Murder at Raven's Lodge (The Freelancers case files), Page 2

  The white haired man couldn’t seem to meet Rafe’s eyes, his gaze skirted the floor as his dry lips parted to tell what he knew.

  “The painting was imparted to the Lodge, a gift in the will of Theodore Starlight, a former member that I believe. . . died in mysterious circumstances.”

  “These ‘mysterious circumstances’ of Teddy’s didn’t happen to involve a room full of blood, did they?”

  The man nodded, still avoiding Rafe’s eyes.

  “And he died in the room with his own painting?”

  Another nod.

  “And you thought it was a good idea to stick it up on the walls here?”

  The men looked at one another, but none of them nodded.

  “It was Jerry’s idea,” their spokesperson muttered.

  “Is Jerry the dead guy?”

  Nod.

  “And did he hang it himself?”

  A shake of the head. “Of course not, that’s what we have homunculi for. . .”

  Rafe let a smile come to his lips.

  “That would have been the homunculus’s purpose, right? To hang the painting?”

  “Yes, of course. Can’t have a security homunculi do such things. . . they can just about cope with one task at a time.”

  “The homunculus exploded first.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “There’s dust in the blood. I’m betting as soon as your painting here was set right, it blew the him apart before he could go find himself somewhere tidier to die. Painting was trying to get fed on some tasty blood. . . and when it got was a face full of dust, it went for ol’ Jerry next.”

  “But why hasn’t it tried to kill us? We’ve been here for hours!”

  “Still got a lot of blood to chow down on. . . and it sips pretty slowly.”

  “Wait a moment,” another of the men piped up. “What about his bones? His organs? His skin?”

  Rafe glanced around the room again. “Dust,” he muttered. “Dust is skin cells, you have a high enough heat–or magickal influence–and bones can turn to dust, organs can get squished or puréed to be close in colour and texture to blood. . .”

  “Oh my!” the white haired man shrieked. His cadre expelled similar exclamations of shock.

  “Question is,” Rafe said, with the sly smile of a man who had proven himself less useless than even he assumed himself to be. “Why did this painting end up at the Lodge in the first place?”

  The men looked puzzled.

  “Was it sent as a gift with the most innocent of intentions–or sent with the express purpose of cursing this place too?”

  “Ahh. . .” The spokesperson went pale all over again, and dropped Rafe’s eye contact once more.

  “By your reaction, I’m guessing the latter?”

  “Yes. . . Well. . . We, well, you see, there were some rather unfortunate circumstances in which we had to. . . revoke Theodore’s membership, after we discovered some. . . impropriety with the sentient grandfather clock. . .“

  “Impropriety?” Rafe felt the word leave his lips, and instantly wished he hadn’t asked.

  “He. . . Well. . . Bored holes in the sides.”

  “No need to go on.”

  “Inserted himself into said holes.”

  “I understand.”

  “And encouraged the sentient clock to. . . massage him with its internal mechanics.”

  “Seriously, I get what you’re saying,” Rafe pleaded.

  “It was a frightful mess.”

  “And now I’m scarred for life–or at least scarred until the next job replaces it with something equal or greater in disturbing imagery.”

  “Anyway, that’s probably why he sought revenge after his death. . . Actually fairly open and shut, now there’s some context. We’ll have someone dispose of it forthwith.”

  The other men nodded in agreement, and the white haired man led the way back through the corridor to the entrance. “Well, thank you for stopping by, Mister Clarke. I’ll be sure to send payment upon receipt of your invoice.” He gestured to the door.

  “I don’t usually send invoices.”

  “And of course, we count on your discretion in this matter.”

  “Sure, but I mostly run a cash business, off the books.”

  “Thank you again,” the white haired man said, as the homunculi came through the door and lifted Rafe clean off his feet, and proceeded to deposit him on the gravel drive outside the Raven’s Lodge.

  “Can you at least send me a door back home?!” Rafe shouted.

  But the residents of the Raven’s Lodge did not respond. The door had been slammed shut, and they no longer had need for him on their property.

  “Dammit,” Rafe grunted, as he looked back at the massive building that towered over him. He reached to the ground, picked up a handful of gravel, and threw it sharply at the Lodge.

  Each of the pebbles bounced harmlessly off the bricks and windows and homunculi, the latter of which did not take kindly to being assaulted, and began to stomp towards Rafe with angry glowers on their brows.

