Chapter I

  Dirty Deeds

  The three men sat together in an unmarked car. Rain rattled against the windscreen, knowing two were about to die.

  The warehouse district on the outskirts of Ancerbridge sat under the veil of a heavy fog. Rain battered the tin-sheet roofs, which stretched out like a wave away from the little hill which held the car. Inside, a tinny voice scratched out of a speaker.

  “We’re all good. Bob’s just finished a sweep of the grounds. Roads are pretty slick tonight, drive safe, yeah?... Yeah, no I get it… Sure… See you in thirty minutes.”

  As the conversation came to a close, the eves-dropping men disconnected their radio scanner. The driver turned a key, and the vehicle spluttered to life before slowly reversing onto the pathway and crawling down the hill. From underneath a short brim hat, Dusk looked into the mirror and studied the man behind him.

  “Luka, when we get out, you’re going straight onto watch.” Dusk’s voice scraped out of his throat, deep and dehydrated. He watched the man behind him – waiting for a reaction – and was rewarded by a dismissive wave of the hand. Luka did not turn his face away from the window, but his lack of protest satisfied Dusk who turned his attention to his partner. “We’re going in through the front.” The man turned to him with a soft, polite smile, fastening the buttons on his shirt sleeve. “Yeah, I’ll go ahead in case there’s any upset, okay?” Dusk nodded. watching Franz recline in his seat and rest his arm under the window added a bit of warmth to the car, especially with Luka hunched and brooding in the back.

  Eventually, the car came to a halt around the corner of the warehouse. One by one, Dusk, Franz and Luka stepped out and faced their target. It was a simple warehouse like any other, rusty, red doors and support beams oxidised by constant exposure to rain and mist. The suffocating fog surrounding the place was cut through only by amber lights that beamed through the windows, occasionally betraying the silhouette of a person walking about inside.

  “Luka, could you get Oswald out, please?” Dusk muttered, his voice nearly drowning in the rain.

  “I don’t like this…” Luka swept a yellow hand over his forehead, pushing long black bangs away from his sunken eyes. When they had first met, Dusk had thought that Luka was sick, but over the years that they had spent together he had learned that the jaundiced eyes and green discoloration were the result of undermaintained gas pipes in the estate that he lived in as a child.

  “We have the warrant, Luka, we’re under orders.” Dusk rose his voice a tone, mustering a veil of austere command. Ahead of him, Luka shrugged and moved forward. “It’s your funeral, man.”

  “Detective, not man, we’re not in a bar, Luka.”

  If a person’s resonance is truly an echo of their soul, Dusk mused, then Luka must hate himself more than he’d ever let on. He watched his partner press the palms of his hands together and chain his fingers together. Turning his face to the sky, Luka let a low and drawn-out hum escape his throat. As it drew on, a second voice joined it in a higher, discordant tone. The two voices intermingled, and eventually became one. Dusk winced and turned his head away. He had always thought that Luka sounded like a wailing child whenever he used his resonance.

  From the shadows beneath Luka, Oswald began to emerge. A pair of long, wiry hands with bladed fingers dug into the gravel, hauling the rest of the puppet’s slouching form behind it. Oswald’s body was constructed of thick, wooden mannequin torsos which were bound together by long strands of greasy black hair. At one end, a footlong scalpel scraped over the stones. At the other, a pale head with a crudely painted face hung, veiled by more dark and oily hair. Oswald was not alive. It had no respiratory system. Dusk knew these facts, but knowing them did nothing to assuage the feeling of disgust that crawled up his back whenever the puppet moved. A rasping wheeze rose from Oswald each time one of its clawed arms clutched the ground and pulled its twisted form along the floor to fulfil its master’s commands. Worse yet, the bleak and oily creature seemed to have a fondness for Dusk, the blade of its scalpel tapping against the stone like an overexcited dog pawing the ground beneath it.

  Luka’s dissonant hum died down as, taking a shaky breath, he stepped toward Oswald and cupped its face in his hands. Pressing their foreheads together, he muttered instructions which died within the thundering rain. Oswald’s rickety frame lurched to life and it slouched off, heaving its heavy body toward the shadowy periphery of the warehouse. Luka’s eyes were empty and depressed as he turned to Dusk and gave an affirmative nod. Oswald was to scout around the outside of the warehouse and ward off any interruptions while the three did their work inside.

