Spirited Words (The Freelancers Book 4) Read online

  Making up some fluff about it being on its way, and that it must have got lost in the system, he fired off the email and clicked on the report, to discover it barely written. The incident in the shower had taken over his night, distracted completely from the task at hand. He slammed his fist on the desk, The impact sent a shockwave through is wrist, feeling as though he had torn open the wound on his forearm.

  Peter bit his lip, tried to hold in the yelp that was doing its best to burst out. On autopilot, he wrapped his fingers around the foam wrist rest, dug his fingernails in to it, picked it up and slammed it on the desk, knowing he couldn't risk touching his wrist itself for fear of causing more damage. He clenched his teeth as the agony pervaded, picked up the foam wedge and threw it against the wall.

  There was a resounding thud, that felt as though it ricocheted all the way around the room. Even the tiles in the drop-ceiling seemed to shake. He hadn't thrown it that hard, he thought. But, he reminded himself, the whole office was held together by duct tape, spit and hope―same as all the company's developments. He had heard one of the builders joke that if someone had vigorous sex at the top floor of the apartment complex next door, the entire thing would probably topple over into their building, knocking not only it over, but the development after that too, like a stack of dominoes across the London skyline.

  There was a shout from somewhere beyond his plasterboard prison, followed by heavy footsteps, the clunk of a door handle being turned. The grunt of a door being tugged, a cacophonous slam that shook the entire floor, and more heavy footsteps that seemed to be encroaching on his position. He followed their path with a glance across the white walls, gaze arriving at the door just as it burst open.

  “I'm sorry!” he squealed, apologising before the verbal assault had even begun.

  Standing in the doorway, red-faced and flustered was Martin Barrigan, an angry beanpole of a man who looked as though he were completely hairless from head to toe. His skin was so tight on the bone, and his face showed so little emotion, that Peter often wondered if he had some kind of full-body botox.

  The only way he could tell that Martin was angry at him was from the shade of his cheeks, glint in his eye and tone of his raised voice.“What the bloody hell do you think you're doing? I was in the middle of a very important conference call with head office, and your racket―it put everyone on edge! Sounded like a damn bomb went off and―do you know how important that call was! It wasn't your bottom feeding wheeler dealer builders, that was mister Kirkland himself―do you think the CEO wants his calls to be interrupted by such a thunderous assault when―”

  Peter stared with wide eyes as the barrage continued. He wasn't listening, not to the words themselves. It was the volume of them that he found curious. If his colleague was indeed in the middle of a conference call, likely on speakerphone, and sound travelled as much as he claimed it to, then surely the others on the call would be hearing his tirade. Perhaps that was why Martin had been promoted, whilst he was still in the same position after three years. Peter had worked so hard, night and day at the damn job, and yet the angry stick-figure of a man seemed to get all the glory for his hard work.

  “―absolutely inconsiderate, not to mention rude, and I know full well that the Cassidy report is late! Shouldn't you be working on that rather than violently assaulting the very foundations of the company which has gainfully employed you for the last. . .” he trailed off. Eyes narrowing as best they could.

  “What the bloody hell. . .”

  A shiver went down Peter's spine. Martin was no longer staring him directly in the eye. His gaze had wavered, navigated down, and was now fixed on his neck.

  “Why on earth would you. . .Who the hell would. . I am not. . !”

  Martin took a step back, then another, a confounded expression tried its hardest to form on his perfectly smooth brow. He sidestepped away from the threshold to the door, returning to his office slowly, eyes still fixed on Peters' neck as he retreated.

  Watching with a confounded stare as his colleague departed, a lump came to Peter's throat, so large and tight that he struggled to swallow over it. Flicking the screen off, he leaned closer to it, tried to make out what Martin had been staring at in his reflection. The screen was too matte, even with it off, it reflected nothing by a dark blur back at him.

  He burst to his feet, tore out of the room, across the open plan office, and ran towards the bathroom. His fingers were already at his tie, tugging it down, undoing the top button of his shirt and clambering at the collar before he got to the mirror. Catching his reflection, his eyes went wide, lips parting.

  Big, black letters were staring back.

  'mih' him? 'gnivael' leaving? Reading in the mirror was too slow, and deciphering a word at a time felt like he was back in kindergarten. He scrambled at his pockets, found his phone, held it up to the mirror and took a photo. Turning the screen around, his jaw felt as though it dropped even lower, if that was possible.

  'If Martin shagged his wife with that intensity, she probably wouldn't be leaving him.'

  A knot tightened in his gut, the lump in his throat grew to twice its previous size. A chill coursed its way across his entire body, sweat starting to pour from his armpits. Every limb felt weak, a shiver swept through his bones, and the phone slipped from his grasp, clattering to the floor.

  It was as though the blood was rushing from his entire body. His eyes shifted back to the mirror. He looked pale, white as a sheet, the writing on his neck seeming all the more darker now. His own handwriting staring back at him―but it wasn't his writing.

  At least, it wasn't writing of his hand. . . had never written it. . . But he had thought it. In the past, and it had been a thought that returned to him as his red-faced colleague bellowed at the door. A thought made flesh, etched on his very skin.

