Dark City (The Order of Shadows Book 1) (8 page)

M
y head ached
and I woke with my face feeling like it had been scrubbed down with sandpaper. I reached for the glass of water on the nightstand, but it turned out to be diluted whiskey. And then I remembered the demon's spit.

"Urgh." I sat up slowly. "No," I mumbled, as if the word would stop the pain.

It didn't.

Storm was gone, most likely driven away by my drunken snores, and judging by the way my hair was standing on end, a night of thrashing around.

The world lurched as I got up and switched on the bathroom light, which flickered as if it were full of half-crazed fireflies. I splashed cold water across my face but it didn't do anything. I mean, my face and t-shirt were wet but I still felt like shit. Since I was soaked already, I decided to take a shower. I stood and swayed under hot streaming jets of water and part of the fog cleared from my mind.

The living room was cat free, but a glance at the clock confirmed it was way past their breakfast time. I felt strangely alone as I made a pot of coffee and turned the place upside down looking for my phone.

Turned out it had been stuffed down the side of the sofa along with a vintage coin and a playing card I didn't remember owning.

I thumbed the phone's display to see if there was any update from Haskins, but the battery was dead. "Out of juice," I said. "I know how you feel." I plugged the phone into the wall, grabbed my cup and slumped to the sofa, splashing boiling coffee over my knees. "Son of a bitch!" I wasn't sure if I was addressing the coffee, which was only following the dictates of gravity, or myself.

Sunlight streamed through the window and made a patch on the floor and I gazed at it as I went over my options for the day.

What did I have to go on? Nothing except the rigged murder scene and the demon that had turned to smoke. My demonologist friend Anastasia would be able to put a name to the creature that had tried to pound me to dust, but she was somewhere in Ukraine, tracking something I'd figured I'd be better off not asking too many questions about.

Which left the Organization, and that was a brick wall.

I glanced at the table. The napkin. The rune I'd drawn from Haskins' photograph. Someone would know what it meant. I just had to find the right person to ask.

But first, a
proper
cup of coffee, i.e. one that hadn't been made by me.

I started towards the door but stopped as I realized I'd rather face a whole horde of demons than deal with Mrs. Fitz in my current, aching state.

I grabbed a partially charged crystal from a wooden box on the bookshelf and closed my eyes. I used its power, along with a few stray strands of magic floating through the neighborhood. It didn't take much.

The air crackled as the power swirled around me and enchanted my clothes. Now, if Mrs. Fitz happened to open her door or glance through the peephole as I tried to sneak by, she'd see nothing but a thin shadowy smudge. She'd also experience a very strong compulsion to close her door and find something better to do.

My half-assed spell worked, and within moments I was out of the building and halfway down the street.

The sun had vanished, which was fine, the patchy gray sky matched my frayed mood. I was almost at the coffee shop when I spotted a glimmer of light and eddy of color swirling along the sidewalk across the street.

Glory.

She wore a long scarlet dress and her golden blonde hair spilled over her shoulders. Her full red lips matched her dress, which was tastefully offset by a string of pearls. She looked like an actress from the golden age of cinema, a jewel from a distant era, a Hollywood starlet of yore.

The lights and colors around her dimmed as she drew them in, leaching their brightness and adding it to her own marvelous glow. The lights shimmered and snaked towards her, as if she were a living magnet slowly turning the world monochrome.

Glory stepped into the street, draining the brilliant yellow from the cab that screeched to a halt before her. She barely gave it a glance as she walked towards me.

I was glad her eyes were hidden behind those black oversized designer shades. That way I wouldn't be drawn in. Glory was a succubus, and very dangerous when she chose to be. Not that I had any quarrels with her. I'd even go so far as to say we're friends. Most of the time.

She stood before me, her pale elegant face in stark contrast to the deep dark glasses. A strange, uncomfortable silence settled over us and the world seemed drab and dim beyond her scarlet red dress.

Usually she'd greet me with an upper hook of flirtation, followed by a jab of flattery, and I'd have to fight hard to withstand the charm offensive.

But not today.

Today her flawless face was marred by the dark streaks of mascara that streamed out from beneath her glasses.

