Slice of Death: An Urban Fantasy Thriller: (Harker & Blackthorn Book One)
Slice of Death
Harker & Blackthorn - Book One
J. A. Ironside
Copyright © 2021 J. A. Ironside
Slice of Death – Harker & Blackthorn Book One - first published September 2021
Copyright © J. A. Ironside 2020
Cover Artwork copyright J.A.Ironside©
Cover Design copyright J.A.Ironside©
Cover Photograph Girl copyright Faestock©
Background photo copyright Zef Art©
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
For all the friends I wish were still on this side of the Veil.
Sleep, those little slices of death — how I loathe them.
– Edgar Allen Poe
Contents
Copyright
Title page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter One – Disaster Magnet
Lodestone – Doc/001-56
Chapter Two – Phone a Friend
Chapter Three – Interlopers
Chapter Four – Electric Circus
Chapter Five – Hunger
Field Guide Excerpt I
Chapter Six – Total Loss
Chapter Seven – Compulsion
Chapter Eight – Pressing
Chapter Nine – Dastardly
Chapter Ten – Fright Night
Chapter Eleven – Terrifyingly Well
Chapter Twelve – D-Day and Clutter
Chapter Thirteen – Out of Character
Chapter Fourteen – Tweed and Blending In
Chapter Fifteen – Peace Offering
Chapter Sixteen – The Man Who Cried Wolf
Field Guide Excerpt II
Chapter Seventeen – Hag Ridden
Chapter Eighteen – Salient Points
Chapter Nineteen – Crossed Wires
Journal Extract I
Chapter Twenty – Like Robin Hood
Chapter Twenty-one – Foul Play
Chapter Twenty-two – Golden Thread
Chapter Twenty-three – Guardian of Secrets
Chapter Twenty-four – Hubris
Chapter Twenty-five – The World to Slow Down
Chapter Twenty-six – The Name and the Dark
Chapter Twenty-seven – Henchmen
Chapter Twenty-eight – Show and Tell
Lodestone – Doc/002-57E
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Her eyes open on darkness and she knows without looking at the clock that it’s close to three in the morning. Three is when it visits her. Three is the hour during which she can believe in the impossible without effort, without logic. Pure terror sings in her veins. She cannot move. The darkness has become thick, viscous. It’s grown so cold she would shiver if she could move. Her ears, hypersensitized with fear, latch onto the rhythmic shushing noise, like sandpaper gliding across wood.
It is coming.
She struggles in vain to move, to speak, to do anything except lie here, helpless beneath the oppressive weight of terror. Some part of her mind still insists that this is a dream. She must wake up. Right now. And she tries. She reaches for consciousness as a half-drowned swimmer reaches for the shore. But there is nowhere to go, nothing for her mind to catch hold of because she is already awake.
She stares into the shadows of the murky bedroom, wanting to look away but unable to do so. Forced to watch as the Shape materialises out of the soupy darkness, indistinct but vaguely human looking.
It is not human. It is made of hunger and greed.
Perhaps she will die this time. It intends to kill her eventually.
The Shape drifts towards her, unhurried and inexorable, settling with crushing weight on her chest. She cannot breathe. Its hands rest on her collar bones, cold and heavy. The head comes down towards hers, features obscured by shadow or worse, missing entirely. Whatever it has by way of a mouth settles over her frozen lips.
There is a pause and she feels in that moment as if the Shape is drawing out the anticipation like a wine connoisseur savouring the bouquet of a vintage. And then a buzzing sensation fills her veins with pain on the edge of pleasure and the Shape sucks greedily. She feels herself growing weak. The world dims to a tiny letter box of detail far, far away. Retreating from her frozen gaze.
She falls through the mattress, down and down with only the darkness to catch her...
Chapter One – Disaster Magnet
My fingers were slick with nervous sweat on the dry wipe marker, as I turned to face the class. Could I smell smoke? No. Of course not. It was nerves…paranoia. It was having to venture outside my comfort zone, which was laughable really because I was literally being paid to talk about the love of my life – physics.
Rows of eyes – many of them concealed behind spectacles which gave them an insectile gleam in the strip lighting – stared back at me. A girl in the front row looked confused, probably because I’d stopped talking midway through a sentence, distracted by phantom scents and nervous nausea. Heat flared along my cheekbones. I hastily found my thread and resumed the lecture. So far, I wasn’t finding my entry into the rewarding world of teaching an easy transition. It wasn’t that I didn’t know my stuff – no one could ever accuse me of that. But I was painfully aware that I didn’t look like a lecturer in particle physics at an Oxford University. No one expected a petite, bubbly blonde girl to be leading the chase on that subject. Especially one who was actually twenty-two but looked younger than the eighteen-year-olds she was teaching. The first few weeks of a term were always the worst. My mostly male audiences stared at me uncomprehendingly, wondering how I’d come to be standing in front of them.
