Chaos Bound Read online

  ‘Orella pretends losing her eye doesn’t matter.’ Gideon heaved a weary sigh. ‘But I see her fumbling in the kitchen. I see her forgetting where things are, the extra lines on her face.’ He leant back, chair creaking. ‘Like I said, we are your guardians and we are getting older. As your benefactor, I want to know my namesake will be all right when I'm gone. I want to start teaching you how to run Blackgoat Watch.’

  Suspicion took root in my mind. ‘Why are you telling me this now?’

  ‘Don’t give me that leery look.’ Gideon’s eyebrows twitched.

  ‘You know I had a sit down with Maya Velkov, don’t you.’

  Gideon’s lips moved around a bit, like he was trying to find the right lie. ‘Even if that were true, I know you wouldn’t leave Blackgoat Watch. You are my namesake, after all. It also doesn’t change the fact I want you to take over the company when I retire.’

  ‘You know about Velkov’s plan to ruin you?’

  He drummed his fingers against his desk. ‘Yes, yes. I know all about it.’

  ‘You didn’t think to mention it to me at any point? Give me a heads up?’ I crossed my arms. ‘Me, the person you want to take over the company?’

  ‘Lora —’

  ‘Enough.’ I grabbed my cane and pushed myself to my feet. ‘I don’t want to talk about this anymore. You and Orella are just fine.’

  ‘Don’t go, Lora.’

  I hesitated by the door, glancing back at the old satyr. His shoulders were slumped and he suddenly looked small.

  ‘Velkov is dangerous,’ he said. ‘If she moves against Blackgoat Watch, there will be blood spilt.’

  ‘I wasn’t born yesterday. I know all about the Sisters of No Mercy. You should be more worried about the Runners Velkov is poaching from you.’

  Gideon’s face turned grim. ‘Trust me, I am taking care of it. But Cloete, she cannot be trusted, understand?’

  There it was. My hopes that Cloete would somehow sidestep this drama and come back to the Blackgoat fold were dashed. I'd worked with her for nearly six years. She was my drinking buddy and always had my back in a fight. I knew the bonds of family could be tight, but what about friendship? Couldn’t those ties be just as unbreakable?

  ‘Lora?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. I get it. I'll be careful.’ I walked out, closing the door quietly behind me.

  Chapter 7

  Warm cooking smells enveloped me halfway down the stairs. A kitchen sat out the back of Blackgoat, with the rest of the bottom floor forming a reception area and waiting room. Both had been remodelled after a severe scorching in the Applecross fire. The reception counter was polished oak, with potted plants in the corners and nature tapestries hanging on the eggshell-blue walls.

  I followed my nose into the kitchen and spied Orella in front of the range cooker. She was prodding a cake tin of cornbread, and a bubbling pot of chilli sat on the stovetop, full of sliced peppers, jalapenos and goddess only knew what else. Orella was a full-blooded elf, and therefore was inclined to use peculiar ingredients. She also had a habit of waiting until you had a mouthful before announcing she’d seasoned the dish with pickled lizard testicles to help your eye sight.

  Short and plump, Orella had a humped back and stubby fingers stained orange from a life-long tobacco habit. A cheery yellow scarf wrapped around her head, with black and white thread woven through her hair, announcing she was trained to teach both darkcraft and lightcraft. Silver hoops clinked in her pointed ears, and a leather patch covered her ruined eye.

  Beyond the kitchen backdoor, a small courtyard nestled under a high brick wall. I spied a few Runners sitting around the wooden table, talking in low voices over beers and a plate of roasted potatoes. I wondered if they knew about the takeover attempt, and if so, who Velkov might have made offers to. I just couldn’t quite figure what made her so confident she could so easily headhunt all Gideon’s Runners, and that made me nervous. Pushing these bleak thoughts aside, I kissed Orella on the cheek and gave her back a comforting rub.

  ‘Don’t you start getting all soft on me,’ she growled. ‘I've had enough of Gideon hovering over me. I lost an eye, not a leg.’

  She shoved her hands into a pair of oven mitts and upturned the cornbread onto a cooling rack on the bench. The rich, nutty smell filled my mouth with saliva. I reached out to break a piece off and Orella smacked my fingers.

  ‘They’re hot. You’ll burn yourself.’

