New Dawn: Hart And Soul, #3

By Liberty Gilmore

“Laugh and I’ll kill you,” I say as I walk in to the living room, “and you’re already dead, so that could be interesting.”


The past is never far behind in a world where the dead have escaped from Hell to walk among the living, and Cadence Hart is about to get very up close and personal with a part of hers she’d rather forget.

Daniel Charlesworth, the recently chosen spiritual leader for New Dawn wants Cadence’s help. In most circumstances, Cadence would rather gouge her own eyes out with a spoon than do anything for Charlesworth – especially when he seems set on dredging up all her worst memories. But a group of Dawner girls might have been victims of assault and Cadence knows she’s the only person with the necessary skills to find out what really happened.

To do so, Cadence will have to face up to her past, and even with Matthew as her back up, that isn’t going to be easy. Because Cadence might be the best when it comes to literal Demons, but figurative ones are something else entirely…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Liberty Gilmore
• Release date: Jul 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781386038450

Book preview

NEW DAWN

Liberty Gilmore

Copyright © 2018 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 Carole - may you always walk in the light

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.

Click here to sign up to my newsletter and receive a FREE copy of the prequel. Only available to newsletter subscribers.

Chapter 1

As soon as I walk through the door, Inspector Manning plies me with a glass of champagne, orders me to drink it, then swiftly replaces my empty glass with a full one.

Are you trying to get me drunk? I ask as the fizz settles in my stomach.

I’m working on the principle that if you drink enough, you’ll forget to not enjoy yourself, he says, smile wan.

It’s going to take more than two glasses of champagne for that.

Manning looks me up and down then, addressing my fashion choices with a critical eye. He nods.

At least you’ve worn a dress, he says. Just try to remember to smile for the photographs.

The thought of photographs has me tugging on the hem of my dress, wishing I’d worn tights, or better, trousers. Manning tsks at me, and I stop, standing upright and trying to look pleased to be in the room.

You know, I think I’ve spoken to the Superintendent once in my almost five years of working here, I say.

Do you think many people here have done much more than that? Manning says.

I scan the crowd before us. The police force in the city is large, spread wide, but I recognise a few familiar faces from our station. Dower is standing by the buffet table, chatting to James Whiley, both looking dapper in suits. There are others, dotted throughout the room, that I recognise. Some from nearby stations, some from jobs, some from training. I search for the one other Deportations Officer within the city limits - Patrick O’Neill, born in England to Irish parents, but affecting their brogue and mannerisms to make himself stand out among his English peers. A chronic show off, who probably only took the job for the glory. I can’t see him. I wonder if he died and I missed the announcement.

My stomach tightens around the champagne warmth when I spot another familiar face. Bookish features, glasses, hair styled in an old-fashioned way, his jacket tweed, his shoes polished to mirror shine. Daniel Charlesworth, head of New Dawn. Not far from him, Mayor Curwood talks to the Superintendent, clapping him on the shoulder with easy familiarity. Behind them, a little way off to the left, another familiar and unwelcome face lurks - Colin Ludgrove, head of New Dawn’s demon worshiping counterpart, New Dusk. He’s fascinatingly ordinary, and I wonder if the young woman he’s talking to knows who the doddery grandfather figure she’s being thoroughly charmed by actually is.

"Charlesworth and Ludgrove?"

Manning’s grimace is enough to tell me what he thinks of it. Unfortunately the presence of powerful men is enough to make other powerful men feel they have the right to invite themselves. The Superintendent is a man who knows the value of political allegiance and mutual back scratching.

Thank God he’s retiring then, I say.

I doubt his replacement will be any better.

‘No desire to climb the ladder yourself?’

Manning snorts. I wonder how far I would have to climb before you start doing as you’re told.

As a Deportations Officer, I fall outside of the otherwise hierarchal police ranks, which gives me liberties that other officers don’t have. But then, I still push my luck more often than not.

As I finish my second champagne, a third appears in my hand and Manning dismisses me to go and ‘mingle.’ My least favourite thing in the world, placing in front of even Shades and Daniel Charlesworth.

I head for Dower, who I am most comfortable with among the living, human members of the station. It probably says something very bad that I would take an afternoon spent with my thirteen foot tall, bloodthirsty Demon, Alf, over a retirement party.

The spread on the buffet table doesn’t quite manage posh, but it’s a step above regular buffet fare. I pick out a little mushroom pastry to try, and enjoy both the flavour and how eating seems to soak up some of the alcohol. I grab another, along with a cheese and pineapple stick - not the most classy, but a staple of any good buffet and one of my favourites.

