It's up above :)

Part 2 was posted!

Second part was posted.

Part 2 up above!

No problem, go right ahead. Also Part 2 was posted.

Part 2 has been posted up above.

Part 2 up above!

Part 2 was posted if you're interested.

Part 2 has been posted up above.

I posted Part 2 up above. Part 3 will be posted later.

Part 2

The room held its breath as Mr. Thompson relieved the box of its contents. There were several tightly furled scrolls, all bound in a ribbon of varying colour, what looked like a gold compass, and a plain sheet of paper.

"That's it?" the tattooed man asked, clearly disappointed. "I was expecting more. I mean, the man did kill himself for this, right?"

"Yes, he did." Mr. Thompson's voice was sharp, the pain he had hidden earlier springing back at the callous mention of his friend's early demise.

"Sorry," said the tattooed man, who didn't sound sorry at all. "It's just —"

"I'm aware of how plain it all looks, but believe me, everything you need, for now, is in here." The lawyer reached into his breastpocket and pulled out several coloured strips. These he took to handing around, passing them out with a swiftness that could only have been born of deliberation. There was a reason he gave them these specific colours. Drake had a theory, but he decided against speaking. He would let the lawyer bring them to that point, for now he would merely observe.

"Right. Now, each of you has received a strip of paper. These strips were instructed by Mr. Crispin to be delivered to each of you specifically. If you would be so kind, please take the scroll that matches the colour of the strip you were handed."

So he was right, Drake thought with a little satisfaction. The table they were watching was in the center of the room, positioned between the white leather couches the five clients were all scattered along. Now they rose, all five moving to the gleaming oakwood table to grab their intended scrolls. Drake flicked out a pocketknife to remove his ribbon; the tattooed man ripped his off with his bare fingers; the lovers used their teeth; and Ms. Ebanks withdrew a large red lighter from the folds of her dress, lending evidence to the theory that she was a heavy smoker.

Each of them sank back to their original spots on the couches, reading. There was a long silence, in which they vaguely registered the sound of Mr. Thompson's voice calling for food and drink.

The servants instantly rematerialized, bringing with them platters of fine food. The majority of the guests absently picked at the food, or took small sips of the wine, still focused on their scrolls. Drake was the first to be finished. He had skimmed through the paragraphs, but he got the gist. He had been called for his talent as a mercenary. The organizations they had been called to fight against were full of trained, armed warriors. It only made sense Crispin would want his own. A small part of him wondered whether all these people in front of him were also mercenaries, or did they have other skills that Crispin had been drawn to.

One by one, starting with Ms. Ebanks, they finished reading. That was when Drake noticed something interesting. For the first time since she had spoken, Ms. Ebanks looked rather displeased, her face twisted in disgust as if her wine tasted sour.

"Good, now we can continue to Phase 2," said Thompson. "Now you all know the specific reasons why Mr. Crispin called for each of you by name, and what you can offer us. Which means it's time to begin your mission."

"Oh? Already?" the tattooed man asked, but he didn't sound displeased. In fact, there was a tinge of eagerness to his voice.

"Yes, Mr. Rodgers. Time is of the essence." He gestured for them to rise and so they did, filing behind him as he walked through the door but still keeping a significant berth of distance between each other. Crispin had said they needed to trust each other, but that was a fool's request. In Drake's line of work, trust was built over time, a massive foundation laid brick by brick in grueling effort. And clearly his new partners felt the same.

"So what's Phase 2 then?" the woman of the pair asked, her words slurring slightly. Drake rolled his eyes. After only a few drinks the wine was hitting her like a firetruck. The words flashed involuntarily across his mind: This is the best Crispin could ask for?

"Phase 2 will involve transporting you to the area where Mr. Crispin's body is being held." Mr. Thompson said the words casually, but they caused a ripple of shock to circle through the five, who all stopped. Mr. Thompson noticed, then looked around, an eyebrow cocked in confusion.

"You mean his body isn't here?" Ebanks asked.

Mr. Thompson actually laughed. "Of course not. I told you, he went to great lengths to keep himself concealed. Even I do not know where he's buried; makes it harder for them to torture it out of me," he said, sounding amused. "That's what the compass is for."

The answer didn't reassure them. Drake had come across many things in his lifetime, including magical defenses. He knew enough to know when they were being cast, and the signs that indicated how powerful they were, and this mansion was lit up like a Christmas tree. If they believed that this fortress wasn't capable of standing up to their opponents, then what the hell chance did they have to hide him anywhere?

Ms. Ebanks seemed to be thinking along the same lines. Their eyes met, and some sort of understanding seemed to pass between them.

"I told you," Mr. Thompson said placatingly. "We have everything we need right here. Now, I'll explain more in the car —" But unfortunately, that was not the case. His words came to an abrupt halt as something thick and fast plunged into his neck. He clutched at it, blood gurgling from his throat, and he collapsed, pools of scarlet leaking from his throat. He shivered and fell still. There was no need to check for a pulse.

