Hunter and Morgan: Gatecrasher Read online

  Hunter and Morgan: Gatecrasher

  by H.K. Nightingale

  Copyright Information

  Hunter & Morgan: Gatecrasher

  Published by Happy Antlers Publications

  ISBN-13 978-1-9161775-1-2

  Copyright © 2019 H.K. Nightingale

  Cover art © 2019 Fragilespark

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious, and any resemblance to any real person, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  For information contact:

  Happy Antlers Publications,

  Unit 10773, PO Box 4336

  Manchester, M61 0BW

  License Notes

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite e-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors

  Dedication

  For my squee pack family, who always see me through.

  Chapter One

  One of the things Morgan loved about his job was that he never knew quite what to expect.

  On one particularly dull day in June he found himself on a wet pavement in the centre-ish of Leeds, looking up at a drab and flaky sign. It said, 'Hunter Investigation Services' and was placed above a door that had been painted black quite some time ago. The address was right. The place was shabby, but otherwise as Pearl had described it.

  Morgan knocked on the door. It rattled, as if one shove would put it clear off its hinges. Nothing else happened. Then Morgan noticed a button set into the wall to the left, marked 'press here'. So he did. There was a buzz, and an intercom hissed to life to emit a sort of barking noise. The lock clicked in a promising way, so Morgan clasped the tatty brass effect doorknob and pushed the door open.

  There was a small vestibule, with stairs leading straight up and a grubby white door to the left. The door had 'private, no entry' scrawled across it in marker pen, so Morgan headed up the stairs. At the top was another door. It had a window of frosted glass and creaked as Morgan swung it open and went through. Immediately inside there was a desk piled with papers and files and a thick layer of dust. To the right a cluttered coat stand, to the left a lopsided filing cabinet with a cycle helmet on top. Between the desk and the cabinet was a space just about big enough for Morgan to squash through.

  He did so, trying not to touch anything; partly for fear of knocking over teetering piles of papers, and partly because of the dust, to which he was allergic. Beyond lay a larger desk, similarly cluttered but not to the same heights. And behind the desk stood a man.

  The first thing Morgan noticed was his arms. He wore a smart white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was tapping at his phone, and it made tendons shift in his forearms in an interesting sort of way.

  "Yes? Who are you?" the man said. His accent was southern. London. Posh.

  Morgan looked up. The guy would have had a handsome sort of a face if he hadn't looked so pissed off. It wasn't the smouldering sort of pissed off. It was more 'the milk's gone off and I put some in my coffee' sort of pissed off.

  "I'm Morgan," Morgan said. "Morgan Kerry. The agency sent me."

  "Oh." The man looked genuinely surprised. "The temp place?"

  "'Oyster', yes."

  "Right. I wasn't expecting a–"

  Morgan raised an eyebrow.

  "–person like you. Um." He coughed awkwardly and shoved his blonde, shiny hair out of his eyes.

  "You mean you were expecting a woman."

  "Only by statistics. I'm all for equal… Everything. Yep."

  Morgan decided to be kind and let him off the hook. "It's all right. I get it all the time. Nobody expects a male secretary." He looked around at the piles and piles of papers. "Looks like you need some help, though."

  "Yes. Well. The filing system's got a bit out of control."

  "Hmm," said Morgan. "Where would you like me to start?"

  "I guess you could file the invoices?"

  "Great. Where are they?"

  "Ah, well, if I knew that–"

  "You wouldn't need help. Yep, I understand."

  The man gave him a brisk half-smile and held out his hand. "I'm Hunter. Damian Hunter, but people generally just call me Hunter."

  Morgan shook his hand. Nice firm grip. "Hello, Mr Hunter. Don't worry, we'll soon get everything tidied up and looking smart. It'll be much nicer for clients. First impressions and all that."

