Spirited Words (The Freelancers Book 4), Page 2

  “I don't ask for favours that often. . . Barely need to nag you for doors any more―”

  “Because you have 'the girl' grab your doors!” Tali grunted.

  “―very unchivalrous,” Ana added

  “I hold them open for you. . .”

  “A half measure at best.”

  “ I feel like you're ganging up on me. . .”

  “Oh, we're not ganging up on you,” Ana started.

  “You'll know when we're ganging up on you!” Tali said over a loud guffaw in his periphery, Ana provided a stereo feed of identical laughter in the room.

  He couldn't recall ever being the butt of so many jokes, but it was the smallest of prices to pay to have Ana as a partner.

  Tali caught her breath and regained her composure. “Anyway, calling for work. You guys want a referral?”

  “Yes!!” Ana squealed.

  “Subtle,” Tali chuckled. “Desperate times?”

  “I accidentally bought a canoe. . . and accidentally forgot to pay rent.”

  “When do you canoe?” Rafe asked, knowing in advance that it was a stupid question.

  “I was going to start. . . also, a few days back I learned eBay doesn't have a filter to stop you drunk-buying things. . . Be happy I didn't decide to use your place as the delivery address for the life-size papier mâché elephant I bought.”

  “Okay, we really need to have a conversation about money management at some point, because the extra income might have gone to your head.”

  “Well I've never earned anything like this before―it's a learning experience.”

  “An experience in which you haven't learned to pay rent before other things. . .”

  “Dear gods!” Tali whined in their periphery. “Is this what you guys are like all the time?”

  Ana and Rafe glanced at one another. They knew the answer, but both were also fairly sure that Tali's question was rhetorical.

  “Do you want this referral or not?”

  “Yes!!”

  “Sure, why not.”

  “Earl of Chichester has a problem in his wine cellar―”

  “Did you say Earl of Chichester?” Rafe blurted.

  “Yes, so?”

  “Uh, nothing. . .” He tried his damnedest not to telepathically project the memories that had risen to the surface of the time he took a job from one of his less-reputable clients, that resulted in him having to break in to the Earl's estate, and steal a trinket from his safe. It was a job in which he learned all too late that the Earl and his wife were fire adepts, who set a fair amount of their house ablaze in an attempt to try and catch him. . .

  When he left their estate, it looked as though a biblical pillar of smoke was funnelling up to the heavens―not one of his prouder moments as a freelancer.

  He tried to recall the job itself, tried to convince himself that he had been shrouded during his incursion, his face disguised. If that was the case there was little to no chance of the Earl recognising him. At least that was his hope.

  “Any idea what kind of critter?” Ana asked.

  “No, they just sent a call in saying it was immune to fire, asking if we had a spare body to lend a hand.. . . But we're thin on the ground, so it was either the Exorcisters or you, and I like you better.”

  “Are the Exorcisters the twins. . . What did you call them?”

  “The tender twins.”

  “Because they're closer than family members should be, right?”

  “Can we get this back on track,” Rafe asked, as politely as possible so as not to incur the wrath of either woman.

  “You can try. . .” Ana smirked.

  “I'll tell the Earl to expect you. Sending Ana the address now.”

  The address appeared in Ana's mind's eye, along with the precise location of where she should send the door for their entrance. “Ooh! Nifty!” she said, having never had anyone put images in her head.

  “Head over in twenty, and don't break anything expensive.”

  “Thanks Tali,” Rafe said.

  “Shut up, I've got actual work to do!” The call cut off, and the presence in their periphery was gone in an instant.

  “I don't like how she treats us differently,” he mumbled.

  “She likes me better.”

  “Of course she does, you don't have a penis.”

  “She doesn't hate men.”

  “No, but she really likes women. . . If the Exorcisters weren't so enamoured with each other, pretty sure they'd be her first port of call.”

  “I can't tell if you're being sexist or homophobic.”

  “Neither,” he grunted. “Why don't you go buy another life size brass elephant.”

