The Prince of Darkness (The Freelancers Book 3), Page 2

  In an instant, Ana found that she had regained control of her body. She glanced over to a hand that was hanging above her head, Rafe's palm open, the remnants of dark, glittering dust still hanging on the skin.

  “Coal dust?” she asked, recalling a book in her mind's eye, which stated that as much as there were a myriad ways with which to vanquish a Jikininki, the most efficient method was with coal dust.

  Rafe nodded with a sly smile, that seemed to suggest that this was payback for her mocking him every time she had saved his life.

  “Wait. . . Did you use me as bait?”

  “Is there any way you can take that as a compliment?” he asked, as he wiped the remains of the coal dust on his coat.

  “Bait is not a compliment! Worms are bait!”

  “I thought you'd be a tastier treat for the jikininki than me. . . that feels like a compliment.”

  Ana glared, and began working on how she would punish Rafe for using her as bait.

  They walked back through the cemetery, which seemed even quieter than it did before. She considered running ahead, taking the door and leaving him there, but that seemed a little juvenile. Better to let him take a door into a volcano or a snake pit―although, that might be a little more deadly than he deserved. She decided that her revenge would come in the form of symmetry, using him as bait some time in the future―but she recalled that essentially three quarters of their jobs resulted in him essentially being the bait whilst she saved him, so perhaps they were even after all.

  Her scheming was interrupted by a tring-a-ling in her periphery. Ana glanced over to Rafe, who also appeared to be hearing it.

  “Slughtrough?” she asked. He nodded.

  They rolled their eyes in unison, and answered the call. “What? They spat.

  “Nice to speak to you to.”

  “It's rarely nice to speak to you. . .” Ana mumbled.

  “Is that any way to talk to the man that fills your coffers?”

  “Speaking of which, don't you still owe us for nabbing you the beast on the heath?”

  “Don't call it that,” Rafe sighed.

  “It was a beast, and it was on the heath, name kinda writes itself.”

  “It was a kynanthrop, not a beast.”

  “Oh, like that makes a damn bit of difference! It was a giant hairy monster―”

  “That turned back into a man when it wore off. . .”

  “Still a beast, and still nabbed him.”

  “Are you two quite done yet?” Slugtrough muttered.

  “Have you got our payment?”

  “Working on it.”

  “Then we're certainly not done. When are we going to talk about the―what did you call it, medicine?”

  “Medicine is the technical term, yes,” Rafe replied, reluctantly.

  “The medicine, which contained human embryos! Where the hell do you get human embryos?”

  “Market, obviously.”

  “Which brings me to why I'm calling. . .” Slugtrough grumbled with an annoyed sigh.

  “We're not going to pick up another bloody package for you!”

  “Don't need nothing picked up. . . I. . . need a favour.”

  Ana burst out into loud, obnoxious laughter that ricocheted around Slugtrough's head. “Ain't that funny, love.”

  “Yes it is! What the hell makes you think we'd ever do you a favour? Half the time we work for you we end up covered in slime, the other half, we end up covered in slime and you don't cover the dry cleaning bill!”

  “Plus, I keep losing coats in the process. . .” Rafe muttered, to a massive eye roll from Ana.

  “Please,” Slugtrough begged. There was desperation in his voice. Actual, genuine fear, both Rafe and Ana could hear it.

  They exchanged glances. Slugtrough was the last person they ever thought would coming their way asking for a favour. . . but whatever was going on had cut the normally cocky and arrogant little man down to size. It had to be big, to reduce him to begging for their help. Despite being hesitant to even entertain the notion, they were both intrigued to say the least.

  Chapter 3

  Outside the law of the land

  St George's In The East was still a fully functioning church, despite the interior having been destroyed in the Blitz. After the war, donations had been funnelled into the restoration from a mysterious benefactor, who spent close to twenty years ploughing money into refurbishing the church from the inside out. Rebuilding the foundations. Building under the foundations.

  As much as it might appear otherwise on the surface, the investor was not donating out of the goodness of their heart. They had an ulterior motive, one that neither the clergy nor parishioners were ever to become aware of.

  They were building a prison.

  This was no ordinary prison for common criminals, there were already more than enough of those. This was a place of internment for crimes of a more mystical persuasion, with sentences that lasted not decades, but centuries. Acting outside the law of the land, they were also able to doll out punishments that fit the crimes, eyes for eyes, and so on.

  There was only one entrance to the prison itself, a door deep in the basement of the church, that was locked for anyone of mundane blood. When the handle was turned by a man or woman of magick who knew the correct sigils, it led through to a labyrinth of arched corridors that appeared as though they were carved from solid stone, light came solely from everlit candles that were fixed to the walls, never to drip wax, nor go out. The corridors seemed to span for miles under the city. Of course, space was relative beyond the confines of the door in the church, reality shifted to allow for an infinite expanse of hallways, new cells sprouting up as and when required. The prison never hit capacity, for there was no maximum capacity.

