Chaos Bound Read online

  Chaos Bound

  Chronicles from the Applecross

  Chaos Bound

  Chronicles from the Applecross

  Rebekah Turner

  The long-awaited sequel to Chaos Born takes us back into the Applecross, where Lora faces increasing threats to her survival and her chance at love.

  Lora Blackgoat — mercenary and smuggler — has only just recovered from the last threat on her life and hasn’t even begun to sort out the mess of having both a nephilim warrior and a reborn hellspawn as potential lovers. Work should be a refuge, but a job finding missing persons puts her in the crosshairs of a violent gang and a merchant with a taste for blood sport.

  Reluctantly, Lora turns to the two men in her life for help. Roman — the nephilim — professes to be her soul mate and turns to her when he feels the darkness of nephilim madness descending. But though Lora is drawn to Roman, it is Seth, ex-lover and reborn hellspawn, who Lora must ultimately ask to protect those she loves. Can she trust Seth to save Roman and her adoptive family, or will this be a fatal mistake?

  About the Author

  Rebekah lives in sunny Brisbane with her husband, two kids and a misunderstood Boston Terrier. Working as a freelance graphic designer, she loves writing urban fantasy with lashings of romance, humour and a sprinkling of horror. Her vices include watching trashy 80s action movies and pretending she can cook.

  Acknowledgements

  To my mum, Carolin, whose endless enthusiasm lifted me when I needed it, and Charlotte Nash, the coolest word ninja I know.

  To my husband Dion, who read and re-read Lora’s story,

  then helped me brainstorm even more adventures.

  Contents

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Bestselling Titles by Escape Publishing…

  Chapter 1

  No-one had liked Rae Dowler. His nickname had been Captain Chunky, and that was from his friends. He’d been a greedy bastard in life and now, in death, was a weight on my conscience. This was the second co-worker to die on a job with me. The first one I’d had to behead after he’d become infected at an exorcism with a demonic entity, along with the client. Thankfully, my sword had been nowhere near Rae Dowler when he’d dropped dead of an old-fashioned heart attack. Still, people liked to talk.

  Spring had bloomed in the bustling city of Harken, and instead of the usual rain, or tepid fog, the narrow, crooked streets had been flooded with gentle, golden sunshine. For a city used to constant downpours and overcast skies, the unexpected weather was viewed with some suspicion and considered most unseemly.

  A warm afternoon wind was blowing though the cemetery, ruffling black skirts and sending hats sailing. I watched as the coffin was lowered into the ground, only half listening as a priest of The Higher Path faith droned on about eternal life.

  Dowler had been in the Runner industry for over forty years. He was the only other Runner at Blackgoat Watch that didn’t mind being sent on jobs past The Weald’s guarded entryways: out into the modern world, with its buzzing technology, flashing neon lights and all things deep fried. Transporting anything from the Outlands back into the hidden Weald was illegal, but somehow Dowler always managed to return with a tray of Winkie Bill’s Crème Donuts. A tray he never shared, mind you. Just sat in the kitchen of Blackgoat and scoffed the lot before he had to go home to his wife. In light of his less than stellar diet, I guess the heart attack that killed him wasn’t a complete surprise.

  Gideon, my benefactor and owner of Blackgoat Watch, stood to my left, reeking of stale whisky and boredom. Cloete, another Runner at Blackgoat, was on my right. A five-foot dynamo, Cloete was otherkin: her bloodline a mixture of succubus and goddess-knew-what other interbred, mystic race. Today she was wearing leather pants and a suede coat, her petite horns hidden under a bowler hat. Her inky-black tail wrapped around one leg, the end tapping impatiently against her thigh.

  The priest said 'amen' and people dutifully took their cue and began shuffling away. Dowler’s widow, a heavy-set woman with coarse hair and fleshy jowls, tossed wilted roses into the open grave, her expression a mixture of sadness and regret, with a pinch of what looked like suspicion.