  “It was papier mâché!”

  “That doesn't make it better―just means it'll fall apart in the rain. . .”

  “Oh. I didn't think of that. . . Got the delivery guy to leave it in the back garden.”

  “So, you might just have blown your rent on a pile of mushed up newspaper?”

  “Bright side: It's biodegradable!” She giggled into her coffee.

  Rafe couldn't help but smile. There was an innocence to her bad financial decisions that he found endearing. That innocence was one of the most refreshing things about her―made her stand out from all the other magickians he knew. The world, let alone the life, had a tendency to wear them down.

  The exuberance she brought into his day to day activities was making the job fun in a way that it hadn't been for a long time, and he held out hope that she would never lose it.

  Yet, somewhere in the back of his mind, an unconscious melody started strumming itself, a lyrical reminder, “You can't always get what you want. . .”

  Chapter 3

  Staring right back at him

  Peter Grossman was in the shower.

  He had been in the shower for close to an hour, and whilst the majority of his body was clean and heavily pruning, the skin on the inside of his wrist was red and raw from the frantic motion of scrubbing with a soapy nail brush. It had not broken the skin, not yet at least, but it was close. If he kept at it for much longer, the water was sure to run red with blood.

  He washed the soap away, to get a clear look at whether his attempt to scrub had been a success. The steaming stream from the shower pricked at the injury, stinging the sore flesh. But he didn't care, not about the pain. He cared more that it had been a waste of damn time. The words remained.

  He stared at them, and it felt as though they were staring right back at him. 'Buy a notepad', such an innocent phrase, written in his own handwriting on his inner forearm. Bright blue ink, spider's legs branching out from the letters, forking along the crooks and valleys of his skin.

  But he couldn't remember writing it, and he had bought a notepad, done as his reminder had instructed. That was two days ago, and for those two days he had tried to wash it away at every possible moment―but still, it remained. If anything, it appeared to be darker, thicker, as if bolstering itself against his attempts to remove it from his flesh.

  He wondered if he had used some kind of joke pen―but could recall times in the past when he had written on himself with permanent marker. It had washed off, each and every one of those times, never was there this level of persistence from the ink of any pen.

  There was something about this that felt different. Beyond the fact that he couldn't recall writing it. No soap appeared to be able to remove it, whether he used hand wash or washing-up liquid, bleach or shower gel. He had tried brushes and pumice stones, wire wool and sponges. He had visited every pharmacy and supermarket, bought and tried every possible combination of cleaning product whether it was meant for skin or otherwise. But still, the words would not depart.

  The nail brush clattered to the floor of the shower. The water pooling around his feet was now tinted pink, blood dripping from the raw skin of his wrist.

  A shiver of horror tore across his body, rippled down his spine. His knees felt weak, and he fell into a pile in the corner of the cubicle. His
forearm was aching, skin torn, bleeding.

  But still, the message to himself remained .

  Chapter 4

  In his blood

  The door took Rafe and Ana right into the grand entrance of the Earl's estate. Her jaw dropped as she craned her neck up at the ornate ceilings that towered at least fifty feet above them. At the centre, a massive crystal chandelier hung proudly, that looked twice as tall as her, and at least ten or fifteen times as wide.

  A man in his late fifties sauntered down the stairs at a hurried pace. “Darling, the exterminators are here!” he shouted up a floor or two.

  “Does he think we're exterminators?” Ana whispered.

  “You know how it goes, today we're exterminators, tomorrow we'll be dog catchers, day after that we'll probably end up as garbage men.”

  “Garbage people,” she corrected.

  “Of course. Wouldn't want to get in a gender tizzy whilst cleaning up other people's waste. . .”

  As the Earl came down the stairs, he shot out a hand towards Rafe. “Nathaniel Deidrich-Marlsburg.”

  “Rafe, this is Ana,” he said, throwing a thumb in the direction of his partner.