"Morning, Glory." Usually my feeble pun would put a smile on those full, plump lips, but not this time.

She stood in silence as the traffic edged past, the honking horns and muffled curses fading as her invisible aura swept around me like a tide. "Morgan." Her voice faltered.

"Are you okay?" I was worried. I was also wondering how the hell she'd found me.

"No." Her voice was almost breathless. "No, I'm not okay."

"What is it?"

Glory's breath hitched in her throat. She shook her head.

I tried another tack. "What are you doing here?"

"I walked until I caught your scent."

"My scent?" Right now it was probably a mix of sweat, bitter coffee and stale whiskey.

"Yes. I keep a kind of mental library of pheromones, mostly from people I find...interesting."

"Right. So why-"

"Tom's dead." Her voice was as cold and hard as stone.

It felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to my chest. "Tom?"

She nodded.

"How did you know T-"

"Everyone knows...knew Tom. He looked out for people. He looked out for you. Not that he wanted you to know it." Her tears left silvery trails as they tumbled down her cheeks. She took her glasses off to wipe her eyes and I tried to look away, but it was too late.

Her eyes glistened like cut crystal. Like dappled sunlight on a stunning blue sea. But the edges were red and marred by the globs of melting mascara that still clung to her lashes.

My heart raced and a hot rush pounded in my head. Right then I would have given up every one of my deepest secrets if she'd asked.

"Sorry." Glory put her sunglasses back on. "I..."

"How did..." My voice broke. I had to swallow air before I could speak again, and when I did, it sounded like someone else's voice. "How?"

Glory's lips twisted into an ugly grimace. "Some sick bastard cut his throat and took out his eyes."

Another hammer blow.

I'd seen the exact same thing happen the night before. "Where-"

"Get them, Morgan." Glory's teeth were longer now and the illusion of beauty wore thin as a feral tone filled her voice. "That's what you do, right? You get bad people."

I nodded dumbly. Molten bile scorched my throat. I wanted to throw up.

"And when you get them," Glory placed a hand on my arm, her nails digging into my arm, "make them suffer. Make them really suffer. Promise me you'll do that."

"I will." The world spun and the only thing grounding me to reality was the bite of her nails as they dug into my skin.

"Good. Tear out their fucking heart, Morgan. I'd do it myself if I knew how to find them, but I don't have your resources."

The world stopped lurching around me. The hangover was gone. Ice filled my veins. I'd been here before, with Willow. Another sickening death. Another debt to be collected. "Leave it to me."

Glory gave a slight incline of her head, which I took to be an agreement. "Just get them, Morgan. Promise me."

"I will, I swear it. Where did it happen?"

Glory gave me details of an underpass near the waterfront. It was in the middle of nowhere. I wondered what had driven Tom out there.

"The place is swarming with cops," Glory said. I thought of Haskins. My phone should be charged by now. "And..." Glory continued, and stopped.

"And what?"

"There was someone there. A man. He wore a hat and his face was all shadow. I don't know what he was, and I don't want to. But he wasn't the killer, I know that much. I couldn't smell blood on him, but I could smell...I don't know. It was like madness. Barely contained madness."

I thought back to the Organization and my visit to the offices the day before. That man with the hat, was he looking for this killer too? I shivered.

Glory squeezed my arm. "Morgan. Make 'em pay."

"I will."

Glory turned and crossed the street and cut through the rushing river of steel, glass and rust without a care. And then she turned the corner at the end of the block and was gone.

My fury uncoiled like a reel of barbed wire. Moments later it was eclipsed by a flood of grief, helplessness and self-blame.

I'd let Tom down.

The walk back to the apartment felt hollow and desolate. I vaguely heard Mrs. Fitz emerge from her apartment as I'd walked past, climbed the stairs and slammed the door on the world.

I
sat
and stared through the window without really seeing anything, frozen by a cocktail of guilt and grief. Guilt for my failure to catch the killer and the shroud of grief for Tom's passing. I'd tried to warn him but he'd pushed me away. There had been so little to go on, no leads, even less time. But I couldn't shake the guilt. I should have been able to stop his murder.

