Chaos Bound (9 page)

‘I'd appreciate any help. I've got a lead about where one might be.’

Roman’s eyes glinted in the firelight. ‘Where?’

‘The Outlands. I have a friend who found a collector with it.’

‘Who is this friend?’ Roman was frowning, like he didn’t approve.

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘The Outlands is a dangerous place.’

‘I'm going with a City Watch Captain. His contact should be reliable.’

‘I gather this would be your friend, Seth Hallow?’ Roman asked. ‘I've met him a few times. He doesn’t seem the sort of man to do things for free.’

I folded my arms. ‘That’s really none of your business.’

A muscle jumped in Roman’s jaw. ‘How long will you be gone?’

‘Not long.’

‘I don’t want you to go.’

I gave a snort. ‘That’s too bad.’

‘I can’t follow you into the Outlands.’ Roman made an angry motion with his hand. ‘It is a punishment of death for any Regulator to travel there.’

‘I don’t need your help with this.’

‘And if you get hurt? What do I do then?’ His voice was hard. ‘Do you realise the position that would put me in?’

Using my cane to push myself up, I got to my feet. ‘Look. This was nice and all, but I think it’s time for you to take me home.’

Roman stood also, brows furrowed. ‘Don’t go with him. Find another way.’

‘Sorry, but why are you assuming I need you there anyway?’ I snapped. ‘You think I haven’t crossed the border enough times to know what I'm doing? I think I'd know more about what goes on in the Outlands than you, Regulator. Besides, do you think I can trust someone who runs around, telling everyone that I'm…nephilim?’ The word almost made me choke. While I'd always been sure my white hair didn’t mean I was a Witch Hunter, it was difficult for me to accept my real identity.

Roman flinched. ‘I've told no-one about you.’ I arched an eyebrow, and his lips lifted in a humourless smile. ‘You don’t believe me?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ Suddenly, I didn’t want to argue anymore and cursed the waver in my voice. It wasn’t fear. It was desire. Heat flared with it, warming my face and my stomach clenched in anticipation of his touch.

Roman’s voice turned to velvet. ‘I would go with you, if you asked me. I would follow you to the Outlands.’

‘Are you deaf? I don’t need your protection.’ I tried to push past him and he reached out, warm hand gently circling my wrist. The contact sent shivers through my body and I stiffened, my cane dropping to the grass. Anger shifted to hunger as he pulled me to him. I put a hand against his chest, trying to keep some distance. Roman swept loose strands of hair from my face, his calloused fingers moving over my cheeks, my lips, his eyes burning with a raw hunger.

‘Don’t,’ I said, but my voice was too quiet to be a real protest.

‘It is a miracle you exist.’ He leant down, his warm breath washing over me. ‘You quieten my thoughts, Lora Blackgoat. The doubts, the anger. It’s as if you cast some spell on me, giving me peace.’

Shivers rolled down my spine. I wanted to close my eyes and lose myself in the feeling between us, but was too afraid where it would lead. His fingertips brushed under my chin and across my racing pulse. Goosebumps rose up on my arms as his hand moved to cup one of my breasts.

I swallowed. ‘This isn’t a good idea.’ I could feel the warmth of his hands through my jacket, but I kept my eyes straight, staring at the wall of his chest. ‘I need to go home.’

‘Not yet.’ One of Roman’s hands stroked the small of my back. ‘I want you to understand: there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. I would never try to change you. I would always stand by you, always back you up.’ I heard the truth in his words, the sweetness of them. Words I had once hoped Seth would tell me, but hadn’t. ‘I want you, Lora Blackgoat.’

The words were a hot whisper in my ear. I knew he was going to kiss me. Blood pounded in my ears, keeping in time with my thudding heart, and I could only make out my own ragged breath. His lips lowered to mine, brushing softly, his breath carrying a faint trace of spice. For a blissful moment, we were both alone in this small slice of a lost paradise, our past and future left back in the city. Roman consumed my thoughts, and my never-failing smart mouth had nothing to say as he kissed me again, his tongue stroking my lips open. For this moment in time, I was his, and he was mine, and that was enough.

Good as his word, Roman had me back home by midnight. My home was a narrow terrace house in the middle of Toxeth Street, a few blocks from Abraham’s Alley. It was old, with bad plumbing and a chimney that clogged regularly, but it was home.

It had been tempting to stay longer at the glen. Tempting to take the kiss further. Tempting to sleep with Roman. But the Regulator had stopped after that breathless kiss, as if aware I needed things to go slow. Very, very slow. Once he had dropped me off outside my house, I stumbled upstairs and collapsed on my bed, sleeping soundlessly until late morning.