  “Lovely to meet you, although I do wish you would have been able to make it yesterday, we had to cancel on the Archbishop.”

  “Heaven forfend,” Ana muttered.

  “Where are your tools, or your weapons?”

  “Weapons?”

  “I specifically asked for exterminators that were experienced with this kind of problem―”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “We believe we have a. . .” He took a breath, eyes skirting the floor in embarrassment. “A leprechaun in the basement.”

  “Leprechauns don't live in basements,” Rafe informed the Earl.

  “I know! That's why that whole thing is so monstrously confounding!” His brow furrowed, eyes scanning Rafe's face. “Say, have we met before?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Don't recognise your face, but your voice sounds familiar. . .”

  “I used to work the phones.” Rafe shrugged, trying to move the subject on as quickly as possible. “So, where's this little guy?”

  The Earl took them to a door under the stairs, the frame's paint was damaged from fire and smoke, the stench of burning hung in the air around it.

  “Did you try to burn it?”

  “It came for me, from the shadows!”

  “You know leprechauns can't be hurt by fire, right?”

  “I didn't know it was a leprechaun at the time!”

  Rafe turned the handle of the door and tugged it. The hinges squealed in agony as he pulled it open, and he craned his neck down into the cellar, the walls and ceilings were burned black, along with all the wooden wine racks.

  “Looks like you just kept on trying to burn it. . . “

  “That was mostly its fault―damn thing was running around whilst he was ablaze, set the whole place alight!”

  “Sure your insurance will cover it. . .” Rafe said, his eyes prying the shadows for signs of the creature. When he was certain it wasn't within lunging distance, he began walking down the steps as quietly as possible. Ana followed behind him, stopping in an instant as fingers wrapped around her arm.

  “And you, have I met you before?” the Earl asked in a hushed tone.

  Ana scoffed. “Nah, haven't been in this game long enough, and certainly haven't run into you at any of the ambassador's receptions.”

  She pulled her arm away from the Earl, but as she walked down the stairs, he couldn't take his eyes off the back of her head. There was something about her that was familiar, more familiar than the man that led the way into the basement.

  “Close the door,” Rafe whispered. “Don't want the bastard getting past us and making a nuisance of himself in your lovely house. . .”

  “Right, yes, of course!” the Earl mumbled, a little flustered. He watched them go down the last few steps, and closed the door behind them, sealing them in the cellar, but couldn't shake off that feeling. There was something about the woman that drew him to her. Something unexplainable. Not a conscious thought, not something as crude as attraction, let alone lust. It was something deeper, a connection that felt as though it was coming from deep in his blood.

  Chapter 5

  Pot 'o gold

  “So,” Ana started, before Rafe had a chance to say a word. “When were you going to tell me Leprechauns are real?”

  ”This isn't a leprechaun,” he said, tiptoeing across the room, scanning each of the aisles in turn with a stern gaze for signs of their foe.

  “I feel like you're missing the point. . . You should give me a list of what mythical creatures are and aren't real.”

  “Most things are real.”

  “Centaurs?”

  “You've met a satyr. . .”

  “Yeah, but are centaurs?”

  “No, don't be ridiculous.”

  “Griffins?”

  “No.”

  “What about The lions that have big ol' wings and scorpion tails?”

  “Manticores?

  “Yeah.”

  “No.”

  “I bet a baby manticore would be adorable. . .”

  “Head in the game, please.” He signalled for her to keep her voice down as they came to the aisle on the far left of the room.

  There was the softest, subtlest noise coming from beyond the wine rack. The sound of tiny gulps, slurps and satisfied gasps. Rafe peeked his head round the corner and caught sight of the creature. A grimace hung on his brow, Ana caught it as he turned back.

  “What?”

  “Knew it wasn't a leprechaun. . .”

  She leaned round and stole a quick glance at the minuscule man, drunk and mumbled to himself.

  “Sure looks like a leprechaun.”

  “Shh! Don't let him hear you say that. Call a door.”

