A Midnight Profound: An Urban Fantasy Thriller: (A Harker & Blackthorn Novella) Read online

  A Midnight Profound

  A Harker & Blackthorn Novella

  J. A. Ironside

  Copyright © 2022 J.A. Ironside

  Blue Stone Press

  A Midnight Profound – A Harker & Blackthorn Novella - first published December 2022

  Copyright © J. A. Ironside 2022

  Cover Artwork copyright © J. A. Ironside 2022

  Cover Design copyright © J. A. Ironside 2022

  Cover Photograph Girl copyright © Faestock

  Cover Photograph Man copyright © Leo Stock Pix

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher and author.

  First Edition

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter One – A Visit with an Agenda

  Chapter Two – History Mode

  Chapter Three – Bumping Minds

  Chapter Four – Bigger Problems

  Chapter Five – Scattered

  Chapter Six – Supposed to be Dead

  Chapter Seven – Extreme Discretion

  Chapter Eight – The Abridged Version

  Chapter Nine – Christmas Eve

  Chapter Ten – Hand to Hand

  Author’s Note

  If your go to Christmas film is The Nightmare Before Christmas, or Gremlins, or Dracula, this one’s for you.

  There is snow on the ground,

  And the valleys are cold,

  And a midnight profound

  Blackly squats o’er the wold;

  But a light on the hilltops half-seen hints of feastings un-hallowed and old.

  Yule Horror – H. P. Lovecraft

  Prologue

  30th December 1956

  Chernivtsi, Ukraine

  Snow was leaking in through the toe of her right boot, slowly freezing her foot to aching numbness. Large flakes blew into her face, starring her lashes together as they melted. Her lips, nose, cheeks and forehead were all prickling with cold. Soon she wouldn’t be able to feel her face at all. The wind gusted down a side street, plucking at her coat, poking rude, icy fingers in the gaps in her clothing. She walked on, hurrying despite the frigid night. The local temperature might have reached minus eight degrees centigrade, but it was far colder on the steppes. And she had not travelled two hundred thousand kilometres, most of it on foot, through snow and storm and the jaws of wolves to be thwarted now. This time, someone would pay. Her chilled fingers stroked the grip of the Makarov concealed in her pocket.

  Had she come all this way, suffered so much, and kept the fire of her anger burning?

  The young woman shied away from the thought. Time for handwringing and agonising later. Now there was only the action, the knife point of the moment. Only her rage, a cold thing filling her chest. Colder by far than the winter wind.

  Shouts from up ahead sent the young woman down a narrow alley, even though those harsh cries had not been meant for her. She had been in Hungary late in October, when the people had rioted, rising up against the totalitarian puppet government put in power by the USSR. The Soviet Army had rolled in, crushing the populace with ruthless efficiency on November 4th. Thousands of Hungarians had been killed. Hundreds of thousands more had fled their homeland. There had been uprisings in Poland too. Rumblings of discontent had travelled like thunder across all Soviet controlled countries as wages were slashed, jobs disappeared, and food became scarce. Stalin was dead but his legacy lived on.

  Here, in the Bukovina province, so close to Romania, to Hungary and to Poland, whispers of revolution had not had far to travel. The young woman sympathised with the rebels in theory. In practice, she could not afford to have her mission curtailed or impeded by a directionless mob. There were fights which were worth having because not having them meant that your children would never learn what choice was. And then there was her fight, which made such considerations as law, governance, justice, culture and liberty seem like petty concerns.

  You can only have a peaceful world, if the world is still there.

  The young woman passed a church, dark and gloomy with two broken windows letting in the snow. The houses grew grimier, walls covered in a thin patina of soot and grease. A meat packing district in which most of the factories had ceased work because there was no work to be done. No meat to process. It was a dreary place before it was half covered in snow. Now, in the dark, it was sinister as well. There would be no one to hear a scream. No help forthcoming. The young woman set her jaw and moved more carefully between the abandoned factories. When it came, the warning was as swift and cold as a blade of ice. She had learned not to question these intuitions, giving her body over to instinct. The ground bruised her ribs as she threw herself flat, a frozen fist punching the air from her lungs. The Makarov was abruptly in her hand, and she was rolling, gun held out in both hands, putting her body behind a stack of half rotten crates. She never actually heard the report as a pistol was fired at her, but she saw the wall four feet from her head spit out a thimbleful of reddish dust which the greedy wind snatched away.

  A piece of brick sat beside her leaking right boot. Carefully, making no sudden movements and trusting the slow ones would be disguised by the flurries of snow, she picked it up, weighing it in her hand. In one swift, sure movement she flung the piece of brick to her left, using the same motion to propel herself right and behind a low wall. This time she heard the gun shot a split second after another chunk of brickwork danced free. Her sharp dark eyes, bright as a bird’s, tracked the direction. Even through the gusting snow, she caught a glimpse of movement. There. The top floor of the building opposite. Another factory, dark and abandoned, with glass missing from most of its windows. She lifted the Makarov, sighting along the barrel. It was a big pistol for such a small woman, but her aim had improved dramatically over the last three years.