  Satisfied with Luka’s confirmation, Dusk crouched low and started to cross the entrance of the warehouse courtyard towards its face. A few dozen feet in length, there was little cover save for abandoned wooden crates, and drums that confessed their scarcity by echoing the heavy rain that battered their top. Pulling his raincoat tight to his body, Dusk pathed through the courtyard to press himself against these visual polluters, ensuring that any line of sight from a window to his person was broken at each stage. After a few minutes of sneaking in this way, he dug his feet into the gravel and made a low sprint to the front wall of the warehouse, pressing his back up against it. Dusk looked back at Franz and Luka, who gave him a nod of confirmation. Turning his head again, Dusk peered through an adjacent window into the warehouse floor.

  Inside, the warehouse was as Dusk expected. A single, large room stretching roughly 120 feet across, and only a third as wide. There were dozens of wooden crates, uniform in size and shape, which came up roughly just above the hips of the armed guards who leaned against them. Each man wore a waterproof and workman’s trousers, but Dusk spotted the neat collar of a trim-shirt underneath the jacket. Holstered at their chests were stubby, black guns with large, drum magazines that hung from just ahead of the trigger. The corner of Dusk’s mouth pulled into an annoyed sneer, though he thanked his luck that he had brought Franz with him tonight. Raising a hand to his friends, he flashed four digits thrice, signifying that he counted twelve men stood upon the warehouse floor. Turning his attention slightly up, he studied the grate balcony which ringed the warehouse’s perimeter. Three more men up there, three more fingers thrust to his allies.

  Waiting for a moment where most eyes were turned to the inside of the warehouse, one of the guards cracked a joke. Dusk heard the muffled chorus of laughter from inside the building and darted back across its yard towards his companions. Franz held a laminated clipboard above his head, a minor shield from the rain, while Luka rested shivering against the wire fence that walled the grounds. They looked to Dusk unblinkingly.

  “Fifteen obviously armed men, twelve on the ground, three on the balcony.”

  Franz pushed his bottom lip up in contemplation as he nodded approvingly. “Fifteen’s a lot for… what did you say this shipment was listed as?”

  “Clothing.” Dusk nodded, lifting the wing of his coat forward like a makeshift umbrella as he flipped through a war worn notebook. “This shipment is listed as wedding dresses and suits, imported by a shop in the Vellichi Straight.” Dropping the book back into his pocket, he levelled his gaze at the warehouse. “Can you deal with fifteen? We have about fifteen minutes before Chelone gets here, and I want to be done with his men beforehand.”}

  Franz’ introspections came to a halt as he clapped a hand on Dusk’s shoulder. “We’ll get it done in five.”

  Luka pushed himself off of the fence and reached beneath his coat, unholstering a small but boxy pistol. Occupying himself with a brief once-over, he spoke over the rain. “Are we arresting, or are we…”

  Franz nodded approvingly. “We’re hoping to arrest, but we’re prepared to take them out if they won’t come quietly.”

  In many ways, Franz was the best of all of them, and Dusk and Luka knew it. As he employed his resonance, three disembodied voices poured out from between his hands, clasped together in a prayer. Where Luka’s resonance reeked of regret, Franz’ Guardian Angel bore an aura of soothing comfort. Forming within swirling mists that hung around Franz’ back, the living statue shook off the veil with a smooth but weighty flap of her stone wings. With her hands hung by her side, she bore a short sword and a set of scales. Without effort or disturbance, she drifted through the air behind Franz as he strode straight through the yard. Dusk and Luka pressed themselves against the corner of a nearby crate in anticipation of the hell that would break loose.

  Three heavy knocks perforated the song of rain, each echoing within the warehouse walls. Franz stood before the door, still holding his clipboard above his head. His angel cautiously curled around the side of the door, obscuring it from immediate view. The sound of heavy footfall grew louder as someone approached the door. A chain was dragged, and the oxidised spyhole swung open. Franz stared into the bloodshot eyes of an unseen man who, through a torn and raspy throat, spat an accusatory grunt.

  “Good evening, my name is Captain Maregold, acting under the authority of the Silverwatch. Please could you open the door so that we can talk face to face?” Franz tilted his head and softened his eyes.

  “You got a warrant?”

  “Yes sir, would you like to see?” Dusk called out from behind, enduring a swat on the shoulder from Luka as he fished the papers out of his coat pocket.

  The man behind the door cursed under his breath and turned away for a moment. Franz heard whispering, but couldn’t parse what exactly was being said before the face turned back to him. “Boss isn’t here. Come back tomorrow.”

