A practice in truth, p.1
A Practice in Truth, page 1
A Practice in Truth
The Knox Agency Chronicles
An Urban Fantasy Series
Book Four
C.L. Roman
Copyright © 2023 C.L. Roman
Brass Rag Press
All rights reserved.
Contents
CHAR
LOKI
CHAR
PROFESSOR GANT SANTOS
BRANDON MARSH
LOKI
CHAR
GANT
LOKI
GANT
CHAR
LOKI
CHAR
CHAR
CHAR
JOTUN & GANT
GARRETT DRAXLEY
CHAR
CHAR
CHAR
DRAXLEY
GIZELLE NORWITCH
ROCHELLE PROWDER
CHAR
GANT
CHAR
PROWDER
LENA KNOX
CHAR
CHAR
CHAR
GIZELLE
LENA
CHAR
CHAR
CHAR
CHAR
CHAR
CHAR
EPILOGUE
Dedication
This book is for those who seek the truth, even when it is hard to find. I hope you keep on looking and finding.
Acknowledgements
People say that writing a book is a solitary pursuit. This much is true. Publishing a book, though, takes many hands to see it through the process successfully. I thank my editor and friend, Tracie, for her expert advice, my family for their ongoing love and support and the loving community of fellow indie authors. Without you, my voice would have gone silent long ago.
CHAR
HAWTHORNE HOUSE, FLORIDA
Voices wailed about being champions and fighting till the end while I pulled the pillow over my head — a sad, failed attempt to drown out the sound of my musically challenged alarm.
Not that I didn’t enjoy a little Queen on occasion, but even the best music takes on a sour note when blasted at o-dark-thirty. Especially when it interrupts a recurring dream about strange men hiring me to track down glass coffins. I didn’t know who this Gant person was, but he — or at least his name — kept showing up in my dreams.
It always started the same way, Lena and I having breakfast talking about our respective breakups, and then a phone call — all of which really happened the morning after I finished my last case and broke up with Cole. Or rather, he broke up with me.
Either way, instead of a real-life replay of Zel inviting me to lunch, the dream caller was a Mr. Santos, saying he had a job for me. So far, the breakups stayed real, but the job had not materialized.
Freddy Mercury continued his anthem and, giving up on blocking the noise, I reached through the pre-dawn dark to slap at my phone on the nightstand. After the third hit knocked it off the little table, blessed silence descended.
Too late, of course. I was grumpy, but thoroughly awake. Who the hell reset my morning alarm?
Your sister, of course. Sasha’s snide reply echoed inside my head and I caught the odd huffing noise that substituted for the wyvern’s laughter. The little silver dragon lay on my bedside table with the soul stone, Doirsain, clutched in his talons as usual.
Doirsain was a family heirloom, passed to me by my Aunt Shawn. The stone amplified my magick and occasionally spoke. Where she came from or how she got the power she shared was a mystery no one seemed to be able to unravel.
Thanks to my sister’s practical joke, I was now fully awake to ponder such things instead of dreaming my way to my regular wake up time.
“Yeah, well, you’re lucky you didn’t end up on the floor with my phone,” I said to Sasha. “Why didn’t you warn me she’d changed it?”
He huffed again. Not my business if you two want to play pranks like you’re practicing for the bad-joke Olympics. If I get involved, it just puts me on both hit lists. No thanks.
“Aw, the big, bad wyvern is afraid of a little joking around.” Sasha didn’t reply while I pushed the blankets aside and sat up. He had a point. “I wouldn’t have told her you snitched.”
The sibilant hiss of metal scales sliding against each other indicated a shrug or a stretch. I couldn’t tell which, since it was still too dark to see much. She would have known. Just like you would have. Again, not. My. Business. Although, had I realized how early she was setting it, I might have at least given you a hint.
“Gee, thanks.” I flopped over the edge of the bed, feeling around on the floor until my fingers touched the cool, hard plastic case of my phone. I squinted at it, relieved to find no cracks in the screen. “Thank you, carpeted floors.”