It seemed strange to grieve for someone I'd barely known. A man whose past was as blank as mine and whose ambitions and hopes were just as unknown to me as the reason he'd ended up on the streets in the first place.

Dark clouds rolled over the city, bringing fat lazy drops of rain. I watched them fall as I tried to summon the will to move, to break free.

Soon anger gave me the strength to stand. I dialed Haskins and grilled him. By the end of our heated conversation, I was still at square one. All he could tell me was that forensics had concluded the two murders were almost certainly done by the same hand and that Tom was in a body bag at the city morgue. Poor Tom, waiting on a gurney in a long line of Jane and John Doe's that was backed up into the hall. At least until the Organization whisked him away.

I poured another cup of bitter black coffee, topping it off with whiskey for good measure. Time was mine to kill. I couldn't just head out to the crime scene in broad daylight. So I checked through my bag, refilled my kit, and made a bowl of pasta. I even managed to eat a good third of it before chucking the rest into the trash.

Then, with the alarm set, I closed my eyes and waited for night to fall.

* * *

T
he underpass
where Tom's body had been found was surrounded by a desolate railyard filled with decaying train cars. They stood like great rusting caterpillars mottled with neon graffiti and the weedy gravel beneath them glittered with tiny squares of glass.

Clumps of turf and brush ran alongside the waterfront, waylaid in places by a potholed path. A cold breeze rose from the water, carrying a damp scent that mingled with the greasy odor of industrial decay. It was a haunted place, plagued by its past. A casualty of boom years gone bust. I could almost feel the presence of the working men and women that had once thrived here but had now long since gone to their graves.

But what had brought Tom here? Had he been chased? Or coaxed? Either way, it was such a cold, forlorn place to die.

The underpass loomed ahead, a black circle in the side of a grassy bank crested by train tracks. There were fresh marks and debris in the dirt; car tires, footprints, cigarette butts and broken polystyrene cups. I thought of Haskins. He'd been here, his little black book in hand as he pored over Tom's corpse like it was some kind of specimen.

Not that I blamed him. It wasn't his fault or the fault of the police, it was just the way of the world. Little could be done to stop people like Tom from dying. People just lose their way sometimes. Slip through the cracks. Or just never really find a place in society from the start.

The lost, the forgotten.

A scrap of police tape snapped in the breeze like a yellow serpent as I paused before the tunnel's entrance. I could barely see the end but for a dim half circle of light that defined the silhouettes of burnt-out cars amid the gulf of darkness.

The eerie solitude exploded with noise and light as a train rattled overhead, taking its passengers to brighter, happier places.

I held the collar of my coat over my mouth as I entered the tunnel. An inadequate shield against the pungent stench of piss that assailed my nostrils. I flipped on my flashlight and followed the scores of footprints.

Cops, coroners, forensics and somewhere, Tom's.

And his attacker's.

Something scuttled in the gloom. Probably a rat. The usual junk littered the ground; broken bottles, crumpled brown bags, discarded syringes, and a wealth of bent and punctured cans. I shone the flashlight over walls marred by decades of graffiti, the cobwebs and filth slowly obscuring the names and tags of yesteryear.

Why had Tom come here? Sure he was a drunk, and the place probably made a good shelter while sinking bottles of cheap vodka, but this wasn't his style.

No, something had lured him here. Panic? Terror?

I needed to take a closer look.

I held a pair of crystals in my hand and absorbed their magic, before drifting out of myself and slipping through the whirls and eddies of time. The scene changed. Beams of lights filled the tunnel, illuminating the police forensics in white uniforms that searched the ground. Detectives flashed lights over the rusted cars and scoured every inch of the place.

One beam found the body slumped against the tunnel wall.

Tom.

His hair was wild around his shoulders, its grey and white tips stained red. A wide gash split his throat and caked it with congealed blood. His eyes were gone, the sockets pools of red-black, his ashen hands folded over his chest.

As if he were sleeping.

I looked for another whirl of time to take me further back.