  Given that he was neither going to get paid then and there, nor be offered a door back home, Rafe felt that running as fast as his legs could carry him was the only option that remained. Assuming he did not want his face to be transformed into a bloody mush of skin, muscle and pulverised bone.

  ~

  It was a full three weeks later when Rafe next heard from Comstock, and was sent a door to a bar somewhere south of the equator.

  “Well done on the Lodge case.”

  “Still waiting on payment. . .”

  “They’ll get around to it, chaps are rather busy.”

  “Busy doing what? Being rich and powerful doesn’t feel like it takes up a lot of the day.”

  “Do you want another job or not?”

  “Will this job actually pay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Definitely?”

  “I am personally hiring you, and my word is my bond.”

  “Gonna want half up front.”

  “If you so wish. Whatever it takes to get the item in question back.”

  “The item in question being. . .”

  “A spirit box.”

  “Well that’s about as vague as you could possibly be. What kind of spirit?”

  Comstock’s eyes dropped to the floor. “A dybbuk,” he muttered.

  “Dybbuk? Like, sexually assaulting, crawl into your insides, blow your organs out your back, dybbuk? How do you lose a dybbuk box?”

  “Regardless of its proclivities,” Comstock sighed. “This will all be rather straightforward, I’m hoping,” the old man barked, his tone gravelly and sharp.

  “Glad to hear it. Hate the messy gigs.”

  “I didn’t say it wasn’t going to be messy. . . The box has already claimed a life.”

  “Thought this thing was under lock and key?”

  “As did I. But, as you know, we’ve had an issue with artefacts being. . . repatriated in the past.”

  “Yeah. You think this is him?”

  “Perhaps, but it seems unlikely. Whoever has the box is likely using it for some selfish endeavour.”

  “Any leads to go on, other than the obvious corpse?”

  “None at all, I’m afraid.”

  “No worries, I’ll make it work. Do I have the greenlight to destroy the thing if I have to?”

  “I’d rather you wouldn’t, as much as it contains a violent, sexually depraved creature, it is still a mystical artefact that might be of. . . some use, along the line.”

  “Really don’t see how that’s likely.”

  “Yes, well, it’s not your place to see anything. Take the job, find the box, and take your pay like a good near-mundy.”

  “You’re very rude. Ruder than when I actually worked for you.”

  “Yes, well I am rather pressed for time, and you are asking rather inane questions.”

  “One man’s inane question is another man’s. . . ane question.”

  “Tali! Door!�
�� Comstock grunted, standing to his feet and walking to the door his employee had sent for him.

  “Very, very rude. . .”

  Rafe’s story continues in:

  The Spirit Box

  SYNOPSIS

  It’s not a nightmare if you’re awake...

  Ana’s grandmother has died in a horrific fashion.

  Soon, she finds herself under assault by the same supernatural forces.

  With nowhere else to turn to, Rafe, a low-level magical detective comes to her aid.

  He’s been tracking the creature, and the box that appears to draw it forth. Together, they set out to put an end to the malevolent fiend once and for all.

  But all is not as it seems with the entity that’s hunting Ana down. Nor is all as it seems with Rafe, or Ana for that matter.

  Everyone has secrets, and some secrets are powerful enough to kill.

  THE SPIRIT BOX

  CHAPTER 1

  ITS LATEST VICTIM

  He had been watching the house intently through the day, waiting for night to fall, waiting for the right moment. As much as every sign had brought him this far, nothing about it sat right. He was parked up in a car he had borrowed–stolen would have been more accurate, but he intended to return it. . . eventually.

  The street was picture book London suburbia, a real neighbourhood, where people knew the folks living next to them, houses full of apparently happy families. Hardly the place for nefarious forces to be lurking. But “hardly” and “definitely not” are two very different things, he knew that all too well.

  As with many of the capital’s suburban streets, it rarely remained quiet for longer than batches of ten or fifteen seconds at a time. The road was a thoroughfare for the nearby dual carriageway. There was a constant stream of traffic driving back and forth, and he couldn’t risk being seen breaking in, not until he was certain this was the right house. There was a part of him that was restless, a part that wanted to act, to do something before it was too late. But, he reminded himself, sometimes the only time to act is when it’s too late.