  He knelt down, reached for his phone with trembling fingers, took hold of it, and found that the screen had been smashed in the impact. It didn't matter. Nothing else mattered. He just needed to get the hell out of there. . .

  Bursting back through to the office floor, he turned, went for the stairs, not wanting to have to wait for the elevator―to risk anyone else seeing the writing on his neck, let alone the writing God knows where else. . .

  He needed to get the hell out, needed be anywhere else, needed get help.

  And he knew exactly where to go for help.

  Chapter 7

  Ana's favourite bartender

  Rafe and Ana walked into Day Drinkers through the front door―or more accurately, a door that took the place of the front door. Despite her cackling laughter and his deep chuckles, their rowdy entrance was not enough to take the occupants' attention away from their beverages. If it had, they would have perhaps noticed that the door they walked through led not to the street, but the palatial entrance of the Earl of Chichester's estate.

  “You could have broken a glass!” she coughed over guffaws.

  “It wasn't that loud.”

  “It was that loud, and more high pitched than any sound I've ever heard you make.”

  “In my defence, I had just been bitten. . .”

  “It's your own fault,” she said, taking a seat at the bar.

  “Clurichaun bites have a helium-like effect on the voice.”

  “Really? You never mentioned that before. . .”

  “Must have slipped my mind.”

  “Or you're trying to save face. Be the macho manly man.”

  Mallory walked over to the two of them from behind the bar, cleaning a glass, doing her best bartender impression.

  “I liked it better when you were wishing things would eat my face. . .”

  “It was probably aiming for your face, and your arse got in the way.”

  “I think that's an insult, but I honestly can't tell any more.”

  “Celebrating?” Mallory asked with a wide smile, finally finding a moment to interject.

  “Always!” Ana replied, reaching across the bar and grabbing her hand, sque
ezing it tightly. “Whisky whisky whisky!”

  “Coming right up.” She turned to the wall of spirits, browsing for something worthy of her best friend. As she faced the wall, the curve of her lips fell away.

  If she were honest with herself, Ana wasn't feeling so much like a best friend these days, even though she still gave her the title. As much as Mallory appreciated that Ana was happy, that working with Rafe gave her a joie de vivre that had sorely been lacking from her life before, she couldn't help feel that their friendship took a hit in the process.

  “You and I need to have a conversation about strategy,” Ana said, her attention shooting back to Rafe.

  “Specifically. . .”

  “That you have to stop getting injured so much, so I don't spend most jobs saving your arse.”

  “It doesn't happen on every job. . .”

  “It happens on literally every job. Did you get hit, stabbed and bitten so often before we met?”

  “No,” he thought for a moment, recalling all the fists that clacked against his jaw, the scratches and cuts that tore through his flesh, the bites and claws that came for his eyes. “Well, maybe. . .”

  “Well you get injured too much and too often. Next time we have to face off against a kublakahn, let's not have it bite you as a diversion to pour clover down its throat.”

  “Shamrock.”

  “Aren't they basically the same?”

  “You have a lot to learn about botany.”

  “You have a lot to learn about not getting bitten-y.”

  Mallory placed two tumblers of whisky down on the bar in front of them. Rafe reached into his pocket for some money, and Mallory shook her finger. “Nuh uh. On the house.”

  “You sure?”

  “Of course, love to see you guys celebrating!” She forced a smile. “What were you up to this time? Sounds like there was violence. Or. . . something bitey?”

  “Dog,” Ana blurted. “Rafe got bit by a dog.”

  “A dog?”

  “Kublakahn, some idiot Duke's dog.”

  “Duke?” Mallory said, in disbelief.

  “Of York, I think.”

  “Isn't that the one from the rhyme, with ten thousand men?”

  “Earl of Chichester,” Rafe corrected.

  “Basically the same thing.”

  “Completely different. Surprised you could forget, he seemed totally enamoured with you. His wife too.” He caught Mallory's eye. “It was like they were falling over themselves to invite her over to high tea, or elevenses, or whatever.”

  “Wow, who'd have thought you'd fit in with the aristocracy?”

  “Oh hush,” Ana scoffed. “They probably just wanted me to fill in for the maid while she was on holiday. . .”

  “They literally couldn't take their eyes off you.”

  “Shut up!”

  “So,” Mallory interjected, seeing that they were about to get caught up in another playful squabble. “What was the thing, y'know, the case? And why did they let their dog bite you? Are you gonna sue?”

  “Oh. . . Uh, It wasn't their fault,” Rafe stuttered, trying to cobble together a lie.

  “The dog was just in the way,” Ana explained. “Job was. . . dealing with a home invader, in the wine cellar. Drunk off his arse, and surly as hell.”

  “Couldn't they call the police?”

  “Rafe has a way with drunks. . .”

  “No wonder the two of you work so well together,” Mallory chuckled, as she caught sight of a customer coming up to the bar, and left the two to continue their chatter.

  “Why can't we just tell her?” Ana asked, in a hushed tone.

  “Normals don't understand. . .What we do is. . . complicated.”

  “I told you not to call them 'normals'.”

  “Mundanes isn't exactly better. . .”

  “I just don't like lying to her.”

