The Dark Master of Dogs Read online

  The Dark Master of Dogs

  Chris Ward

  “The Dark Master of Dogs (Tales of Crow #5)”

  Copyright © Chris Ward 2019

  This is an exclusively distributed version and is not for resale.

  The right of Chris Ward to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the Author.

  This story is a work of fiction and is a product of the Author’s imagination. All resemblances to actual locations or to persons living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  By Chris Ward

  Novels

  Head of Words

  The Man Who Built the World

  Endinfinium (YA Fantasy)

  Benjamin Forrest and the School at the End of the World

  Benjamin Forrest and the Pay of Paper Dragons

  Benjamin Forrest and the Lost City of the Ghouls

  The Fire Planets Saga (space opera)

  Fire Fight

  Fire Storm

  Fire Rage

  The Tube Riders series (dystopian)

  Underground

  Exile

  Revenge

  In the Shadow of London

  The Tales of Crow series (SF horror)

  The Eyes in the Dark

  The Castle of Nightmares

  The Puppeteer King

  The Circus of Machinations

  The Dark Master of Dogs

  The Tokyo Lost Series (mystery)

  Broken

  Stolen

  Frozen

  Contents

  About the Author

  Contact

  Prologue

  1. Patrick

  2. Suzanne

  3. Tommy

  4. Kurou

  5. Patrick

  6. Patrick

  7. Urla

  8. Tommy

  9. Suzanne

  10. Tommy

  11. Urla

  12. Patrick

  13. Suzanne

  14. Urla

  15. Kurou

  16. Urla

  17. Tommy

  18. Patrick

  19. Kurou

  20. Suzanne

  21. Patrick

  22. Urla

  23. Patrick

  24. Saj

  25. Tommy

  26. Suzanne

  27. Patrick

  28. Urla

  29. Kurou

  30. Patrick

  31. Suzanne

  32. Tommy

  33. Suzanne

  34. Patrick

  35. Urla

  36. Kurou

  37. Suzanne

  38. Kurou

  39. Patrick

  40. Urla

  41. Kurou

  42. Maxim Cale

  43. Patrick

  44. Kurou

  Epilogue One

  Epilogue Two

  Contact

  About the Author

  A proud and noble Cornishman (and to a lesser extent British), Chris Ward ran off to live and work in Japan back in 2004. There he got married, got a decent job, and got a cat. He remains pure to his Cornish/British roots while enjoying the inspiration of living in a foreign country.

  He is the author of the The Tube Riders series, the Tales of Crow series, and the Endinfinium YA fantasy series, as well as numerous other well-received stand alone novels.

  Chris would love to hear from you:

  www.amillionmilesfromanywhere.net

  [email protected]

  Thank you for your interest in my work.

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  Chris Ward (Fiction Writer)

  and follow progress on new books on my website at

  www.amillionmilesfromanywhere.net

  Thank you for reading!

  Prologue

  The Offer

  The abandoned pinball hall stood on the hilltop, framed by a basket of leafy foliage, the last paint on the tall sign that had once beckoned gamblers and fools for miles around glittering in the evening sun. The peak of the flat, ugly hill had once been bald, smeared by an asphalt road that meandered up to the clutch of amusement businesses that clustered together on its summit. There had been a café, a small hotel, and a nightclub that had doubled as a prostitution den. All were gone now, torn down, the land reclaimed by the forest that had gradually crept back up the hill like a frightened crowd returning to the scene of a crime.

  The pinball hall, for no particular reason that Race Devan knew of, had been left standing. Of course, local kids had beaten it to all shit, using it for everything from staging gang fights to drunken birthday parties. There wasn’t a window left intact, a wall panel that hadn’t been sprayed with some wanton obscenity, a door that hadn’t been kicked in. Twice, some nameless, faceless punk had set it on fire, and both times the apathetic local fire brigade, unwilling to waste any more taxpayer’s money on saving something no one wanted anyway, had let it burn itself out.

  The road was long overgrown, but a path on the hill’s south side was still regularly used by hikers. The sun was an hour from setting when Race Devan hit the bottom of the trail, his guitar in a case under one arm, his bag of supplies slung over the other. As he stared glumly up at the steeply rising path he fought an internal battle with his motivation. He had been planning this for the last week, but a beer back at the house and a wank over a picture of his brother’s girlfriend had sucked much of the drive out of him. Searching for some kind of motivation, he forced himself to recall a blistering Ken Okamoto riff and the words of his own band’s drummer at practice last week.

  ‘Dude, that new riff of yours sucks. What happened, man? When’d you lose your edge?’

