Uncanny Ink Collection Read online

  Uncanny Ink: Three-Book Collection, Volume One

  Bad Soul | Bad Blood | Bad Justice

  David Bussell

  M.V. Stott

  Copyright © 2019 by Uncanny Kingdom.

  All rights reserved.

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  Contents

  Bad Soul

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Bad Blood

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Bad Justice

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

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  More Stories Set in the Uncanny Kingdom

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  Spectral Detective

  1

  This story starts with me in jail, locked up for a crime I didn’t commit. Framed. A huge miscarriage of justice. My freedom cruelly and unjustly torn from my blameless hands.

  Okay, technically I may have broken a guy’s legs in fifteen different places, but in my defence, I did it for money. For lots of money. The kind of money that justifies a shattered kneecap or two, and really, who holds onto stuff like that anyway? His bones would heal just as quickly as the red drained from my bank balance. Everyone was happy. Well, at least until the whole prison thing.

  My name is Erin Banks. I’m twenty-eight, a Taurus, not a fan of dogs (or cats) (or people), and I have arcane tattoos across my shoulders and arms that leach magic from the air around me. Actually, my full name is Erin Gertrude Banks, but if you ever bring up my middle name I’ll snap your thumbs, deal?

  Okay, moving on...

  ‘Hold on a moment there, Gertrude—’

  What did I just say?

  ‘—Can we please go back to that whole “arcane tattoos” business? What’s all that about?’

  Okay, long story short, magic is real: a supernatural radiation that permeates all natural things, the fundamental energy of creation itself. And yeah, there are monsters, of course there are. I’m talking ghosts, demons, undead armies, basically a whole steaming pile of secret stuff that you don’t have a bloody clue about. I know, terrifying, right? For you, I mean, not for me. It’s a world I forced myself into a long time ago, a world where I work as a private investigator, as an assassin, as hired muscle, as basically anything a bit dangerous and dubious that you want to throw money at me for.

  Oh, you spotted the word “assassin” there, didn’t you? Thing is, I don’t just break people’s legs, I also kill if the money is right, or even if it’s not right – say if I’m at a loose end on a lonely Tuesday afternoon.

  So how did an average, non-magical, run-of-the-mill girl from a working-class, Brighton family end up punching werewolves in the nuts and smacking the tits off vampires?

  Well, there’s a whole backstory leading up to that part, but I’ll come back to that later. Like I said up top, this story starts with me in jail, six months into a three year stretch, so let’s begin there.

  It wasn’t the first time I’d been in jail—I’d served a few months here and there, bit of an occupational hazard—but three years? That was serious time. And so, so boring. It got so bad that I’d started shit-talking people in the showers in the hope that they jumped me with a shiv. Anything to break up the ovary-curdling tedium of it all.

  Another two and a half years of that and my brain was going to turn into gruel.

  ‘Oi, Banks,’ barked Lolita, one of the prison guards.

  His real name was Jake Thomas, but the inmates had given him the nickname due to the fact that he looked about fourteen and wore tight trousers that hugged his arse just right, driving a significant percentage of the inmates nutty with sexual frustration. The bloody great tease.

  ‘What’s up, Lolita?’ I asked, looking up from the razor-thin mattress of my bunk, upon which I was passing the time by lying very still and doing bugger all.

  ‘It’s Mr Thomas. Not Lolita: Mr Thomas.’

  ‘Are those trousers even tighter today?’ I asked, leaning over and eyeing the pleasing curve of his regulation slacks.

  Red crept into his cheeks. ‘Got a visitor for you.’

  I sat up, surprised. ‘Really?’

  Lolita waved for me to follow. I frowned and hopped off the bunk, following him out of my cell. A visitor? Sad as it may sound, I didn’t exactly have a wide circle of friends. Maybe it’s the “assassin” thing, people can get really uppity about that. Anyway, the point is, I tended not to get much in the way of drop-ins. Matter of fact, the only visitor I did get was my cousin Lana, but she visited on Wednesdays, and this wasn’t a Wednesday, it was a Friday. Very different days. Friday doesn’t even have a “W” in it. Ridiculous.

  ‘Who is it?’ I asked, as Lolita’s tight buns swayed back and forth before me like a hypnotist’s pocket watch.

  ‘How should I know? I was just sent to get you.’

  Well, this was all very mysterious. Still, it broke up my afternoon nicely seeing as all I’d had in my diary was six hours more of doing absolutely nothing, followed by sleep. I tucked my long, dark hair behind my ears and followed on, my feet clattering along the metal gantry, then down a set of equally metal steps.

