Spirited Words (The Freelancers Book 4) Page 8

“Yes,” she grunted.

  Ana wasn't convinced. “You sure? You seem. . . annoyed.”

  “Yeah,” she huffed. “Just tired. Long day. . . Plus, I got stood up. . .”

  A chill came over Ana, her jaw dropped of its own volition, tears welled in her eyes at the realisation that she abandoned her friend. “Oh my gods! I'm so sorry!”

  “Don't worry about it.”

  “We got caught up. . .”

  “No doubt. I get it, you're busy with your new job.”

  “Do you wanna talk―”

  “No, not really. . .” Mallory said, heading back over to the dishwasher in search of a quick exit from the exchange.

  Ana watched her go, wishing there was something she could do to explain her new life and job to her friend. She couldn't. Well, she could, but there was no way in hell that Mallory would believe a single word she said. On Rafe's instructions, Ana was keeping her at arms length for her own good. And as much as she wanted it otherwise, she knew Mallory would think her mad if she tried to explain even the bare bones of the truth.

  She glanced over to Rafe's empty seat. He was the only one she could talk to, the only one with which she could celebrate and relish her growing magickal gifts.

  As Mallory crouched by the dishwasher, pretending to be busy, Ana felt more alone than she had since this whole mess began. She needed company, needed a friend. It was clear that in that moment, there was nothing she could do to make it up to Mallory.

  Time would heal their wounds, she truly believed that. Next time they had a coffee date, she'd keep it. And in the meantime, Rafe would have to do as the next best thing

  “I'll see you soon,” she mumbled, leaving a twenty pound note on the bar, and conjuring a door. Day Drinkers was just getting her down.

  The door opened into the Randy Dowager, and Ana slipped straight into the back room to Slugtrough's domain. The table in the booth was thick with purple ooze, the leshi pelt seemingly leaking yet more goop long after the damn thing was dead.

  “Don't like the texture,” Slugtrough grumbled. “Looks thin for its age.”

  “What at hell are you talking about?!” Ana barked, grabbing hold of the ivory skin and holding it up like an item on an infomercial “Look at how long and luxurious it is! Best leshi pelt around. Only leshi pelt around as far as I hear. . .”

  “There'll be others. And this condition? Ain't worth what I offered.”

  “It'll clean up―it's right off the thing's back, just needs a good dry cleaner and you're good to go.”

  Slugtrough eyed Rafe. “Girl don't know a damn thing about cleaning pelts. . .”

  “Girl is right here,” Ana glowered. As if responding to her mood, the shadows in the dark room began to lift from the walls, and started to swirl around the three of them.

  “Alright! I'll pay full price.”

  “Damn right you will,” Ana spat, triumphantly.

  She tapped her foot impatiently as Slugtrough counted out their payment, and grabbed it before Rafe had a chance to reach for it. “Drinks are on you.” she said, turning on her heel back to the bar.

  Rafe thought it best, judging by her mood, not to mention that the drinks seemed to always be on him. Something was up with her, that was clear. But as useless as he was with people, let alone women, he couldn't for the life of him work out what the hell it might be.

  Chapter 20

  Set free

  “You don't have to go home, but you do have to get the hell out of there. . .” Mallory grunted, as she attempted to close up the bar and shoo away the last of the regulars. They always took their sweet time to leave, and this was the third attempt at booting them out. As per her regular routine, next time she issued the command, she'd use harsher language, and the final time, she'd threaten them with a hose.

  It seemed that they were finally starting to get the message. Old timers knocking the last dregs of their pints back and shakily forcing themselves to their feet. The only occupant that seemed stationary was the tattooed guy in the booth.

  Mallory collected the glasses from the empty tables and glanced in his direction. A bunch of the bandages covering his skin had been removed, and although there were fresh ones taped over what she imaged was yet more new ink, he looked a hell of a lot less like he was on day release from the burns ward.

  “You trying to set a record?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “For most skin covered in ink, or whatever.”