  Perhaps not enough, however. The young woman lowered the gun again, swallowing a sigh.

  “I suppose I will have to do this the hard way,” she muttered to herself in Russian. It no longer occurred to her that occasional asides were muttered in Russian or Ukrainian or German, rather than her native tongue. So perfect was her command of those languages, she now thought in them, when she thought in words at all.

  There was a partially covered alley leading around the side of the factory in front of her. It would be one short, desperate sprint through the snow to reach it, but once she did, she would have half cover and then she would be inside. With the wind and snow no longer obscuring her, she would lose an advantage but also a handicap. It was time to end this.

  The young woman waited, trying to choose a moment when the wind blew more strongly between the buildings. The snow swirled, falling heavier. She planned the moment in her head. The zig zagging path she would take, using what little cover there was, observing possible pitfalls and obstacles. Her heart beat faster, adrenaline mixing with the amphetamines she had taken. She ran.

  The sharp retort sounded; the third bullet hit the wall a beat after she’d left it. A wild urge to laugh bubbled up inside her. Her blood sang and that extra sense, the one which had guided her through so much danger and madness, l
aid out a path before her like a golden thread. If she was fired at again, she didn’t hear it. There was only the howling, arctic gale and her numb feet hitting the snow-covered yard. The mouth of the alley way swallowed her a few moments later. Her lungs burned, full of ice crystals. You paid a higher price for exertion in these conditions.

  The young woman found the entrance without trouble. The door was locked, but she rested a palm on it, shoving almost contemptuously inside the lock with her mind. The metal was so cold it snapped, and the door swung silently open. She stepped into the darkness, unerringly picking out the path which would take her where she wanted to go. She supposed it was foolhardy. Her opponent had chosen the field of battle and in a meat processing plant, there were many items which would serve as weapons. The wind came in the door behind her, exploring the room and rattling a string of meat hooks as if to emphasise the point.

  She suppressed a shiver, moving silently to the stairs. They were a concrete affair, open on one side except for a metal rail. If her adversary were to strike, here would be a good place. But then how much ammunition must she have left? At least four shots had been fired at the young woman before she entered the factory. The size of the hole one of the bullets had made in the wall suggested a smaller calibre weapon than her own. Really it had been foolish to attempt to use it from so far away, especially in this weather. So perhaps her adversary was reloading?

  A faint scuff came from overhead. A muffled footfall. A half-swallowed curse. The young woman pelted up the stairs, feet swift and sure. The Makarov was held up ready, as she rounded the turn at the top. Her extra sense lit up in warning, a sheet of silver lightning. Without even stopping to consider the cause, she ducked and a butcher’s hook, swung side arm, embedded itself in the plaster where her head had been a moment before.

  She rose and kicked fluidly forward, sending the ball of her foot into her opponent’s gut. Her elbow swung round and cracked across the other woman’s jaw. That was all she got before a hand thrust out with a small sharp knife, kissing a line of stinging fire across here forearm. The young woman tucked her head and arms, rolling under the other woman’s guard, then lashing out with her foot at the back of her knees.

  The other woman, staggered against the railing which groaned under the sudden impact. The knife fell, gleaming, end over end until it struck the concrete floor below. Holding onto the railing, the other woman lashed back with the heel of her left foot, letting out a growl of effort. It caught the young woman in the solar plexus and her bruised ribs sang out their complaint. She danced back out of the way, levelling the gun at her opponent.

  They both stood, breathing hard for a moment. Two pairs of dark eyes met. Blood trickled through the sleeve of the young woman’s coat. The barrel of the gun wavered. A bruise was already blooming over the other woman’s jaw. Her eyes were cold and resentful. Her gleaming dark hair was mussed. She looked about eighteen. She wasn’t.

  “You are in my way, Mariska,” she gasped in Ukrainian.

  “And you have grown careless, Yelena,” the young woman – Mariska – replied in the same language. “It was sloppy to shoot at me from so far. Sloppy to not carry extra ammunition.”

  Yelena’s lips twisted in a smile. “I have ammo. The gun jammed in the cold. Hungarian shit.”

  Mariska hardened herself against the familiar tone, that hint of warmth which signalled friendship, despite everything. “You have something which does not belong to you.”

  “Neither does it belong to you,” Yelena snapped.

  “You are mad if you think I will let you take it. Give it to me. I will see that it is possibly disposed of.” Mariska’s eyes were hard, but that anger which had sustained her was flagging. She did not want to shoot this woman who had been her friend.

  “Yes. You will give it to your government. We all know how well they can be trusted with power,” Yelena scoffed.

  “More than Soviets,” Mariska snapped. “Not that you are any more loyal to them. We are all game pieces to you. friend, enemy, lover, family – it does not matter as long as you advance your agenda!”

  “That stings, doesn’t it?” Yelena laughed again, but her breath came short, and she held an arm across her ribs. She was hurt. “Tell me, do you still dream of home? Of your task being over?”