  "I don't need it to look smart. I just need to be able to find things. My clients' first impressions are from the Internet. It's not the 1930s, Morgan. You don't get attractive young widows stumbling in here, dabbing at their tears with hankies and begging me to find out who murdered their husbands."

  Morgan tried not to feel disappointed. "Well, I'd better get looking for these invoices, hadn't I?"

  "Knock yourself out. Oh, but don't go in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet on the right."

  "Okay. Confidential files?"

  Hunter had already gone back to fiddling with his phone. "Hmm?"

  "The filing cabinet on the right. Confidential files? I imagine you must have a lot of those, in your line of work."

  "Nah," said Hunter, barely glancing up. "The drawer sticks, is all. Oh, and that door over there, not the kitchen or the bathroom, the other one, I think it's a cupboard but I've never found a key for it. Let me know if you find one. Look, I need to go outside and make a call, the signal's crap in here. Will you be okay?"

  He didn't wait for an answer, just swept from the office. The door rattled violently in his wake.

  Morgan looked around at the piles of files and papers and God knows what, and sneezed.

  Morgan touched the edges of the book as he did every night, a stroke along each side and a pat to each corner, to put the magical seals in place. The appearance of the book changed immediately. It lost its golden glow, its shimmer, the intricate designs etched on its leather bindings. It shrank. It appeared for all the world to be an ordinary book. Nice, but not the sort of thing you'd pick off a shelf. In fact, nobody would even think of taking it off a shelf, except for Morgan. The notion simply wouldn't occur to them, and within moments the book would be completely forgotten.

  Morgan tucked it in its slot between Great Expectations and the B&Q guide to DIY on the bookshelf by his bed, and went to brush his teeth.

  He kept thinking about Hunter.

  Usually when people met Morgan they tended to like him. With one or two minor exceptions, he got on really well with people. He tried to be kind, and liked to listen to what others had to say. He seemed to have a natural charm, which his mother said came from his magic, and his uncle said came from his side of the family. Perhaps it was a little of both. Whatever the reason, Hunter's reaction had not been at all what Morgan expected. He'd seemed mostly irritated. Very strange.

  Morgan brushed his teeth enthusiastically, half-singing, half-humming his way through a Kylie song, because it was how he timed it to make sure he brushed long enough. He rinsed and spat, and set his attention to his hair. He'd been growing it out, and it curled pleasingly around his ears and at the back of his neck. It was thick, dark and glossy. The problem was that it tended to stick up a bit on the top. The flatter he could make it lie down before he got into bed, the less chaotic it would be in th
e morning. Or at least, that was the theory.

  Perhaps there was something else going on in Hunter's life that made him grumpy towards people, and Morgan had just stumbled into it. That seemed the most likely explanation. Pearl had mentioned he'd had quite a few temps lately. Perhaps they'd all let him down.

  Or perhaps he'd pissed them all off.

  It was only at that precise moment that Morgan realised that's what had happened. Hunter hadn't just been prickly or oddly unresponsive to Morgan's usual magnetic charms. He was actually a bit of a wanker.

  Morgan shared his surprise with himself in the mirror. He replayed the whole conversation, from Hunter's opening 'you're not a woman' theme to his dismissive 'well, off you go, it's been an experience' followed by 'be here by nine tomorrow'. There hadn't been a lot in between except barked orders, heavy sighs of disappointment and the odd snap of arrogance. He hadn't once said please, or thank you.

  Well then.

  Morgan got into bed and pulled his paperback out from under the pillow. He was half way through 'Forbidden Blood': a particularly promising series about a vampire hunter and her werewolf sidekick, and had been convinced for three chapters now that this would be the volume when they finally got together. He'd just settled in when the front door banged.

  "Only me!" yelled Caleb. "You asleep?"

  "No," Morgan replied. He plumped up his pillow and went back to his book. A few minutes later there was a knock on the door.

  Morgan sighed. "Come in, then."

  The door opened a crack, and Caleb poked his head around it. Morgan patted the spot next to him on the bed.