  “Ink. . . yeah. . .” he muttered, awkwardly. “Something like that, I guess.”

  She couldn't help but smile at how weird and uncomfortable he was in his own skin. Given that so much of it was steadily becoming some kind of walking alternative art gallery, it seemed odd that he'd be so meek. She shot him another glance whilst she took the glasses back to the bar. Under the ink and bandages, she thought he was kinda cute. . .

  “Can I see?” she asked, heading back over to his table.

  Timidly, he reached for the collar of his shirt and pulled it down, revealing a series of thick black lines covering his torso.

  “It looks like your skin has been redacted!”

  “What?”

  “You know, like classified documents in movies.”

  “Oh, yeah,” he chuckled, his face expressing something between good humour and massive embarrassment. He glanced around the bar, and suddenly realised that he was the last of the drunks left. “Oh, you're closing up! Sorry, I totally lost track of time. . . I should leave.” He rose to his feet, but she shooed him back down into the booth.

  “Nah, I can sweep while you're here. . . Could do with the company. You want a nightcap?”

  He could tell by her reaction how dumb and wide his smile must have been, and did his best to reign his enthusiasm in. “If you don't mind, yeah.”

  Mallory grabbed his glass and leaned over the bar, pouring him a clumsy pint.

  ”Impressed by your tolerance. You go through, what, six pints a night? Sometimes more, and you never stumble out of here. Definitely never seen you pull off your own shoe and puke in it. . .”

  “Has that happened?” he scoffed, taking the glass from her.

  “At least six times.”

  “Same guy?”

  “Wish I could say so, but no. . . it's just a thing that seems to happen here―never seen it at any other bar I worked at. . . It's like the place is cursed with shoe pukers.”

  “Yeah . . .” His words trailed off, and he sipped at the pint. The mention of a curse, even in jest, had sent a shiver down his spine.

  Mallory could tell that conversation wasn't going to go very far, and went off to grab a broom, becoming all too aware that he was watching her as she swept.

  “Can I help?” he asked, realising she was keeping track of him in her periphery.

  “Nah, I got it.”

  There was something about her that he empathised with. A sadness or emptiness that she was trying to push down, sweep away, as it were.

  “You okay? It's none of my business, but you seem. . . sad.”

  “I'm fine,” she said as she continued to sweep the floor. That wasn't true, and Mallory knew it wasn't true, knew that tattoo-guy could tell it wasn't true. She huffed, froze for a moment whilst in thought, then leaned the broom up against the bar. “No, I'm not fine. . .” she reached behind the bar and grabbed a bottle of whisky from the rack, taking it and a dirty glass over to his table. “You know how when you have a friend in a relationship, and they push your friendship to the wayside?”

  “Oh, definitely.”

  “Yeah, that's what's going on, but without her even being in a relationship!”

  “Huh?”

  “Yeah, right? I just don't get it!” She knocked the whisky back, and realised that she was venting. “Sorry, I'm throwing this all at you. . . You don't need to hear about my dumb problems.”

  “I don't mind.”

  “It's just that I've got nobody else to burden with it.”

  “It's no problem, I'
d like to listen, help you get it off your chest.”

  “You sure? “We can talk about anything else, the weather, the local sports team―or not talk at all. . .”

  Peter didn't want to admit it, but he liked the idea of not talking at all. In the back of his mind, he could picture the message scrawled under the tattoo on his hand. . . The note telling him that sex will set him free. . . But in truth, he didn't just want sex. He liked her, this barmaid that he didn't know the name of, that he just thought of as 'skinny blonde barmaid', because he'd always been too shy to ask her name. He really liked her. . . And as they talked, her telling him the mundane problems of her friendship―which she was all too aware were nothing but mundane problems―he realised that he liked her even more that he had first thought.