  ‘Ow.’ I shook my stinging hand. ‘That hurt.’

  Orella just grunted and stirred the chilli with a large wooden spoon. I leant a hip against a kitchen bench and wondered if she knew any gossip about Cloete.

  ‘How’s the new shop girl working out?’ I asked.

  ‘Good. I've got more time for cooking now.’

  ‘Wasn’t the idea you’d rest more?’

  ‘Cooking is relaxing.’

  ‘Sounds more like piles of dirty pots and pans to me.’ I hesitated, then asked, ‘Did you hear about Maya Velkov?’

  Orella shrugged a small shoulder. ‘I heard of her plans to expand her business.’

  ‘Did you know she was Cloete’s mother?’

  ‘I did. But Cloete was a good girl anyway.’

  ‘Why do you think Velkov is making this move now?’ I persisted. ‘She cornered me at Growler’s and seemed pretty confident she could get Blackgoat’s Runners to join her.’

  ‘I'm not sure.’ Orella lifted the spoon, loaded with seasoned beans and beef, and took a tentative taste. ‘Maya Velkov has always wanted more than her lot in life. Maybe she finally found someone with deep enough pockets to help her achieve that.’ Orella licked her lips and picked up a pot of dried herbs on the bench. Popping the lid, she sprinkled in a pinch. ‘Runners don’t work for love, after all.’

  ‘And what about Cloete?’ I asked quietly.

  Orella took another taste before lowering the spoon with a satisfied look. ‘I think when we enter uncertain times, it is best to keep our minds open.’ She wiped her hands on her skirts. ‘How is your current job going? The one with the actress?’

  My hands crept into my armpits. ‘Work would be great if it wasn’t for the clients.’

  ‘Well. At least this one is still alive, yes?’ Orella chuckled.

  ‘I wish I had a good job. One that would raise my profile and clean up my image,’ I complained, my fingers escaping my armpits and inching towards the cornbread again.

  ‘Those kind of jobs usually need some craft work.’ Orella fixed me with her good eye. ‘And the ley-lines are still a little unsettled. You remember what it was like just last month? Whenever anyone used the craft, spells came out wrong.’ She pressed fingertips against her chest. ‘I can feel the lines, fixed back in their anchors, but still swaying too wildly. Spells will still be unpredictable, and that is not a good thing, especially for you. You’re unpredictable enough.’ She hesitated, then nodded towards the back door. ‘You have a visitor.’

  ‘Who?’ I moved to where I could see more of the courtyard. I could just make out Crowhurst’s back to the left of the door, talking to someone out of sight.

  ‘I think you know.’ Orella broke a piece of cornbread and passed it to me. When I took it, Orella held on a moment. ‘Be careful, Lora. Make sure you know what you’re doing. Just because you feel strongly about someone, doesn’t mean they’re the best thing for you.’

  She let go and I stuffed the cornbread in my mouth, saving me from reply. I knew she was talking about Roman. He was here. Excitement tickled me, feather-light. He’d actually come to Blackgoat Watch to see me. I pulled at my outfit, suddenly self-conscious. I was wearing grey pants and a button up shirt, with a navy corset that had seen better days. My coat was plain, and my work-belt hung loose. I momentarily wished I'd worn sexier shoes than my Tanker boots. I leant my cane against the kitchen bench, and walked into the courtyard. The Runners at the table watched me with speculative looks. I ignored them, my eyes only for who Crowhurst was talking to.

  Roman was what you’
d call broodingly handsome, with black nephilim eyes, pinpricked with white pupils. His dark hair was cropped short and black rune tattoos marked one side of his face. Once, I'd asked him what the tattoos meant and he’d told me they were a prayer to the One True God, written in the language of angels.

  He wore his Regulator uniform: heavy leather armour strapped together with tarnished brass buckles and a sword sheathed at his spine. Silver daggers crossed his chest, and a grey cloak hung from his broad shoulders. Roman was a Sergeant within the Order of Guides, and commander of a Witch Hunter unit: Regulators who patrolled the streets for heretics and other such nefarious things. In the time I'd known him, I had started feeling less nervy when I spied a Regulator uniform in the streets. In fact, I'd started checking to see if it was him, disappointed when it wasn’t.