Loud knocking woke me. Blurry thoughts muddled my mind as I listened to the thumping, before I recognised Crowhurst’s voice, bellowing for me to answer the door. Groaning, I rolled out of bed. I needed caffeine. Remembering I was out of coffee, I groaned again.

Stumbling downstairs, I paused on the bottom step to rearrange my shirt, sniff my armpit and wish I'd bathed and changed last night. I opened the door with an irritated snarl and Crowhurst took a step back, shielding himself with a wooden box in his hands.

‘Anon’s balls, Lora. Look in the mirror before you answer the door, why don’t you. You look like the living dead.’

Ignoring him, my eyes dropped to the box. ‘What’s that?’

Crowhurst held it out. ‘Found it outside your door. Maybe you have an admirer.’

Taking the box dubiously, I stumbled to the kitchen, Crowhurst following. ‘We’ll head straight to the Quarter,’ he said. ‘I want to talk to Grundler’s old boss, see if we can dig up something useful.’

‘Sounds fine.’ I placed the box on the kitchen table and slid the lid off. A dead rat lay inside, its throat cut. Crowhurst and I stared down at the dead rodent. My thoughts flew to Ivor Grogan’s bodyguard, Lander, and his threatening gesture. Seemed like the sort of thing a guy like him would do for a warm up act.

‘I don’t get it,’ Crowhurst said. ‘Someone thinks you’re a rat?’

I replaced the lid. ‘Someone wants to scare me.’

‘Are you sure?’ Crowhurst asked. ‘A bit fiddly, cutting a rodent’s throat. Not to mention a civic duty. They’re filthy things. Maybe someone’s got a crush on you, but can’t afford flowers.’

‘Somehow I doubt it.’ I wondered how seriously to take the threat.

‘Of course, if it had been spiders… Now that’s a threat.’ Crowhurst rubbed his chin. ‘Then again, bit hard to slit a spider’s throat.’

‘It’s too early for throat cutting talk,’ I said. ‘I haven’t even had a coffee.’

‘Then what are you waiting for? Let’s go.’ Crowhurst picked up the box. ‘Where do you want this?’

‘Can you bury it in the backyard for me?’ I asked.

Crowhurst lifted one foot to show me a well-polished boot. ‘Are you kidding? I'm not wearing shoes for digging.’

I rolled my eyes and retreated upstairs, leaving Crowhurst to grumble about doing manly things like digging holes to dispose of murdered rats. Upstairs, I stripped, then pulled on a pair of dark cotton trousers, black shirt and a light coat. My hair got braided back, and a bowler hat was shoved low. My work-belt got buckled on and I grabbed my cane as we both left the house.

Crowhurst’s car was parked by the oversized ash tree that grew outside my home, the tree’s giant roots splitting the pavement with slow patience. The rest of the street was lined with small, respectable sized trees. The leafy monstrosity outside my home had only grown that way after I'd moved in, its thick branches scratching against my front windows. Orella had explained that since I was the only female of my kind, hypothetically, I was some pinpoint of power, a potential nexus of chaotic change. The tree served as a daily reminder of that, and I felt a little sorry for it.

We were soon off with a squeal of rubber. I wound my window down, enjoying the cool air and letting my thoughts wander. Last night with Roman had been incredible. He’d tried to arrange for us to meet tonight, and I'd had to explain my prior engagement with Gideon at Nicola Grogan’s party. We’d settled on meeting again the night after, and my heart was doing all sorts of happy tap dancing at the thought of it. The joy of it all was like some sappy song running through my head, making my thoughts all nice and bouncy. I almost found myself humming, but stopped in time.

Outside the Gypsy Quarter, Crowhurst pulled over and told me to wait while he found a park. I watched him drive off, then wandered a short distance and found a coffee house that advertised a budget plate of bacon and eggs. Ordering myself an espresso, I drank it quick and was contemplating the breakfast when Crowhurst reappeared.

‘You do know this is a bad idea,’ he told me. ‘No-one’s going to talk to me with you there.’

‘Cheer up, sunshine. I'll be at my charming best.’

Crowhurst gave an exasperated sigh, then jerked his head for us to get going. I hesitated, wondering if the kitchen did takeaway.

‘Come on,’ Crowhurst snapped. ‘There’s no time to stop and eat.’

‘But I'm hungry.’

‘You don’t want food from there.’

