Hero Worship: Dark Urban Rising, #2

By S M Henley

Billy just wants to fit it. So, why does he insist he can fly?

For rich technomancer, Billy Nadig, life's a game: he lives in a cool East London penthouse, has a bedroom stocked with blond-haired lovelies, and an unhealthy obsession with women's shoes. But when Billy is told he's a Sleeper, awoken by Heaven to stop his best friend, Tazia—a half-vampire girl—make a decision that could destroy the world, even he realizes it's time to get serious.

Billy's agonizing transformation couldn't come at a worse time: demons are rising, evil angels take center stage, and an indomitable mercenary continues to dog his every step. Saving the Earth will take both hard fighting and hard choices, maybe even the ultimate sacrifice—to kill his best friend. But if she dies, who will save Billy?

With his perfect hair and a slick line in chat, Billy says he's just trying to fit in. But in the second of the Dark Urban Rising trilogy, "fitting in" takes him to another level entirely. Hero Worship is a supernatural thriller set on the streets of modern-day London, Las Vegas, and Boston. It digs into the darkness, with not a small amount of blood and gritty humor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: S M Henley
• Release date: Feb 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386944553

S M Henley

Sue was brought up in an English seaside town singing to Echo and the Bunnymen and worshipping Siouxsie Sioux. She now lives in rural Alberta, Canada, with more pets than people, where everyone is friendly, winters are long, cheese is bright orange, and the occasional moose wanders through her yard. Her writing spans Urban Fantasy through Horror. The UF is darker than average. It dips a toe into Dystopia and splashes blood freely. The Horror is a little darker; still paranormally themed, characters run from flawed to freaky, blood is optional.

Book preview

1

The Impossible Girl

The steady slap of polished wood against bare skin left Billy unusually dissatisfied. He increased the pace: thwack, thwack, thwack.

Momentarily the flesh tensed before settling again into softness. Knees and hands remained rigidly planted on the bed, and a toss of long blonde hair indicated he should continue.

Under the action of the paddle, a vivid red splotch had bloomed, the same color as the high-heeled shoes that protruded over the end of the bed. The mark became angrier each second and grew slightly as the skin swelled.

Billy peered at it closely, his nose almost touching the shapely bottom. He could have sworn it was taking on the shape of a country he recognized. France, maybe? No, not square enough for that. Spain?

He moved back and slapped the oddly shaped swelling once again, with a little more pressure this time, discovery just another paddle away. A triangular extension burst onto the skin and extended the square downward. Africa! That’s it! Not a country—a whole bloody continent!

It made him sort of proud.

The last slap also elicited a slight "ahh!" from the woman straddled on his slickly wrapped bed. The black silk sheets were a recent purchase made from boredom and a brief desire to adopt a Hugh Hefner persona. They’d proved to be a disappointment. No one had told him silk was so damn slippery and already caused one unfortunate bunny to shoot across the bed and land in a twisted heap on the floor.

In addition, when he got into the bed on his own, which was becoming more frequent of late, they were icy-cold on his skin. Uninviting.

He probably wouldn’t keep them, the sheets or the blonde. She seemed preoccupied. Despite his attention returning to her backside, images of her manicuring her nails or considering a grocery list kept flashing through his head. The few sighs that emanated didn’t seem to come from pleasure, either. They were too similar, the same weak inflection every time. He came to the conclusion he must bore her, too. That smarted a little.

The idea that those who’d recently occupied his bed didn’t remember him with the same level of affection they used to, disturbed him. The last few months had really put a crimp in his performance and, truth be told, left a cramp in his thigh muscles.

Thwack!

With one last energetic slap which took the bottom quite by surprise, he said, Time to bugger off, love. The look he got back was one of gratitude. She is bored. Bloody hell!

Without waiting for the girl to get up from the bed, Billy pulled on his designer underwear and the shirt he’d removed earlier, and made his way into the living area of his East London Docklands flat.

As usual, it was pristine.