  Roman’s eyes shifted to me and I felt absurdly delighted to see him, even as a snarky voice in my head told me I was too old to be crushing out on a guy.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked him.

  ‘Lora.’ Roman inclined his head. ‘I hope you are well.’

  I tried not to flush under the intensity of his gaze, acutely aware of his proximity. ‘Fine, fine,’ I murmured.

  Crowhurst waved the Grundler file at me. ‘How about a deal. I'll work with you on this job to find Grundler, but give me today to see what I can rustle up on my own.’

  ‘Gideon won’t be happy,’ I told him.

  ‘Gideon won’t know.’

  I shrugged, figuring why not. If Crowhurst wanted to do all the hard work, who was I to stop him? Besides, I wasn’t in a hurry to start questioning a bunch of griorwolves. ‘Fine, but tomorrow we work on it together.’

  ‘Deal.’ Crowhurst strolled back into the kitchen.

  Roman’s eyes skipped over to the table of Runners. ‘Can we talk in private?’

  My heart gave an excited lurch. I indicated a narrow archway in the courtyard wall that lead to a walkway that looped around into Abraham’s Alley. The Runners whispered behind our backs as we went, and I heard a few stifled snorts of laughter. Bunch of jerks. Velkov could have them.

  The walkway was shadowed and quiet, the noise from Abraham’s Alley muffled by the towering brick and timber buildings either side of us. Roman’s hand settled on the base of my neck, guiding me to the right. His touch, firm but gentle, sent a sizzle of excitement down my spine and small electrical charges through my body.

  I faced him, breaking the contact. This attraction was dangerous territory. Nephilim like Roman were bred by the Order of Guides, a militant fraternity that was part of the influential Church of Higher Path. The Grigori priests who ran the Order acted as a judicial authority, presiding over the illegal use of dark magic. Witch Hunters worked closely with the Regulators, using their natural ability to seek out darkcraft users like bloodhounds. Traditionally male, they were recruited at an early age by the Grigori and trained to use tedious church approved spells.

  I was pretty sure I could handle myself with Roman, and some part of me was convinced he would never hurt me. Regulators lived by a strict code of ethics and, though some human Regulators were rotten and twisted, the nephilim were tightly bound to their code of honour. I had to remind myself that Roman’s loyalty lay with the Grigori, and I shouldn’t place too much trust in him.

  ‘I come bearing an invitation from Grigori Fowler,’ Roman said. ‘He’s asked if you would come and see him for a quick meeting.’

  My mind went blank with surprise. ‘You must be joking.’

  My path had crossed with the hook-nosed Grigori priest once before. Fowler knew I was nephilim, a fact he hadn’t shared yet with others in the Order to my knowledge. He was also a member of a clandestine organisation within the Grigori: the Brotherhood of the Red Hand. When one of its members had tried to use my blood to activate the spells within the Aldebaran and had almost destroyed Harken, Fowler had proven himself marginally sane by not aligning with the madman’s plot. Didn’t make him all right in my book, but at least I was sure he didn’t want me dead just yet.

  ‘Your safety is guaranteed.’ Roman nodded in the direction of Abraham’s Alley. ‘I have a coach waiting for us.’

  My eyebrows knitted. ‘What does the esteemed Grigori Fowler want?’

  ‘I'm under the impression he wants to have a conversation.’ Roman smiled. ‘Nothing more sinister than that.’

  ‘Huh.’ I put my hands on my hips. ‘He thinks I should drop everything when he clicks his fingers and come running? I'm a busy woman, you know.’

  ‘Did you have plans?’

  ‘Well… No.’

  ‘Will you come with me?’

  ‘I haven’t decided.’

  ‘You will be paid for your time.’

  ‘I'll get my cane.’

  Chapter 8

  Our trip was made in a civilian rental coach with redwood panelling, pulled by a tame-looking mare. Roman sat opposite me, the cabin space small enough that our knees touched. His closeness made my heart beat faster than I'd like, and I pulled my window open, trying to distract myself by enjoying the warm afternoon air. Roman passed the trip in silence, and I was grateful. Roman knew I was nephilim, but I wasn’t sure if he was aware Fowler also knew. It worried me Fowler wanted to talk. As far as I was concerned, there was nothing to discuss, but The Pit would freeze over before I turned down money for a simple conversation.