  The six guards on shift loitered in their luxurious office, walls lined with flock wallpaper, each sat on a high backed red leather chesterfield. They stared into middle distance as they observed the prisoners all at once. There were no monitors, nothing so crude as security cameras. After all, this was a prison of a magickal disposition. The guards' eyes were blind to the world around them, each viewing live feeds of up to fifty prisoners a piece. They observed them for any sign of attempt to escape, revolt, and so on.

  It was due to this efficiency of surveillance, that they did not see the shadows creeping from the corners of their room, climbing up the legs of their chairs, and encompassing the keys that hung from their belts.

  Because the knew where each and every prisoner was at every moment, there was no reason for them to monitor the corridors, and so they did not see the shadows as they receded from their room back along to the door of the first cell on the block, nor did they witness the shadows insert the key and twisting it as one might any key in any lock. However, the lock did not respond, the key simply turned and turned, around and around, as if there were no mechanism for it to interact with.

  The man who watched through the shadows he manipulated did not like to curse, but this caused him to curse under his breath. He did not expect to meet with a hurdle so early in his incursion. It was not enough to simply have the key for the cells, it appeared that one also required the correct sigil to unlock the doors, and there would be many doors to unlock if he was going to enact his plan.

  A change of tack was required.

  He took a deep breath, and felt for the shadows that lay in each of the cells. Much like the corridors, the rooms were all lit by everlit candles, and thus each of them had plenty of shadows for him to take control of. He pulled them from the walls, and coalesced the darkness between the prisoners and their doors. He could see the curiosity on the faces of each of the incarcerated as they watched the clouds of darkness come together. Some backed away with fear, others poked at them curiously, and some threw caution to the wind, and leaped into the black voids, having decided that anything was better than being cooped up in a cell.

  The prisoners emerged in the hallways. They hooted and hollered and cackled with glee, as they ran ba
ck and forth in search of the exit. They had been broken out of their cells, and appeared to be looking forward to the impending riot and escape.

  The shrouded man decided it was time to relocate. He entered a portal of darkness outside the church, and concealed himself in the shadows by the door to the prison. He attempted to pass through, and found that it was still warded. It was not time for his incursion, he would have to be patient, try his best to ignore that there was a ticking clock to the ritual he was there to perform.

  Through the shadows, he observed as the escapees jubilated at their freedom, rallying cries to their fellow inmates that the portals would lead them out of their cells. Before any of the prisoners could even attempt to reach the door to the church, the guards had launched into action in their room. They opened a mahogany cabinet, pulled various enchanted weapons from within, and poured out into the hallway with violence in mind. They beat the prisoners back, lunged and swiped with batons that knocked the escaped prisoners out and flung them several feet with a single contact.

  He continued to observe, just to insure that the guards were safe, and to confirm that the rumours were true: the wards did not allow magick to be cast within the prison. His control of shadows only working because it was via an adept rather than casting. Based on glimpses of the prisoners, it appeared that each of them had been inscribed with sigils, tattooed to prevent them from being able to cast even when the wards came down. They would no doubt attempt to be violent, but they could not use their magick to cause harm. It would, he hoped, mean that no guards would be injured amidst his jailbreak.

  A burst of light shone through the church, and sent rainbows out through the stained glass windows into the dark of night. It was only there for the blink of an eye, not long enough to draw the attention of a mundane, but anyone of a magickal disposition would know that it was the kind of light that could only come from one place: the Circle.

  Six agents stood in front of the pulpit, clad in black tactical gear. They paused momentarily as their eyes adjusted to the darkness

  “Where's the door?” one of them asked, in a thick cockney accent.

  “Don't you pay a damn bit of attention in briefings?” spat a tall, muscular woman. She led the way towards the door of the prison, and came a little too close for comfort to where the shrouded man was hiding in the shadow realm.

  He grimaced upon seeing her, having recognised her as soon as she spoke, before he even saw her face. Shana Kanta, daughter of Amazons, master of a myriad magickal disciplines, including his own adept. He dare not move an inch, watched her with the breath held in his chest as she began to cast at the door of the prison.

  Chapter 4

  Any damn favours

  “How's this our problem?” Ana asked, as she rolled her eyes at Slugtrough and laboured a long and heavy sigh as if to underline how little she cared about the favour he was asking of them.

  “It ain't just your problem, it's everyone's bloody problem! Market's important part of society.”

  “I never go to the market, Rafe gets punched in the face every time he goes there―”

  “I do not.”

  “Do so! Why does it matter if someone put on a light show?”

  Slugtrough glared at Rafe. “Don't you teach the girl nothing?”

  “Call me 'the girl' again, see what happens. . .” Ana growled.

  “Her training is somewhat. . . unorthodox,” Rafe muttered to himself, before he turned to Ana and explained. “The fountain is one of London's wellsprings.”

  “And can't exactly have people desecrating things like that. . .” Slugtrough grumbled.

  Ana glanced from one to the other blankly. “Does someone want to fill in the gaps? Specifically the massive 'what the hell is a wellspring' gap.”

  Rafe sighed. He had been meaning to broach the subject with her at some point, but as with many of the elements of Ana's magickal training, she was prone to boredom all too quickly if it didn't result in instant gratification. “There are wellsprings around the world, most of them underground or hidden away in pockets of reality.”