I can fly, but I am no carpet. Now he sounded grumpy, making me grin a little. Good. I shouldn’t be the only one irritated with Lena this morning.
“That was a reference to the... Oh, never mind.” I checked the time. She’d only robbed me of thirty minutes. Since going back to sleep was an impossibility, I decided I might as well get up. With any luck Lena was still sleeping and I could slip something icky into her favorite cereal before she got up.
Thus encouraged, I slipped the necklace, Sasha and Doirsain included, over my head. The kitchen on the second floor, with its resident coffeemaker, beckoned.
The prank marathon had begun as a distraction from our single status and the dearth of clients beating down our door. I glanced sadly over my shoulder at my bed as I left my bedroom, musing on the benefits of surrender versus the joy of hearing my sister scream in horror over her ruined breakfast.
“Cole would never surrender,” I muttered as I took the spiral staircase down to the second floor.
The bubble of anticipation brought on by contemplating my sister’s reaction to mealy bugs in her cereal deflated abruptly. It had been a month, and he’d only called once. Even that had only been to request the return of a jacket he’d left behind. I was pretty sure that didn’t count as contact since he hadn’t spoken to me. Just left a message on my voicemail.
Shoving those thoughts aside, I reached the kitchen and started the coffeemaker. A bagel with strawberry cream cheese would complete my breakfast nicely.
To keep the sadness at bay, I occupied my mind with my latest decision. Since client fees weren’t paying the rent, I had to do something — not that we had actual rent. Apparently, when soul stones build you a house, they don’t charge. Who knew?
So, no mortgage, but we had bills. Utilities, food, insurance, stuff like that, and without paying clients, those weren’t getting paid. I still had a little padding left over from my last two cases, but it wouldn’t last forever. So, I decided to get my PI license.
I stirred cream into my coffee while the bagel toasted and took that first, blessed, joyous sip. My whole body relaxed, and I hummed as I rummaged in the cupboard for Lena’s cereal.
Unfortunately, getting one’s private investigator’s license in the state of Florida wasn’t as simple as it sounded. You had to take a test — not a problem if you knew the law, which I did. But you also had to log a two-year apprenticeship with an established PI.
Easy, right?
Wrong.
At least, not easy for me because I lived in Hawthorne, a town a bit too small to have its own detective agency, let alone one with an opening for a paid apprentice. I’d probably have to check in Gainesville, or maybe as far away as Alachua. Trouble was, I had zero contacts in either town. Plus, having to wait two years before I could operate independently chafed a bit.
I sighed. Nothing to be done about it now.
Perhaps Zel knows someone? She has a massive circle of friends.
I knew Sasha was trying to be helpful, and Zel did know a LOT of people. “You might be right. I’ll give her a call.” My hand closed on a box, and I pulled it out, smiling when I saw the familiar logo. Going to the kitchen-ware container we kept the rice in, I scooped out a quarter cup of the wild rice, held my hand over it and muttered a quick spell.
When I took my hand away, the grains had eyes and feelers. Under the illusion, it was still rice, so none of it moved, but the effect was perfect. I dumped them into Lena’s cereal and closed the box.
Steps coming down the stairs rushed my movements. I shook the box and quickly placed it back in the cupboard. By the time Lena rounded the corner, I was sitting at the counter, sipping my coffee, a scowl etching my features.
Lena’s eyes danced with sleepy amusement. “Wow, you’re up early. Feeling like a champion, are we?”
I let the scowl deepen. “Some people have a warped sense of humor. I’ll have to think of a truly creative way to get you back.”
Lena pretended surprise and concern. “Me?” she said, placing an innocent hand on her chest. “What did I do?”
I took another sip of coffee and shook my head. “Never mind. Can you give Zel a call during business hours and set up a meeting? I want to see if she knows any PI firms within driving distance.”
My sister’s expression turned sympathetic. “Still no luck finding one who needs an apprentice?”