The three black leather sofas sat solidly in the middle of the floor arranged around a geometric patterned black and white rug. Their flat square arms delivered a safe resting place for the bottles of the European lager he favored, but not an ounce of comfort for an occupant. The bricks in the walls provided a rare splash of color. Original to the eighteen forties when the building operated as a tea warehouse, they were a little crumbly around the edges, but still maintained their chalky red hue.

The walls reached high to open rafters and were decorated with an assortment of oversized photographs depicting stick-thin models standing in awkward poses against dramatic backdrops of industrial machinery or views over rock escarpments. Still-life studies of female footwear also adorned the space: six-inch red stilettos vied for room against more steampunk-inspired thigh-highs.

Only one photograph, of well-used rough workman’s boots, provided a change of mood. But even these were back-lit and placed attractively, one leaning its heel against a low satin-covered box, and the other resting at a sideways angle against its companion.

A regiment of desktop computers of varying age and quality covered the large desk in the far left corner of the room. Behind them stood a wall of similarly neatly arranged routers, screens, and hard drives that gave the impression of the electronics shelf in a thrift store. Billy loved old technology. Color coded wires were everywhere, hanging from every device like limp spaghetti.

After retrieving a beer from the fridge in the kitchen, Billy pried the metal top from the bottle with an opener styled as Dracula’s open mouth. It released with a pop and he took a quick swig, then studied the gadget. The vampire grimaced at him, its flat central teeth providing just enough space to grip a bottle top tightly while the two sharp canine fangs served little function.

He smiled. He’d received the opener as a gift and a lecture had accompanied it: Of course, vampires don’t actually use their fangs for anything but a show of aggression, and only very mature ones have them, anyway. He’d learned a lot that day—the day his best friend, a haughty and often impossible half-vampire girl, had chosen to teach him about the supernatural world.

When he’d dropped that same girl at a South London psychiatric unit four months ago, those conversations had stopped.

The first twelve weeks had passed in a haze of daily visits, each one taking the same format: the repeated telling of the events that had brought her there, mindless board games, and tales of his latest plaything to make her smile.

When he wasn’t there, he’d heard from the orderlies she would curl up in a tight ball in the corner of the room for hours at a time, her eyes squeezed shut. At night, they said, she lay stiffly on the bed, arms by her sides, staring up at the white expanse of hospital ceiling. A study in stillness. It pained him to think of her that way.

After one hundred and fifty years, her life had come crashing down, and Billy had finally admitted to himself there was nothing he could do to make it better. He didn’t know what was worse, his inability to help or the guilt he felt for doing nothing.

Recently, he’d spent more time away, desperately needing normality again. Party people, long runs, and highly paid technomancy contracts, all provided the distraction he needed. Though the guilt had yet to lessen.

The sound of high heels clipping sharply over his polished wood floor brought him up short. He winced and without looking up said, Shoes!

I know!

He felt her eye-roll.

The footsteps paused by the front door, and the offending heels clattered to the floor.

He looked up.

The woman was now clothed in a deep brown wrap-around dress that tied at the waist and ended just below her knee, not a hint of cleavage. A strangely sedate outfit for her chosen lifestyle. She pulled on low wedge-heeled canvas sandals, kissed the air vaguely in his direction, and was gone.

Billy’s shoulders sagged in relief. Even his heartbeat steadied.

He pulled the kitchen drawer open to return the bottle opener, but hovered instead, his fingers running over the sharp little teeth. Dracula’s wide staring eyes looked back at him. The girl had copied that expression exactly when she’d given it to him, her whole body rocking with laughter. The sound of that laugh never changed, so natural, so… sweet. She would have laughed even harder at him for using that word.

The alarm from the Mac cut through his contemplation. Someone was calling on the video link. He dropped the bottle opener into the cutlery drawer with a clatter, and headed toward his desk hoping for good news.

2

Fairy Dust

The alarm sounded for a second time. The little B-flat scale had seemed such a good idea, but now it set his teeth on edge. Billy clicked the acceptance button. The screen showed the profile of a man’s head talking to an out-of-sight companion. He looked like he was calling from an open topped vehicle, and most of the screen was bleached out from the sun.

