Blood Rage, page 5
Dad. Daddy. Charles Karson. Deceased.
I had thought that my encounter with the weird demon creature brought me peace, that the new perspective offered on my father’s passing made more sense and didn’t require more mental self-flagellation. Apparently I was wrong.
A fresh burst of that hip-hop tune. Closer this time and approaching. A moment later, Norma enters dragging my phone awkwardly across the ground.
I pick her up, snag the machine from her grip, and wipe it against my top before glancing at the screen.
Shit Bag flashes the display.
Oh. What the hell does he want?
I hold the phone to my ear. “Shakka, it’s my night off, whatever it is can—”
“Why the hell don’t you answer your phone, woman? How many times do I have to call you?”
“It’s the middle of the night. I was asleep.”
A grunt. “I’m calling in my favour.”
Fresh sweat prickles across my skin.
Sure, at the time, promising a favour to get what I needed was fine and dandy, but now, quite suddenly, I remember how dangerous it can be to owe a goblin a favour. Particularly this goblin.
I imagine him now, standing at his control panel in edane lock-up, chewing something red, sticky, and raw. I envision him with a long-nailed finger in his ear, or up his nostrils, digging for treasures I don’t dare think about. I picture the bent hook of his nose, with the horrendous scarred hole across it that characterises the entirety of his warty face.
“What do you need?” I make my question and tone as easy and non-committal as I can manage.
“Get over here. I can’t tell you on the phone.”
“Shakka—”
“Your word, Karson,” he snaps. “You gave me your word. Doesn’t that mean anything?”
The fight to stop my hands clenching is short, but intense. “Never ask me that again.”
“Then get over here. Now.”
“Can you at least tell me what’s going on? Do I need gear? Are you in trouble? Will I want backup?”
A pause.
The fact that he seems to be thinking about it makes me nervous as hell. I can hear him pacing, the heavy slap of his long feet, brisk against the floor.
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
I sigh. “Can I at least shower first?”
“Why? Weren’t you sleeping?”
My mouth opens, but there’s no point in telling him about my dreams. Hell, there’s no point lying either—he won’t care either way.
“Don’t worry about it. I’m on my way.”
“Hurry up. I need to get some rest.”
“You need some rest? I—”
The phone beeps against my ear. He’s gone.
What a dick.
Norma looks a question at me, and I pause long enough to give her a loving pat on the head. “Stay here, baby. I’ve got to visit a mean, grumpy goblin man.”
“Dan, nika. Son kar, dan?”
“No idea. But whatever it is, I’m sure it will be just great.” The last two words fall off my lips as a weary drawl as I make my way back upstairs to find my clothing.
Chapter Six
I park outside the lock-up and allow my forehead to touch the steering wheel. Even the dim light from my dashboard is too bright for me, and I find myself scrunching both eyes shut to combat it.
To my side, on the passenger seat, my phone beeps twice.
Text message. Another text message. By my count that’s six on the short drive over. Does Shakka expect me to read while driving?
When I exit the car, a chill rush of night air lifts my locs and tosses them.
The street is dark and quiet, and the subtle, nondescript staff door takes effort to find. I give the scanners a moment to assess my ID, then push.
A hiss, a click, and the mechanical door whispers back to let me through.
Inside, a narrow tunnel with a high ceiling is lit by small, white lights that grow gradually brighter as I walk.
Last time I came this way, I had been forced to negotiate my way past armed military soldiers. It seems so long ago now that Colonel Benedict Addington and his arm of the British Army—the graciously named Extra Mundane Control Unit—came and took over. And now, though gone, signs of their presence remain in the form of additional unmanned checkpoints. Each time I show my ID, and each time the little LEDs flick from red to green to accept my credentials.
The last checkpoint is a pair of huge metal doors with a keypad. In front of it stands a short, warty-looking figure with mean, black eyes and a twisted mouth.
He glares. “You took your time.”
“It’s the middle of the night, Shakka, give me a break.”
“Excuses. Get in here. I have other things to be doing tonight.”
I close my lips over the urge to argue. After all, what’s the point? Instead I follow his slap-slapping, barefoot steps across the threshold and to another set of doors. These lead to a raised mezzanine around the edge of a huge collection of cells.
They seem to be empty right now. Unusual, but not surprising. Most edanes seem to be on their best behaviour after the Army’s intervention. Even the werewolves have taken to solving their disagreements and conflicts with words rather than dominance battles. Apparently Wendy’s death has shaken more than just me.
As we round the mezzanine I notice one occupied cell: a childlike pale brown figure with twig-thin fingers, arms, and legs. It has brightly coloured wings, rather like a butterfly, that fold neatly down towards the ground like a stiff cloak. Both eyes are huge and black, no visible whites or iris, while the mouth is small and filled with teeth like daggers.
It stands straight as we enter, dashing to the door of the cell and shaking the bars with tiny fists. “Hey.” The voice is small and shrill, like a doll. “Hey. No keep here. Release. Release now. Hey. Hey.”
I frown. “Why is there a cave sprite here?”
