Dire Straits (6 page)

Deciding then and there that I would become the youngest person to ever pass the Knowledge, regardless of the fact that I had no desire to become a taxi driver and was three years away from being allowed to drive, I took up the challenge. I studied every evening and spent weekends cycling around the city to challenge myself. Had my father known what a monster his comments would unleash, he probably would have been happy to sit there for hours to listen to my blow-by-blow account of algebra and fractions. I bored my friends to tears by forcing them to test me. I wouldn’t say I ever got to the point where I knew thirty-five thousand streets, or where I’d even have come close to passing, but I did learn a hell of a lot.

My study of the Knowledge was cut short abruptly about six months later when I discovered that Dean, the most annoying boy at my school, had hair that curled invitingly around the sexy nape of his neck and a voice that made my toes curl up inside my trainers. Boys, I decided, were infinitely more interesting than the streets of London and I ended my quest almost as suddenly as I’d begun it. A lot of what I’d learned in that time never left me, though. At least now I know exactly where Markmore Close is without having to worry about maps or GPS. I’ll never know boys – or rather men, now that I’m older – as easily as that.

***

Even driving carefully to avoid any undue attention, it takes less than forty minutes to get to the safe house. The sky, which was already darkening by the time I reached my grandfather’s, is now definitely advertising that it’s night. It feels like it’s been the longest day of my life and it’s far from over yet.

I’m fortunate enough to pull up and park directly outside the block of flats. I’m even more fortunate that there’s a tiny lift inside, so I hook O’Shea’s dead weight of an arm round my neck and hoist him up by the waist. A fireman’s lift would be easier but any curious residents might think he’s spent the afternoon in the pub and had one too many if I haul him up this way instead. It’s a struggle and seems to take forever, but finally I find the key exactly where I was told it would be and get him inside.

It’s a small place; property is at a premium in this part of the city so I’m not surprised. At least it’s clean and well kept. I flop O’Shea’s body down on the small bed which was probably advertised as a double – but only if you are sharing with a midget. It’ll do, I suppose. I can crash on the sofa when I need to sleep.

I turn to leave when I suddenly think of something. The last thing I need is the daemon waking up and doing a runner. He’s the best lead – the only lead – I’ve got right now and I’m not letting him slip through my fingers. I turn back, grab hold of the cuffs which are still dangling from his wrist and clip them onto the frame of the bed. It’s not particularly sturdy but I figure he’ll still be weak from blood loss when he wakes up and the cuffs will hold him. Then I head back down and move the car a few blocks away. Better safe than sorry.

By the time I get back to the flat, I am buzzing with nervous energy. It’s probably just as well because I won’t be able to sleep. I’m pretty sure that whenever I close my eyes from now on, I’ll see flashbacks of dark smoky figures and splatters of blood.

I sit down on the sofa and stare at the wall. Then my head drops and I’m out for the count.

Chapter Six: Martinis and Mistakes

I wake up with a start. A shaft of moonlight falls on my face and, for a moment, I’m completely disorientated, trying to work out where the hell I am. Then it all comes flooding back and I’m overwhelmed by all that has happened over the last twenty-four hours. The walls feel as if they’re closing in on me and I can’t breathe. I gulp in air and my heart thumps painfully against my ribcage. I lurch to my feet and half run to the small bathroom to splash cold water on my face, then I lean against the sink and stare at myself in the mirror until my heart rate slows down.

‘Pull yourself together,’ I mutter.

Padding into the bedroom, I check on O’Shea. He’s in exactly the same position as when I left him, one arm raised slightly where it’s cuffed, but his face looks more relaxed and his breathing is easier. There’s even a tiny snore. It occurs me that he’s very attractive, with chiselled cheekbones and flawless dark skin.

I bend down and check the wound on his neck. The stitches have done their job and it seems to be healing quickly. I guess that O’Shea has inherited the daemons’ ability to regenerate, along with his crazy orange eyes and model’s good looks. I sit down on the edge of the bed and consider what to do next. I’m tempted to shake him awake and demand answers but I might have a better shot at getting them once he’s recovered. I need to be patient.

I check my watch and see that I haven’t slept for as long as I thought. It’s only just gone midnight and this is the city that never sleeps. I don’t feel tired any more and I need something to distract me until my patient – or prisoner, depending on which way you look at it – wakes up.

By now my dress is crumpled but I decide I can get away with it. I find the Funny Farm plastic bag and pull out my wallet, taking out some notes and stuffing them into the tight bodice. I should probably keep more back because I have no idea when I’m going to be able to get hold of more cash. But I think I deserve a drink.

