Blessed by Fire Read online

  Blessed by Fire

  A Supernatural Horror Novel

  By

  P.W Hillard

  Copyright P.W Hillard, all rights reserved 2019

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  A Message from the Author

  Libra- A Short story from the Horroscopes collection

  Chapter 1

  That kind of unique damp breeze only found on rainy boardwalks across Britain drifted in through the thin gap at the top of the car window. Mark adjusted in his seat, clutching the carrier bag to his chest. It was warm and smelled strongly of vinegar. He fished out a package wrapped in white paper which crackled as he handled it.

  “Large chips and a sausage in batter.” He handed the package to the woman sat in the driver’s seat.

  “Thanks.” Jess unwrapped the package on her lap, resting some of the paper on the steering wheel. “Did you get the curry sauce?”

  “Yeah, here you go.” Mark passed a small Styrofoam carton in a brown paper bag. “Any sign of him?” He peered forward in his seat. They had parked across the street from a fried chicken takeaway. A cartoon chicken in a baseball hat leered down at them.

  “He turned up for work not long after you went in the chippy.” Jess dipped her sausage into her curry. She blew on it and took a large bite. “Don’t seem to be that many staff in there,” she muttered, her words muffled by the mouthful of sausage.

  Mark unwrapped his own chips. “Right well plan of attac- “He was interrupted by Jess tapping him on the shoulder. She opened the car door and stepped out into the street. A young man wearing a red and white striped uniform was carrying large black bags around the side of the fried chicken shop. The cartoon chicken grinned on his back. Mark stared at the still hot chips on his lap, sighed and placed them on the driver’s seat. He stepped out and began to follow Jess.

  The man in the chicken shop uniform lifted the heavy metal lid of the bin and heaved the black bags into his. He was tall, toned and had black hair cut into a fade. He wiped his hands on the blood red apron that covered his front and turned to walk back to the front of the shop. Two figures blocked his way. A man, thick heavy grey woollen coat covering a plane white shirt and beige chinos. His hair was flecked with grey, thin streaks of it running across his temples. Thick glasses framed his piercing blue eyes. A thick stubble covered his jaw. The second figure was a woman, tall with a thin face, her chin and nose pointed. She had fiery red hair tied in a long ponytail. She wore a navy-blue suit underneath a black windbreaker.

  “Gregg Harken?” Asked the woman. She opened her jacket. Reaching for something inside.

  “Who’s asking?” replied Gregg. He shifted nervously.

  “Detective Constable Holden, this is my partner Detective Constable Curren.” She pulled an identity badge from her jacket pocket.

  “We’ve got a few questions for you,” said the man she had identified as Curren. He stepped forward. Gregg took a step back, thought for a moment and then broke into a sprint.

  Mark sighed heavily. “And I didn’t bring my running shoes,” he complained. The two police officers broke into a run, feet pounding after Gregg. They rounded the corner after him as he turned out of sight. The small alleyway behind the fast food outlet opened onto another street. Gregg collided with a portly man carrying a shopping bag, spilling fruit onto the street. He stumbled for a moment, regained his footing and continued to run.

  “Stop police!” Jess shouted, stepping over the pedestrian who was scrabbling after an orange.

  “One day,” Mark chuckled “that will actually work.”

  As they pursued Gregg down the street, slowly they gained on him. The crowd was being separated by him as he fled like a ships’ wake. Unimpeded they gained ground on him little by little. Marks knees ached a dull throbbing pain, Jess’ face had gone a shade of red to match her hair. Gregg strode confidently, evidently still having plenty of wind in his sails. He bore to his left, sliding down an embankment into the carpark of the Valueways branch near the end of the street.