Hey, Hux!

Soren Huxford had cut his long blond hair slightly shorter than usual; it was just above his chin and pushed roughly behind his ears, a decision most probably based on practicality—or the inability to purchase his favorite body-enhancing shampoo in the African desert.

He turned back and his face filled the screen, blocking out the sun. Tiny specks of sand had gathered in the roots of his hair and in the slight crow’s feet in the corners of his light blue eyes. Dark shadows traced tiredness and a week-old stubble studded his chin.

Wow, Hux, this connection is fantastic, mate. Billy squirmed slightly, distracting himself from Soren’s good looks by admiring the wi-fi.

Not my end—you’re breaking up. Soren drew his hand through his hair, disrupting the sand. A little cascade caught the light and sprinkled across the screen like fairy dust. How’s Anastasia? It was the first question he always asked.

Same, Billy said. It wasn’t strictly true—she’d gotten worse.

The last time he’d visited her she was quiet and distracted. He’d arrived at the hospital to find her staring at the picture hanging on the wall of a small child playing on a swing. She was so caught up in a conversation with the child, she hadn’t heard him arrive. He’d watched her in silence for a few minutes, before she suddenly turned and greeted him as though a sixth sense had told her he was there.

For a moment, Soren gazed past the screen, apparently lost in his own thoughts about the young woman they both loved.

Since the events in Turin, Billy had accepted that Soren did indeed care about Tazia despite his conflicting behavior, but he’d yet to see the older man demonstrate a real passion for her. There was the occasional distant look like this one, and the odd spark of hope if Billy told him she had smiled during their visit that day. But the looks were fleeting, like a glimpse of a snowy owl in the blackness of a midwinter night—there, then gone.

Billy was still firmly of the opinion that Tazia’s future was with him, not Soren. But for now, he was willing to accept the man’s help if it meant they could keep her safe from the Advocate and get her out of that damn hospital.

Do you have news? Or were you just calling me to stare at my well-developed abs? Billy’s shirt was still wide open, and Soren was getting a fuller view of him than Billy was getting back.

For all his quippy efforts, his reward was an icy glare. The Swede’s lack of humor was wearing.

Soren gave his report like a soldier in the field. I tracked the Advocate to Africa. She appeared in Southern Sudan. I followed her up to the north and over to Morocco. The usual pattern: she’s collecting acolytes. I’ve spoken to some of them. She’s full of promises to end the Risings.

He paused and looked with meaning into the camera. She’s talking about the ‘Savior’ again.

Billy steadily held his eyes, seeing for a moment a little more emotion there—the owl beating its wings, perhaps?

She’s not backing down. Soren shifted a little. These guys she leaves behind are convincing. They talk others around once she’s gone.

He squinted at the screen and moved his head. The glare from the sun flashed out the picture once more. You still there? Damn bright out here.

Yeah, I’m here.

Soren moved again to block the sun and gave a slight nod before continuing in a less soldierly style. Her argument is working, Billy. People are frightened.

"Well, they’re quite right to be scared, bruv. They see demons everywhere—see humanity slipping away. Then she turns up, quoting scripture, flashing her wings, preaching soul-saving shit about the coming Savior. Seriously, who is going to say no to that when they feel so desperate?" Billy leaned his head on his open hand, feeling at least a thousand years old. His wrist painfully cracked, the after effects of all the paddling earlier, but brought no relief. He circled it gingerly to make it crack again.

But Tazia’s not their Savior. Soren’s voice was flat.

"We know that. But the angel’s weaving a good tale, telling them she’s someone who’s fought against her own demon self—and won. She got her soul back! That’s irresistible spin right there."

We can’t let her get to Anastasia. Soren looked away.

Billy could see pain on his face. Was his energy starting to fade? He’d been charging after the High Advocate ever since she’d tricked him into murdering Tazia’s lover in Turin. He’d thought killing Conn O’Cuinn would save her, but by doing so he’d actually placed Tazia into the angel’s grasp.

Over the last four months, Soren’s desire to kill Jegudiel had driven him on from place to place. Until now, his energy and determination had never weakened.

