Spirits of London

By Savannah Stone

A chance encounter at a concert has a mortal woman, Cara, meeting an immortal Spirit. It doesn't take long for passion to flare between them.
But her new friend has some secrets of his own.
A rogue Spirit is killing mortals, and the Spirits of London must deal with it or risk their existence becoming public knowledge.
When Cara is placed in danger because of her friendship, the Spirits of London must attempt a rescue - and in doing so they learn all is not as it seems with the rogue.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Savannah Stone
• Release date: Oct 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466109452

Book preview

SPIRITS OF LONDON

Book One - The Rogue

Savannah Stone

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Published by:

Savannah Stone at Smashwords

Copyright (c) 2011 by Savannah Stone

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All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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Prologue

The warrior lay on the battlefield, dying. All around him were fallen men, and boys, who had pitted all they had against their cruel and demanding Sheriff, and lost. He could still hear the clash of swords and cries in the distance, but the battle had swept past him, and on towards the castle on the hill, where the Sheriff lived. He lay quietly, not moving. He knew the wound to be a mortal one. He was gripped with sadness that he had encouraged these peasants to rise up and fight for their lives, and their freedoms. They had had no hope. He should have seen that, but had thought that their will to overcome the unfair cruelties of their daily lives might suffice.

It had not. The Sheriff had known they were coming, and his troops had sallied out of the castle on horseback, while the poorly armed men and boys of the surrounding villages were still far off. They had cut them down with their swords as if they were scything wheat.

I should have kept out of it, he thought in despair. At least these men would still be alive.

He had talked them round over pints of ale in the taverns found in every village. Telling them that the Sheriff had no right to starve them as he had, taking more than three quarters of all their harvest, leaving families to starve. He knew he talked treason, and if he was caught he would be hanged, but his heart burned to see his fellows treated this way. If only they could have killed the young Sheriff, the King would have had to appoint another, and nothing could be worse, surely?

So they plotted, and he tried to train them how to fight as a unit, using the knowledge gained from his years in the service of the old Sheriff.

It had all been for nothing, and now he was dying alone in a field. He had no family, his wife and two young children had starved the winter before, and his elderly parents the winter before that, so he welcomed his coming death.

He heard an agonised moaning coming from nearby. He painfully turned his head to look. A boy, barely old enough to wield a sword, lay on the cold, bloody ground, shaking and crying. The warrior slowly crawled towards him.

Shhh lad, shhh, he said uselessly. He saw that the boy’s hands were pushing at his stomach, and with a lurch of revulsion saw that he was attempting to hold his intestines in place, which were falling out of his sliced belly in obscene, glistening coils, steaming slightly in the cold air.

There was no more hope for the boy than there was for him. But there was something he could still do to help him. He inched closer. Cradling the boy’s head in his hands, he reached for his knife. It was razor sharp. Murmuring soft words of comfort, and shielding the boy’s eyes from what he was about to do, he brought the knife to his throat and quickly pierced the carotid artery. The blood started to spurt out rapidly. He held the boy until he lost consciousness, then he himself fell into a stupor.

He roused when he heard voices.

Here, Marco, this one still lives, came a female voice. A female, on a battlefield? His mind queried. But he was past caring.

He felt strong arms lift him, and bit back a groan of pain. He would die like a man, in silence, he vowed.

He was carried to a nearby cottage which had miraculously escaped being burned to the ground. His rescuer placed him on the bed. He heard their voices again.

"Please, Marco, came the woman’s voice. Look at him. We can’t just leave him to die. He looks just like Alexy."

The warrior thought that they should save themselves the trouble. He was going to die, and didn’t mind the thought. He was in no pain now, and just wanted to be left alone. He tried to say this, but couldn’t speak.

The man who had carried him spoke, but his voice was low and the warrior couldn’t hear him.

The woman pleaded again. Finally, there came a noise of assent, and the woman’s voice sobbing in thanks.