"Well I'll be damned," said Rodgers, his voice completely casual.

Ms. Ebanks sounded more irritated than worried as she spoke. "We've got incoming." A number of sounds rang out in quick succession. Glass shattering, doors bursting open, screams of terror and the heavy thuds of bodies, and the pounding of feet drawing closer to where they currently stood.

I'm planning to continue this series, so part 3 will be posted later on my personal subreddit r/UmbralRadiance. Keep an eye out for it there.

Currently busy, but I'm going to see what happens. Maybe this could turn out to be the NaNoWriMo Story I've been waiting for.

No, I don't mind at all. I'd just like the username to be kept private, otherwise go right ahead :)

Thanks :) I was actually doing some brainstorming, if there's any updates I'll post back here.

Mr. Thompson replayed the recording twice more for the full effect of the message to sink in. Silence stretched on but for the oddly calm voice of the deceased Ronald Crispin, his words cool, clear, and, if Drake was being honest with himself, quite shocking.

It had been a long time since he had heard anything crazy enough to stir him, but this certainly had.

"Make sure he stays dead?" said Drake, as Mr. Thompson stowed the old cassette player back in the box he had pulled it from. That in itself had been another instance of great peculiarity. Crispin was a man of tremendous wealth; Mr. Thompson, Drake, and the remaining four people whom Crispin had apparently sent orders to gather were currently sitting in a luxuriously furbished mansion. Why, then, had he opted for an old time cassette player to deliver his message?

"Did I hear that right? Stays dead?"

"Yes, you heard it correctly, Mr. Vaughan." Mr. Thompson smoothed his jacket unnecessarily, his voice as calm and collected as if he had merely been asked about the weather. "Mr. Crispin has requested the major details be withheld, and offered his apologies as such. Unfortunately, he got mixed up in some rather... unpleasant business while alive. He was being pursued by several powerful organizations for something he did not even name to me, which is why he —" For the first time, the stately lawyer hesitated. He cleared his throat, regaining his composure, but they had seen the mask slip, if only for a second.

"Do forgive me. You see, Mr. Crispin was not only a client of mine, he was also a dear friend. As I was saying, most unfortunately, he believed that these organizations would eventually locate and capture him, even with all of his resources to protect himself. Which is why he took his own life."

"What could they have wanted so badly that he had to gank himself to keep them from getting it?" The voice came from the tall, brown-skinned woman at the other end of the table. Her eyes were large and richly brown, one of them artfully covered by her sweeping auburn hair. Her voice, however, came as something of a surprise. Hoarse and grating, like a smoker's.

"As I have said, Ms. Ebanks, he didn't say. All I know is, given the gravity of the situation, it was something of extraordinary proportions. So much so that he believed that they would stop at nothing to retrieve it, even if it meant pulling him back from the Abyss. Which is why he wants you all to ensure that his spirit is kept at rest."

There was a small silence. The eyes of all five men and women were darting from one to the other. The lawyer noticed, then rolled his eyes.

"Oh come now. We have serious business to attend to, let us not waste valuable time pretending we don't know that magic and mysticism are not things of fiction."

"Okay, fine," said the second man to Miss Ebanks's left, a tall man whose arms seemed to be covered in tattoos. "In that case, why don't you answer the real million dollar questions. Who are these people? And what are we supposed to do to keep him a doornail?"

"Well I'm glad you asked. There are several organizations in question. We have information about them, not much, but enough. And Mr. Crispin has left instructions specifically for each of you. All of that is within this box." He gestured to the ornate grey structure he had laid in the center of the table.

"Unfortunately, this information is quite sensitive. None of you will be allowed to access it unless you agree to Mr. Crispin's terms. Be warned, this mission will bring with it danger, treachery, and the constant risk of hideous, painful death. But it will also bring with it handsome rewards. If you do not wish to take this job, that is perfectly acceptable. I will have a servant escort you out. I do wish to say, however, that Mr. Crispin did not believe any of you would refuse."

There was another short silence, broken this time by the final two people in the room, who seemed to be a pair judging by how closely intertwined they were.

"Exactly how handsome are these rewards?" said the man. Mr. Thompson snapped his fingers, and instantly the servants who had been hidden away in the corners of the room came forward, each lugging suitcases that were revealed to be tightly stacked with large wads of money.

"Handsome enough for you?"

"Not really, but it'll have to do," the woman sighed.

"I take it that means none of you are leaving?"

He cast an eye around the room. No one rose. "Excellent. Then sign this."

He produced a contract and a quill dipped in an inkpot full of what looked suspiciously like blood.

Tentatively, they signed.

"That was a Blood Pact, as I'm sure you all know," said Thompson. "Which means there'll be no weaseling out of this one. You're in it now, and you're in it for good. So, down to business." He produced a large silver key from seemingly out of nowhere, then he opened the box.