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“I can't believe you still use that old thing,” the vampire grumbled, unlocking his phone.
“At least it’s portable.”
“Only just!” Nathaniel scoffed, taking a drag of his cigarette as he read his phone. “Oh, it’s a case of…”
There was a scuffling sound like that of many feet running through the undergrowth. Then a pack of dogs emerged through the trees. They came to an abrupt stop when they saw the two men and Lily. The hounds were of various shapes and sizes, but they weren't your typical strays. In fact, they weren't dogs at all. Dark, swirling shadows made up their bodies, and crimson eyes blazed through the dark. Their snarls revealed dripping canines. The fetor that rolled off them was stomach churning.
“Blood Hounds…” he finished, trailing off.
Lost Souls. Demonic souls of dogs that had failed to receive a proper burial and whose vengeful souls were free to wander. And to kill. Any killed by them would become a Lost Soul. Animals turned by them would become Bloodlings, demonic animals made up of shadows, whilst humans would become Wistfuls, Lost Souls driven mad by the injustice of their death.
Great, he thought as the pack of dogs lowered their heads and growled. This was just what he needed to kick-start his evening!
Chapter Two
Michael
“Come on, Ashayla. Let’s go!” Michael Nicholas called, fastening his three-quarter jacket and tucking in his silk-lined muffler. He was tall, with broad shoulders and aquamarine eyes that contrasted against his ochre skin.
A slender female entered the hallway. Its bare feet padded across the tiles, the bells about its anklets tinkling merrily with each step. The Færie was slight, with shimmering silver hair and skin that gave off an ethereal glow. Despite the late autumn weather, it wore clothing made of light cotton. A crescent moon tattoo decorated the centre of its forehead, whilst a streak adorned its nose. The glow from these markings was vivid in the dimly lit hallway: its essence. On its left hand, it wore an ornate slave bracelet.
Ashayla hastened forward as Michael pulled on a pair of leather gloves.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
It nodded. “I fail to see why The Guild could not just send a note with the date of the meeting of the District Councils. Waiting night after night in the cold is a pointless activity.”
“You know The Guild,” Michael said, removing a delicate amulet from the pentacle on the wall. “They’re a little stuck in their ways.”
“Really? I had not noticed,” Ashayla deadpanned, its pupil-less dimming in irritation.
Michael gave a wry smile.
He held out his hand, and the amulet glistened from the centre of his palm. It was his periapt. An iridescent stone encased in delicate silver filigree. Within the filigree was a tiny key-shaped relief. It was a device that bound its Færie, enslaving them and their elemental magic to this earthly plane and their KeyMaster. It wasn’t a tradition of The Guild he was comfortable with, but one he endured. Especially since he knew first-hand the horrors of slavery having spent his childhood working on a plantation.
“Ready?” he repeated, donning his top hat.
Ashayla nodded. Its essence flared through its tattoos and magic sparkled as the Færie diminished to its elfin form, swirling around Michael before streaking towards the gem at the centre of his periapt. Disappearing within it, the jewel pulsed brightly.
Tapping the periapt, he cast the Ignorant Charm and vanished from view. The front door opened moments later, pushed by some unseen force. Closing, the handsome black door with its brass knocker vanished into the brickwork of the house, melting away as if it had never been there.
Chapter Three
Erica
It was moments like these, Erica thought as she stared at the wailing spirit at the bottom of the stepladder, when she wondered what ‘normal’ felt like.
It’s not that she didn’t try to do normal. It just never seemed to work out.
Take today, for example. The day had begun normally enough, with her usual frantic race across London. She’d arrived at work, breathless and late, under the disapproving gaze of Hincks Percival, the store manager. Then, in the staffroom, her friend Marc Deveril had teased her about her lateness.
“Have you ever been early?” he’d asked as Erica had stowed her purple hat and scarf in her locker.
“Oh, and you’re so perfect!” Joslin Singer had scoffed, coming over to join them.
“No,” he had replied, his green eyes twinkling. “But I am punctual.”
A look of concern had quickly replaced his smug smile, two lines appearing between his brow. “What happened?”