  “God dammnit,” complained Mark has he slowly drudged down the small slope. Slimy wet mud covered his shoes. “These were…new…,” he wheezed, his breath ragged. He stopped for a second to shake them off as Jess ran past him. She twisted, dodging past an old woman pushing a trolley. The car park was full, it brimmed with cars. Reaching the first row of them, Gregg crouched briefly onto all fours, before launching himself into the air, clearing four rows of parked cars. His arms flailed as he flew, and his ankle twisted as he landed. He careened into a white Transit, slamming headfirst into the doors before collapsing on the floor.

  “They always try to get clever,” Jess rolled her eyes as she spoke. She reached to the back of her belt and unclipped a set of handcuffs. “Come on mate,” she grabbed Gregg, locking the handcuffs around his wrists. “You’re nicked.”

  Gregg screamed. His skin stretched as his face reshaped itself forming a long snout. Wiry brown hair sprouted from his skin. His nails stretched out become long sharp claws. His gums swelled as a set of razor-sharp teeth dropped in front of his human ones. Then, like an elastic band, his form snapped back into place. He screeched in defiance before attempting the transformation again. He thrashed and kicked on the ground. He tried desperately to wrench his wrists free of the handcuffs. Pale blue runes glowed along them, and his skin let off a faint sizzle each time he tried to shift. Mark stared at his watch counting whilst Jess leant scribbled a note for the owner of the now dented van. Gregg let out a long drawn out breath and sat up. He closed his eyes and took slow controlled breaths.

  “Four minutes and nineteen seconds,” declared Mark with a flourish of his hand.

  “Better than most, congratulations kid,” Jess tucked the note beneath the van’s wiper blade. “You’re part of the elusive sub five-minute club. Normally takes a little longer to work out the cuffs.”

  “Who are you? What are you?” Gregg asked frantically.

  “We told you,” Mark crouched next to him. “Police, just ones who deal with things that are, well, like you.” Mark gripped his arm and lifted him to his feet. “Let’s go with, special.”

  One on each arm they marched Gregg back the way they had come. Jess had to awkwardly slow her pace to not pull ahead. People drifted out of the way, gossiping to each other as they paraded the handcuffed Gregg across the street.

  “So how long?” whispered Jess in his ear.

  “How long what?” Gregg barked back.

  “Keep your voice down,” murmured Jess “How long have you been a, you know?”

  “A fry cook?” Gregg said puzzled.

  “No,” Jess rolled her eyes “a werewolf.”

  “Oh my god Jess, you can’t just ask someone how long they’ve been a,” Mark lowered his voice to match them “werewolf.”

  “No, it’s ok.” Gregg shrugged. “I got bit when I was fourteen, one of the other kids in my foster home.”

  “Sorry to hear that” apologised Jess. “Doesn’t excuse a life of crime though, I went through foster care and look at me.”

  “You haven’t even told me what I’ve done!” pro
tested Gregg.

  Mark put the key into the boots lock and popped it open. He gestured at the contents within. His face was twisted into a scowl.

  “This is what you have done,” Jess crossed her arms. “Care to explain yourself?”

  “Trainers?” Gregg said puzzled. “They sent some kind of special police, with magic handcuffs over some trainers?”

  “Hey, look, laws the law.” Mark stared at him. “Doesn’t matter if you’re a wolf, or a vamp, or a kappa rules still apply.”

  “The fuck is a kappa?” asked Gregg.

  “It’s like a kind of turtle spirt. Actually, it doesn’t matter,” Jess replied. She reached into the car boot and pulled out one of the several pairs of trainers contained within. “We picked these up from a storage unit under your name. Abbidos? Really? You’re going to sell fake trainers on Facebook and you don’t even bother to check them.”

  “I didn’t know they were fake!” protested Gregg. “I bought them off a mate! They seemed good to me.”

  “Wash many hots, rotation accelerate. Those are the wash instructions,” Jess was holding one of the trainers in front of her; reading from a label inside. “It lists the shoe size as four hundred and twelve.”