The empty black gaze follows me as I walk. “You help? Hooman lady? Release? Not keep. Release. Hey. Hey.”
“Shakka…?”
He grunts in answer and shoves open the door to his office. A sharp sweeping gesture indicates that I should enter quickly.
I risk one look back at the distraught sprite, then step through, gagging immediately at the powerful scent of slightly too old raw meat. A ripple of revulsion shivers up and down my spine that I’m too slow to disguise.
“Rude,” Shakka mutters.
“Says you.” With effort, I inhale long and deep through my nose, hold it, then let it go. By now I should be used to the odd smells around Shakka, but apparently a lack of sleep has made me weak. I repeat the long breath several more times to force speedier acclimation to the smell.
“Better?”
“Just tell me why I’m here. And why that sprite is here. We don’t have any facilities for them—they could barely hurt a fly.”
With narrowed eyes, Shakka helps himself to the stool in front of a huge console of buttons and brightly coloured lights. I know this station controls most aspects of the lock-up, including the cells, the lighting, the weapon store, and even the defence measures. He inspects a row of white dots on the upper right side before flicking a switch beneath the centremost LED. A faint hiss reaches my ears, and a glance through the observation window shows me that a shutter has slipped down over the main door of the cave sprite’s cell.
I wait.
He grunts again. “I need you to fetch something for me.”
“You what now?”
A cough this time. I wonder if he has a cold. Is that something goblins can even get?
“That sprite came from some half-forgotten village up north. Stumbled into that new bar—Bloody Mary’s, in the West End. Drunk off their face, and wrecking the place—biting customers, throwing bottles, generally being an ass. So civvie bashers brought them here for processing.”
A yawn stretches my lips. I don’t try to hide it. “What does that have to do with me?”
“You’re a SPEAR, aren’t you? Thought you’d be interested. I am.” The grumpy goblin settles himself more comfortably on the stool. His narrow eyes turn towards the cell outside before darting back to me. If anything, they are narrower still. “Even more interested when they started talking about some great treasure. You know I love treasure.”
I do. A goblin’s love for fine riches is second only to their love for food. More than once I’ve compared them to magpies, given their desire for glittery and shiny things.
“But an hour with this sprite and I know they really do have something valuable. And I need you to go get it.”
I rub my fingertips across my eyelids. “I’m not a delivery service, Shakka. Is this really what you pulled me out of bed for?”
“You owe me a favour.”
“Yeah, but this? I’m not a postman or courier. If this is really what you dragged me out here for, you’re more of a dick than I thought. You couldn’t tell me this on the phone? You couldn’t explain this nonsense then, so I could tell you to shove it up your arse?”
Shakka leaps to his feet, and for the first time I realise that his eyes are narrowed not in confusion or curiosity but anger. No, rage.
“That damn sprite and their nest have an artifact of my kind. They said it was goblin made, and there is one thing, one thing, that could possibly be. You need to get it back. Right now. I want it returned to my people and those sprites punished for stealing what was never, ever theirs.”
My fatigue billows away at the strength of his fury. Never before have I seen him so animated, so loud, so passionate. He stomps back and forth in front of me, pounding one fist into his palm and then the other, over and over. His flat feet slap hard against the ground, legs trembling with every step. Even his nose seems to pulse with the passion of it all.
“You need to—”
“No, you need to fulfil your favour. Get it back. Go there now, tonight, get it back. Bring it to me.”
“I don’t even know what it is, I—”
“The Blade, Karson, don’t you know anything?”
“What blade—”
“The Blade of Glal,” he bellows, actually stamping his foot. “You humans are all the same. Every damn one of you. No care at all for the artifacts or history of anybody other than yourselves. Queen this, king that, who cares? But when true history is in question, when the real roots of this country come about, not one of you knows anything.”
I raise my hands, palm out. “Glal? The goblin king of lower Mercia?”
Shakka whips round to face me so fast that a cascade of spittle flies from his mouth. “What?”
“King Glal. King in south Mercia? Tried to invade north into Northumbria but got steamrollered before making it halfway?”
“You…I…When…?”
“There was a medieval history show on the Discovery Channel.” I try not to wince when I think about the sheer number of hours I’ve spent watching that damn channel. “It didn’t say much, but it did mention a couple of notable edanes forgotten by human history. One of them was Glal.”
A strange, misty look creeps into Shakka’s eyes. He breathes deep, then sags, visibly deflating as the righteous rage ebbs. “He was on television?”
“Kinda? Just a mention, but I thought it was cool—this goblin history alongside mine. Made me annoyed that we never learned about it in school.”
“When you were in school, humans barely knew we existed.” His voice is softer now, almost sad. But that’s certainly better than angry. “Back then, people knew, but as the population shifted, we got fewer and fewer. Became less than. Servants. Enslaved.”
I nod. “Humans have a bad habit of that. Apparently it started way earlier than most might think.” I risk a step forward. “Shakka, are you saying Glal’s sword is real?”