“There is one in Tallahassee, but they aren’t hiring. Paranormal PI firms just aren’t that common. So, they’ve got way more applicants than spaces.”
She opened the cupboard and got a bowl. “But as your most recent cases prove, there is a need. If there aren’t very many firms, that means there’s a hole in the market.”
I nodded, watching covertly as she moved around the kitchen. “I hope you
When she started pouring cereal into her bowl, I dropped the pretense of not looking at her and waited. When she started screaming, I headed upstairs to get dressed.
“It’s only rice,” I said as I left. “Not real bugs.”
She dumped the entire box in the trash anyway.
The queen of pranks reigned supreme once more.
LOKI
TRAGAN’S DUNGEON
Torch light flared and wavered over the dark stone cell, shedding its uncertain light over the captive with an indifference only the inanimate can attain. Moisture seeped between the stones, beading on the rock before trickling to the floor.
Iron shackles connected by a short chain and looped over a hook above his head stretched his arms high. Struggling to keep his hands from falling asleep, Loki pushed up to ease the strain on his wrists. His jailor, Tragan, had locked his bare feet tight to the wall, eliminating the possibility of the single step it would take to whisk him from this place and away from the coming torture.
Because torture was coming. He was certain of it. A table to his left held all the necessary tools, after all. And Tragan was just pissed off enough to make things intensely unpleasant. He wanted to know who had sent Loki to steal from him and wouldn’t accept the truth that Loki had come of his own accord.
Already, Loki had endured two light beatings. Blood trickled from his temple and his right eye was puffy and swollen. Tragan had laced the cuts with silver, so they wouldn’t heal, and if left alone, they’d poison his entire body. Already, he could feel the effects — his body ached and pleaded for sleep. And that was just for starters.
When Tragan returned, things would get serious.
Implements of blood and death — all made of celestial steel — lay in a neat row, gleaming in the dim light. Celestial steel, unlike other metals, created wounds that healed at a glacial pace by angelic standards. And they left scars, which other metals did not. Kingdom only knew where he’d gotten such things. They weren’t exactly standard equipment in troll homes.
But Tragan was a collector, a hoarder, if you will. His stockpile of treasures and weaponry was as vast as his personality was malicious.
The roll of bread he’d found in Loki’s pocket, Tragan threw in the corner. The rest of Loki’s belongings lay in a small pile next to a wicked looking scalpel. His cloak and boots, Tragan tossed in an untidy heap under the table.
Among the normal detritus any person might carry — a handkerchief, notebook, a letter of invitation, coins and such — was a Javanese kris he’d picked up in Indonesia recently. The carvings on the wavy blade intrigued him, as had the faint scent of dark magick it carried. He hadn’t had a chance to research it to see what the magick did or how it could be renewed, if that was even possible.
The feather he’d stolen from Maat in the Egyptian underworld rested under the knife. It would fetch a good price if he could get it to Draxley or another dealer. Maybe he could set up a bidding war...
Catching himself, he looked at the last item. The one he’d been trying to reclaim for over a year, and had pocketed just moments before being caught in Tragan’s storeroom. A pigeon’s blood ruby set in alabaster and demon forged gold. The Clochroi. The first and only unfettered soul stone. If Tragan ever realized what it was, Loki was a dead Nephilim, without doubt or hesitation.
That the stone had ended up here was a shame, since the Clochroi was the only one of the seven known stones that served the current holder without transferring ownership by death or gift. Hence the unfettered title. It belonged to everyone and no one, as did the truth it revealed.
Not that this was common knowledge. The Clochroi was a legendary artifact commonly believed to be as cursed as the other six. Most didn’t believe it existed, which was probably why Tragan had tossed it on the table like a useless bauble rather than the priceless jewel it was. Ironically, it was also the only gem in creation whose monetary value meant nothing to Loki.
Loki shifted impatiently against the wall. The magick-dampening cuffs chafed, and he had appointments to keep. He didn’t have time for captivity or torture.