  Lolita opened the door to the visits hall, or the “visits hell” as it had come to be known, owing to its sickly yellow decor, stale sweat bouquet, and general air of desperate misery. Still, it made a nice change from my cell.

  The person I found waiting for me came—it’s fair to say—as something of a surprise.

  ‘Hello, Erin,’ said my dad, standing up from a formica table and wringing his hands nervously around a rolled up newspaper, the print coming off on his damp fingers.

  ‘Well,’ I said, my mouth flapping soundlessly for longer than I liked, ‘well.’ I grimaced, annoyed that I’d reacted so stupidly. So weakly. The last thing I wanted was for my dad to see me on the back foot. I’d spent years cultivating a Don’t give a shit, always ready for what comes my way attitude, and a
lot of that was because of him. No, flummoxed was not my brand.

  Dad gestured at the chair on the opposite side of the table, and I took a seat.

  ‘Five minutes,’ said Lolita, tapping his wristwatch, ‘visiting time is almost up.’ He turned and headed off, the soles of his regulation boots slapping the ground like wet fish.

  ‘Hate to see you go, but I love to watch you leave,’ I told him with a wink.

  Lolita smiled, then frowned, then hurried away.

  ‘Great guy,’ I said, turning back to my dad and crossing my arms. ‘Did you check out that arse? You could open a bottle of Corona with that thing.’

  What followed were several long seconds of awkward silence. Probably at least fifteen seconds, but it felt more like a good day and a half of pure, constricting agony.

  Dad looked older. Greyer. Fatter. Tired. Looked like he’d shrunk by a good inch. I stared at him, unwilling to look away even as his big, basset hound eyes caught mine and darted aside.

  ‘It’s… well, it’s good to see you,’ he said, finally.

  The feeling was not mutual. This was the first time my dad had visited me since I got banged up. In fact, it was the first time he’d spoken to me in almost four years, and we were hardly on close terms before that. Yeah, my parents and I had some issues. But we’ll get to that.

  ‘So, Erin,’ he mumbled, ‘how’s prison?’

  I laughed. It erupted from me in a single, loud bark that caught the attention of the other visitors dotted around the hall.

  ‘Awesome, Dad, just brilliant. Two thumbs up. It’s karaoke night tonight, always a highlight of the week.’

  ‘They let you have karaoke nights?’

  ‘No, Dad, I’m in fucking prison. Actually, there is a woman called Mandy three cells down who likes to scream Neil Diamond songs at three in the morning, but that’s mostly because she’s completely mental. Fair play to her though, that nutbag can carry a tune.’

  Dad didn’t react, just quietly waited until I shut up. A proper Dad move, that one. Just ignore the hysterical girl while she stamps her feet and shouts.

  I glanced at the clock hanging on the wall beside me. Three minutes left until visiting hours were over. Might as well say something to pass the time. ‘So, how’s Mum?’

  ‘She’s okay.’

  ‘Still wants nothing to do with me even after finding out I’m in jail?’

  He looked to the floor.

  ‘Amazing.’

  My heart was beating like crazy, smashing against my chest like it was trying to escape. I felt sure my dad could hear it. Could hear how his visit was affecting me. I hated that it was. I wrapped my arms tightly around myself, hoping to muffle the sound. I knew he couldn’t hear it really, that it was a percussive showcase with an audience of one, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

  ‘She doesn’t know I’m here,’ he said. ‘Your mum.’

  ‘Ooh, bit naughty, Dad. If she finds out you came and visited your own flesh and blood she’ll have your nuts for earrings.’

  He grimaced. ‘Erin, stop it.’

  I leaned forward, jabbing a finger at him, ‘No. You don’t get to tell me what to do or how to act. Not ever. You lost that right when you turned your back on me.’

  ‘That’s not fair.’

  ‘Yeah, well life’s a dick, get over it. I have.’

  Dad’s cheeks flushed. He checked his watch.

  ‘Sorry, am I keeping you from something?’

  ‘No. No, sorry, I…’

  ‘Why are you here, Dad?’

  ‘Lana told me.’

  ‘Of course she did, I told her not to.’

  ‘She cares about you.’

  ‘Well it’s nice somebody in the family does, isn’t it?’

  Another few seconds of awkward, brooding silence.

  ‘This was a mistake,’ he said, and stood.

  I wanted him to stay, to sit down, to talk. I wanted him to turn away, walk out, and never come back.

  ‘Okay, off you fuck, then,’ I said, fists bunched.

  He took a step away, then paused. ‘Take care of yourself, Erin. Please. I don’t…’ He faltered. ‘Just stay safe.’

  He turned and scurried away, not looking back.

