchy love. Thanks for the birthday." I emptied the glass and filled it with another generous measure, before heading to the kitchen.

Ten glowing eyes grew wide with anticipation as they scampered to the floor and followed me. I opened a couple of cans of tuna and mashed the contents onto a dinner plate. Even though the brand I buy was nothing like the premium stuff they're probably used to, they still seem to enjoy it well enough. I set the plate down and they formed a circle of thrashing tails

I slumped onto the sofa.

The television screen stared blankly at me, but there was nothing I wanted to watch. I thought about putting some music on but then the rain began to patter against the roof. I raised my glass toward the ceiling, made a toast and took another long sip.

My phone buzzed with a message; some friends were out in a bar celebrating my birthday for me. I'd planned to be there too but then the intel on Mr. Tudor had come through and diverted me.

As I thought of Tudor, his words came back to me.
The city's going to hell and the ones who have stayed in the shadows are venturing out. Taking what they want. The horde's at the gates.

Usually I'd take it as nothing more than an empty threat, but then there was Lyra's weird nightmare. And her dreams have come to pass way too often for my liking. No, something was happening out there. Something new and malevolent. Something my boss at the Organization decided I didn't need to be told about.

Being human and on the lowest rung of the company ladder meant I was used to being kept in the dark where the intel is concerned. Need to know basis, and all that.

But this was a need to know situation, for me at least. The whole business reeked of evil, and if there was evil, there was a good chance Elsbeth Wyght wouldn't be far away.

I considered checking the news for any possible developments, but they rarely broadcasted stories that were helpful in my line of work. Strictly human concerns; murder, rape, corruption, each chasing the other's tail in a vicious circle.

I glanced at my phone, the display reflecting my bruised face and the flickering candles behind me.

There was always Haskins, he might have heard something...

The crossroads beckoned. But instead of four paths, there were two; blissful ignorance, or a Pandora's box. My curiosity outshines caution every single time. Maybe it's why the cats have such a strong affinity with me.

I switched the phone back on and dialed.

There was still time to hang up, to switch it off. Just finish the whiskey and let the world sort itself out.

But that's not what I do.

"Haskins."

"It's Morgan."

"What do you want, Rook?"

I took another drink. "Anything happening?"

"Plenty. And..."

"And what?"

Haskins sighed. "And it's late, and I've had a bitch of a day-"

"And what?" I repeated.

"A murder. Weird shit. Must have been done by one of your lot."

By
your lot,
he meant someone into the occult. Haskins isn't the best at communicating, but what he lacks in expression, he makes up for with stone cold greed. Which meant getting more information would be easy as long as I was willing to pay. "I can't cross your greasy palms with silver if you won't tell me what happened."

He paused, as if waging a silent battle between his fatigue and greed. "Meet me at the diner. And bring a packet."

A packet meant an envelope with a thousand bucks inside and not a penny less. Covert information comes at a high price in this city. "I'll be there in half an hour."

"Right." Haskin's siren blared in the background as he hung up.

My arms ached as I pulled on my jacket and glanced at the mirror by the door. My face was pale in the candlelight. I smoothed back my black hair and buttoned my collar to cover the bloody wound on my throat. There was nothing I could do about the bruises blooming on the side of my face.

Thankfully the lights are always dim in Nika's Diner.

The cats glanced up as I grabbed my umbrella and a final belt of whiskey.

It was going to be a long night.