Chaos Broken (8 page)

‘You sly old dog,' I said. ‘Skirting rules like that. Not like you. If they find out you didn't involve them in a death where a Calling Circle was found, they'll interrogate you with hot pokers and have a Regulator unit shadow you for a month.'

Caleb pocketed his notebook. ‘The Grigori sometimes forget they are not the law. You might say the City Watch has learned how to deal with the Grigori's interference in its own way.'

My eyes flicked to behind his shoulder, where Crowhurst was making
let's go
gestures. ‘You mind if I leave now?' I asked Caleb. ‘You know where I am, right?'

‘Running Blackgoat Watch, I heard.' Caleb looked more impressed than he should have. ‘You let me know if I can help with anything.' His voice dropped. ‘I still owe you, Lora Blackgoat.'

***

Abraham's Alley was too narrow for cars or coaches, so Crowhurst parked near the entrance and we walked the rest of the way to Blackgoat Watch. The crooked alley was populated by peddlers selling the latest black-market herbs and trinkets of every description. Hustlers tried to find rubes among the hard-eyed locals and buskers flapped about in bright clothing outside the cluttered windows of pawn shops, trying to swindle a coin or two for their troubles. Gas lamps were being lit by men with cloth caps and steady hands, and crowds jostled about as the hunt for the evening meal or entertainment began.

Blackgoat was a two-storey building halfway down the alley and a swanky new sign hung above the door, listing all the services it had to offer. Security. Personal protection. Locators. Retrieval experts. Masters of all trades. The last one, I personally thought was a stretch. Orella's herbal store, Arcania Apothecary, sat next door and the stern-faced woman Orella had hired to look after the business stood outside the building, scrubbing the windows with a brush. I realised someone had painted a slogan there and I recognised one of the words as
rising
.

‘Did you see who did this?' I asked her.

‘Bunch of lousy kids,' she growled. ‘No respect for property.'

‘Lora,' Crowhurst said, a warning in his voice. ‘Don't start getting distracted by things that don't pay. It's not Blackgoat's job to fight bored teenagers.'

‘Yeah, yeah.' I opened Blackgoat's door and a plume of black smoke engulfed us, coming from the kitchen.

‘Kianna's tits,' I swore. Crowhurst pushed by me and sprinted to the kitchen and I hurried after him. Inside the kitchen, a frypan on the range cooker billowed flames. Cloete, the only other female Runner at Blackgoat, danced around it, her tail whipping about as she and a small crowd of Runners tried to beat out the flames with scorched tea towels. Crowhurst rushed to the pantry and grabbed a bag of flour. He pushed his way to the stove and threw the contents on the fire, dousing the flames immediately.

‘Shit! Shit!' Cloete was still hopping around the room. Being otherkin with a healthy dose of succubus blood, she sported a slinky tail and tiny horns, which were currently flushed dark.

‘What are we going to eat now?' one of the Runners complained.

‘I slaved over this stupid dish for an hour, so you're all gonna eat it,' Cloete yelled, shaking a fist at him. I noticed for the first time the tough Runner was wearing a frilly apron.

‘Here.' Crowhurst thrust some coins into the complaining Runner's hands. ‘Go get a pot of chilli from Sullies Hot Pot and bring it back here.'

The other Runners filed out to the courtyard, grumbling under their breath.

‘What happened?' I asked Cloete.

‘What do you think?' she snapped. ‘I was cooking.'

‘With what? Lamp oil?' I waved a hand, trying to push some of the smoke outside the back door. The Runners had settled down around a table in the back courtyard and were drinking ales, muttering quietly among themselves.

A year ago, Cloete had been caught in an explosion that had left some scarring on her arms and hands. Normally she displayed them proudly, but now I noticed she was wearing leather gloves, which I thought curious. Now she slumped into a chair at the kitchen table.

‘I was just trying to help.'

‘Burning down the building isn't the way to go about it,' I said.

‘Back off, Lora,' Crowhurst said.

I opened my mouth to tell him to get off my case, when I realised something and leaned closer to Cloete. ‘Are you wearing make up?'

‘Just leave me alone.' Cloete struggled with the apron, almost tearing it off, then storming out.

Crowhurst shot me an annoyed look. ‘What's wrong with you?'