I saw a rookie cop entering the tunnel, the flashlight in his hand trembling, a couple of kids on mountain bikes following behind him. I went further back, until I saw the same kids cycling through the gloom, their laughs and jeers turning to screams that echoed beneath the sloping roof.

I went back further still, the tunnel was empty. Tom entered, carrying what looked like a short sword. He walked backwards, his eyes narrowed as he glared towards the tunnel's entrance, his back straight, his fear hidden. But I could still sense the steady racing thump of his heart.

Then a figure appeared. It was the assassin, its step slow. Confident. Predatory.

I swooped down to meld with its form. I wanted to learn more about my enemy but its thoughts were just as limited as before.

Then I heard the whispering in the center of its mind.

Kill.

The force and coldness of the words shook me from my mooring, and I was thrown from the assassin.

I watched as it pulled a sword from its cloak. The blade was smooth, polished and as black as onyx. The bleached bone pommel was visible beneath its iron-like grip, and it had been carved into the shape of a skull. Symbols were etched along the blade and while I could not discern their meaning, they felt distantly familiar.

Tom stopped, stood his ground and with one hand he buttoned up his coat.

It was a smooth cool action but it seemed a strange thing to do. Then the thought was snatched away as he called out, "Who's here with you?"

For a moment I thought he meant me, but then he added, "Who commands you? Who pulls your strings?"

The assassin ignored him as it strode forward and brought up its blade. Its head cocked and twitched as if listening to the whispering voice inside its mind. And then it spoke. "Cowardice. Dishonor. Weakness," it said in a hoarse, lifeless voice.

Tom gripped his sword. "Who are you?"

"Sleep, old man. Sleep like those you slaughtered."

Tom's sword gleamed as he leaped forward. A feint white glow illuminated the blade as he swung it through the air.

The assassin parried it, then jumped forward to meet him and landed a hard punch to his face. Tom's nose exploded with blood, but he barely seemed to register it as he jumped back and slashed forward.

The assassin slammed its sword into Tom's and drove him back. It lunged, thrusting the dark blade at Tom's heart. It struck his coat. The fabric shimmered with bright blue light and the sword juddered and sang, as if it had struck stone.

Tom swung his blade, opening a deep cut across the assassin's midriff. It showed no reaction as it shouldered him back and brought its knee up into his groin. Tom buckled over, his face a mask of agony.

The assassin raised its blade for the killing blow, but shuddered as Tom drove his sword through its chest. The creature grabbed the blade in its gloved hand and plunged it in deeper, wrenching it from Tom's grasp.

Tom stared in open eyed amazement and horror, then recognition dawned across his ravaged face. "You're..."

He never finished his words because the assassin wrenched the sword from its chest and swung it in elaborate arcs through the air, leaving a deep red line across Tom's throat.

Agony and bewilderment filled Tom's eyes as he threw a hand up, trying to stem the wound. Blood gushed between his knuckles and his eyes grew wide.

The assassin sheathed its blade, shoved Tom's weapon into the dirt and reached down, pulling Tom's hand away from the lethal gash. Blood misted the air and spattered the heap of rusted cars behind him.

Tom let out a final gasp while the assassin stood over him, muttering in a language both alien and hauntingly familiar. And then he slumped to the ground, dead.

The assassin turned him over onto his back and widened the gash in his throat, before pulling a knife from its belt and leaning over to remove his eyes.

I refused to look away, even though I knew that nothing could ever erase this horror. It would live on in my mind, forever...no matter how many bottles of whiskey I sank.

When it had finished, the assassin stood up and left the tunnel.

I should have pursued it but the magic was wearing off, leaving me feeling stretched and thin. I hung in the air as I searched for a way back. Eddies of time swirled around me like wisps of emerald green and midnight blue clouds. When I spotted a current that drifted back toward the present, I dove in.

Night turned to dawn and day, and finally back to night. I could see my body, the flashlight in my hand, the illuminated patch of dirt still wet with Tom's blood.

I drifted down and anchored myself, my body as warm as a summer evening. I waited, trying to ground myself before walking out of the tunnel, but my thoughts flew wildly, like a flock of starlings. All wings and claws turning in a spiral of sorrow and fury.