Chapter One

The Spirit sat on the train, feet on the seat in front of him. He sighed and rubbed his hands across his face. He felt tired. And bored. And old. And….. lonely. He was aware of the scrutiny of an older man sitting a few seats up. The man studied him, then frowned. The Spirit realised the man was silently chastising him for having his feet on the seat, but knew better than to say anything – this was the London underground after all; people minded their own business if they knew what was good for them.

Feeling a bit guilty, he removed his feet and gave him a half smile of apology. The man didn’t respond, instead just looked away. Miserable git, he thought as they pulled into the next station. As the doors opened, the Spirit looked up to see someone coming towards him, and smiled at the welcome sight of his friend approaching.

Hey, Bronic, I’ve been looking for you! said his friend, slapping him gently on the back, and throwing himself into the seat opposite. They were very different in looks, Bronic being tall, muscular and dark; the younger Spirit had wiry strength rather than muscle, and was slim and blond. But both had a powerful intensity about them which made many people look twice, especially women!

Hey Roke, how’s it going? Bronic replied, feeling more cheerful, as most people did around the ultra-enthusiastic spirit. Why are you looking for me? Why are you staring AT me? The doors of the train closed without anyone else coming in, and the train set off again.

It was true, Roke was staring at him. Man, you look rough. Have you been feeding properly? Don’t answer that, I can see you haven’t.

Bronic looked down. He didn’t need the younger spirit looking after him. It was just that feeding had become….. boring. He wanted more of a connection to the person he fed from, not just a casual encounter with a stranger, instantly forgotten by him, and forcibly forgotten by them.

I feed enough he replied defensively.

No man, you don’t said Roke firmly. He indicated the man who had scowled at Bronic with a nod of his head. Why not have him? There’s no one around. Go on man, you need some energy!

Bronic shook his head decisively. No, Roke. I’m fine, really.

Roke sighed, then stood up and stretched. Well, you won’t mind if I do then? Without waiting for an answer he walked up to the man, who was now buried in his newspaper, studiously ignoring them. Roke slid into the seat right next to him. The elderly man looked up, startled, then gasped as Roke put an arm around his shoulders and, in an act which looked oddly intimate, put his mouth to the man’s neck. Before the man could shout or even move, Roke moved away, smacking his lips. He pushed a small amount of his power at the man, who slumped in his chair, head falling against the window.

OOOH I feel GOOD, nah nah nah nah nah, I knew that I would Roke sang in a loud voice. He threw himself back into the seat opposite Bronic.

Roke, you took too much Bronic said reproachfully. For a Spirit to take too much life force from a mortal was not good. It could weaken them, render them unconscious or even kill them in extreme circumstances. Bronic knew that Roke would never do that, had far too much control, but he didn’t like to see the man unconscious either.

Nah. I didn’t, I just put him to sleep for a while answered Roke casually. He’ll be fine when he wakes up.

Anyway, you didn’t say why you were looking for me! Too busy looking out for me, which is totally unnecessary Bronic advised.

Roke stopped smiling and leaned forward seriously. Have you seen the paper? He asked. Bronic shook his head. Not today, why? He knew Roke wasn’t that interested in current affairs, and wondered why he would ask.

Roke went and got the Evening Standard from the still dozing man in the other seat. Bronic frowned at him but said nothing, there was no point. Roke wouldn’t take any notice. There had been a time when Roke hung on Bronic’s every word, but those days were long gone, unfortunately, he thought wryly.

Bronic looked at the page Roke had folded the paper down to. "Man Killed By Mystery Illness" the headline ran. He skimmed his way down the rest of the article.

So? Bronic questioned with an eyebrow raised.

The guy was drained, Bronic, Roke answered quietly.

The older Spirit stared at Roke, aghast. He read the paper again.

It doesn’t mention that here he said.

Well, it wouldn’t, would it Roke said sarcastically. They might be mortal, but they’re not stupid. The Boss sent me down to the morgue to take a look. She’d heard something, and what I saw confirmed it. I’m just going back to report to her now". Roke shuddered. What he’d seen in the morgue was horrific, especially for a Spirit of his age, who hadn’t seen so many bad things in his life as ancient Bronic.