  “When will he be here?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  Franz raised an eyebrow at the man and kissed his teeth, turning away and resting a hand on his hip before looking back at the doorman. “Look, I’m going to be honest, I was told to arrest all of you immediately on suspicion of possessing illegal firearms. I don’t really want to do that, its late and it’s a lot of paperwork, but I’m under orders to follow up on this warrant. Lets work with each other here, let me in and I’ll take a note of your compliance. It looks good on a police report.”

  “Come back tomorrow.” The spyhole slammed shut, leaving Franz alone in the rain. Turning back to face Dusk and Luka, he shrugged, flapping his arms through the air at the elbow before calling out over the rain. “Guess they don’t like Silverwatch!” He took a step away from the door as the angel sprung to animation. Floating a few feet off of the ground, it raised its sword and swung at the iron door’s hinges. The stone blade messily carved and ruptured the door, which released a hideous and grinding shriek. Pulling its arm back, the statue tore the door off of the wall and, with a flick of its blade, discarded it to the ground. Franz ducked behind the corner of the warehouse, and the chaos began.

  Having arranged themselves into position during Franz’ conversation at the door, the guards squatted against the wooden crates that decorated the warehouse floor. Turning over as the door flew off, they rested their drum-rifles against the cargo and scoped in on the statue before squeezing the trigger.

  At first, the bullets tore through the angelic lady as though she were made of paper. Crossing her wings over her body as a shield, she knelt on the floor dead in the centre of the firing line. After a few seconds of sustained fire, the first bullet lodged itself within her wing. One by one, they crumpled against her. Then, they began to ricochet off, pinging and twanging in different directions as Franz’ guardian angel stood tall once more. By the end of the bullet stream that poured forth from the large magazine, the bullets had stopped touching her entirely. As they flew through the air, they slowed to a halt before the angel’s wings and harmlessly dropped to the ground.

  In the deafening silence that followed from the absence of ammunition, Franz called around the warehouse corner. “If you want to be arrested instead of fighting, drop your guns and have your hands up by the time I turn the corner!”

  The men attempted a panicked reload. Franz sprinted into the warehouse, following the wall and ducking behind the iron beams that held up the ceiling. As he entered, he flung off his raincoat. Pressed against his back, in a sleek, black sheathe, was an elegant and ornate sword. As soon as Franz pulled the sword from over his shoulder, its curved, brass blade glinting in the dim light, the angel went to war. Racing through the air, it dove straight into the middle of the men and delivered a vertical slash that carved from the centre-man’s right hip to his left shoulder. Chaos took hold on the warehouse floor as the remainder dove away from Franz’ resonance. Spreading its wings wide, the angel walled off the half that had retreated further away from Franz, absorbing a volley of bullets from concealed sidearms that had been muddled out of pockets since the fighting began.

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  The other half, who saw the angels back, picked themselves off the ground. No sooner than the first of them had stood, Franz was upon them. Capitalising on the surprise created by his resonance’s attack, he drove his sword through the small of the nearest man’s back, then grabbed his collar and pulled his back over Franz’s body. The men whipped around, rifles aimed, but paused for a moment as they saw their companion struggling on the sword.

  Above him, Franz heard the tell-tale ‘click’ of a rifle. Craning his head up, he saw one of the watchmen that Dusk had mentioned peering down from the balcony, finding his mark against Franz’ exposed back. The other two released a barrage of impotent shots into his Guardian Angel. Each bullet paused before the statue and fell to the ground without causing so much as a delay in its assault on the isolated cluster of guards. Just before the man could fire down on Franz, a shot rang out from the entrance of the warehouse. Dusk and Luka sprinted inside; pistols drawn. The bullet crashed into the side of the man’s rifle, spinning off to the back of the warehouse and knocking the weapon from his hands. Franz did not waste the precious seconds that Dusk had bought him.

  Shoving the impaled man off of his sword and into the centre of the group before him, Franz got to work. Where one man stumbled to catch his comrade, Franz flicked his sword across his neck, just above the shoulder blade. Blood flicked out, and the shooter clutched the gash as he stumbled, face growing pale. Both him and the stabbed-one slumped to the ground. Two to go.

  Franz weaved around to the side, ensuring that his next mark was between him and the final guard. The barrel of the gun drifted towards him, but Franz pressed the fortified base of his sword against it and pushed outwards as though he were parrying an opposing blade. With a twist of his wrist, he aligned the point of the blade with the man’s solar plexus and drove it as deep as he could. Letting go of the sword for a moment, he grappled the rifle by its flank and pushed it up. The man clenched the trigger in pain, but the bullets only careened into the metal ceiling above.