  The old lady that lived in the house pottered around constantly, dusting and vacuuming, polishing and cleaning. She sat down briefly to drink tea and do a crossword, but as soon as she had drained the pot dry, got back to her feet and returned to her regime of making everything spick and span. Something was compelling her to clean. From his view on the street, it felt suspicious, the house looked damn near flawless, the window frames acting as borders for photos from Perfect Elderly Person’s House magazine. Maybe that was him projecting. After all, his place looked like the resident was a hoarder who died along ago, and weasels had been cohabiting with squirrels since his demise.

  This could be it, he thought, if it is here, perhaps this is the way the possession has manifested. It wasn’t how these things usually went down: it was much more common for these things to make a mess rather than tidy things up. However, as he knew full well, every possession was different, depending on the possessee, let alone the variety of possessor. That said, he couldn’t comprehend, if this was the creature manifesting, how it would result in the old woman’s death.

  He took a deep breath, let it out with a yawn that he tried to dispel. It had been a long day of staking out the house, on top of a long week of tracking the box with his crude attempts at scrying and divination, from it’s last location all the way back home in Australia. He almost got caught at the scene of that one, amongst the blood-spattered walls, the grotesque mess of flayed flesh, and skulls that had been pounded into a pink and grey mush–ground to the point he couldn’t tell bone from brain.

  He had arrived too late that time, but he had also gone in with a cavalier attitude that was not conducive to getting the job done. This time, he would be smarter. He would not let the creature have its fill, not again. Its path of death and destruction would end there.

  Assuming he was at the right “there”. . .

  The warm embrace of slumber was a spectre on the periphery of his thoughts. Its siren song sounding so inviting. His eyelids growing heavy as he nuzzled into the seat of the car. He had never sat in a heated seat before, it was like a warm baseball glove holding his body. It wouldn’t hurt to just knock the seat back a few turns, get more comfortable. After all, he reminded himself, comfort is an important part of stakeouts.

  ~

  An ungodly scream woke him. It was dark, night had fallen whilst he had been asleep, and the agonising howl was most definitely coming from the house. He burst out of the car, peeling straight into a run across the road. Damn being seen–there wasn’t time for subtlety. His fingers danced through the air just before his shoulder slammed straight into the door, blowing the latch apart into its individual components as it swung open, each of them clanging to floor as they bounced off into the darkness.

  The wail ceased. Sickly slopping sounds, slapping and sloshing somewhere deeper in the house. His ears pricked up, all too aware that there was no logical explanation for why the screaming would stop on his entry. Not unless the creature had finished with its latest victim. Or, worse still, was lying in wait for a more substantial meal. . .

  Cautiously, he stepped from the wooden floorboards on to a Persian-style runner carpet that went along the length of the hallway. It’d dampen his footsteps, and if he were lucky, the damn thing wouldn’t hear him coming for it. Not that luck was often on his side.

  Scanning the darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust, he caught sight of a postcard sitting on a sideboard, a generic ‘we tried to deliver‘ slip, from an unfamiliar courier. He pocketed it, and continued onwards. There were no further sounds in the house, but there was a breeze coming from somewhere ahead. Turning left through the closest door, he found himself in the sitting room, to the left was one of the windows he had been monitoring for the best part of the day. And to the right was the old woman. Or at least, what was left of her.

  Her body lay faced down, clothes torn open from the back, skin ripped apart, revealing her crooked spine and ravaged organs to the world. Lying in a pool of her own fluids that was spreading out, slowly seeping into the carpet around her.

  He cursed himself for not acting sooner. The creature had been there, but whether it was still there was another matter entirely. Tentatively, he walked towards the body, stepping around it, out of the reach of the withered old hands. He had learned the hard way that the hands of corpses he encountered often had a habit of grabbing him at inopportune moments. The door to the back garden was open, sending a cool chill through the house. There was a sound at the door. Not at the back door, but the front, where he had entered. A light, hesitant knock, followed by a shrill voice shouting “Hello?”

  He held his breath. Froze in place. Running into the house was an idiot move, and he knew it. Someone must have seen him. . .

  “Mum? You left the door open again!”

  A daughter. That’s why she was cleaning the house. . . not some damn manifestation of the thing that crawled out of her. He grunted to himself softly, there was no time to check the rest of the house, he had to get out of there. Soft, plodding footsteps were already coming his way. He slipped through the back door and darted across the garden. He was too late again, and this one was on him. There was no sign of the creature, no sign of the damn box. Once again, it had slipped through his grasp.

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