“Sword? No, Karson, it’s a spear. An iron spearhead decorated in silver on a shaft of ash wood. It was supposed to be buried with Glal, but grave robbers stole it long ago. All we have is the shaft. Goblins all over the country have been looking for the head ever since. We’ve been scouring historical accounts and journals and notes to get a rough idea of where it was, but nothing concrete. Until now. Now we know for sure where it is because that little fucker told me so.” He jabs a finger down towards the cells. “They confirmed it.”
“Now hold on—”
“They stole it.” The rage is back, and now Shakka is on me, long, knobbly finger extended, jabbing upward towards my face. “It has to be. You are going to look for it. You’re going to get it back and bring it to me, do you understand?”
Slow, careful, I nudge his finger out of my face. I’ve never enjoyed being pointed at, but the old-meat smell seems to be clinging under his fingernails and making it still more unpleasant.
“No.”
He blinks at me. “What do you mean, no?”
“I mean no.” I fold my arms. “I’m not an errand woman, running off to serve the whims of her master. This is stupid. If there is an edane artifact out there, you should be speaking with the Angbec Museum, not a grounded SPEAR agent.”
“Why the hell would I go to the museum?”
“Because that’s where a historical artifact belongs.”
His cheeks swell and redden beneath the warty skin. “It belongs to goblins. Goblin made, goblin used, goblin owned. The hell I’m going to some human warehouse where they’ll tuck it away in a box with all the other junk they don’t care about.”
“But—”
“No. You get it. This is my favour. I’m calling it in. I can tell you where to go and what to look for—all you have to do is bring it back.”
I roll my eyes. “So you want me to steal it?”
“Retrieve it.”
“Don’t split hairs. It’s stealing. So, no. My favour was coming out to you in the middle of the night when I’ve got better things to be getting on with. There’s no way I’m doing this.”
“Karson—”
But I’ve heard enough. As if the day hasn’t been hard enough, now I’m supposed to fetch and carry some ancient weapon that may or may not even exist? Not a chance.
I scoot around Shakka and bull my way out the door, back along the mezzanine. From down below, I can still hear the little squeaks coming from the only occupied cell.
“Hey? Release, please? Not keep. Not here. Release. Release?”
I reach the exit doors and present my ID. Nothing happens.
“Release? Hooman lady?”
Shakka’s voice follows me from the office. “I’ve stuck my neck out for you time and time again, Karson.” He steps into view slowly, arms folded, expression fierce. “You take, take, and take without ever giving back, and I’m sick of it.”
“Hey? Release?”
My fingers clench.
“I have never asked anything of you before. Not ever. And yet every time I see you, it’s to do something that damn near risks my job or my life. Every time.”
I glare at the door, willing it to open.
“You gave me your word, Karson. Your word.”
“Unlock the door.”
He sniffs. “So your word doesn’t mean a thing. You’re just like every other human I’ve had the displeasure to know. So keen, so eager, so sweet, until you need to step up. You disgust me.”
“I’m tired. Unlock the door.”
I can feel his gaze on my back, boring in. It makes my skin prickle and writhe, but I refuse to look back. Not for this.
After long seconds, I hear his feet against the floor, the soft whoosh of his door. Then a click comes from the numerical panel to the left of the door and the lights flash through a sequence of red and orange.
Again I hold up my card, and this time, the door slides open.
Just as I step through, I catch Shakka speak again.
“Is this what happened to Wensleydale?”
I freeze, one foot over the threshold. “What?”
“He trusted your word too. And now he’s dead. Just what exactly did you do when you took him away from here? When I let you take him from here? How did you fail him?”
I turn, but Shakka is already gone, stomping back into his office. The door slams shut, then clicks with a finality I feel right down in my bones.
My skin seems to burn, prickling all over. I clench one fist, then the other, then the first again, then the second, and with each movement my knuckles crackle and pop like BubbleWrap.
Several seconds pass before I can bring myself to take another step, but when I do, it’s slow and halting.
Shakka’s words haunt me all the way out of the building and back to my car.
Chapter Seven
I drive for hours, or so it feels. Aimlessly east, then west. South, back towards home, more south, then north. The whole time the radio plays songs I barely hear while the moon makes its silent journey across the sky.
The roads are empty at this time of night, which is perhaps the only reason I don’t end up in some form of collision because I’m certainly not concentrating.
Shakka’s words form a loop in my head, cruel, sharp, and accusatory.
And each time I hear them, each time my mind brings back the conversation, I can’t help but wonder if he’s right.
Wensleydale is dead, and no matter what anybody says, I know my actions brought him to that fate. My decisions. My choices. My needs. He might have made the decision to fight, but it might not have been necessary at all without my input.
I slam my feet down, missing the clutch by a mile, so the car grinds to an uneasy halt and immediately stalls in the middle of the road.
I don’t care. I can’t see anyway, too many tears in my eyes.
Even as I wipe them up, more seem to come, but between the blurry intervals, I catch glimpses of a barren, abandoned playground, complete with swing set, broken roundabout, and listlessly leaning slide.