Bronic sat quietly, thinking. This was bad. A mortal drained could only mean a rogue Spirit – one who didn’t mind, or worse, revelled in, feeding off mortals to the point of death. They literally sucked out the life force of the person, draining their energy to a point of no return. It was not a pleasant death, and would no doubt bemuse the doctors performing the autopsy, as it was not something they would ever have come across before.

The last rogue was over five hundred years ago Bronic told his friend. You weren’t even made then. He was hunted down and killed by Marco."

Marco? Ava’s Marco? Roke questioned. Ava and Marco were the eldest of the Spirits in this part of the world, and they were responsible for all the Spirits they had created, and any of their creations also. Ava was affectionately known as The Boss by Bronic, Roke, and their brother Spirits. She was an ancient Spirit, held in high esteem for her wisdom and compassion.

Were you involved? Roke asked his friend.

Bronic shook his head No, I was just newly created. I was kept well away. But I heard about it later. The rogue killed over a hundred mortals before they caught him. That’s not going to happen again he stated.

The train started to slow once again. Bronic nodded towards the sleeping man. Wake him up, Roke. This might be his station!

Roke walked back to the man, taking the newspaper with him. He pushed a little power towards him. The man spluttered awake, and stared at Roke suspiciously. Roke held the paper out with a pacifying smile. Sir, I think you dropped your paper. The man took the paper without thanks, still staring.

Two young women got onto the train, and walked past the two Spirits, giggling. Oooh, look at those two hotties they whispered as they went further down the carriage.

Roke gave them a beaming smile, and considered going after them, but went back to Bronic. So, are you coming to see Ava and Marco with me? He asked. Bronic debated internally, then shook his head again. Not tonight, I’m almost home now. It’s late and I’m tired. Tell her I’ll come and see her tomorrow though.

Ok. Roke said dismally. He’d wanted Bronic to come along with him.

Bronic stood up to leave as the train rattled into his station. I’ll see you later Roke. Please keep your eyes open and your wits about you, he warned his friend. Don’t get wrapped up in, say, two young blondes for example!

You know it, man, replied Roke carelessly. Now you get some feeding done. Tonight, he ordered, laughing at the look on Bronic’s face as his creator hopped off the tube and started walking up the station. He looked over to the girls, then shot his cuffs and went over to them, winking at Bronic as the train went by.

Bronic walked quickly along the empty platform, deep in thought. The earlier feeling of boredom had quite gone, and an unpleasant feeling of sinking dread had replaced it. Dealing with a rogue was no easy business, and would require all of the Spirits to be on top form. Not everyone was cut out for dealing with rogues. Both he and Roke would be required to help out with this, he knew.

That meant that, as Roke had suggested, Bronic needed to feed more regularly to keep himself at the top of his strength.

He spotted a woman standing on the escalator. She was alone, but even at this late hour, there were still a few other people around. He decided to follow the woman out of the station and feed from her as soon as he reached a suitable spot.

Moving quietly, Bronic took up position some way behind her. He didn’t want to spook her, and he knew he could easily catch her up at the right time. He moved confidently, completely at one with the dark night, seeing just as easily as in daylight. The woman looked nervously around, and increased her pace a little. She had obviously sensed something and was reacting to Bronic’s unseen presence.

Bronic spotted a small alleyway a few hundred yards ahead – the perfect place. He looked around, there was no one nearby. Not that it mattered, really – no one would bother them, and if they did, he could soon get rid of them, but he didn’t want the hassle. He just wanted to feed and leave.

He waited until the woman was just level with the alley, then he silently but rapidly moved to her side. She barely had time to open her mouth to scream before Bronic had his hand over her mouth, the other behind her head, pressing her mouth further into his hand.

Shhh now, easy there he crooned to her. Relax, I’m not going to hurt you. He gave her a moment to recover. Of course, he could have just put her to sleep like Roke had done earlier, but centuries of feeding had given him a conscience about it. He didn’t like to abuse his power, and