  They talked as she swept, continued to talk as she mopped, and when all her trivial chores for the night were done with, she joined him for another nightcap, and another, and another. He couldn't take his eyes off her the whole time―and it felt as though she was feeling the same way. Their eyes were locked for every moment of their conversation, as though neither of them even stopped to blink because they were so rapt up in one another. A fire burning inside them both, unspoken, but it was in the air. Thick and hot, a tension of angst and unspoken desire.

  She went to the bar to get the bottle to refill their glasses, and he found himself following her, grabbing her hand, pulling her close to him.

  Their eyes met, closer than ever before in that embrace. Her breath hot against him, her body so near to him, so warm, her breasts pushing against his ribs, her lips quivering just inches away. He could feel himself getting tumescent, and she could feel it too.

  Their eye contact broke as their lips met, a spark on their tongues, her sweet whisky flavour mingled with the beer he had been drinking, and came away in his mouth. A part of her remaining with him.

  He had never wanted anyone this much in all his life, and he had never been so jubilant at the thought of being inside her, and being―as the words on his skin had said―set free.

  Chapter 21

  Something written

  Mallory woke up the next day in her own bed, naked, and alone. She expected to feel sad, or at the very least feel used, but for some reason that didn't even cross her mind.

  She felt fine. Weirdly good, despite Peter making a hasty exit whilst she was asleep. It was, she had to admit, damn good sex, and she hoped it would happen again. Although if it did happen again, she'd insist that he took the bandages off next time. Even if his skin was still healing, she could do with fewer friction burns from where they rubbed against her in the midst of the frantic coitus of the night before.

  Realising the time, she grabbed a quick shower and headed in for work. It had completely slipped her mind that she had to open up first thing in the morning. Coming in to the bar, she cleared up their empties from the night before. In their passion, she had forgotten to clean up from their after-hours drinking.

  Taking the glasses to the dishwasher, she tugged it open, and noticed something on the inside of her wrist. A note to herself, written in her own handwriting

  'God, I needed that.'

  Chapter 22

  Back on track

  The streets of Centralia, Pennsylvania were as quiet as they had been for the last thirty-some years. The residents had evacuated in the eighties, and anyone that lived even remotely close kept far, far away. After all, there was fire burning under the town that had been raging for over twenty years. It was a ghost town, figuratively and literally, which is what brought Rafe and Ana walking through a door out onto Main Street.

  As soon as she took her first breath in the town, her lungs rejected the idea of breathing the noxious fumes that hung in the air.

  “Yuck!” she spluttered, over a cough.

  “Quit complaining and cast us some rebreathers.”

  “You said it was going to be bad. . .” she gasped, as her fingers traced out a sigil. “But I didn't think it would be this bad!”

  “You didn't think a town lying on top of a fire that's been going for over half a century would be a little toxic?”

  “A little toxic? This smells like it's trying to dissolve my lungs. . .“

  “Might well be,” Rafe said, taking a deep breath of cool, clean air as the rebreather casting took effect.

  “So where's this bugger?” Ana asked, looking to and fro down the street. Further up, there was a crack in the ground, a massive pothole, with smoke steadily rising, dissipating into the air. “Is that him?”

  She threw a blast of fire at the crack in the ground. As it hit the tarmac, it exploded, sending chunks of the road raining down on them.

  “Can we go home now?”

  “I think you just blew up a gas pocket. . .”

  “An evil gas pocket?”

  “Probably not,” he said, leading the way down the street, heading out of town.

  “Is this going to be another day of walking? Because I didn't sign up for another day of walking. . .”

  “Would you rather turn to mist, and risk being boiled alive?”

  Ana weighed up the options. On one hand, she was really bored of walking long distances, but on the other hand, she didn't like the idea of being boiled alive at the molecular level.

  “Can we at least steal a car?”

  “Find a car, and we'll steal it. . .”

  She looked around, but found no signs of stray or abandoned vehicles.

  “People don't tend to leave their cars when they're evacuating a town that's on top of a fire.”

  “Well they should―it's only courteous.”

