What Goes Bump In The Night Read online

  The night is still young.

  TO BE CONTINUED.

  HAPPY HALLOWEEN.

  Embers of Samhain

  C.J. Strange

  Copyright © 2018 by C.J. Strange

  All rights reserved.

  No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review, and except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  I

  (Disclaimer: This short story contains scenes ofmildly dubious consent. Reader discretion is advised.)

  Old London, Britain

  October 2027

  ... The Opus.

  It's my only clear thought as I come to, first and foremost to barrage my barely conscious mind. I don't know where I'm waking up, or why, or in whose company. But none of that matters. My personal safety and security are second to that of the whole reason I put my life on the line at all tonight: the Opus Veritas.

  Whose hands is it currently in? Ours? Theirs?

  One by one, my limbs and senses reconnect with my brain. The familiar scent and sound of a fire crackling, and the soft suede of thick, plush cushion beneath me. Wherever I am, it's warm and it's cozy. Not that either of those are exclusively positive signs, but they do help a proper bundle when it comes to the anxiety of actually opening my eyes and acknowledging my fate.

  I'm not in my camper van. And I'm not in the mess hall of our underground base we've lovingly dubbed the Switchboard, either. Which directs me toward two fairly troubling questions: where the fuck am I, and who the fuck put me wherever the fuck I now am?

  "Ah, and I was just thinking how's it's about time you awoke, too. Come."

  My blood ices in my veins. That voice had materialized from out of nothing. What's more concerning is that, despite me not moving a single muscle, its owner knows I've become conscious.

  "I don't come on command."

  It's out of my mouth before my brain has a chance to proofread it. On second thought, I don't want to. If he's a plausible ally, it might give him a damn good laugh. If he's someone planning something more sinister, at least they'll be brilliant last words.

  The cool chuckle of a response doesn't do much to point me in either direction more than the other. When I'm greeted by further silence, I take it as my cue to put on my best stiff upper lip and finally concede to my surroundings.

  Antiquated is probably the best term I could use to describe what I see. My eyes follow intricately-carved wooden beams upward to a high coffered ceiling, black with painted blue roses and thorns interwoven between panels. The cushion I'm laid out on is attached to an enormous indigo chaise, draped in a wool-knit quilt.

  What floods my explorative vision is clearly a centuries-old manor house. The likes of it and places similar quite frankly give me the jeebies. They're typically linked to the upper class, who are typically linked the sorry excuse for a government we have, quietly suppressing the crown whilst arrogantly calling itself the Sovereignty. While Britain may have once seen the light of glorious democracy, those times became overcast when a man named William Wentworth stepped up as the Prime Minister to 'make Britain proud once more'.

  Brain puke.

  As for the owner of the voice, I'm able to locate him with little difficulty. He's seated in a leather armchair on one side of a low coffee table. A shimmer of silver hair-not gray, proper metallicsilver-and intense, inky eyes stare deeply back at me. The sculpture of both his sharply-angled face and slim torso are more Adonis-like than I think I've ever seen-so much so, if I were religious I may suspect him angelic. He's well-groomed and well-dressed, though there's a definite devil-may-care demeanor to his light grain of stubble and open, un-tied shirt collar.

  The moment we lock gazes, it's a spaghetti western stand-off. Neither one of us seems to want to be the first to break the intense, psychological stream of mindfuckery ricocheting back and forth between our currently overactive egos. I muse on the probability that he, like yours truly, is an Anomaly-a train of thought that leads me to what sort of Magickal abilities he might possess. Is he reading my mind? Is he sifting my memories? Is he analyzing my abilities?

  Or are his powers idling, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike and catch me off my guard?

  When your life is that of a bullet-dodging, dictator-resisting freedom fighter you once only saw in comic books and video games, paranoid trepidation is a neurosis that runs high, and keeps you alive. I prefer to call it 'vigilance'.

  Normally, I'd be indulging in it much more, skeptically calculating judgments based on experience. If it weren't for the chilling heat in that stare of his. It takes me out of my body entirely, holding me captive in the moment. I'm vaguely aware of my own heartbeat. But it sounds distant, as if... as if I'm hearing it through someone else's ears.

  Who the hell would be listening to my heartbeat?

  "I imagine you wouldn't." That smooth baritone jerks me off my train of thought. In an instant, I'm back in reality. "You hardly seem the type. And I assure you, the chesterfield here is far more fitting of that punk-rock attitude than where you're currently situated. Far more comfortable too."

  "Punk-rock attitude?" I chew each word over in my mouth for additional contempt, even as I'm rolling to my feet. "Whose dad are you, anyway? Did one of my mates send you over to pick me up?"

  "Something like that." The stranger's conceited smile is unwavering. It's eerie, especially because I'm apparently walking toward it. I pause, only for long enough to confirm that I can, before continuing on.

  "Welcome, at last. Sleeping in on the job, how very typically Gen Z of you."