  ‘Thank Kianna’s sacred tits that’s over.’ Cloete yawned, tail unravelling from her leg. ‘Who’s up for a brew at Growlers?’

  ‘That was the most boring funeral I've ever attended.’ Gideon copied Cloete’s yawn, covering his mouth with a hairy hand. He was decked out in a long frock coat with a red carnation tucked in the lapels and a natty yellow necktie. Gideon was a full-blooded satyr, and though he made every effort to look human, today he’d forgotten a hat, and his tangle of steel-wool grey hair revealed the tops of his horns he’d had amputated years ago in an effort to fit in. He’d also forgotten the contacts that changed his slit pupils to round, and his fancy-made shoes didn’t match. All this, and his hangdog expression, suggested he was struggling with a hangover.

  ‘It wasn’t that boring.’ I tried to sound indignant on Dowler’s behalf, but came off sounding guilty. I was busy praying the wife didn’t notice me.

  ‘Before I forget, Lora,’ Gideon paused to yawn again, ‘I need you to come in to Blackgoat tomorrow to talk about a new job.’

  ‘You’ve already got me babysitting the theatre bimbo,’ I reminded him. It was a simple bodyguard gig. No real threats…low stress…limited chance of beheadings.

  ‘Please.’ Gideon looked pained. ‘Nicola Grogan is an actress, and a fine one at that.’ He sniffed and flicked a finger at his carnation. ‘And I must say, that doesn’t sound like gratitude from where I'm standing.’

  My lips tightened, but I had enough smarts to pause before I spoke, giving my brain a chance to kick in. After being passed over for jobs because other Runners refused to work with me, I was in no position to turn my nose up at any opportunities. I'd only attended one other successful exorcism job since the beheading incident. That client had been high profile: the daughter of the Lord Mayor Corelli. Unfortunately, the Mayor was a staunch advocate of the Church of Higher Path, who frowned upon things such as spells and magic, seeing them as blasphemy. Blackgoat Watch had been hired by Mayor Corelli’s wife, who’d sworn Gideon to secrecy, all of which meant I couldn’t put the job on my brag sheet of clients I hadn’t killed. As things stood now, Gideon had been forced to strong-arm Rae Dowler to work with me on a stakeout of a suspected cheating husband. The fact that the job hadn’t ended well for Dowler was now going to make me a social pariah. Again
.

  ‘Sorry,’ I muttered. ‘I'm grateful. I'm grateful.’

  Gideon grunted and made a beeline for the rickshaw he’d hired to chauffeur him to and from the cemetery. Despite his dishevelled look this morning, Gideon liked to think most people couldn’t pick he was a satyr, and that he was a master of disguise. No-one had the heart to tell him he wasn’t.

  I rubbed my right lame leg and leant on my carved goat-head duelling cane, jealous of the rickshaw. After downing two espressos and three pastries from a local bakery, I'd walked to the cemetery as an act of contrition. Orella Warbreeder, my adoptive mother, had been lecturing me on how walking would do my joints wonders. But after standing in one place for so long, my hip had seized. I had half a mind to beg a lift with Gideon when a wink of light caught my eye, coming from the line of pine trees hedging one side of the cemetery. The light blinked again. I was no super spy, but had enough smarts to know when someone wanted my attention.

  ‘Lora?’

  ‘Eh?’ I realised Cloete had asked me a question.

  ‘Drink?’ She mimed throwing back a tankard of beer.

  ‘I think I'll just stay here a bit,’ I said. ‘Catch up with you later?’

  Her eyebrows lifted. ‘Self-pity is an ugly emotion, Lora.’

  ‘Fuck off. I've just got things to do.’

  Cloete pursed her lips. ‘You won’t be bringing your boyfriend, will you?’

  ‘Boyfriend?’ My eyebrows arched. ‘Who would that be?’

  ‘Are you serious?’ Cloete snorted. ‘You think people aren’t gossiping about you making goo-goo eyes at that fire and brimstone Regulator?’

  I flushed. ‘His name is Roman, and we’re just friends.’