  As he tore the sword from his opponent’s chest, Franz whipped his head up to see the barrel of a rifle levelled at his face. He froze as the guard stared down upon him. The crack of gunfire echoed through the hall, not from Franz’ would be executioner, but from Dusk. Once again, the sharpshooter had saved him. Franz steadied himself with a deep breath, before nodding at his partner and quickly scanning the scene around him.

  His angel had made short work of the remainder of the men on the ground floor. Three more gunners stood on the balcony above him. Two were reloading, the third was checking over their gun after Dusk had shot it. They would go first. Franz ran to his angel who, sensing his intent, knelt on the ground and folded a wing like a large ramp. Franz leapt upon it, crouching low. The angel stood to its height, unfurling its wing as it went and flinging Franz through the air towards the balcony that had hung just above his head mere moments before. Franz soared through the air with a wide, toothy grin.

  Clasping one hand around the rail that guarded the balcony, Franz pressed his feet securely onto the metal walkway’s outside edge and released a horizontal slash that tore across the guard’s chest, sending him careening into the opposite rail. He set his angel upon the remaining two men.

  As it tore through the air towards them, however, they dropped their weapons and raised their hands in surrender. Seeing this, Franz halted the attack. Crouching behind the rail, he called out. “You surrender!?”

  “YES! ....FUCK-YES!”

  “Good! Kick your guns off of the balcony and kneel down! Hands behind your head!”

  After a moment, the clatter of rifles against the ground confirmed their broken resolve. Franz stood and strode down the length of the balcony, muttering under his breath as he fished a set of handcuffs off of his belt. As he passed above Dusk, he dropped his voice. “Where’s Luka and Oswald?”

  “Around the back, closing off the back exit.” Dusk tossed a second pair of handcuffs up to Franz before leaving him to the doldrum of making an arrest. He had more pressing matters to attend to.

  Pulling his notebook back out of his coat, he quickly strode towards a nearby crate. On its outside face, painted in red, read the words ‘Vellichi Transit’ – the name of the shipping company who owned the warehouse, and the target of the past few months of his investigations. Peering into the crate, Dusk found exactly what he and Franz had expected to find earlier. Clothes. Beautiful wedding dresses and resplendent suits sat folded beneath plastic films. Donning a glove, Dusk peeled back the plastic and started examining the clothes. Careful not to disturb their fold, he traced a finger along the hem of the dress until he felt a slight and coarse disturbance. Pinching at the fabric, it felt as though there was fine sand coating it. For the first time in months, Dusk let a smile play across his worn and heavy face. Pulling at the fabric, a pinch of white crystals clung to his gloved fingertip.

  Turning and leaning against the crate, Dusk fished a small, glass vial of phosphorus, he dropped the tiny crystals inside. Placing the vial on the ajar lid of the crate, he grabbed his lighter and a match which, after lighting, he dropped into the vial. Dusk pressed his gloved thumb over its lid and watched carefully. As the fire struck the phosphorus, it first burned a white and orange flame. Then, as little crystals melted, the flame turned to a deep and swirling purple. Watching the fire change, Dusk’s suspicions were confirmed. This was Indraknot. Releasing his thumb from the vial, he let the purple smoke pour out, ensuing that he inhaled none of it. Dusk dropped the glass and stamped on it, twisting his boot to ensure that any large fragments were ground to a fine dust before sweeping them under the crate. He pulled the sleeve of his coat and jacket off to check his watch before turning to Franz, who was noting the names of the arrested men. “Franz, come here for a second.”

  Walking to the bottom of the stairs which led up to the balcony, the men met half way. Dusk faced into the warehouse when he spoke. “We’ve only got three or four minutes before Chelone gets here. There was Indraknot in the crate I looked through, but only a trace on the clothes inside, not enough to make any progress, they’d just argue that it was contamination from one of the workers along the train line…”

  Franz nodded, his face even and unbothered. “Okay, how do you want to do this? We’ve played our hand with this, there are thirteen corpses and you’ve opened their goods. It’s too late to play it off.”

  “I know…” Dusk’s brow furrowed as frustration crawled up the back of his neck. Tapping his foot against the ground for a few moments, he met Franz’ gaze. “We arrest Chelone on suspicion of transporting Indraknot and drag an answer out of him in questioning?”

  Franz smiled and nodded. “Sounds good mate. Go find Luka, lets meet him out front.”

  Dusk strode through the warehouse and around its corner, pulling the collar of his coat high against the rain and scanning around him. Stood before a large lorry, he met eyes with Luka. The back of the warehouse had another large gate for heavy goods vehicles to enter through and a series of garages for them to be parked in. Elsewise, it was as barren and depressed as the rest of the misty district.