Making a small screaming noise in the back of my throat, I began cleaning up the mess. Crowhurst hesitated, then left the kitchen, calling after Cloete.

As I scrubbed a pot, my thoughts wandered reluctantly to Poulter's death. Had Kalin really killed Poulter? And if so,
why?
The Calling Circle had been obscured, so there was no way to tell what kind of darkcraft magic the kid had tried to use. Best guess was he was trying to call up a hellspawn for some favours, which usually demanded lifeblood. I'd called up a hellspawn or two myself in the past, though I'd never had to resort to lifeblood to power the spell. Instead, I'd had a small book of crude but unusual darkcraft, written in hellspeak that short-cut the process. If I still had my little cheat book of darkcraft spells, I could have called up my old snitch, Morious, and asked if he knew anything about Calling Circles filled with numbers. But that book of shady spells was gone now, burned in the same fire that marked Cloete.

I was just thankful nothing had been summoned. If Sabine and I had found a hellspawn trapped inside a Calling Circle, I would have wet my pants and called for the Grigori myself. The priests themselves were a bunch of no-fun jerks who liked to beat their chests with fanatical ideas about a One True God, but they also commanded the Regulator units, with Witch Hunters who knew how to kill a hellspawn like nobody's business. Conventional wisdom was that hellspawn couldn't cross into The Weald from the Pit, but I'd seen it happen before. It wasn't an experience I wanted to repeat.

Thinking about the Grigori got me thinking about Roman and, of course, that thought opened up a deep longing inside me. I wanted to see him, try to clear the air. But even here, so far away, my feelings were muddled, the right path unclear.

‘You don't need to do that.'

Cloete stood in the doorway, glossy black tail wrapped around one thigh.

‘It's fine.' I turned back to the pot, rinsing off the suds. ‘Sorry I yelled. It's been a long day.'

‘I was just trying to help.'

‘I know.'

Cloete leant a shoulder against the doorframe. ‘I heard you went to the Outlands to see Roman.'

‘Yeah.'

‘Do you think he'll ever return to The Weald?'

‘I don't know. I suppose it's complicated.' I nodded at her gloves. ‘Dressed up for a hot date?'

Cloete shifted her hands behind her. ‘Uh, no. Just…trying to look nice, is all.'

I stopped washing and stared at her. ‘Since when do you care about looking nice?'

Her face flushed.

I wiped my hands dry and folded my arms. ‘Kianna's tits. You're seeing someone, aren't you?'

‘What? Fuck off.'

‘Ooohh. Is it someone I know?'

‘It's no one, I tell you.'

‘One of the Runners?' I pressed.

Cloete's face flamed bright red and I snapped my fingers. ‘Ah ha! You are totally busted. Which one? Is it that guy with one leg? I've seen the way he looks at you.'

She gave a muted scream and whirled, almost running for the front door. I chuckled. I had quite the talent for getting under people's skin and I wondered if that made me a bad boss, or the best one ever.

I hadn't been to my usual hangout, Growlers, for some weeks. It was almost as if since Gideon and Orella left, the lure of a dice game over tankards of frosty ale had lost its sparkle. And after the City Watch raided the saloon twice in one week, the risk of being incarcerated outweighed any fun I might have been struggling to have.

Rain had come with the night and while any day involving a dead body usually called for a drink or three, the idea didn't appeal. Instead, I locked up Blackgoat and stopped at a little coffee house at one end of Abraham's Alley. At the risk of my waistline expanding, I found myself there more and more, seeking comfort in endless cups of chocolate espresso and ginger cakes. After the day I'd had, I was wallowing in a slice of sour-cherry cheesecake, my mind replaying the altercation at the school with Kalin. While Poulter's death wasn't an actual paying case, it had happened on my watch and I felt a measure of responsibility. There had been something mean and hard about Kalin that had struck me as familiar. Not to mention his strange, cold yellow eyes. I figured the kid wasn't entirely human, but he had no obvious otherkin trait I could pinpoint.

‘I do hope that is not your dinner, Lady Blackgoat.'

