New Dusk: Hart And Soul, #1

By Liberty Gilmore

Alf is roaring. Most people would mistake this for anger, but they don’t spend as much time around Demons as I do… 

Cadence Hart has just six months on the job left. But six months might as well be a lifetime in the dangerous field of Deportations. Armed with a flaming sword and backed by Alf, her Demon partner, she’s the thin blue line between the Souls escaped from Hell and the living residents of the city. 

Missing persons cases aren’t her usual line of work, but a young woman has disappeared in strange circumstances and Cadence is pulled off her regular duties to investigate. The girl’s parents think she’s possessed. Which is impossible. Only, from what evidence there is - it looks an awful lot like she’s possessed. 

To solve the case, she’ll need the help of Matthew, a Soul expert. Matthew gained his expertise first hand – he’s been dead since before Cadence was born. But when their investigation unearths links to the devil-worshipping cult, New Dusk, they begin to realise that the case might be more than even they can handle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Prospect and Raven
• Release date: Dec 9, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386387244

Book preview

NEW DUSK

Liberty Gilmore

Copyright © 2017 Liberty Gilmore

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events or locales is purely coincidental.

Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.

For Charis, for being my biggest fan.

For Maisie because I promised.

Get the Prequel Free

After suffering an injury that leaves her incapable of doing her regular duties, Deportations Officer Cadence Hart is forced to take a break from policing the dead and go on regular response. But a series of mysterious shop burglaries might just be her department after all.

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Chapter 1

Six months, I think, as my head slams into the concrete ground. Just six months more of this.

Stars burst across my vision, blinding me for a few long seconds. Fortunately, the Shade attacking me doesn’t rush forwards to finish me off, distracted by my Demon partner, Alf, who has taken a lumbering step towards it. The Shade is a large specimen - elongated arms, clawed hands, shoulders so broad its head disappears somewhere between them - but it’s still dwarfed by Alf. It doesn’t stop it launching at him, those orang-utan arms lashing out. Shades are like rabid attack dogs. They don’t think.

Get up.

Alf parries blows from the Shade, the callused skin of his hands turning its sharp claws. There isn’t a lot of space in this little back alley. We lured the Shade here so it would be away from other people, but the setting has its downsides. Alf is restricted by the buildings that flank us, his movements slower, more clumsy because of it. The smaller, faster Shade has the advantage.

Alf rears to his full height, then slams a fist downwards. The pavement cracks and buckles under the force of the blow, vibrations thrumming in the ground all the way back to me. The Shade falls to the floor, but doesn’t stay down for long. It rises, flickering between solidity and its ghost-like state, unable to keep purchase on either.

It felt pretty solid when its oversized fist slammed into me, throwing me some ten feet backwards down the alleyway.

Get. Up.

At least the distance, and the Shade’s current preoccupation, are buying me time to get myself composed. And to recall where I dropped my sword.

I’m right handed. I’d been thrown straight backwards. Logic and physics suggest the sword will be to my right.

I see the Shade picking something up in the corner of my eye. It throws it at Alf who, with a casual swing of his enormous arm, sends it flying through the air. Away from him. Towards me. With a lurch, I throw myself forwards to the right, rolling to my feet. My throat feels tight, shock and adrenaline combining. I’m not sure if I want to be sick or cry but, knowing that neither is a good defence against a Shade, I bite my tongue and try to focus.

A little ahead of me, Alf is roaring. It’s an unpleasant, guttural sound that makes the hairs on your neck stand up, an uncomfortable shiver run down your spine and your heart lodge itself somewhere in your throat - all at the same time. Most people would mistake this for anger, but they don’t spend as much time around Demons as I do. Alf hasn’t boiled over into angry yet. He’s just frustrated. He can only detain the Shade; keep it busy, not Deport it. Not when the weapon that will do it would burn his hand off if he tried to wield it. Deportation is my job, but stuck with my weak little human body as I am, my head needs to stop spinning first.

When my eyes find purchase on something, without rolling past or fading in and out of focus, it is the hilt of my sword, less than a metre from me. It looks innocuous, as swords go, lying on the floor like that. No markings line its long, curved blade, no talismans are tied about the hilt. Nothing at all suggesting it is more than a museum exhibit - a legacy from the days before battles were fought with guns.

Alf is grappling with the Shade, every muscle and sinew in his huge arms snapping and bulging. The Shade is smaller than Alf by at least half, but the centuries of exposure to whatever torments exist in Hell have twisted it, wound it up tight, until its animalistic rage and fury are enough to balance a Demon’s superior size. The Shade lets out a shriek. Worse than a Demon’s call, it’s a sound that makes you want to curl up and die. A mouth twists out of the shadows of its face.