  “Why? We can deal with a leprechaun.”

  “I told you not to―”

  A garbled shout interrupted him. “Whose ye' callin' a leprechaun?”

  “Door! Now!”

  “But he' so diddy!” Ana giggled, looking round the corner at the creature again. He was fumbling to his feet, eyes narrowing in search of those that insulted him. “If he didn't have such a deep voice, it'd be adora―”

  The impish Irishman caught sight of her and gnashed his myriad sharp teeth. “I'll show ye' me pot 'o gold, missy!” He burst into a run that wavered left and right on a snaking path towards them, bumbling footsteps bouncing him off a wall as he drew ever nearer.

  “Door!”

  Ana conjured a door at the far wall and they ran towards it, Rafe tugged it open for her to enter, whipped through and slammed it behind them. There was a loud thunk, as the creature slammed face first into it, followed by muffled shouts and kicks. Rafe crossed his living room, scanning the shelves whilst Ana stared at the door.

  “He's not a very nice leprechaun. . .”

  “That's because he's not a leprechaun.”

  “Looks like a leprechaun, sounds like a leprechaun―”

  It's a clurichaun.”

  “Which is what, a closeted leprechaun? A clingy leprechaun? I'm running out of words starting with c and l. . .”

  “They're genetic offshoots of leprechauns,” he said, grabbing a vial of green liquid. “Alcoholics, and angry, violent drunks.” Shaking the vial, he popped the top off and gave it a sniff.

  “You gonna make him a smoothie?”

  Rafe walked back over to the door, and placed his ear against it. The angry thumps had stopped. It seemed as though the clurichaun had got bored and gone back to his drinking.

  “Want me to brew him a nice pot of coffee to sober him up?”

  Rafe turned to her, eyebrow firmly raised with incredulity. “Clurichauns have the same blood as their cousins, immune to fire, can stitch themselves back together―”

  “This is starting to feel like a lot of boring exposition, just tell me how to kill it.”


  Rafe raised the vial, plant matter floated around in the clear emerald fluid. “Shamrock juice.”

  “You must have the world's tiniest juicer. . .”

  “I'm going to do something really stupid, and I need you to have my back.”

  “So, you're saying it's going to be like every other job we've done together?”

  Rafe rolled his eyes and grabbed the door handle, really not looking forward to the idiot thing he was about to do.

  Chapter 6

  Where to go for help

  Peter Grossman was at his desk, staring at the screen of his computer. He was trying with all his might to ignore the claustrophobia he was feeling in the bare white walls of the twelve by twelve plasterboard cube. This was claustrophobia that he had never felt before in the three years he had been in the office. It was a new development, and one that was more than a little worrying.

  The thing about the claustrophobia was that it didn't really make that much sense, he had a window, and would have thought that the glimmers of a world outside would abate any sense of the walls closing in. But, he reminded himself, the window was no longer a portal to the vistas London had to offer. In the last six months his company had decided to build a high-rise housing complex directly opposite it, and his magnificent view of the city had become a less than stellar view of a brick wall. If he stuck his face directly against the glass, he could see the blue skies above, but that was far too much effort on even the best of days―and this was most certainly not the best of days.

  He stared at the bright LED glare of the screen, tried to force himself to do some work. But his body was unwilling to participate in the scheme. Every time he laid his fingers at the keyboard, his bandaged forearm rode up against the wrist rest that lay at the bottom of the keyboard. Every time he typed, it was as though he was grating just a little more skin from the wound.

  An email came in, marked as urgent, the subject line read 'Where is the Cassidy report!!'.

  Peter groaned to himself, he had been intending on working on the damn report the previous night, but had got distracted in the shower. He clicked reply, and began to type, fingers dancing across the keyboard. It didn't feel so bad, he thought, there wasn't too much pain, as long as he angled his wrist a little awkwardly, didn't lean on the supposedly beneficial thick wedge of foam at the base of the keyboard.