  Rafe decided to ignore how glib she was being about the job. She was clearly messed up about other things, friendship things, that he was not even remotely qualified to address. He had made the decision not to inquire about what was bugging her, mostly because he had no real advice to offer. He didn't exactly have friends, just people he traded favours with.

  *

  It took them an hour to get out of town, following the main road until they found a large sinkhole in the middle of the street. The tarmac was lifted up around it, long wild grass growing out of cracks amidst plumes of thick black smoke that funnelled up to the heavens above.

  “This it?”

  “I reckon so.”

  Ana began casting to blow the hell out of the thing, when Rafe grabbed her hands to stop the destruction before it could start. “Would you please stop exploding things?”

  “What is the point in you teaching me stuff if I don't get to use it?”

  “I teach it to you so you can use it when necessary, not as a quick fix when you're bored.”

  “This is pretty boring.”

  “It's also not going to kill the damn thing. . . Did you read the―”

  “Yes, I read the damn book.”

  “Skimmed it or―”

  “Read it!”

  “So you know that the enenra―”

  “Is a smoke monster, and doesn't give a damn about fire―but it will disperse it!”

  “Dispersing it isn't going to help us here. . . It'll just put itself back together.”

  “So, what do we do? Ask it nicely?”

  Rafe stared at her, trying his damnedest not to nod, but found himself doing so anyway.

  “Really? You said nothing about asking things nicely. . . If I knew we were translocating half way around the world just to have a chit-chat, I would have told you to do this one solo.”

  “I can't do it solo.”

  “Oh. . . Because. . . You're weak like a kitten?” she scoffed.

  He took the jab on the chin, and sighed, eyes skimming the road they stood on. “Because the enenra won't appear to me. . .”

  She stared at him for a moment, flicking through the pages of the book in her mind's eye. The enenra only appeared to those that were pure of heart.

  “You think I'm pure of heart?” she chuckled.

  “Purer than I am. . .”

  “I'm no
t pure of anything―”

  “You are,” he insisted. “You are a pure, good spirit―”

  “You know I'm not a virgin, right?”

  “This isn't about virginity, it's about. . . not having a black mark on your soul.” He broke off eye contact, staring at the crack in the road. “You know I've had to do things in my work, things I regret, things I wish I could take back―”

  “Yeah yeah yeah, I know and I'm over it.” She shot him a kind smile and started to march towards the crack in the road.

  “Do you know―”

  “Yeah, I know what I'm doing. . . Have some bloody faith!”

  She leaned over to look down into the chasm below. Smoke billowed into her eyes, and she cast to whip it out of her way, giving her a clearer view of the mine tunnels that lay under the street. It looked as though she was staring right into the depths of hell. A wild fire raging, feeding off the coal in the mine, burning and roaring with elemental rage.

  “Hello?” she shouted. “Mister smoke man?”

  The fire belched a thick cloud of smoke that churned through the air, heat washing over Ana as it flew upwards, whipped around and settled right in front of her. The creature's eyes burned a bright, glowing red. It took a humanoid form, hanging above the crack with a body made of thick plumes of black smoke, tightly knit, looking as though they were layers upon layers of inky fabric flowing on a breeze.

  She glanced over her shoulder to Rafe, and shot him a thumbs up. He stared back at her and smiled blankly, unable to the see the creature.

  “How's it going?” she asked the enenra.

  The monster cocked its head, reminding her of a confused puppy.

  “You don't belong here,” she said, changing tack. “This fire has been burning for so long, you've been trapped here for so long. . . don't you want to go somewhere better?”

  There was no response from the enenra. Ana wasn't sure if it understood her, and took a deep breath, knowing exactly how she was going to have to communicate with it.

  Throwing the middle finger of her right hand up in front of her, first and third bent over, she shot the thumb out as wide as could be to the side, little finger lightly grazing her palm. Spinning her hand in a circle, she muttered “Dazodisa a el,” under her breath, and reached for the creature's smoky hand. In an instant, she knew it through and through.