It takes me less than five minutes to find a place. If there’s one thing you can be sure of, it’s that in Britain you’re rarely far away from some place where you can drown your sorrows. There’s a bouncer on the door, a burly type but still human, who gives me a discreet once over, taking in my now less than perfect appearance. I give him a small smile and he lets me in.

As soon as I’m inside, part of me wishes I’d not bothered. The club must have great sound-proofing because what was little more than a dull beat from the street is now a heart-thumping, ear-churning level of decibels. I’m tempted to leave and find somewhere quieter but I decide to stick with it. Perhaps the level of sound will stop me continually worrying. I need oblivion, if only for an hour or two, not more time to think.

I give the dance floor a wide berth and head for the bar, perching on an uncomfortable plastic stool. Despite – or maybe because of – the loud music, there aren’t many other customers and I catch the bartender’s attention quickly. I order three martinis and down them in quick succession, shuddering at the strength of the alcohol. When they don’t immediately work, I order another three. At these prices, I’ll need to drink quickly if I want to achieve the effect I’m after.

The bartender is still making my drinks when I become aware of someone by my side. I tense, ready to do whatever I can to keep myself safe, but it’s just a guy. Not a vampire or a copper or anyone else wanting to do me harm. He’s not even a triber, just a guy who’s after a bit of fun to finish off his night. He’s good-looking in a geeky sort of way, with horn-rimmed glasses and a well-tailored suit. His appearance suggests he’s more prepared for a board meeting than a nightclub, despite the five o’clock shadow around his jaw. His hair is an attractive tortoiseshell colour, enhanced by the club’s bouncing multi-coloured lights, and his eyes twinkle at me with promise.

‘Hello,’ he says.

The bartender lines up my next three drinks. I remove the cocktail stick from the first one and pull off the olive delicately with my teeth, chewing it and savouring its fresh salty taste. I give him a half-smile.

He gestures at the three glasses. ‘You must be thirsty.’

In response, I pick one up and throw the contents down my throat. I’m tempted to lick my lips suggestively afterwards, but I manage to stop myself. This man is a sure thing and, even though I don’t normally pick up strangers, I can’t think of any better way to obliterate the newsreel that keeps running through my head.

I stay mute, although I reach over and slide the second martini along the bar to him. He raises his eyebrows slightly, takes it by the stem and sips.

‘Having a bad day?’ His voice is gentle, not probing.

For one awful moment, tears threaten. He reaches over and softly brushes my hand. At least it’s not my leg. I manage – just – to recover my equilibrium. I take the third glass and sip it carefully, raising my eyes to his. He looks at me and I look at him while, disturbingly, the beat of music changes to a much slower song. We remain like that, watching each other and sipping the martinis until both glasses are drained. Then I push myself off the stool and tuck a hand inside my bodice to grab the money, throwing the notes down onto the bar. If he’s surprised at my lack of height, he doesn’t comment on it; he simply takes my hand and we walk out.

I’ve been in the club for only thirty minutes but the rush of cold air once we are outside shocks me. I’m vaguely aware of the bouncer nodding to himself, impressed at how quickly I managed to find Mr Tortoiseshell. A faint curl of nausea rises up in my stomach but I push it down and take him by the hand, tugging him away from the bouncer’s prying eyes. We round the corner onto a quieter street and he stops, turning to face me. His hands cup my face as he gazes at me. It feels oddly as if he’s staring into my soul. He tilts up my chin and gently kisses my lips. But the last thing I want is gentle.

I twist round and push him against the wall, enjoying the sensation of his hard body next to mine. His eyes spark in desire. I yank the lapel of his suit, pull his face down to mine and kiss him fiercely. He gets with the programme and returns the kiss with equal force. Mr Tortoiseshell obviously enjoys being in control, despite his initial softness, because he pushes me around so this time it’s my back against the wall. One hand reaches up to my hair and the other down to my bare thigh. I can feel his erection pressing into me. His fingers slide higher up my leg and all of a sudden I come to my senses.

As I jerk my head away and duck out from under his arms, he blinks in surprise. I look up at him and feel ashamed. My cheeks heat up. This isn’t me.

‘I’m sorry.’ My voice sounds strange, almost disembodied. ‘I can’t do this.’

And before he can do or say anything else, I turn on my heel and run. Away from him and away from the club. If only it was this easy to run away from my real problems.

***

It takes me a while to get back to the flat. I walk first to clear my head and I berate myself for being an idiot. I feel bad for Mr Tortoiseshell. I suppose he thought I was leading him on then stiffed him – so to speak – in the final moments. But even if I could have found the words, it was just too complicated to explain.