  Mark drove for the journey back. He had stuffed his bag of chips into one of the plastic pockets in the driver side door. They had long since gone cold be he begrudged wasting the two pound twenty he had paid. Jess was, as usual, scribbling something in her notebook. She wrote down everything, always said it helped with the paperwork later. Mark thought she must have hundreds of the things scattered around her house by now. Gregg had lain down flat on the rear passenger seats. They drove an unmarked black Toyota so there was no partition between the front and back like a normal police car. With the handcuffs on though Gregg was no more threatening than the average twenty something, and he was being co-operative enough now the game was up. This is always the worst part thought Mark, swallowing down a cold chip with grim determination. Special investigations was officially part of the Metropolitan Police, but because of its unique nature had dispensation of operate across the country. Most local forces couldn’t hold anything supernatural for too long, so long drives back to New Scotland Yard were common. Thankfully Broadstairs was only a two-hour drive from London. Mark had once been part of a cross cultural exercise with their American counterparts. It was funny, to them a four-hour drive had been “nothing”, but four hundred years had been “an eternity”.

  “Everything ok back there?” Jess broke the silence by asking.

  “Sunshine and roses,” replied Gregg sarcastically. “Where are we going?

  “Specialist holding.” Jess turned in his seat to look over the headrest. “Cells for people of… supernatural... capabilities.

  Gregg sat up with a start. “So, what, you’re going to throw me in some hole and throw away the key?”

  “What? No!” Jess looked visibly hurt. “You’ll be processed and tried just like anyone else. You’ll probably be on the train back to Broadstairs by tomorrow morning. You’ll be registered as an S.N and given some stuff to help you.”

  “What kind of help?” asked Gregg.

  “Guides of how to conceal your lycanthropy, what to do if monster hunters get your trail, support groups, that kind of thing.”

  “Wait, wait,” Gregg leant forward close to Jess, enraptured. “Lycanthropy? Monster hunters?”

  “Lycanthropy is the technical term for being a werewolf, everyone knows you get bit you turn, but that’s what the actual disease that changes you is called. Monster hunters is fairly self-explanatory.”

  “So, someone out there is trying to kill me?” Greggs asked frantically.

  “Well, hopefully not,” Mark added, feeling left out of the conversation. “We try and stop people before it gets that far. Movies, telly shows, books, all have done a lot of damage to your public image so to speak. People find out what you are, and it tends to be pitchforks at dawn.”

  “How did you even know what I was? I’ve never shown told anyone, shown anyone?”

  “Simple detective work,” answered Jess. “Rumours about town of a figure leaping buildings in a single bound, sprinting across fields, stuff that gets certain rumour websites excited. Spring-heeled Jack sighted once again! That kind of thing.”

  “That got us on the trail of something odd in the town,” Mark continued “and we liaised with the local constabulary on what cases they were working on.”

  “What and you got werewolf from dodgy trainers?” Gregg laughed, partly at himself, partly at the leap in logic.

  “Well, no,” said Jess. “But you were selling on Facebook under a fake name, Gregg Wolfman.”

  “Not the cleverest in school were you Gregg?” Mark Jabbed.

  They had pulled the car into New Scotland Yard’s carpark, dragged Gregg from the car and marched him over to a small lift door hidden in the far corner. They stepped inside squeezing up against each other in its tiny space. Mark pressed a button and it began to descend. It opened to a long corridor filled with dripping pipes. Something scuttled in the dark.

  “This isn’t creepy at all,” said Gregg, trying to break the silence.

  “Joys of budget cuts.” Jess gurned at him. They reached a set of double doors, a pale worn olive green. They swung open as they pushed through. The doors opened onto a large open place office space. Detectives sat at desks starting at monitors tapping out reports with slow single key presses. One was resting their hand on their chin but had forgotten the were holding a sandwich. Immediately behind the double doors was a curved desk where a uniformed officer was sat.

  “Shauna,” Said Jess, pushing Gregg in front of her “this is Gregg. Say hello Gregg.”

  “Hello,” he murmured.