  One side of Cloete’s mouth twitched up. ‘How very teen drama.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  She began to stalk off, then paused, glancing back at me. ‘Just make sure you come to Growlers tonight, yeah? I want to talk to you about something important.’

  ‘Fine, fine.’ I gave her a surly look. ‘I'll make sure my teen drama doesn’t follow me.’

  Cloete chuckled as she left, striding towards the city with a smattering of other burly-looking Blackgoat Runners. I'd heard she’d flat-out refused the protection detail for Nicola Grogan. I wish I could have done the same. Spoilt actresses were bad for my health. There was another flash from the woods, and I got the impression someone wanted me to hurry up.

  The hairs on my neck prickled and I turned to see Dowler’s wife. Her lips peeled back and she hissed at me, sounding like a kettle on the boil. I opened my mouth a couple of times before managing to mutter condolences about her loss.

  ‘This was your fault.’ Her eyes were slits of fury, face dry of tears. ‘My husband’s blood is on your hands.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s fair,’ I protested weakly.

  But the widow was already leaving, an elderly man escorting her away. She let herself be led, back stiff with anger. I watched her go, feeling miserable. How was Dowler’s death my fault? A small voice told me I was a jinx, so that kind of made it my fault. I balked as the widow pulled away from her escort and stabbed a finger at me, spit flying from thinned lips. ‘You’re the angel of death, Lora Blackgoat. You bring nothing but misery into people’s lives.’

  Her escort tightened his grip, threw me a scowl, and hurried her from the cemetery. I was the only one by Dowler’s graveside now. Even the graveyard attendants had retreated for a break, leaning against headstones and smoking tobacco pipes.

  I unbuttoned my coat and adjusted my work-belt with its heavy pockets, loaded with knick-knacks most useful in a fight. This included pouches of salt, the one medium guaranteed to act as a conduit to the ley-lines that ran under the earth and fuelled all magic. It wasn’t hard to cast; took a few years of training to get the concentration right, then chuck a bit of salt, shout a few words of power in the language of your choice, and hey presto, you could set your own hair on fire. My belt was well stocked with salt, including one pouch of my own special mixture: powdered consecrated silver, salt, and half a teaspoon of gunpowder. I called it my Sucker Punch Special: guaranteed to rock your socks when you needed it. Feeling prepared, I braced my cane against my bad leg and strode towards the line of pine trees.

  Chapter 2

  The trees sat just beyond the cemetery’s low stone wall. There was no gate nearby, so I had to resort to an undignified scramble over the top. Muttering curses, I straightened up on the other side, dusted my knees, and stepped into the shadows of the pines to see who had been trying to get my attention.

  ‘Hello, Dimples.’ Seth leant against a tree trunk, smoking a thin cigarillo. He wore a starchy City Watch uniform under a battered leather greatcoat, a wheellock pistol strapped against one thigh. He smiled at me, teeth white against his dark goatee. A straight razor sat in one hand, the blade angled to the sun. A saddled horse stood a little way off, tethered to a low hanging branch.

  ‘Having fun watching the show?’ I asked dryly. Seth and I had a long past together: a patchwork of fights, long absences and moments of heated, sexual bliss. Then things had soured between us after I'd discovered he’d been keeping secrets about his past. Wasn’t the kind of thing a girl could easily forgive, not when you understood the kind of past he’d been hiding.

  ‘I always enjoy watching you work, Dimples.’ Seth folded the razor back into its ivory handle, blade winking one last time. I ignored the thrill of excitement that sparked low in my belly. Seems my libido had the memory of a fruit fly and had forgotten we were angry with him. Stupid libido. Stupid men.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Seth’s tawny eyes were calculating as he stared at me through tendrils of smoke. ‘I could hear the widow from here. You know she was just talking nonsense.’

  ‘I don’t care what she thinks. I don’t care what anyone thinks.’ My hands tightened around my cane. A wicked sword hid in its stem, but running Seth through seemed like a slight overreaction. He took a step towards me and I shifted back, fresh indignation spiking my veins in a hot rush. I needed to keep my distance; my body had its own ideas when it came to Seth Hallow, and most of it involved sweaty cravings of the bedroom variety.