  Caleb came and sat. He smelt of pubs and stale aftershave. "You'll never guess who I saw."

  "Idris Elba? Daniel Craig? That guy off the X-Factor?"

  "No. None of them."

  "Pity."

  "Jennifer Lane."

  "Who?"

  "What d'you mean, 'who'? Jennifer Lane! From that first aid course we did when we were working at the solicitor's. The one who bandaged that guy from head to foot for trying to grab her arse."

  Morgan grinned. "Oh, that Jennifer."

  "Yeah, well, I saw her tonight in the pub, so I thought, right, seize the day. 'Cos that thought for the day thing on the calendar at work said that this morning. Carpe diem. So I went up and asked her to dance."

  "She didn't bandage you, did she?"

  "Au contraire, mon ami. She was very polite and agreed to dance with me, on but one condition."

  Morgan waited expectantly. Caleb, who knew how to tell a good story, paused until the tension had built just so, then said, "That her boyfriend could come too."

  "Oh dear," said Morgan.

  "No, no, no, you don't get it. Her boyfriend's bloody gorgeous!" Caleb giggled loudly and slapped the bed. "We had a three-way kiss in the car park and I'm going out to dinner with them next Thursday."

  Morgan caught himself staring. He was as open minded as the next man, but still, he had not expected that. Not of Jennifer, anyway. Caleb always walked on the wild side. "Are you kidding?" he said.

  "No! God, no, I couldn't make this shit up. You should see him, Morg, he's just the most gorgeous little twink you could ever imagine."

  "I thought that was you."

  They exchanged smirks. They'd agreed from the day Morgan moved in that there would be nothing more than friendship between them, because it was asking for trouble, shagging your room-mate. Caleb liked his life complicated. Morgan did not. Morgan's idea of a good date was curling up on the couch with a movie, or a whole Sunday morning spent alternately having sex and eating French toast. Caleb's idea of a good date was an orgy. With safe-words and a lot of feathers.

  "So, how was your day?" asked Caleb, pulling the band out to free his hair from its man-bun.

  "Oh, you know. Same as usual. So you're really going on this date?"

  "Can you think of one good reason why I shouldn't?"

  "Won't it be weird, with two of them?"

  Caleb gave him a squinty-eyed look of disbelief.

  "It's just… How d'you know where to start? What if someone gets left out? Or feels jealous?"

  "That's my Morgan. You'd be disappointed with a perfect sunset because you'd only see the dark coming."

  "That's not true. I'm a very optimistic person."

  "About everything except sex. Look, it's simple. The secret to a good threesome is communication, fair play and a bloody big bed. You should try it sometime."

  "I think I'd just get confused."

  Caleb laughed. "You didn't answer my question. What's the new place like?" He pulled his long legs up and sat cross-legged on Morgan's bed.

  "It's okay. Apart from the boss."

  "What's wrong with them?"

  "His personality. He's arrogant. Demanding. Very annoying."

  "Sounds like every boss I've ever known. Are you going back?"

  "It's a week-long job. Maybe more."

  "Ah, the lure of the long-term contract."

  Caleb worked at the same agency as Morgan, but actively avoided any placements lasting longer than a week. It didn't do to get attached, he said.

  "Or maybe you fancy him," Caleb said.

  That earned him a thwack around the ears with 'Forbidden Blood'. "Did you miss the part where I said he was arrogant and demanding?"

  "Ow! Arrogant and demanding can be a lot more attractive in bed than in the workplace."

  "Not for me," said Morgan, firmly.

  "You're so vanilla you may as well be custard."

  "I am not custard. I just believe a relationship should be based on mutual respect and understanding."

  Caleb sighed heavily. "And that, my friend, is why you are so very painfully celibate."

  Morgan couldn't argue with that. But he told himself it didn't matter. If he was lonely - and he had to concede that sometimes he was - no number of one night stands would ever make him feel better. He'd tried it, the summer after he'd left college and split up with Henry. It had been a disaster.