Hux, you okay, bruv?

Yeah, frustrated, maybe. I’m always just one step behind.

I know.

Soren leaned back and stretched, his elbows shifting out of the screen and his khaki tee tightening. The light cotton clung to his broad chest and the arm holes were snug around his biceps.

Billy took in the view, but this time felt no more than vague appreciation. Any good news?

Soren seemed to find slightly more wind. I’ve met a guy—

Didn’t think you swung that way… I’m tired, not dead.

—the son of an elder. He listened to the angel when she visited his father’s family. Wasn’t convinced by her. Precog. Human, but powerful. Already knew she was coming and forewarned his father. The angel moved on but not before she set fire to half the village. Jacob got everyone to safety. I got there just as the smoke was dying away.

This ‘Jacob,’ will he help us?

I explained all we knew. Said we were determined to track that bitch down and finish it. The vitriol in his voice faded as quickly as it had come. When he spoke again, it was almost in a whisper. Said we needed to guard a girl—that it all hinged on her.

He looked at Billy squarely, and for a moment a brief hopeful smile hovered. He’s going to help.

How? Billy was pleased they had someone else on the team, but couldn’t imagine what a human could do.

He’s already anticipating her movements. We only missed her by a couple of hours this time. Next time we may just get there.

But we still don’t know how to kill her. Billy’s own research into how they could kill the Advocate had led him to nothing helpful. All the references in lore stated that only an angel could kill an angel, and they didn’t know any more of those.

Maybe we should stop thinking of killing. Instead, consider control. Soren said.

Billy didn’t think just controlling the angel would save the world. They didn’t even know for sure she was connected to the Risings or just taking advantage of them. He held back the sigh. Soren was finally looking a little positive, and he didn’t want to dampen his enthusiasm. Maybe. Are you coming back?

Yes. We’ve got no leads and I want to… see her. He glanced away and shifted a little in his seat. I’m bringing Jacob with me, too. He may pick up something from around her.

As they said goodbye, Billy did a mock salute. He didn’t receive one in return.

Bye. And by the way, Billy?

Yep?

Your abs aren’t anything special, man. Eat more protein.

Before Billy was able to reply Soren closed the connection, and he was left frowning at a blank screen. Was that a joke?

He walked back to the kitchen and grabbed the beer he’d abandoned earlier. It was slightly warm. The usual tantalizing fizz and aroma that accompanied European lager had all but dissipated, now just warm piss. He drank it anyway, pacing the flat for a while before settling at one of the floor-to-ceiling picture windows and considered a cigarette. Despite the oncoming demon apocalypse and almost certain death, he’d been trying to cut down.

After struggling for all of thirty seconds, he pushed the terrace door open and went outside to light up.

With his elbows resting on the railing and smoke easing from his mouth with every gentle exhale, he looked down at the River Thames. The water was as gray and sluggish as always, but the tide line was lower than he’d ever seen it. The demons were getting more of a hold on London. So far, the city had escaped the worst and England, generally, was doing well, but in the last month, the song birds had all gone. He’d heard, too, that the northern steel town of Sheffield had fallen, and in the south, the port of Portsmouth was starting to look weakened.

Up to now, the demons had been focusing their attention mainly on industrial cities, but recently, as if guided by a new intention, they were beginning to take control of ports across the globe. There appeared to be new intelligence at work, and instead of the demon population just taking advantage of economic malaise, more targeted uprisings were becoming a pattern.

The heat in London was increasing and the rain coming less frequently. The trees now only bloomed weakly and the grass was patterned with brown, dying scrub. Billy had been well schooled on the signs of demon encroachment by Soren; these changes always signaled they were collecting en masse.

He flicked the ash over the balcony where it got caught on the tiny breeze and floated gently back through the railings onto his bare feet.

Soon there would be violence: man against man or even mother against child. When the people were at their lowest, the demons would break their spirit still further and possess their bodies, kicking out the souls from within. Eventually, humans would be beaten back to the suburbs of the possessed city and the demons would dominate the center.