  “Shauna here,” Jess continued “will get you processed. Not part of the community. He’s going to need the full orientation.”

  The young woman stepped out from behind the desk. She had dark tanned skin, her black hair tied up in a bun. She held her hands tucked into her uniforms vest.

  “Come on then kid, got a long boring PowerPoint to go through.” Shauna beckoned to him, and he followed out a set of doors on the right-hand side of the room.

  Mark leaned back in his chair staring at the computer screen, typing out the arrest to the best of his recollection. It was slow going. Trying to remember everything from a high-pressure situation after the fact was surprisingly difficult. Jess sat at the desk next to his, nose deep in her notebook. Mark had tried to copy her once, write everything down. It had lasted about fifteen minutes before he had dropped it into a toilet by accident. Now he relied on Jess who kept notes enough for the both of them.

  “Think that kid will be alright?” Mark asked.

  “Probably,” Jess was starting at her notebook in one hand and typing with the other “In theory he could get prison time, but it’s more likely community service or a suspended sentence.”

  “Couple of trainers isn’t exactly high crime is it?”

  “Not for us to say,” Jess shrugged. He closed her note book and clicked save on her report. She passed it over to mark. “At least we might get him some help. Jenkins and Singh got another one last night.”

  “Shit really?” Mark sat up in his chair. It let out a loud squeak. “That’s what, four now?”

  “Five including this one.” Jess opened a drawer on her desk pulling out an open packet of digestive biscuits. She dunked it into a cup of tea that had gone lukewarm as she had typed. “I was talking to Jenkins when I made the tea. She thinks whoever is doing it is getting bolder. Not stupid either, they keep moving on after each kill. Even if other targets are in town.”

  “That’s not good,” Mark sighed. “A competent hunter can do a lot of damage.”

  “Three victims so far have been werewolves, one particularly hairy ghoul and something called a nagual.”

  “It’s a kind of shapeshifter. Mesoamerican origin,” Mark said. His eyes were closed, and he was tapping the sides
of his temples.

  “Never ceases to amaze me,” Jess rolled her eyes “the human encyclopaedia. Should add yourself to the lore books.”

  Mark shrugged. “Just got one of those memories I guess?”

  “You can remember that, but can’t remember your own phone number?” Jess raised one eyebrow.

  The bustle of the office carried on into the evening. To the casual observer the scene might seem like any other police station across the country. A careful eye might notice things that are off. A small set of runes carved on the handles for the doors. A detective holding a book encased in glass at arm’s length. The Sergeant manning the desk opening her lunch box and removing what seems to be a raw chicken breast. To the members of the special investigations division this was a quiet normal day. Normal being of course relative. Across the office floor an older woman wearing a pale blue trouser suit over a pink blouse beckoned to Mark and Jess, who stood up and strode over the office the woman had vanished back into.

  “Ma’am,” said Mark taking a seat. He shifted nervously. The chair was made of cheap plastic with plain metal legs. It was uncomfortable, but he suspected that was the point. Jess took the seat next to him, pulling at her jacket as she sat.

  “I wanted to thank you both for an adequate job earlier,” Detective Chief Inspector Florence Weston was not one for praise. “You have both been performing as expected with recent cases, especially as some of them may have been…,” she thought for a moment “above your pay grade shall we say, at a more traditional unit.”

  “We are very grateful ma’am,” replied Jess nervously. “I’ve seen more working than in my entire career before.”

  “Yes well, pleasantries over,” Mark and Jess looked at each other confused at the statement, “I have another case for you.”

  “With all due respect ma’am, we just got back to London this morning,” Mark fidgeted as he held her gaze, “I’m assuming it’s another job with travel, otherwise you would have come over to us.”

  “Very astute of you D.C Curren,” the inspector lifted two identical manila folders and passed handed one to each of them. “I’m sending you to somewhere called Pontypridd,” she slowly sounded out the towns name, “someone there claims they were attacked by a ghost.”