  He must have looked upset or something, because Caleb sighed again and gave him a hug. His skinny, wriggly body felt comforting pressed up against Morgan's, so Morgan hugged back.

  "If he's horrible to you tomorrow, tell Pearl," said Caleb. He got off the bed and yawned.

  Morgan rolled his eyes and shooed Caleb out of the room.

  He could handle Hunter.

  Chapter Two

  At eleven the following morning, Morgan paused for a moment of celebration. He'd cleared a whole bookcase in Hunter's office. He'd even discovered some books in the process. A large, somewhat aged dictionary, Thompsons directories for the past six years and a dog-eared Jim Steinbeck novel. There were a few self-help books, too: Quest for Success; Beat the Rest to Be the Best; and Crimes of Magic and the Men Who Solved Them - the 1971 edition with the cheesy picture of the guy in a cape on the front. Morgan gave the bookshelves a good wash down and arranged the books on the middle shelf. He'd also exposed enough space on the floor to start sorting through the papers he'd removed from the bookshelf. He found a stack of slip files in a box in the corner and set about putting them to good use. He was getting a feel for the sort of material Hunter needed to file. The usual financials. Contracts. Case files.

  The case files were confidential, of course, so Morgan tried hard not to read them. But they were all mixed up, so he had to at least notice names. He settled for trying to forget them as soon as he'd read them. His contract included a confidentiality clause but still, it was trusting of Hunter to let him loose on all this.

  He heard the door downstairs open, letting the noise of the street in for a moment before it slammed shut again. Hunter's footsteps came running up the stairs. Hunter always ran up and down the stairs. He had a sense of restless energy and athleticism about him all the time. Morgan tried not to think about that.

  "Morgan?" The interior door creaked as Hunter surged into the room. He looked a little flushed, as though the running had started before the stairs. "Oh,
you found furniture. Congratulations!"

  He stood in front of Morgan, a little out of breath, with a smile on his face. It made a refreshing change.

  "I thought I'd file case notes by date opened," Morgan said. "Unless you'd prefer alphabetically by client? We didn't get a chance to go through things yesterday so I–"

  "Ah. Yesterday." Hunter put his hands in his pockets. Somehow it gave him the look of a naughty school boy.

  "Hmm," said Morgan, not at all sure where this was going.

  "I was a bit of a grumpy prick with you yesterday, wasn't I?"

  "Oh no, you–"

  "I'm working on a case with some difficult people. Curse of the job, I'm afraid. And to be honest, I didn't expect Oyster to find someone as soon as they did. Not after they did a workplace visit for health and safety."

  "It's very clean dust. And it's fine. Now, these case notes–"

  "Never mind that for now. Do you have any plans for lunch?"

  Morgan had a plastic tub of leftover pasta in his rucksack. That definitely didn't constitute plans.

  Wait. Was Hunter inviting him to lunch?

  "I'm flexible," said Morgan. He could have sworn that Hunter's eyebrow quirked itself at him. "I mean, no, no plans."

  "Good. I'm meeting with a client. Come and take notes for me. It's always good to have a second pair of eyes."

  Ah. Not a date. Well, that was good: Morgan did not need romantic complications in his life, and besides, only yesterday Hunter barely seemed able to tolerate him. But he would very much like to see Hunter at work. He gave Hunter a beaming smile. "I'd love to."

  "Excellent. You might want to freshen up first. You've got a bit of…." Hunter touched his own hair at his temple. It was so fair and silky. Like spun gold. Morgan tried not to dwell on that and went to the bathroom adjacent to Hunter's office. The building was Victorian, and Morgan suspected the office had once been a bedroom. The bathroom would have been a dressing room. They were nice rooms: high ceilings with ornate mouldings; big windows that let in hefty streams of light in the late afternoon. He wondered, excitedly, whether there might be an original fireplace somewhere.