Billy rubbed the ash from his foot onto the back of his opposite calf and wondered how long he’d get before he’d have to move away from his East London home. Would he get enough notice to get to safety, or would he become a victim just like thousands of others before him?

His wrist watch beeped and interrupted his musings. His appointment was getting close.

Stubbing out his cigarette in the hand-shaped ashtray left permanently on the terrace, he headed back through the living area to the shower. On his way he addressed the red brick wall the TV hung on, I guess, I’d better clean up for the doc!

He grinned. Talking to the walls was Tazia’s thing. Oh well, Taz, if we can’t beat them…

3

Argyle Socks

Of the many doctors practicing in Harley Street, Billy had chosen the only one to still wear argyle socks when off the golf course.

He was a tall bone-thin man with a mop of coarse gray hair that sprouted at odd angles from both his head and ears. His gold wire-rimmed spectacles jiggled on his beak-like nose in time to his fingernails pecking at the easy chair he sat in, pulling invisible strands out of the thread-bare arm.

The office had the barren look of accommodation in the process of being returned to a rental agent. There was little furniture, few comforts, and it was grubby in the corners. For Billy, this last point gave it a high creep factor, and he always shuddered on entry and tried not to look at the layers of dust and grime.

Seated, he still had a slight view of the receptionist’s desk through the glass door, but he could no longer see her comely ankles. That was disappointing. He’d hoped to focus on them during the doctor’s more difficult questions.

The sessions always went the same way. They started with the generic queries like And how have you been, Billy? to which Billy always replied, Fine, regardless of whether that was the case or not, and then moved on to, Any dreams?

How have you been, Billy? said Dr. McKenzie.

Not bad! Billy decided to buck the trend and was rewarded by a sharp look and a scribble on the doctor’s notepad. He glanced out of the window, hoping for a distraction to suppress the giggle forming around his diaphragm. He could see the green waxy leaves of the shrubs which, along with the ornately twisted metal railings, marked the boundary between building and pavement.

A magpie hopped up and down the railing, eyes dancing and head bobbing. The bird’s wings flashed indigo in the sun. For a moment, it looked beautiful. It pecked at something, one beady eye winking at Billy. The heart of a mouse trailed wet and bloody, thinly strung from beak to foot. He shuddered. Bloody flying rats!

As he looked away, the sun flashed off the rows of parked cars, creating a harsh glare that temporarily blinded him. His suppressed giggle abruptly disappeared. Even for August, the weather was unseasonably hot. Have you noticed how hot it’s getting recently, doc?

Hmm? The doctor was still scribbling.

The heat. It’s very hot.

Yes, it’s beautiful weather. He made eye contact with Billy again and gave him a big genuine smile, obviously pleased that the sun was always shining these days. He crossed his legs, a frequent habit, to reveal his patterned ankles below slightly too short suit pants. Golf, of course! Mustn’t let the demon-created climate change interfere with your handicap, doc.

Any dreams, Billy?

Billy nodded.

Do you want to tell me about them?

Not particularly, he thought. Sure.

He left three, four, five beats of silence. The usual. Shapes moving around the bed, shouting at me to wake up. Trying to slap me awake. Blinding light. He wriggled in his seat. Then last night one stabbed me with a sword.

He looked almost apologetically at the doctor. This last detail was new and would, no doubt, send him into paroxysms of delight. It would provide a new image he could dissect and classify, and blame either on his mother’s prescription drug habit, his father’s death, or his early puberty.

Instead, Dr. McKenzie scribbled on his notepad a little more. Anything else?

No. Billy frowned. That not enough?

The doctor shrugged, a quick birdlike movement accompanied with a little twist of the head so he was now looking sideways, making Billy do a double take to check the magpie was still outside.

I assumed the violence would intensify at some point. Actually, I’m surprised that it’s taken… What is it? Four months since the dreams started? The doctor flicked back through the pages and pages of notes that were an intimate summary of Billy’s last two years: all the obsessions, sexual exploits, confessions of unrequited love for Tazia, even bathroom habits.

Yes. About that, but—

"Yes, they started when your friend went into