The faint and definite aroma of smoke jerked me back to the present again. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a thin blue plume drift lazily upwards from the projector. Oh God. Not again. I glanced at the screen behind me in time to see the image flicker, before snuffing out.
“Right.” I clapped my hands together, fighting a wince at the false note of cheer in my tone. “Before we go any further, let’s see how well that little lot has sunk in.”
The silence was so thick, I fully expected a swarm of chirring cicadas to descend at any moment. Possibly accompanied by a stray tumbleweed or two. In desperation, I yanked too hard on the projector screen lanyard, sending it rattling back up its roller with a noise like a Tommy gun in a cut budget gangster movie. My fingers slipped on the marker as I began to write a series of equations on the white board.
At least maths was soothing.
“Okay, so who wants to have first stab at that one? Jason?” I peered at him hopefully.
Jason blinked, reddened and muttered something.
He’d done something different to his hair, I realised. Carefully gelled spikes. Was that in fashion again? Also button-down shirts and black trousers. Many of the boys were wearing them. Was there a student lunch social I hadn’t heard about?
Jason trudged reluctantly up to me, accepting the pen with a timorous tremble of fingers. H refused to meet my gaze, shoulders hunching as he surv
eyed the equation.
I swear teenage boys just get weirder and weirder. They were inexplicable when I was at school and incomprehensible when I was a teenager, even as I developed crushes on my classmates. Now I’m an adult, they seem to belong to another species. Teenage girls are no easier to understand. It probably says a lot more about my ability to relate to people near my own age than I want to admit to.
Jason lifted the marker, muttering strange incantations about fairness and being put on the spot under his breath, which I politely ignored. He started crossing out and shifting variables, while I bit my tongue. I’d learned it was best to allow a student to finish making a mistake before gently correcting them.
Jason stopped, wrinkling his nose. “Can you smell smoke, Miss...er…sorry Dr Matthews?”
“Amy is fine,” I said, for the umpteenth time. “Perhaps the projector is overheated. It’s switched off. No danger.”
Jason did not look convinced. A low chuckle came from his classmates and I sent a warning glare in their direction.
“Is that your final answer?” I said.
Jason shrugged, red faced again. “Sorry...I...er...guess I didn’t understand it as well as I thought, Miss...er...Dr...er...”
“Amy,” I sighed. “Please, just Amy. We’re all on first name terms here.”
The class did not look convinced.
“It’s not right, is it?” Jason said, resignation in the line of his slumped shoulders.
“No, not quite.” I kept my tone kind. “Would anyone else like a go?”
One of the only two girls in the class raised her hand.
“Leigh, come on down,” I said warmly.
“Oh...er...no, Miss...er...”
“Amy,” I insisted.
“I only put my hand up because I didn’t really understand it either.”
“I see.” I glanced at the other students. “Did anyone else have trouble following the lesson?”
Sheepishly, in ones and twos, every single student put their hand up.
Bugger.
“In future, if you don’t understand, please let me know.” I was holding on to my patience with both hands. These were bright youngsters. They had to be to get here. So the problem must be me. “I’m not a mind-reader. I can’t reframe a lesson if I don’t know I need to.”
Not strictly true but there was no reason for them to know about any of my more unusual abilities. A chorus of ‘yes, miss er sorry drs’ drifted out of the rows of seats and I was too disheartened to correct them. It would have been hard to say who was awaiting the bell more eagerly at that moment.
“Smoke!” Another boy – Pearse – exclaimed.
“Look! It’s on fire!” Sophia shouted.
There was a bang and a foot high flame spouted from the projector. I grabbed Jason’s arm and yanked him back just in time to save his eyebrows. The flame died as I scowled at it, sending foul smelling chemical vapour billowing upwards. It was too late to save the lesson or the projector. The sprinklers came on with the abruptness of a heavy downpour and I herded my squeaking, outraged students out of the lecture theatre accompanied by the dubious cheer of the fire alarm.
Mondays suck.
✽✽✽
St Catherine’s College, Oxford was not the showiest of Oxford University campuses. It lacked the warmth of red-bricked St Hugh’s or the Tudor splendour of Brasenose. It wasn’t conveniently situated opposite the Bodleian Library, complete with an architectural idiosyncrasy like Hertford.
Incorporated in 1852, St Catherine’s – or Catz as it’s affectionately known by both pupils and fellows – did not have an entire site devoted to it until the 1960s. Hated by some as an eyesore due to the horribly dated architecture ‘without historical merit’, the sixties buildings were laid out in what had once been a modern design, but was now a bit utilitarian. It was a young college by Oxford standards. Far younger than Balliol or Merton which had both been incorporated in the thirteenth century.
