The opening chapters of The Reeves’ Guild – an urban fantasy/crime cross genre novel.
L is a Special Intelligence Officer in MI5, working for a nearly forgotten and under-resourced unit called The Reeves’ Guild. Their remit is the protection of domestic national security against supernatural threats. But with magical crimes at an all-time low in the 21st century, L’s dreams of action and adventure disappear into a life of humdrum administration and policing petty misdemeanours.
When L is ordered to investigate the brutal murder of an elite occultist, he jumps at the chance to work a real case and show his boss that he can solve the crime quickly and quietly, finally proving he’s true Secret Service material. Navigating a problematic working relationship with the Metropolitan Police, the investigation proves to be a tricky one… possibly the first case of murder by magic The Reeves’ Guild has encountered in centuries. But how can L defend against an enemy using magic when Reeves are forbidden from using it? And, why has the Director General of MI5 taken a sudden interest in both him and the case?
As more of London’s magical community fall victim to the murderer, two women’s lives are turned upside down when they are caught up in the case… and with disturbing consequences. As the investigation deepens, it isn’t long before L uncovers a threat to Crown and country; one that is closer than the Reeves ever imagined.
Anthology Extract
You can read the full extract online.
CHAPTER 1
Ruben Zimmerman lounged against the soft leather of the Chesterfield, swaying his head to the opening bars of Brahms’ Piano Concerto No. 1.
Hidden deep in the folds of shadow and night, a man clothed in black continued to observe as Zimmerman followed the swell of the orchestral Maestoso movement filling every corner of the study.
The Man in Black kept his breathing even, tensing and relaxing his muscles to prevent cramping. Standing in such a restricted space, sensations of discomfort were natural, but he ignored it all. This was not the first time he had concealed himself inside the old man’s grand house. But it would be the last. His concentration would not be compromised. He kept his eyes on Zimmerman.
As expected, the old man followed his usual celebratory routine after closing a lucrative deal, with a cigar and too many glasses of Macallan, kept in his private collection for such an occasion. The butler always ensured it was readied for the old man’s return. Zimmerman knocked it back like water, instead of savouring its complexity and lightness.
A pity, the intruder thought.
Nevertheless, the alcohol would still do its work—he’d made sure of it. It had been simple to add a few drops of distilled henbane into the crystal decanter. The poison was synthesised to be tasteless, odourless and impossible to trace: a true masterpiece of ancient wisdom and modern science. The henbane would act quickly, first inducing drowsiness then paralysis. But more importantly, it would slow down the circulatory and central nervous systems, exactly what he needed to execute his plan that night.
During his months of reconnaissance, he’d come to admire the old man’s tastes, a respectable balance of refinement and expense. The Man in Black inhaled silently, closing his eyes to appreciate the distinct aroma of the cigar—a rare Gurkha HMR—as it drifted across the room.
Soon enough, Zimmerman’s shoulders visibly relaxed.
Somewhere in the house a clock chimed midnight.
It was time.
Finally, The Man in Black could move out of the shadows, careful to use the environment to his advantage. He had calculated that the small lamp would impair the old man’s night vision and his movements would be concealed by the music. Nevertheless, he’d worn soft soled shoes. Vigilance was non-negotiable.
From the inside of his jacket, he removed an ornate dagger that he’d sharpened and anointed earlier that day. His palm flexed and relaxed around the onyx and ruby stones, the silver embellishments of the hilt pressing into his gloved hand.
The Man in Black stood directly behind Zimmerman.
His attack was swift and precise.
He grabbed the top of the old man’s balding head. Forced it back. In one fluid movement, he sliced across Zimmerman’s throat. His thin, leathery skin divided easily, giving no resistance against the knife’s edge.
The Man in Black pulled a soft cloth from his pocket and wiped the blade clean.
The cigar dropped from Zimmerman’s fingers, rolling to the floor to smoulder.
It really was a shame to ruin such a fine antique rug.
Moving around the Chesterfield, he faced the old man who was trying and failing to stem the blood flowing through his fingers.
‘Order over chaos. Dominion over both,’ he said in greeting.
Recognition dawned in Zimmerman’s eyes.
The Man in Black retrieved a book from underneath the sofa, where he’d hidden it earlier that day. He caressed its pages like a parent soothing a sleeping child, the written symbols beginning to move and swirl almost in tempo with the music. He began reading in a deep and clear voice. The language was an ancient and corrupted tongue that was both soft and guttural, ‘Ye’quowekhtxikirje’al. Toum chekqu’ujokar. Izin’vesh cheate’um qu iftash
Fresh terror crossed Zimmerman’s face.
His gaze flicked from the words to the old man and back again. Zimmerman’s blood still poured through his wrinkled hands in slow, pulsing gushes. He needed him alive for this part of the spell to work. The Man in Black concentrated, moving into the final phrase of the incantation. ‘Izin’vesh cheate’um qu xa’xsin. Ye’quowekhtxikirje’al. Toum chekqu’ujokar.’
And he waited.
A soft, slow light pulsed weakly from deep inside Zimmerman’s body. The light grew rapidly brighter, filling the whole room. Zimmerman’s arteries pulsed as they struggled to hold onto life. The shadow of bones appeared, the light turning his flesh translucent, transforming the old man into a living map of anatomy.
The Man in Black was filled with a childlike sense of awe—it was the most exquisite thing he’d ever seen.
And still the light grew. Swelling and flowing out of Zimmerman’s body until the brightness was too painful to look at. Just as quickly, the light collapsed inwards, coalescing in the centre of the dying man’s heart.
Zimmerman’s mouth stretched in a silent scream, his hands wrenched from his neck, body strained and pinned to the sofa. White light rushed upwards and burst from the old man’s eyes and mouth.
The spell ended and the room was plunged into shadows once more.
The Man in Black stood entranced as Zimmerman exhaled his last breath.
A glowing symbol appeared on the dead man’s forehead: two golden crescent moons sliced through with a line of fire broke the gloom, before fading and disappearing completely.
The Man in Black hugged the book to his chest and allowed himself a moment to revel in his success. But only briefly. He had one more task to complete before he could rest.
‘Follow me,’ he said, turning to leave.
A dark figure detached itself from the shadows and followed him out of the dead man’s house.