  "I wasn't aware I had company," I spit back. I slowly take the offered seat opposite my 'host'. "Or that I was sleeping in. Last I remember, the job was in the middle of occurring."

  Another silky, fluid chuckle follows the exact wake of the first. It's almost hypnotic.

  "The tea appears to be done brewing, my dear. It should help ease that nasty anxiety of yours."

  I scoff. Oh, the privilege of those who needn't worry about falling asleep for the fear they may wake up on fire. Living in hiding from an iron-fisted dictator, who is both aware you are the last bastion of resistance in his country and hell-bent on eradicating you for it, will do that to you. But it's even more worrying when your last memory wasn't curling up in your bed, but drifting mysteriously out of it whilst on a ridiculously dangerous mission.

  "I ain't your 'dear', and I don't accept drinks from strange old geezers anymore." Sitting on the leather couch, I allow myself a second to properly study him. Realization clicks two cogs in my brain together. I remember the feel of the vent giving out beneath me. Sheet metal stretched in my hands like elastic or gum, my Magickal abilities to manipulate matter itself kicking in as I panicked and struggled to maintain my footing. I hadn't expected it to be so brittle, so thin, and it had been quite literally the only way to get over the lively ballroom and into the storage facility without being detected...

  "You're the one what caught me, aren't you?"

  The stranger's smile still hasn't left his lips. I know, because I'm incapable of looking away from him. The lines of his ivory face chiseled with age, the depth of his oily-dark eyes, and a ghostly glisten of silver stubble. Whether he's controlling me in some way or I'm simply intrig
ued, I'm hypnotized. "In more ways than one, I would say."

  ... ugh. Tosser. "Ha ha. Hilarious."

  "A cube or two of sugar in the tea should sweeten that bitter edge of yours." His smile hardens into a smirk. "Are we a little, what is it you tiny ones say, 'salty' that we may or may not have been outwitted somewhere along the line?"

  "Outwitted, kidnapped, rudely interrupted while doing something proper important. It's all about how you wanna phrase it, really." I tilt my head to motion to my elegant surroundings, the warmth of the fire now crawling across my shoulder blades. "So, where exactly am I?"

  "This?" He shatters our eye contact so that he can glance from wall to wall, his chest deflating beneath the crisp, white shirt in a sigh. "This is my drawing room. This is quite possibly the only place in the entire universe I allow myself to relax. And, given the stirring presence my personally curated collection of European and Asian antiques offer, one can imagine why."

  I quirk one eyebrow at his pretension. It's impressive, truly, but there's a blatant dent. "And is that an imported WrightTech LazyJoy E-recliner?"

  "I never said I don't like to relax in luxury as well as style, darling."

  "I swear I feel like we already discussed the misogynistic pet names," is my reply. I'm watching his slender hands as he rather expertly pours two cups of tea from a delicate china pot. I can't even imagine the horror on my brigade-mate Oliver's face if I presented him with his morning cuppa in a mug that small. He'd either cry, or I'd end up wearing it.

  "So, at what point in the evening's festivities did you knock me out?"

  He pauses, before gently placing the teapot back on a silver tray. "I believe introductions would be most appropriate before we blather professional at all," he says. "I may know you intimately, but I haven't yet had the chance to introduce myself."

  My spine straightens at that. Or rather, in reaction to the shudder that traces its length from top to tailbone because of it. While I rein myself in from springing off the sofa, I do allow my nose to visibly wrinkle in disgust at his bizarre choice of wording.

  "Forward. Aren't you at least thrice my age, granddad?"

  He laughs lightly again as he milks his tea from a small white creamer shaped like a chickadee. "If I remember correctly, I'm considerably older than that," he says. "But I do look rather good on it, if I do say so myself."

  He places the creamer next to the pot and looks up at me. I plunge recklessly into his gaze, retaining my hubris by pretending it's of my own volition.

  "Illiam is what I seem to be going by most recently. I will save you the agony and tedium of any backstory beyond my reason for interjecting myself uninvited into your little..."

  His voice trails off. Despite my trance-like stare, my voice leaves my body firm and unyielding. "Choose it carefully."

  Illiam beams back at me. "Heist," he finishes, without a single hint of derision. "Is that an acceptable word, Miss Starling?"

  My shock is probably palpable. I don't blame myself. I'm not sure I've ever had a perfect stranger call me by my name before; not without scanning the BitID on the underside of my wrist first.

  "I presume you're the macabre wankfuck who's been impersonating my father on the 'Net." There's pure venom in the sound of my tone; I can feel it in my tongue. "Funny. You're just the bastard I was hoping I'd run into."

  "Exactly the mindset they wanted you in when you and your brigade executed your... heist." He clears his throat. "I was honestly assuming by your age you would have outgrown that sort of silliness by now."

  "If you're about to tell me you're my second uncle twice removed or some other crock of total and utter horse shite, please just stop. It's been a long day and I'm seriously not in the bloody mood."

  Illiam doesn't flinch. He lifts his cup and saucer between two graceful hands, not tearing his eyes away from me the entire time.