  Seth dropped his cigarillo and rolled a boot toe over the smoking stub. ‘Glad you don’t care what people think. Especially with your latest nickname.’

  I mashed my lips together. I was not going to ask. I was not going to ask. Since the beheading incident, people had been calling me Chopper behind my back. Gideon had lectured me on the virtues of having a ferocious nickname, a killer’s handle to awe the clientele. But I loathed it, the name a constant reminder of a blood drenched moment I wanted to forget. And now, apparently, I had a new one.

  ‘Personally, I think everyone should call you Dimples,’ Seth said. ‘Since you have the cutest pair I ever did see.’

  ‘Stop calling me that. You know I hate it.’

  ‘It’s an improvement on Chopper,’ Seth continued, ignoring me. ‘Though I must say, the new one isn’t very flattering.’ He grinned, like he could smell my curiosity in the spring air.

  ‘I don’t want to know.’

  His smile dampened at my frosty tone. ‘Still mad at me?’

  ‘What do you want, Seth?’

  ‘You won’t return my messages, so I had to resort to stalking. A mighty fall for a Captain of the City Watch, don’t you think?’

  ‘I asked what you wanted.’

  His bright eyes darkened. ‘I heard you were hanging around that Regulator lately. He’s nothing but bad news.’ Seth’s words were measured, but his tone carried a warning tone that summoned a scowl to my face.

  ‘Bad news, hey? Kind of like you?’ I snapped.

  Seth moved forward and I stumbled back, hitting a trunk behind me. Seth came close, cupping the back of my neck with a strong hand. ‘I'm looking out for you, Lora, something you’ve not being very appreciative of. You can understand how a man might feel aggrieved.’ His movements spoke of restrained violence, lurking underne
ath a thin surface of social necessity. I wasn’t impressed though, and inched up my chin to glare into his gold-flecked eyes.

  ‘Get lost, Seth. I've got nothing for you.’

  His hand slid to my right hip, a possessive touch and my thighs clenched, remembering moments of tangled passion and deep kisses. I closed my eyes and tried to keep a level head as hot desire swept through me, tempering my anger. Seth’s closeness was the headiest of aphrodisiacs, his familiar smell intoxicating. But I'd come a long way since we’d first met, when I'd been seduced by his sweet words and clever hands. If Seth tried to sneak into my bed these days, I was just as likely to pull my cane sword and threaten his Mr Winky.

  I opened my eyes to see Seth staring down, eyes expectant, waiting for me to crumble and forgive him. After all, I'd forgiven him in the past for his indiscretions; had always welcomed him back into my bed after months of no contact. But Seth didn’t seem to realise this time was different. Everything was different. I'd found out he was ex-hellspawn, expelled from The Pit. I'd also discovered he’d known what I was. That underneath my snow-white hair and eclectic fashion sense beat the heart of a nephilim: half angel, half human.

  The fun didn’t stop there, either. I'd discovered I was the only female of my kind to ever exist. Not something I wanted anyone else to know. Nothing like being a freak to bring out the fanatics. A spell woven into a charm around my neck hid any nephilim characteristics; it had made my hair ivory instead of ebony, my eyes green instead of black. The first charm had broken and it had been Seth who had told me it had contained a powerful concealment spell. I had a theory that Seth had known I was nephilim since we’d met. I saw it as a betrayal, that he’d pretended to care about me. Pretended to be my friend. Pretended he loved me.

  Yeah, right.

  ‘Get off me.’ I scratched around inside my head, trying to reignite the indignant rage I'd been coasting on the last few weeks. I'd made my peace with Gideon over tankards of beers, and then with Orella over pots of spicy tea. The two of them had conspired to keep my true identity from me and while I didn’t agree with what they had done, I understood they just wanted to protect me. But Seth? I didn’t understand his motivations, only that our relationship had been a set-up from the start.