None of that mattered to me. I liked Catz. It was an open, friendly place – something which had been a great relief when I first arrived five years ago, at the not-quite-ripe age of seventeen, to pursue a double degree in Physics and Chemistry. The Physics department doesn’t have a permanent hoe at any of the thirty-nine campuses in Oxford. Instead we enjoy a fun lottery at the end of every academic year which tells us where we’ll be based for the following year. Physics students probably spent time at more different Oxford College campuses than any other discipline. However, last September I’d completed my doctorate – early, which was how I completed all my academic achievements – and now, I was attached to a research group. Professor Greyson, my supervisor, did not like to move around the city so I was mostly based at Catz for the next three years.
I would take any silver lining right now because it was becoming increasingly clear that I was in way over my head. Heading for my favourite coffee shop on the other side of campus, I reflected that my lectures would all go a lot more smoothly if I didn’t keep having random equipment malfunctions. Not that I wanted to think about that too hard. I sped up through autumn drizzle, mind firmly on eating something sweet and off-loading my woes to my house mate.
“It would be easier if I wore glasses,” I grumbled twenty minutes later, resting my head on my hand and blowing steam from my hot chocolate. We were sitting by the window in the coffee shop, watching people rush home from work as the evening drew in.
Eddie raised an eyebrow. “You do realise you’re stereotyping nerds right now?”
“I am a nerd! And I should be allowed to stereotype,” I complained. “I should have a store of stereotyping get-out-of-jail-free cards when it comes to physics because everyone looks at me and sees…” I threw up my hands.
“A cheerleader?”
I glared at my house mate. “A small, blonde girl who looks like she’d be right at home in one of Disney’s more saccharine offerings.”
“Pretty sure I covered that with cheerleader.” Eddie sipped his coffee. “Come on, Jinx. It’s not quite the tragedy you’re making it out to be. So you had a class who couldn’t keep up with you. So what? Just slow it down a bit. They’ll get there.”
“I’m not sure they’re even listening to me,” I admitted. “I’m a terrible teacher. I can’t seem to keep their attention, or engage them in the work. Bennett thinks I have some sort of fetish for sabotaging lecture theatre equipment.”
“The caretaker? Why would he think that?” Eddie frowned. “Jinx, did you blow up another projector?”
“Er…”
“Holy shit, that’s like, what? The third one this month?”
“I’m not doing it.” It couldn’t be me. Fire had never been part of my special skillset. “They just…do it by themselves.”
“You walk past them and they get the sudden urge to burst into flames.” Eddie said. “That’s probably what the problem is with your students by the way.”
My turn to frown. “They get the urge to spontaneously combust when I’m teaching?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Eddie rolled his eyes. “You’re small, blonde and cute. They’re mostly a bunch of eighteen-year-old boys who probably didn’t do a lot of dating before they got to University. This is not a difficult equation, and a pair of glasses is not going to solve any of that for you, Jinx.”
“Please stop calling me that,” I said, without rancour.
“It’s bummed you out,” Eddie said. “Where’s the usual Hyper-Amy-isn’t-it-a-beautiful-day-to-be-alive-and-doing-physics pain in the arse attitude you normally hit me with?”
“I think I left it in the lab.”
“Do I need to force feed you chocolate?”
“Will it make people take me seriously?”
“No, but it might make you feel better about not being taken seriously.”
I glared and Eddie held up his hands in surrender.
“Believe it or not, Jinx, I actually do have some idea of what it’s like to have an exterior that prevent
s people from seeing who you actually are.” He gave me a level look.
I winced. If anyone understood how frustrating it was not to be taken for who you were, it would be Eddie, who had realised sometime during his second year at Uni that he was transgender. Compared to that, my complaints about people assuming small, blonde women couldn’t be serious, competent scientists was risible.
“I’m an insensitive moron,” I said glumly.
“Nah. It’s actually kind of sweet that you forget.” Eddie shrugged. “So come on, what did Bennett say about the projector?”
“He didn’t say anything. It was mostly in the suspicious glare he levelled at me. I mean there was some nostril flaring going on too, but the eyebrows were clearly the star attraction.”
Eddie laughed.
“Seriously though, he can’t find any reason why it should be my fault that electrical equipment doesn’t like me, but I can tell he still thinks it’s my fault anyway,” I said.
“Forget about it. Unless someone finds a way to detect bad luck, he’ll never be able to prove it was you,” Eddie said.
“That’s a great comfort,” I began but Eddie’s attention had been caught by something on the other side of the coffee shop. I twisted to see what he was looking at. The what turned out to be a who. A very pretty who. Gorgeous even.
“Damn,” Eddie murmured.
I saw what he meant. The young woman making her way from the counter with a steaming cup definitely had everything in the right place. She was tall, maybe five foot nine or ten. Slender in a toned, athletic way which didn’t rob her of curves. Her straight, thick hair was mid-length and a very glossy black. Her skin was a warm gold. Something about the set of her large, dark eyes suggested an Asian ancestor at some point on her family tree.
“We could get refills?” I said. “You could introduce yourself?”
“Or I could just quietly admire her from back here.”
“She’s not an oil painting.”