  “Where’s…“A wet crunch snuck out under his question from inside the garage. Dusk knew all he needed to. Dusk tensed his throat. He knew the puppet was nearby thanks to the bile that crawled up the lining of his gut and into his throat every time he was close to the twisted abomination.

  Luka opened his mouth to speak, but was overcome with a fit of tortured coughing. It sounded as though it would tear his windpipe to shreds. Unable to talk, he tossed a thumb over his shoulder towards the garage.

  “Chelone will be here in a couple of minutes.”

  Recovering, Luka whispered out a raspy reply. “Good. Let’s get this over with.” Luka clicked his fingers and the dredged gravel within the garage churned. A bloody, clawed hand gripped the corner of the wide, garage doorway and Oswald hauled itself around, clutching a set of teeth in its other hand, carefully picking them clean of the flesh and gums that still clung to them. As soon as it saw Dusk, the heaving in its chest and the clacking of its scalpel tail grew faster and faster. Whatever it was about Dusk that made this thing so excited, he’d be happy if he could die without finding out.

  “You aren’t wearing your badge…” Dusk placed a hand on Luka’s chest. “You need to wear your badge on the job.”

  “Mate, we’re a little tight on time.”

  “So put it on.” Dusk levelled a hard stare at his partner, who acquiesced and fished his badge out of his pocket before pinning it onto his jacket. “There, can we go?” Oswald sloped to a stop and turned to face its master, the little scalpel on his tail tapping against the ground in anticipation. Dusk nodded, and turned to leave.

  The three walked around to the front of the warehouse, where they were met with a confident smile and a wave from Franz, whose angel held a wing aloft to shield him from the rain. Only Franz could spend all night in the mist and the muck and come out clean, the fluffy mop of bright blond hair on his head almost looked like lamb wool to Dusk. But those poetic thoughts were best saved for a glass of whiskey and a warm fire, things which he had promised himself after they made this arrest.

  Somewhere in the distance, the screech of an electric guitar broke through the choir of the night from a radio. Two spears of white light flashed around the corner as a bright red, sporty car rolled toward the warehouse entrance. Parking neatly behind Franz’ simple little car, the light and radio came to a sudden stop. The driver stepped out, unfurled an umbrella and moved to the back passenger seat. As he opened it, Chelone Vellichi exited the vehicle.

  Chelone wore a white jacket over a black shirt, with a red, silk tie. By Dusk’s assessment, that tie probably cost more than the aggregate sum of he and his partner’s outfits, plain shirts, jackets and waterproofs rented from the Silverwatch.

  “It’s a little weird that you’re wearing sunglasses in the middle of the rainy night, no?” Franz called out into the rain, pointing at the black and gold shades that sat on Chelone’s face. A genuine smile broke across the Vellichi’s face, followed by an earnest laugh as he and his driver strode onto the warehouse yard.

  “Sorry about that, officer, I just came here from a little to-do over on the Strait, it was much brighter in there.”

  “Right, but that’s a half hour drive away, so you still had to keep them on in the car.”

  “Is that why you’re here? Because I’m wearing sunglasses at night?”

  Dusk cut into the conversation, stepping ahead of his partners. “Chelone Vellichi, you are under arrest by the authority of the Silverwatch on the suspicion of transporting Indraknot into the city of Ancerbridge. Remain silent. Any attempt to employ a Resonance will be met with lethal force.”

  As Dusk spoke, he strode down the yard towards Chelone, who tilted his head with an amused smile. “Do you really think I didn’t know you would be here, detective?”

  Dusk stopped in his tracks. The wretched wheezing from Oswald gnawed at the fraying edge of his patience. Pausing for a second, he shot daggers at Chelone. “I don’t give a damn if you knew or you didn’t, you’re here now, and we’re taking you in.”

  Chelone turned a palm to his driver, who stepped aside. The rain fell on Chelone, who carefully removed his jacket and hung it off of his assistant’s arm. “Okay, well you don’t mind if we put up a fight, do you?”

  Dusk narrowed his eyes in confusion. “We?”

  Cold metal pushed into Dusk’s back, breaking through his coat and puncturing the flesh just above his right hip. Looking down, he grimaced and saw a large, metal scalpel jutting through his midriff.

  Behind him, Oswald chittered in excitement. Turning his head over his shoulder, he saw Luka look on sympathetically. “I told you man, it’s your funeral.”