People think Shades don’t have faces, but I’ve been up close and personal with enough to know that somewhere, lurking in the darkness of their bodies, is a face that’s startlingly human; eyes full of all the pain they’ve experienced on their journey from human Soul to Shade. Fortunately, if you’re close enough to see a Shade’s eyes, you’re likely to be dead in the next few seconds. There are images you don’t want to spend the rest of your nights dreaming about.

Trust me.

I test my feet and find them steady. Scrambling forward, I reach for my sword, fingers touching the guard first, before slipping around the hilt. As I close my fingers, finding my grip, the blade bursts into flame. I raise it above my head, pushing forwards.

Down! I yell to Alf.

Telling a Demon what to do: never advisable. But Alf and I have an understanding, at least when it comes to Shades.

Alf throws himself backwards to the floor as I swing the flaming blade downwards. The weapon bites into the neck of the Shade, slicing through it. The tip of the blade clangs against the floor on the other side. The Shade, with an unholy screech, bursts in a small explosion of hot air and sulphuric smell.

Lungs straining, I spend a moment collecting myself. I sheath my sword, then check my arms and hands for injuries. I’m battered, but nothing worse than my usual: scuffed elbows, bruised arms, skinned palms. In a fight with a Shade, that’s coming off lightly. I investigate the throbbing pain above my right eye. A sharp spike lances into my skull, and my fingers come away bloody. I look up and Alf is standing over me, his oversized mouth twisted into something like a grimace.

That bad, huh? I say.

He cracks the knuckles of his enormous hands, the sounds echoing like gunshots, then shrinks down into his human form - a thuggish looking skin head, built like a mountain - and ambles back towards our car.

Thanks for your concern, I say, but it’s just a bad joke. I’m not stupid enough to think Alf cares about me even a little.

The rush of adrenaline has left me, along with the burst of strength and coordination it gave. I take one step and almost stumble. The cut above my eye is dripping blood into my eyelashes and I see the world through a pink filter each time I blink. But it’s the dizziness that accompanies these minor irritations, along with the way the floor seems to lurch out of my way every time I take a step, that makes me think driving back to the station isn’t the best idea.

My earpiece dislodged at some point during the fight. I slot it back in my ear, along with the familiar buzz of voices that constantly talk over it. You learn to tune most of it out after a while, to filter for the information that applies to you. I wait for a break in conversation, then press the button on my radio that connects me to them.

Control, this is Deportations Officer Cadence Hart. I’m going to need a paramedic at my location and someone to drive the car back to the station.

My colleagues won’t like that - none of them like being in any sort of enclosed space with Alf.

Roger that. Paramedic has been dispatched. Civilian casualty?

No, me. Face had a bit of a fight with the floor.

The Control operator gives a good humoured, sympathetic laugh.

And the Shade?

Deported.

Right back where it came from.

Excellent. I’ll close the incident log.

Thanks, Control, I say, and close the channel.

With faltering steps I walk back to the car. Alf is standing by the rear passenger door, waiting for me. He won’t get in until it’s necessary. Whatever it is he does to make himself look human and smaller, it doesn’t stop him feeling like he is trying to fit into a gap that is far too narrow every time he sits in the car.

He tilts his head at me. A question. Alf isn’t the talking variety of Demon, but we have ways of communicating.

Paramedic’s coming over, I say, opening the driver’s side door and sitting on the seat. The minor change in altitude gives me head rush and I have to lean back into the seat until it passes, counting backwards from a hundred so I don’t succumb to the urge to vomit.

Alf makes his ‘acknowledgement’ grunt, then sulks back into the alleyway. Demons don’t like sun, or people, or wearing their human disguises for long. Whenever there is any waiting around to do, Alf always slips back into the shadows like the nightmare he is.

I drop my head between my knees to stop myself fainting, annoyed that my body hasn’t recovered its faculties yet. The hilt and guard of my sword bite into my hip, so I loosen the belt it’s strapped to, lifting the sword and its sheath into the backseat of the car. I loosen my body armour too, my back and shoulders grateful for the reprieve as I slump back against the seat. It might protect me from the worst of the scuffs and scrapes, but the damn thing is heavy and uncomfortable.

A car pulls up at a leisurely pace - none of the frantic noise and rush of a level one emergency call. I