Sadly, he also couldn’t reach the skeleton key in the hidden pocket of his jacket. Tragan hadn’t found it, but that wasn’t much help if Loki couldn’t get it to his hands.
Snuffling and scratching in the corner pulled his attention. A rat climbed through an impossibly small hole in the wall. It scurried this way and that, hoping for a crumb or two, no doubt.
“Here, cousin,” Loki whispered. “Perhaps we can assist one another.”
The rat froze, then slowly turned to stare at Loki.
“You are one of the Fallen,” it squeaked. “Why should Tifl-Raet help one such as you?”
“Ah, dear Tifl, if you knew what I know, you would scurry up my pant leg to get the hidden key from my pocket and aid in my release.”
Tifl edged closer. “And what does the Fallen know that Tifl does not? Tifl rules this place. Tifl knows all.”
“Really? I thought Tragan ruled here.”
The rat fell over, squeaking her amusement, her little feet wiggling in the air. Finally, she sat up. “Tragan thinks he rules. The best he’s been able to do is spell the tables so we cannot climb them. But Tifl is smarter. Who eats for free, spells or no? Who goes where she wishes, when she wishes? Who owns the treasure below and the light above? Tifl does.”
The mention of treasure tempted Loki mightily, but he needed to free himself first. “I am Loki, and I have something Tifl might take to her mother to gain her favor.”
Tifl stilled. “What does Loki have?”
“If I tell you, perhaps you will betray me, and tell Tragan what I have. Then he would kill me to gain it for himself.”
The rat stiffened with outrage. “Tifl does not betray! Tifl is honorable and true.”
“Forgive me, good Tifl-Raet. I have known many rats, and not all of them were honorable, though they made claims to it. As I am a stranger here, I do not know you enough to trust what you say.”
Tension eased out of the animal’s tiny body. “Tifl does not know you either. How may she trust you?”
“What if I told you where to find food?”
The rat snuffled. “If you speak of the roll Tragan threw in the corner, Tifl has already claimed it, and taken it to her children.”
Out of ideas for the moment, Loki fell silent.
“But you were going to tell Tifl of the roll?”
“I was, as a gesture of good will.”
“And Loki did not know it was already gone?”
“No. I can’t see into the corner now that the torches are guttering. You must have been terribly clever and quiet since I did not hear you take it.”
Tifl snorted. “Flatter me not, Fallen One. I know your kind.”
“Though many believe it to be true, I am not one of the Fallen. I am Nephilim. And I did not know. I swear it.”
The rat inched closer still, peering through the dimness at his shackles. “And this item you say my mother will be interested in... What is it?”
“An item of great value, stolen from Maat herself.”
Tifl’s whiskers quivered with excitement, but she spoke scornfully. “Liar. No one can steal from the great Maat and live.”
“I did. Get the hidden key from my pocket and I’ll show you.”
Faster than fleas can jump, the rat scurried up his pant leg. “Where is the pocket?”
“Inside my jacket, left breast.”
Tifl scampered to his shoulder and leaned far out to stare intensely into his eyes. “Know this. Tifl is faster than any rat you have ever known. Tifl is faster than you, and I have babies to raise and protect. If you kill me, they will die, so, if you try to do me harm, I will bite through your eyeball and leave you writhing in the dark for Tragan to find.”
“No need to be dramatic,” Loki said. “You have my word. I will do you no harm.”
“As you say, Neph-E-Lim Loki. But know this. Should you betray me, hundreds of my kin will chase you down and eat you.”
While Loki suppressed a shudder, she dove inside his jacket and sniffed about, finding the key by smell with surprising ease. Holding it in her mouth, she climbed out of the jacket and up his arm. She placed the key in his hand and scurried back down his body to the floor, stopping a few feet away.
Carefully, Loki spun the key in his fingers and inserted it into the lock on the opposite cuff. A moment later, his hands were free.