  "I will have you know, little one," he says deliberately, "that while upon rescuing you from your life-threatening mishap I may have found you to be intolerable at best-"

  I scoff again. "Life-threatening mishap? Your mate Wentworth's Hallowe'en arse-licking gala is hardly a gathering of the most stout-hearted of British folk. If you know me as intimately as you say you do, you'll know I could've fought my way out of there blindfolded. Even if all seventy of them came at me with the weight of all of their jewelry at once."

  Illiam chuckles again, and I wish I could read his mind to decipher the reason. My own rushes back as far as it can, straining and grasping for the last few fragments before everything faded almost far too tenderly to black.

  I recall falling, which was a shock in and of itself. And I recall being caught, and looking up into the same face that now sits across from me, sipping tea with a legitimate pinky finger extended to one side.

  But what else is there? I wrestle with the fog, sifting between imagination and reality, and I suddenly remember-

  My clothing!

  I drop my head and grab at my shirt, but it's the same one I left the Switchboard wearing earlier this morning. Unless I was already unconscious, and the memory is nothing more than a dream, I swear I can recall heels touching the ballroom floor in place of my faithful and long-serving combat boots, and the flurry of an evening dress all around me.

  How...?

  "I doubt you will believe me, Penelope, but I come as a friend. Not a foe. And I, too, was hoping to bump into whichever unscrupulous character was attempting to lure you there by pretending to be Stephen Starling."

  I squint at him, trying to decide whether or not he's telling the truth. Whether or not he can be trusted. "And how would you know someone was attempting to lure me somewhere by pretending to be Stephen Starling?"

  Illiam laughs-it's almost a giggle-and sips his tea again. I still haven't touched mine, and he still hasn't commented on it.

  "Here's a fascinating but humbling fact," he purrs, ignoring my question. "We Brits are associated with tea on a global scale, have been for centuries, but it originated in Ancient China. In fact, it wasn't even a Briton who introduced it to Europe; it was the Portuguese, in the sixteenth century. Just another little token of cultural identity we've stolen credit for in our time."

  "We're good at that, as a nation," I bite back. I'm watching him curiously; it isn't often you meet someone clearly a member of the aristocracy who's comfortable talking about the world that exists beyond our borders. It seems the more time goes by since we closed them off almost ten years ago, the happier folk both common and noble are to pretend we're the centre of an otherwise empty universe.

  "We're hardly alone in that existence," says Illiam, and for a moment I wonder if perhaps I've offended him. Which could make our chat a lot more interesting. "Those Americans can be incredibly tacky, and I won't even go into detail about the French."

  I snort. "The French ever do to you?"

  "Absolutely nothing. But considering you are as English as I, you should know it's just in our nature to abase them with slander and stereotype at every possible opportunity."

  "Is that the sort of thing you upper class twats do to pass the time at these sad little parties of yours?"

  Illiam grins over the rim of his raised teacup. "Oh, one shouldhear the disgraceful things that come out of their mouths. Especially on the subject of Anomalies. It's intriguing what an efficient propaganda machine a simple social gathering can become when utilized correctly."

  "Making it too dangerous a place for an Anomaly freedom fighter to get her tango on with the best of them?"

  He doesn't seem to react to my cheek. "My dear, you looked ravishing enough to rival any one of those dames and duchesses. And I would have had no qualms parading you acro
ss every inch of that ballroom tonight."

  "All right, then, so I'll ask you again: at what point and why did you knock me out?"

  For the first time, Illiam's face softens with the sobering weight of a frown. "Oh, Penelope, my dear," he says softly, avoiding my gaze to watch his finger tap a rhythm against the gilded edge of his saucer. "I'm afraid you never even made it into the building."

  II

  I stare. It's all I can do. I can feel my face, twisted in a blend of disbelief and confusion.

  "I beg your fucking pardon?"

  Illiam retains his solemnity. "Why were you and your brigade at the Sovereignty's Hallowe'en gala this evening?"

  While it's a harmless question, I'm almost tempted to go off on a random bloody tangent, just to give him a taste of his own medicine. But I'm too intent on getting to the answers myself. "As I already said. I wanted to confront whoever was trying to convince me they were my dad, and knock at least eighty per cent of their teeth down their throat."

  One side of his mouth quirks up, just a fraction. "No. What was B.L.A.Z.E.'s actual mission? Not your own personal side-quest."

  I reiterate my irritability with another glare across the width of the low table. Sizing him up. I'm willing to put hard sterling on the fact that he's as dangerous as he is beautiful, and most definitely not human. There's something too bizarre in the way he looks, moves, speaks, and in the way he can hold my eyes in place with just a look...

  A cool smirk settles on my lips. "If you know so much about me, why don't you tell me why I was there."

  I expect my out-of-the-blue request to rattle his unshakable confidence. Instead, he merely sips his tea once more and mumbles, "Opus Veritas."

  Before I'm able to form an answer, smarting from my failed call of his non-bluff, he cuts in again.