  Mariska was silent. A sound, so low it was almost out of range of human ears, buzzed inside her head. Her mind felt foggy and slow. There was a metallic taste coating the back of her throat. The gun shook and she corrected her grip.

  “I thought as much. You have lost yourself inside the deception.” Yelena smiled faintly. “It happens to all who play such dangerous games. But you will go home if you survive, and you will find that it is home is no longer for you. And that your government, whom you serve with such devotion, has no use for you. They will pat you on the head and placate you with medals you can never wear in public. And you will sit in front of a fire and grow old, wondering where you lost yourself and how you can face all the years of your long, quiet and useless life.”

  Mariska stared at the other woman. “I suppose I should be like you? Serve no master save my own ambition?”

  “If you did, you would never work at crossed purposes.”

  “Give up, Yelena. I will shoot you.”

  “If you were going to shoot me, you would have done so.” Yelena straightened, limping towards an unobtrusive dark shape under one shattered window. A leather satchel. “I won’t ask you to join me. You are unworthy.”

  And finally, Mariska located the source of what disturbed her. A vibration so deep it made the roots of her teeth hurt. “Don’t touch it…”

  Yelena had plunged her hand into the satchel, pulling out a large, round object wrapped in lead foil. “Look at it.”

  “No!” Mariska gasped, doubling over as blood sheeted from her noise and her head filled with discordant noise, like music threaded through static. A tune she could almost hear and yet not. Red washed over her vision.

  “And let it look back at you,” Yelena breathed, peeling back a layer of foil.

  With strength she had never suspected she possessed, Mariska straightened, brought up the muzzle of the gun and fired three shots straight into the body of her one-time friend.

  Yelena was knocked back off her feet. Red bloomed across her chest, mouth gaping open in surprise. Her arms flung out, and the fourth bullet went wide, hitting the foil wrapped bundle with a soundless boom. Mariska dropped the gun, clapping her hands to her ears, and screaming in pain.

  There was a crash as Yelena’s limp body hit the few remaining shards of glass in the window. She tumbled through. A moment later there was a muffled crump as she hit the snow in the yard. The foil wrapped bundle rolled into a corner and the noise inside Mariska’s head ceased.

  Trembling in every limb, she bent and retrieved the gun, then edged towards the window. Yelena lay twisted below, hands raised and hair drifting like a Christmas angel, come with glad tidings. The spreading dark stain around her might even be the subdued fire of angelic wings. She was dead. Killed not in anger, nor in self-defence, but as a sort of necessity. As one would shoot a rabid dog. There was a smallness about the act and yet there was no other choice Mariska would make were it hers to make again.

  Gingerly, she approached the foil wrapped bundle, using the edge of her boot to nudge it back into the satchel, which was also lined with layers of lead foil. She knew she ought to take it with her. That if she left now, she would reach the rendezvous. There she could hand the damned thing over to her superiors and be rid of it. Mariska lifted the strap of the satchel, and hesitated. Yelena’s words played over in her mind. Her government, her superiors had her loyalty, it was true. But that did not mean she believed them to be wholly good. Could they be trusted with the artefact any more than the Soviets? Or the CIA? Or anyone who wanted power, for whatever reason they wanted it? Could she be trusted?

  Mariska took the satchel and found a hatch leading into a storage space in an attic. It was thick wi
th dust and grime, festooned with fifty years’ worth of cobwebs. No one went there. She hid the satchel in the dark. Just for now. Just until she made her choice.

  Then she swept away any evidence, removing the footprints she’d left in the dust. As she was about to leave, a gleam caught her eye. A piece of shing darkness. A lozenge of stone knocked from the whole. Without even fully knowing why, and gritting her teeth against the pain, she scooped it up in her handkerchief, wrapped it with a scrap of lead foil and tucked it in her pocket. And then she slipped back out into the snow.

  Chapter One – A Visit with an Agenda

  I gave the Phillips head screwdriver one final twist to the left and stepped back. Three newly assembled bookcases lined the wall of my spare bedroom. I felt quite pleased with myself. I’d put up shelves before, but I’d never tried assembling flat packed furniture. It was a lot easier than I’d expected – at least after I’d found Rebekah something to do elsewhere. She had many talents but attention to detail while assembling bookcases wasn’t one of them.

  “Are you even going to be able fill all those shelves?” Meghan cocked her head to one side, looking doubtfully at the fruits of our labours. Unlike Rebekah, she’d been a whizz at working out how the shelves should fit together because, as she pointed out, it was ‘just like a sewing pattern’.

  I smiled at her wryly. “Have you seen all those boxes lying around? They’re full of Steve’s books.”

  “All of them?” Her brows rose.

  I nodded. “I have a lot of books, but Steve makes my collection look tiny. This might not even be enough space.”

  “It’s a start, at least,” Meghan said brightly. “Can we do the tree now?”

  I laughed. “Sure. Let me just tell Steve that he has bookcases to fill first.”