  “I know, but it's for her own good. You want to try and explain how you can conjure a door to translocate across space, or how shamrock makes a clurichaun sober up in an instant and slows their cellular regeneration so they can be cleft in twain and buried in two separate graves. . . or how spirits can be bound to glass and―”

  “Try and tear your face off with their razor sharp glass-claws?”

  “You get my point. She can't handle it. No non-magicks can. If they knew what was living in the shadows, they'd never get to sleep at night.”

  Mallory watched the two of them talking in whispers, and sighed to herself. She felt awful for being jealous, for missing her friend when she was right there. Ana was making an effort, she knew that, there was no other reason for her to turn up to the bar every time they closed a case. She was doing it specifically because she wanted to connect―that was obvious.

  And yet she was always there with Rafe, her damn boyfriend, or not-boyfriend-just-friend, as she insisted on calling him.

  Whether they were intimate or not, Mallory was feeling like the new facet of her life, the vague private investigator-sounding job that Rafe and hired her for, was putting a strain on their friendship.

  She hated to admit it, but a part of her was wondering if they were even friends any more. It was starting to feel more and more like she was just Ana's favourite bartender.

  Chapter 8

  Put a stop to it

  Peter stared at himself in the mirror. He looked all too pale, sickly, thin, with large dark rings under his eyes. His hand navigated to the bandage attached firmly over his neck. His fingers clawed at the corner, peeling it off gently. The glue tugged at his skin, flesh beneath it feeling raw and painful. He caught sight of the blood on the underside of the cotton before he saw the skin of his neck.

  A thick black bar, three inches wide and half an inch tall stared back at him, covering the words beneath completely. He could no longer read the letters that were in his handwriting―but not written by his hand. Still, he could feel them, as if they were hiding just under the surface of the new ink.

  Craning his neck, he looked at the black bar. It didn't quite go with the rest of his tats, but that was the least of his concerns. He glanced at his forearm, wondering when the skin would heal from his scrubbing. Perhaps he could get that inked over too.

  Attending to his neck again, he washed his fingers with soap and ran them over the skin. Dry, ready to scab over soon. The tattooist said it would take two weeks to heal, but he knew better. All his previous ink had stopped scabbing and flaking somewhere between five to seven days after he got it. He'd keep a bandage on at night, but let it breath during the day. No more ties for the week, collars loose so there would be no friction up against it.

  He wondered how he'd explain the tattoo to friends, family and colleagues. It wasn't like the others, the tribal swirl on his left bicep, the techno-organic ribs and wires etched on his abdomen, the Banksy-esque little girl with a red balloon on his hip. They were all inscribed on his skin for a reason―they all had stories.

  The tribal thing was because he was once a drunk teen in Thailand. The robot ribs were something he saw in a magazine in his early twenties, and just had to have. The Banksy was at the behest of an ex girlfriend, insistent that they should have matching ink. As he sat down in the chair that time, he suddenly had a realisation, a knowing, that the relationship wasn't going to last that much longer―but he figured at least it was just a drawing on his skin, rather than her name.

  If asked, he decided he would say that the black bar meant something personal. That's the kind of thing that would stop anyone inquiring further. Make them think that it was a memorial for a deceased friend―that was what he pictured anyone thinking as he told them, perhaps he'd send his eyes to the floor as he spoke, attempt to look mournful. That felt like it would work.

  A knock at the door interrupted his imagined conversation with whoever might ask about his new tattoo. Placing the bloody bandage in the trash, he checked his reflection one last time, and answered the door.

  “Peter?”

  Peter nodded, and sw
ung the door wide.

  “Don't get many emergency callouts like this, whole refit,” the man said as he walked in, wearing blue overalls with 'Speedy Locksmiths” embroidered on the front. He placed his toolbox on the floor with a loud thunk, objects inside rattling back and forth as they settled.

  He watched as the locksmith inspected the door, and flicked open the toolbox, rooting around for a screwdriver.

  “Do you want a cup of tea or something?” Peter found himself asking, desperate for an excuse to not have to stand over the man, risk the chance of having to make small talk. He wasn't in the mood for talk, small or otherwise.

  Relief washed over him as the man asked for milk and two sugars, and Peter made a swift exit to the kitchen. It would take a while to change a lock on the front door, let alone add locks to every other room in the house. But it would be worth it, of that he was certain. This was all some prank, it had to be. Someone was screwing with him―probably the last roommate he had.

  He sneered as he though of the guy. He had seemed nice enough when they first met, but turned out to be a dick. Probably duplicated the key before he handed it back, to take some kind of revenge for asking him to leave.

  Peter began to concoct elaborate scenarios in which his previous tenant sneaked in at night, drugged him, worked from some kind of template of his own handwriting, used a portable tattoo gun to ink him as he slept.

  The more he convinced himself of the scenario, the more the fantastical elements felt real, and he found himself believing that it was possible, resenting his last room mate all the more with every passing second.

  Of course, it didn't explain how the words seemed to be appearing in the middle of the day, let alone how they were related to situations that were ongoing, but he tried not to think about it too hard. Whatever was going on, he was going to put a stop to it once and for all.