‘But —’

‘Trust me. The bacon isn’t bacon, and the eggs aren’t from chickens. Besides, don’t you have to fit into a ball gown tonight?’

I frowned. ‘So?’

Crowhurst rocked back on his heels with a smarmy smile. ‘Thought women didn’t eat before squeezing into a fancy dress.’

‘I haven’t seen the dress yet. Gideon is bringing one over later today.’

‘You are kidding. You’re going to let him dress you?’ Crowhurst laughed.

‘What’s the worst that could happen? I don’t want to go anyway, so what do I care?’

We headed off and Crowhurst filled me in on what he’d found out the day before. The sum of which seemed to be a big, fat zero. Jonas’s mother had no useful information, neither had his friends and co-workers. Grundler sounded like your average Applecross citizen: hated his job, liked to drink, had an on-again, off-again lady friend, and was the apple of his mother’s eye. The only thing of interest was that Grundler made spare cash through occasional bare-knuckle boxing.

As we walked down Pincher Street and into the bowels of the Quarter, I adjusted my work-belt for easy access to my salt pouches. Applecross was a rough part of Harken, but in the Gypsy Quarter you could get your throat slit just by looking at someone wrong. Family grudges went back generations and the memories here were long.

The wide street was lined with run-down carriages, their bright colours long since faded. I smelled incense on the breeze and saw men lounging under shop awnings, sipping thimbles of thick coffee. Women perched on the steps of terraced houses, weaving straw baskets, their eyes smudged with black kohl and donkey-pulled wagons trundled down the street, loaded with produce.

Our destination, I discovered, was Bavin’s Tug-and-Roll. It sounded like a brothel, but was actually a communal bathhouse on Turk Lane. Crowhurst paid the entry fee and had a quiet word with an attendant before we entered a hall studded with men on low benches, talking in quiet voices.

While the establishment advertised unisex services, the clientele seemed mostly male and horribly hairy. It was a low rent kind of place, with loose fittings, broken mirrors and well-worn towels. The place was crowded and my eyes ran over the landscape of hairy backs and chest. Seems the menfolk here would be well prepared when winter came around again.

‘I feel like I'm in a zoo,’ I murmured to Crowhurst. ‘Remind me who we’re here to see?’

‘Russell Veerdot. Jonas Grundler’s boss at the textile factory he worked at.’

‘Works,’ I corrected him. ‘We don’t know he’s dead yet.’

Crowhurst grunted and led the way into a tiny sauna room where a big man sat alone. A towel was slung loose around his hips, knees spread wide enough for a very unfortunate view. I tried to keep my eyes on the guy’s face, and silently prayed for more steam.

‘Russell Veerdot?’ Crowhurst queried.

The big guy looked up, forehead creasing. ‘You fellas a little overdressed, 'ain’t you?’

I glanced down at my outfit. ‘I'm not a fella.’

‘Yeah? With those shoes, I thought you was.’

‘I have boobs. Large boobs.’

‘Can’t see 'em under that jacket, and those look like fella’s shoes.’

‘These were custom made.’ My voice squeaked with indignation.

‘Whaddya want?’ The big guy shifted his hips, and the towel fell open more. I grimaced and shot my eyes to the ceiling.

‘We’re looking for Jonas Grundler,’ Crowhurst said.

‘Yeah? If you find him, tell him he’d better not show his face at work ever again.’

‘Did he do something wrong?’ I asked, still examining the fascinating black mould, high up on the ceiling.

‘He hasn’t shown up the last two weeks. Left me in the lurch, he did. Had to hire someone to take his place. That takes time and money, you know.’

‘Is it out of character for him to disappear like this?’ Crowhurst asked. I lowered my eyes from the ceiling to check Veerdot’s reaction.

He swiped at his glistening forehead and shrugged. ‘Jonas was reliable enough, I suppose. As much as anyone can be. Sometimes he’d turn up for work looking like he’d been brawling. But he always got the job done.’ He squinted at us through the steam. ‘Who are you fellas anyway?’

‘We’re from Blackgoat Watch.’ Crowhurst said. ‘We’ve been hired to find him.’

‘And I'm not a fella,’ I added helpfully.

We walked out of the place after it was clear Veerdot had nothing more useful to share. A cool breeze dried the sweat on my brow and I turned to Crowhurst expectantly. ‘What’s the plan now?’

Crowhurst rubbed his forehead like he had a headache. ‘I've got an uncle who runs a butcher’s shop not far from here. Let’s pay him a visit.’

Someone yelled Crowhurst’s name from behind us. I looked over my shoulder, searching the street. ‘Did you hear that?’