  “Exciting,” she yawned sarcastically, her eyelids already growing heavy at the mere prospect of another boring lesson.

  “They're encapsulated bodies of water, about a foot deep, seven metre diameter, lined with stones mined by the first men―”

  “When I said 'exciting' a moment ago, you know I was being sarcastic, right?”

  “They're encapsulated, but never grow stagnant. The water flows from one to another without leaving the pool, a constant movement, flowing magick around the world―”

  “Where's the point where this matters to me?”

  “Because,” Slugtrough grunted, “What I'm told is that they froze the flow with their damn light show.”

  Ana turned to Rafe. “Is that bad?”

  He nodded, and his eyes narrowed as he watched Slugtrough wave his hand and take a call.

  “Bad enough for the Circle to be involved?”

  Rafe nodded again.

  “Then why are we here?”

  “Circle tend to avoid the market. Probably why it was the first to be hit.”

  “First?”

  He motioned towards Slugtrough, whose wide eyes and dropped jaw indicated that something else had happened in the interim.

  “He hit another Hawksmoor?” Rafe asked.

  “Might not be the same guy. . .”

  “Which one?”

  “What's a hock spore?” Ana asked him with a theatrical whisper.

  “Right now it just looks like a prison break.”

  “You think it's a coincidence two Hawksmoors are hit on the same day?”

  “What is a hawk soar!?” Ana asked, this time with a nudge to Rafe's ribs.

  Slugtrough grunted, and ignored the request for clarification. “Well, that one's ongoing, Circle are down there now, word is the guy might be trapped in there with 'em.”

  “Sure they can handle themselves. . . We'll check out the market, see if anything can be done there, or if the guy left any clues. I'm going to need assurances that nobody there is going to hit me. . .”

  “Of course, ain't nobody gonna mess with you whilst you're investigating a Hawksmoor connection.”

  “What in the bloody hell is a Horse door!?” Ana shouted, this time she threw her fingers out and sent cracks in reality forking out between the two men.

  Rafe turned to her with a glare. “You've had the book on Baroque magicks and three volumes about mythogeography for months. . .”

  Ana cast her mind back to the pages she had flipped through until she tracked down the name Hawksmoor. She read in her mind's eye, recalled how unrelated to magick his whole story sounded. . . An old dead guy hired as the architect of churches, built six himself, a bunch collaborating with other people. It didn't make a damn bit of sense to her until she came to a single paragraph that summed up the whole reason he was mentioned in a book of magick: five of those churches made a pentacle across London, and those five just happen to be built above sites of the wellsprings.

  She grimaced at how vague the book was, it just mentioned wellsprings in passing, rather than actually saying what the hell they were. . . No wonder she overlooked it. And the phrase 'just so happen', that just felt like the author was being a sarcastic dick, obviously this Hawksmoor was a magickian. Ana could picture him, old and dead and beardy, wanting to celebrate the glory of magick by erecting great phallic monuments. . . She reckoned that was probably why the images of the churches in the book didn't look like normal churches with,'obelisks and hidden hermetic imagery' as the captions in the book said, unhelpfully.

  “Alright, let's go look at the bloody market,” Ana grunted, as she came out of her memories and accepted, with an annoyed sigh, how important this whole damn thing was.

  She realised she would have probably been more positive about the investigation if it wasn't Slugtrough asking them to check it out. As much as she enjoyed the prospect of once again saving the day, she ver
y much did not want to do the horrible slimy little man any damn favours.

  Chapter 5

  Locked up tight

  “Three, it is ready,” Shana said, as she sealed her sigil. The wards at the door, that ran through the hallways of the prison, were not the kind of magick that could be broken by a simple casting. True, unadulterated power was required to temporarily allow reality to be shaped within, and unadulterated power was something that the Circle had in spades. Glimmers of light crawled across the door, glyphs and runes shone out of the grain in the wood, magick hidden in plain sight.

  As soon as the wards were removed, the door opened of its own volition, and swung round in a silent, silken arc. This was what he had been waiting for.

  As the Circle agents began to make their way through the corridor, they met with the escaping prisoners. There were already castings on their fingertips, and they dealt with the violent intentions of the convicts before half of them could enact their attacks.

  He took their skirmish as the perfect time to dart through the shadows of the hallways, and discovered that thankfully, he was no longer encumbered by wards.

  As he turned a corner, out of sight of the Circle agents and prisoners alike, he peeled away from the wall and returned to the Natural World.

  The revolt was not going to last long, not when those revolting were limited to mundane means of attack. He ran to the end of the hall, turned another corner, and found himself at set of bars: a metal door that led down to a stone staircase that disappeared into darkness. That was where he needed to go to complete his task. He grabbed hold of the bars, tugged at it, and discovered the door locked fast.

  Another curse exhaled, he flipped back over to the Shadow Realm, and attempted to cross through the darkness. But he was not able to walk through the bars on the other side either. The stairwell appeared to have separate wards to the rest of the prison, something he had neither foreseen, nor been warned of.