  As we drew closer to the Order of Guides' compound, my fingers ran nervously over the charm around my neck. Even with replacing the original charm and concealment spell after it broke, slivers of ebony had streaked my hair lately. I wondered if perhaps the charm wasn’t enough anymore. Maybe once your true nature was revealed, it became irrepressible. Like trying to unring a bell.

  Roman’s dark eyes fixed on my charm. Feeling exposed, I tucked it underneath my shirt and pretended to be fascinated by my nails.

  The Order’s tall granite walls rose beyond the murky Harken River, across a narrow stone bridge. I wound up my window against the stench of the water, but the smell stayed with us until we were nodded through the compound doors by heavily armed guards. I'd been inside the compound of the Order a few times now, and none of the memories were particularly pleasant.

  The coach came to a stop and Roman opened the door, helping me out. The entry courtyard held no gardens or finery, save for a small limestone fountain at the centre. The surrounding grey buildings looked familiar and suitably grim, edged with long panelled windows and a sense of foreboding.

  ‘Regulator Roman?’ A round-faced monk hurried up to us, face glowing pink from exertion. ‘There you are, Regulator,’ he gasped. ‘I've been looking for you everywhere.’

  Roman tensed. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Some of…your students…are fighting,’ the monk managed to gasp out. He bent over, trying to catch his breath. ‘There seems to be a disagreement.’

  ‘So? Tell them to stop.’ Roman’s voice rose.

  The monk straightened with a pained look. ‘They have swords, Regulator.’

  Roman cursed and the monk winced. Roman glanced at me. ‘I'll be right back.’

  ‘I won’t move an inch.’ I gave him a mock salute. Roman had students? Since when? What exactly was he teaching? As I watched him hurry off, I wondered why he hadn’t mentioned anything before.

  After a short time passed, I felt bored and exposed, especially after the rented coach had rumbled back to the city. My feet wandered into one of the deserted colonnades alongside the nearby building. Keeping my cane tapping as quiet as I could on the slate floor, I admired the finely manicured hedges and herb gardens that spread across the open-air courtyards. I was considering heading back when something flickered in the corner of my eye.

  A Regulator moved out from a darkened doorway and I stumbled back. His black eyes and facial tattoos told me he was nephilim, while his expression suggested I was in big trouble.

  ‘You must be the Lady Blackgoat,’ he said gravely. ‘You don’t look like nephilim. You look like a
Witch Hunter.’ His nostrils flared. I knew he was trying to scent me; I'd seen Roman do it. ‘You don’t smell like nephilim. But you don’t really smell like a Witch Hunter either.’

  ‘Who told you I was nephilim?’ I asked.

  A stiff smile played on his lips, like he was out of practice. He tapped his nose. ‘A little bird.’

  ‘Believe what you want. I don’t care.’ I shifted my feet, eyes darting to possible escape routes. Considering the nephilim was able-bodied, and I had a cane, my options seemed limited. His eyes dropped to my hands, which were inching towards my salt pouch. He frowned, then thrust a hand out. ‘My name is Locan.’

  I hesitated before taking his hand, shaking it once before pulling away. ‘Well met, Locan. If you’ll excuse me, I'm here on business.’

  ‘Are you here visiting someone? I've been told you belong to Regulator Roman. Perhaps you are looking for him?’

  I blinked a few times at his words. ‘You’re mistaken. I don’t belong to anyone.’

  ‘Oh?’

  The little exclamation implied something, but I wasn’t sure what. I turned to head back to where Roman had left me.

  Locan moved to block my path, the smile gone. ‘You frightened of me, little kitty?’

  ‘Get out of my way.’

  ‘Does it not frighten you to know that there are many males here who would see you as an interesting prize?’ His gaze slid over my hips. ‘Even if you’re a little on the plump side.’

  ‘Who are you calling plump?’ I raised my voice. ‘I'll let you in on a secret: this little kitty has some big fucking claws.’ I flicked a thumb against the carved goat-head of my cane, revealing an inch of steel. ‘You’re going see them, if you don’t get out of my way.’

  Locan held his hands up, as if he had no choice but to move. I wasn’t fooled. This was about him taking notes for the next time we met. ‘Free pass this time, kitty,’ he said. ‘But since you say you don’t belong to Roman, be warned: others might consider you fair game.’