  He’d argued that it was all bullshit, that his riffs were as good as ever, but it was a lie. He knew exactly when his edge had gone: the day he had graduated from Sixth Form and gone to work at the factory. Instead of shamming his way through classes and ignoring homework assignments to work on his songs, he had found himself doing ten-hour shifts sitting on an assembly line welding bits of metal together while his mind slowly came undone. It wasn’t like he had a choice—you worked or the Department of Civil Affairs came and took you away—but it wasn’t like the rest of the band wasn’t working too. Perhaps his old songs had just been too bitchingly badass that a slight lifting of his foot from the pedal had taken his edge away.

  Still, he could get it back. All he needed was a little inspiration.

  He reached the top of the hill, breathing hard and sweating beneath his black leather jacket. The sun was just dipping beneath the hills to the west, but Race gave it little more than a scowl as he sat down on the steps of a small viewing platform that had also escaped the encroachment of the forest, lit a cigarette, and opened the bottle of homebrewed shit he had carried up with him.

  First things first. He couldn’t just start to play. It had to be like it was at school, when he’d start drinking on the sly somewhere around lunchtime, then get back home to his guitar about half-past-five good and tanked, a succession of searing riffs ready to break free.

  He ripped the cap off the bottle and flung it away into the weeds. With a satisfied grin, he took the first swig of a decent attempt at homebrewed whisky, loving the way it burned on its way down. It was so good he could have finished the bottle in one swallow, but he wanted to measure it out.

  It was a good vie
w from here. As dusk fell, clusters of lights appeared in the dips of the valleys, while some way to the east a series of orange spotlights indicated a road crew. They were still over there working on the old motorway, pulling it up piece by piece in a gradual arc up toward London. He couldn’t help feeling a hint of jealousy. One of his bandmates worked on the roads, and while they worked all night it had to be better out in the open air than in some stuffy factory.

  In his bag was a pair of battery-powered speakers. He plugged them into an ancient MP3 player he’d found in a closet. It was loaded up with old shit, but bands these days sucked, especially British bands with all the censoring. European and Asian metal was where it was at, and a blend of the two was even better.

  Race had only a passing interest in the musicians his bandmates listened to. The songs were decent enough, but he’d never managed to turn them over to his kind of music. Still, perhaps letting them pedal their shit too much was another reason why his riffs weren’t as good as they had been.

  He needed to go old school. Get his inspiration back.

  Plastic Black Butterfly, their fourth and fifth albums, the last with O-Remo Takahashi and the first with Jun Matsumoto, they were where it was at. Ken Okamoto was at his best on those two records, raging first against the band’s dwindling popularity and then second against the tragedy that had befallen the band’s original lineup. In those riffs and blazing solos, Race found his euphoria. Closing his eyes as he listened, he could imagine a black flood of tar come rushing forth to steal all colour from the world.

  Race took his guitar out and plugged it into an old smartphone, opening up a music recording app that he had once filled with thundering riffs. He put a single earphone into his left ear, leaving his right ear for the speakers.

  ‘Ready, set … rock.’

  He selected his favorite playlist and heavy metal riffs came rushing out of the speakers. Race turned them up as loud as he could, then switched up the volume on his smartphone amp.

  ‘Yeah,’ he groaned, feeling almost orgasmic as he attacked his guitar strings, jamming along to the music. It had been a while since he had really practiced, and it took a few minutes to get his hands warmed up, but soon his fingers were flying over the strings faster than they ever had. Taking occasional sips of whisky, he rocked out while the light faded from the world and the tapestry of countryside spreading out below turned as black and star-studded as the sky above.

  The boys in the band would go wild for these riffs, he knew. These were the best riffs of his life, a couple of albums’ worth of quality material. Surely this time they’d be able to record something good enough to get signed. After all, it might be their last chance to get on the endless booze and pussy bandwagon if the government got their way with next years’ vote.

  The playlist ended and the silence rushed in around the single-note riff Race was still ripping out. The thudding bass rhythm kept him in time as he went for one last run up to the top frets—

  Bass rhythm?

  Race dropped his guitar, the sound cutting off in an instant as the smartphone’s wire jerked free. That rhythm was still there, coming from behind him, but it sounded like—

  Hand claps?

  ‘Oh, don’t stop,’ came a reedy voice. ‘I was really getting into it. You have quite a talent there, young man.’

  Race spun. A shadowy figure wearing a top hat stood by the busted-in door to the old pinball hall. Race had been planning to go inside after dark to let the atmosphere freak him out, but he’d got caught up in the music.