  I stood, defiant, sad, angry. ‘Don’t worry about me, Dad, one of life’s winners, I am. Doing just awesome. Best life ever.’

  The door closed behind him and he was gone.

  2

  I walked back into the guts of the prison, my whole body clenched like a fist. Full of tension, of anger, of resentment. I’d been happy serving my time; why did Dad have to come along and ruin things? Okay, I hadn’t been happy, but I’d take another year on my sentence over one more visit from that useless old fart.

  I went to the rec room and slumped down on a tatty chair, ignoring Val, who was doing a five stretch for drug offences. She was trying to get my attention, waving at me, calling me over for a game of table tennis. Bloody table tennis. I’d played more games of it in the last six months than any sane person could be reasonably expected to endure. And I was still terrible at it.

  He’d looked older.

  He’d looked tired.

  The last time I’d seen Dad he still had most of his hair. Can a person change that much in just a few years? Age overtaking him with ever-increasing speed. I realised I was worrying about him. Sad that my father was getting old and infirm. That just pissed me off all over again. I shouldn’t let him make me feel like that. I wouldn’t. Not after everything that had happened. Not after what him and Mum had done to me.

  ‘Oi, slag.’

  I looked up to see a hulking great woman craned over me with a face like a slapped arse.

  ‘That’s “Miss Slag” to you, thanks.’

  I’d made a note of this Incredible Bulk eyeing me with evil intent the moment she arrived three days previous. According to the prison grapevine, she’d been arrested for multiple counts of grievous bodily harm, and had added to her crimes when she’d bitten the arresting officer’s nose clean off. Some said she’d spat it through the open window of a passing car, others said she’d swallowed the thing down without even chewing it.

  ‘You murdered my cousin,’ she said with a deep grunt of a voice.

  ‘You’re gonna have to be more specific,’ I replied, remaining relaxed in my chair. Relaxed but ready.

  ‘She was a shifter, like me.’

  ‘Narrowing it down, but still, more info needed, sorry. What kind of shifter? Did she shift into a wolf? A bear? A comfy recliner chair?’

  The woman snarled, baring her teeth. Teeth that began to extend from her gums, sharp as steak knives.

  ‘I bet that trick brings all the boys to the yard, doesn’t it, you absolute sauce-pot.’

  ‘Her name was Adira. You shoved a grenade down her throat and set it off. We had to scrape what was left of her off the ceiling.’

  ‘I’ll be honest, that does sound like me, but I’m still coming up blank. I guess she was just very, very forgettable.’

  I held her gaze as I pulled the most annoying, shit-eating grin I could muster. Her body tensed, ready to pounce, but before she could bury one of her meaty fists in my face, I dipped to the side and dodged the blow. In one smooth movement I grabbed the seat I’d been relaxing on and swung it at her big, jowly face.

  Pow.

  The chair turned to matchsticks as it connected, sending her oversized body sprawling to the floor. I darted forwards and brought my foot down hard on her left wrist, sending the sound of cracking bones echoing around the rec room.

  This was me, this felt good. Felt fluid. Strong. Forget my dad. Forget his stupid ageing face and his big, sad eyes. Just throw fists, break bones, and forget all about him.

  The shifter swung her good arm at my legs, trying to knock me off balance. I jumped high over it, tucked my legs up, and landed with one of my knees smashing down on her chest. I heard a satisfying crack and felt her ribs buckle beneath me.

  ‘Had enough?’ I asked, ha
nd around her throat, a mad smile on my face.

  Somehow she bucked me aside, made it to her feet, and charged at me, bellowing like a speared bull. And that’s when I realised that no, she had not had enough at all. Not by a long shot.

  I never really understood why solitary confinement was supposed to be a punishment. The less I was forced to mix with the wastes of space I was locked up with, the better. Especially seeing as some of them, such as the huge, toothy bitch I’d just tangled with, were out to murder me. Not that the threat of death was anything particularly new, it was basically my day-to-day by this point, in or out of jail.

  Lucky for me, a rumble like that in the main mixing area of the prison was never going to last long. Too many guards around ready to wade in with truncheons and tasers. I say lucky for me, as that bitch was big and that bitch was strong. Outside of prison I’d have been able to take her down without too much trouble, thanks to the extra speed and strength my magic tattoos gave me. Unfortunately, their effectiveness wears off with use, and Parker, my tattoo guy, wasn’t exactly going to be given permission to pop in and top me up every couple of weeks. Which meant that while I was banged up, I was having to rely solely on my reputation and my ungarnished combat skills, which had been working just fine and dandy until I got mugged off by an enraged, super-strong shifter.