A glance up found Grigori Fowler beside my table. A devoted priest of the Order, he normally wore thick black robes, but today he had on a damp greatcoat and his hooked nose was red from the chill in the air. Grigori always travelled with a Regulator bodyguard and, sure enough, one stood by the door, his grey cloak pushed back to reveal heavy leather armour, daggers crossed at his chest and a sword sheathed down his spine.

I realised some of the patrons in the shop had discreetly left, not anxious to be in the vicinity of a Grigori priest. The owner behind the counter shot dark looks my way and I knew I wouldn't be welcome back. Probably a good thing, as I'd had to loosen my work-belt a notch since I started coming.

‘Grigori Fowler.' I forked in another mouthful of cherry goodness. Cake guilt could just get in line with everything else I had to worry about. ‘What brings you to the depths of Applecross this night? Looking for some chocolate debauchery?'

‘I was hoping to have an informal chat with you, Lady Blackgoat, if you would permit.'

‘I told you before, call me Lora.' I gestured to the empty chair opposite. As if the Pit itself had frozen over, I'd found myself warming to Fowler in the past year. He'd been the one who had stuck up for me countless times when I was doing my stint with the Order, even when I clearly didn't deserve it.

Keeping his coat on, Fowler sat down and rubbed his gloved hands. The symbol of the Order of Guides was stitched on the back: a winding path curled around a winged sword. He gave me a sharp smile. ‘How are you?'

‘Doing well,' I replied cautiously. Fowler and I hadn't exactly started as friends, but after realising we had similar goals, we'd endured each other's company a little easier. However, there was still the matter of the smoking wreck I'd left behind at the Order.

‘I heard that you are in charge of Blackgoat Watch now,' he said.

‘Gideon and Orella are taking a holiday.' I omitted to say that Orella needed the break for her health. She taught both light and darkcraft, something the Grigori saw as a fundamental sin, so the less attention on her, the better.

‘And how do you find the role of leadership?' Fowler's face was straight, but I could have sworn I saw a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

‘I've been in worse jobs,' I said, hoping he hadn't heard about Blackgoat's financial difficulties. It wouldn't take a genius to figure out losing the contract with the Order had been a blow. Not that the Order would reconsider my contract, but I didn't want to choke on anyone's sympathy, let alone Fowler's.

He leant forward. ‘I've heard reports that you have been visiting Roman in the Outlands.'

I put down my fork, feeling exasperated. ‘Does everyone know my business now?'

Fowler laughed. ‘You'll have to face facts, Lora. You've become quite a figure in Harken.' He paused, glancing around the room, then asked, ‘Tell me, is he well?'

I didn't answer this, since I didn't think it was information that was mine to give. Fowler had been a spiritual adviser to Roman, but I had always assumed this was simply a role Fowler had been assigned. Part of the Grigori creed to keep their warriors in line, shackled to the belief that they were instruments of the One True God in saving heretics from their own evils.

After I helped smuggle Roman to the Outlands, it had been hard to return to Harken and pretend that my heart hadn't been trampled by leaving him behind. When I'd started my contract with the Order, I'd heard wild reports of Roman's death, supposedly by his own hand to prevent the nephilim madness from claiming him. But somehow, Fowler had known different and had even broached the subject a few times with me, indicating he knew something about Roman's current situation and my involvement in getting him to the Outlands when the Order was hunting him.

Fowler saw my hesitation now and gave a crisp nod. ‘I understand you can't divulge much. However, I have also heard Roman has been taking meetings with a nephilim called Gorath.'

‘I've heard of the guy.' I made a seesaw motion with one hand. ‘I also heard he's not quite right. What do
you
know about him?'

‘The Order discovered him when he was fifteen. Apparently, his mother was a griorwolf. A rare situation, a nephilim being born outside of the Order.' Fowler paused, then added, ‘Much like yourself.'

‘Hmmm,' I said, suddenly fascinated with the last of my cheesecake. Fowler knew I was nephilim, but it was a fact he had sworn to keep to himself. While I had been at the Order though, there had been rumours about me being nephilim. I had no idea how that information got out, but I quickly learned that Regulators were notorious gossips. When asked about the truth of the matter, I'd neither denied nor confirmed it.

‘Gorath's situation was regretful,' Fowler said. ‘There was simply no way of breaking the wildness inside him. But it was a valuable lesson in the type of vessels used to breed the nephilim.'