Dower has a plateful of food, munching through it without shame. He’s not fat, but he is enormous. He towers over me at six foot five; his palms could encompass my skull. It must take some calories to sustain his sheer size. A smile spreads across his amiable face when he sees me, and he waves me to his side.

Itching for an emergency call yet, Cadence? he says.

The pineapple and cheese is sustaining me for now, but it may not last long.

I remember Dower was talking to Whiley but he’s no longer around. I’m not keen on the testy younger officer at the best of times, but he’s infinitely worse with drink in him. I can’t see him anywhere in my immediate vicinity, so I relax into Dower’s calm presence and nibble at the buffet’s offerings.

It’s a very nice dress, by the way, Dower says, you look almost ladylike.

I hope that’s not how you compliment your wife, Dower. She’d be within her rights to give you a slap.

Dower’s laugh is a low rumble that I feel in my chest and can’t help smiling to.

Mrs Dower has a sharper temper even than yours, he says, but she never looks anything less than a lady, and beautiful, so I am on safe territory there. I just tell her the truth. ‘You are a vision, my love, a Goddess.’ And she says, ‘What are you talking about, you foolish man? Get the kids to bed and the washing up done.’

I laugh. For all Dower’s size, he’s a complete softy. I bet his wife has him totally under her thumb.

The evening wends on. There are speeches. The Superintendent talks at length about his years of service and everything he’s done for the city, leaving nothing for the Chief Superintendent to say, though he repeats it all anyway. Manning reappears at my side with another champagne every so often, keeping me topped up. I take to nursing them for a long time, though between the heat of bodies in the room and the alcohol I have consumed, I’m starting to feel a soft blanket of sleepiness wrapping around me. I would love to go home, but I’m expected to shake the Super’s hand and thank him for everything he hasn’t done for me. I can’t even remember his name.

A DJ sets up in the corner. Music and dancing - despite Manning’s best efforts, I’ve not had enough alcohol for that. I make my way to the Superintendent, hoping to get my duty done before they crack out the Macarena, but people keep stopping me to chat. I smile awkwardly and they ask me who I am, which surprises me, given my supposed high profile. When someone makes that God awful joke about not recognising me with my clothes on, I’m hard pressed not to bite out something unpleasant. Instead, I laugh between gritted teeth and turn away.

Superintendent Snow, I say when I reach him, remembering his name just in time. The force loses a dedicated serviceman today.

I shake his hand, doing my best impression of a happy, well adjusted person.

Officer Hart, so glad you could come, he says, covering our clasped hands with his free one, a move a little too familiar and intimate for my tastes. I try not to let it show on my face. I also stop myself replying with, ‘I was forced to by my Inspector.’

It’s a very nice buffet, I say instead. Which, all things considered, isn’t much better.

I bet you never thought you’d outlast me, the Super says and I feel better, because I’m sure joking about the life expectancy of Deportations officers is worse form than glib comments about the buffet.

I hope you enjoy the evening, sir, and your retirement, I say.

My thanks, dear, I hope you enjoy the evening too.

Not bloody likely.

I leave Superintendent Snow to someone who actually cares he’s retiring and try to spot Manning in the crowd. I feel I need to ask his permission to leave. As I’m searching for him, I catch Charlesworth’s eye and he starts marching towards me, purpose in every step.

Great.

I slink down the side of the room, trying to lose myself in the crowd. It’s difficult to be inconspicuous in heels, but I almost think I’ve made it when someone speaks up behind me.

Where’s your boyfriend?

James Whiley. Who has had a skinful by the look of him - shirt unbuttoned, tie loosened, swaying slightly in an imaginary breeze. I’m so not in the mood for this; even Charlesworth is looking a favourable alternative. I keep walking, but Whiley grabs my arm, pulling me back. Any other day he wouldn’t have managed it, but I’m hampered by my footwear.

Let me go, please, I say, which is far more polite than the words running through my head.

He doesn’t, using his other hand to point at me. I don’t know how you can even stand it.

I should walk away. I should. But it’s not only his hand on my arm that’s making it difficult.

Stand what? I say, voice dripping with champagne flavoured venom.

He’s too drunk to hear the warning. Too drunk to do anything but blunder obliviously forwards into my bad mood. He relinquishes his grip on my arm in order to wave both hands about.

"I mean, isn’t it your job