  ‘So much noise, and suddenly so quiet? A penny for your thoughts, young pretender?’

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  Race slipped a hand into his back pocket, feeling for his knife. He usually carried it everywhere, but shit, it wasn’t there. Of course, he’d changed his jeans before coming out, putting on a lighter pair more suitable for the climb.

  Still, even though he couldn’t see the man’s face, his thin frame was spindly, like a talking clothes horse. Race was a hundred and ten kilograms of meat. There was no contest.

  ‘Who am I? You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. But I have something for you, Race Devan, if you want it.’

  ‘How the fuck did you know my name?’

  The man lifted a hand and extended a bony finger in Race’s direction. The man’s joints creaked as he moved, sending a shiver of fear running down Race’s back.

  ‘It says it on your guitar case.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t—’

  ‘There. By the clasp.’

  It was full dark, the only light coming from the moon, yet this stranger had read the faded biro on a thumb-sized sticker stuck next to the handle, written by Race’s mother on a long-ago morning as he prepared to board a bus for a three-day school trip to Wales. He had never bothered to rip it off, but it was impossible that the man had seen it. Race couldn’t even see the sticker and he was sat right by it.

  ‘You have good eyes.’

  The man gave a dry chuckle. ‘Eye. I lost one. Regrettably.’

  Even though Race’s fear stood at a level he had never believed possible, he couldn’t bring himself to cut and run. This was his best guitar, Goddamnit, and there wasn’t a way to get another one. If this scrawny one-eyed motherfucker was going to murder him, he would have done so by now.

  ‘What do you want?’

  The man chuckled again. ‘I want nothing but to make you an offer.’

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

  ‘You have talent,’ the stranger said. ‘Let me offer you the world as your stage.’

  ‘Seriously, mate, you’re out of your mind. Why don’t you just fuck off before I either beat the shit out of you or call the DCA and let them do it?’

  The stranger seemed to ignore him. ‘You have good taste in music,’ he said. ‘Plastic Black Butterfly is an old favorite of mine. I once offered Ken Okamoto himself the same offer I’m making to you, and he turned me down. The world saw what happened.’

  Race’s eyes widened. ‘Man, seriously, you know Ken Okamoto?’

  ‘I consider him an old friend.’

  Maybe it was the drink, or maybe Race was just star-struck, but he took a step toward the stranger’s silhouette, his absent knife forgotten.

  ‘You’re mates with Ken Okamoto?’

  The man shrugged. ‘Our relationship isn’t the greatest right now, I’ll admit. A span of several thousand miles doesn’t help. Are you interested in my offer?’

  Race felt himself swaying from side to side. He really hadn’t drunk that much, so perhaps he’d stood up too quick. The stranger was still little more than a silhouette, but now he could see a light behind him, coming from inside the old pinball hall.

  ‘Tell me what you want and I’ll think about it.’

  The stranger laughed again. ‘Oh no, my dear friend, it doesn’t work quite that way. What fun would life be without a little gamble? Perhaps you’d be interested in putting your cards on the table?’

  The man turned and strode back inside the pinball hall. Race stared after him. The glow from inside was expanding, as if a fire burned in there. Yet there was no smoke. Race shook his head. He felt strange, drunk and exhausted at the same time. His mind was oddly vacant, as if he’d just woken from a long, fitful sleep.

  What if the man was telling the truth? What if he could offer Race everything he had ever wanted?

  There was one thing he wanted more than anything, something that went beyond music, down into the deepest depths of his need.

  A girl.

  It was worth a try, he thought, grinning, as he headed up the steps toward the old pinball hall entrance and the light beyond, carrying with him only the bottle of whisky, his guitar and speakers lying forgotten on the ground behind him.

  1

  Patrick

  ‘Look, I already told you. I don’t know where he is. His guitar and some of his stuff has gone. He might have gone to stay with a friend.’

  Patrick cr
ouched at the top of the stairs, peeking through the rails of the landing. He listened to his mother’s voice, inflected with not so much concern as nervousness. The man standing with his shoulder imposingly against the open door towered over her like a giant, his grey eyes boring into hers as if she had something to do with his brother’s disappearance.

  ‘If he gets in contact I’ll be in touch with the local DCA office.’

  ‘I’m certain you will. Good day to you.’

  The man stepped out of the doorway and was gone, marching down the path to a waiting car. Patrick crept back to his room to call Suzanne.

  ‘Hey, it’s me.’

  Suzanne gave a long sigh before she answered. ‘I thought we said no calls before sundown? My dad’s not here but he could show up at any time. Jesus, Patrick, do you want me to get caught with this thing?’