I’m right outside the door when all my senses tell me that something is wrong. I pause, straining my ears. The only reason I catch the sound is because O’Shea is clearly still in pain and can’t stop himself gasping aloud. As I watch, the door knob slowly starts to turn. I smile humourlessly. He’s obviously not realised I’m standing on the other side.

I edge slightly left and wait for the door to creak open. When it’s about an inch ajar, I snap my foot up and out, kicking it backwards with as much force as I can muster. O’Shea yells in pain and I leap through, the base of my palm ready to smash into his nose to prevent him from attempting to go anywhere. I needn’t have bothered. He might have extricated himself from the bed, but he’d achieved it by taking the cheap gilt headboard with him. When the door hits him, he staggers backwards and succeeds in getting the corner of the bed post snagged around a wooden chair. He yanks at it several times in desperation, clawing with his free hand, but it’s stuck fast. I watch him, vaguely amused, then step forward. It’s not until I reach his kicking feet that he finally looks up at me and his body relaxes. Just as I thought. It’s damn hard to come across as a badass PI when you’re wearing a short flowery dress.

I crouch down. ‘Do you remember me?’

The corners of his mouth turn up. ‘Darling, how could I not?’

He’s flirting. Idiot. The slim file Tam provided me with before the debacle at Wiltshore Avenue told me one salient detail that O’Shea was now stupidly trying to conceal in a bid to charm me: I was most definitely not his type. I give him an exasperated look and I see comprehension dawn in his eyes.

‘Oh.’ He gives me a half grin. ‘You know I’m gay.’

‘Indeed.’

I settle myself at his feet, cross my legs, rest my chin on my hands and look at him.

‘Are you going to help me get out of this?’ he asks, holding up his chained wrist. The headboard rattles.

I shake my head.

He blinks at me with his large orange eyes. ‘You saved my life.’ It’s not a question.

‘Yes.’

‘So now you’re going to keep me tied to a bed to have your kinky way with me?’

‘We’ve already been through that.’ I keep my voice calm. The five martinis I recently downed help with that. ‘Though it’s not too late for me to change my mind about the saving your life part.’

There’s a flicker of doubt in his eyes, as if he’s already decided that a little girl like me wouldn’t have the stomach for it. He has no idea. After the last twenty-four hours, I’m prepared to do whatever it takes. Something in my manner finally makes him realise this because the doubt changes to fear. Good. I stretch my arm forward and lightly touch the wound on his torso. The fear grows.

‘Tell me what you were doing at the house.’

He swallows. ‘It’s my childhood home. I was taking a trip down memory lane.’

I press my fingers down and he gasps. ‘Okay, okay! There’s no need to go all Guantanamo on me. Jeez.’ He rolls his eyes as if I’m infringing on his human rights. Alright, I suppose I am. But I’ve got cause.

‘Tell me what you were doing at the house,’ I repeat. I know what Tam told me but I have no reason now to believe what he said.

O’Shea looks hangdog. Unfortunately for him, his sunset orange pupils remind me of my grandfather’s evil cat rather than a cute puppy.

‘Fine. It’s no big deal. I was just selling an enhancement spell, that’s all.’

‘What kind of enhancement spell?’

He grins at me, although I can tell it’s forced. ‘You know…’

‘No, O’Shea, I really don’t.’

He gestures at his crotch. ‘An
enhancement
spell.’

My cheeks colour. ‘For virility or for size?’

‘The bigger they are, darling, the harder they…’

I interrupt him. ‘Okay. I get it. Why the secrecy? Why there?’

‘It’s not exactly legal.’

‘Elaborate.’

‘There are some,’ he licks his lips, ‘side effects.’

I dread to think. Still, I need to know so I gesture for him to continue. He shrugs. ‘Well, you’re the one who brought up virility. Unfortunately the spell renders the recipient impotent. I mean, obviously they can still get it up.’ He laughs. ‘That’s rather the point. But in terms of being able to reproduce, well, the spell kind of takes that away.’

I don’t entirely understand. ‘But I’m sure there are lots of men who’d be more than willing than to undergo a magical vasectomy. No more worries about any little accidents…’

He frowns. ‘It’s not a vasectomy as such. Magic is unreliable and this spell in particular is base physical magic. You start messing with that and all sorts of things can happen. Virility is linked to testosterone. Testosterone is linked to behaviour.’

‘So take away virility and you take away testosterone. Take that away and you’re left with … what? Passive men?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘How can they,’ I cough awkwardly, ‘how can they get it up without testosterone?’

‘The spell contains a marker to artificially increase libido,’ he explains.

I nod like it makes sense. It doesn’t. This is one of the reasons why my grandfather hates magic makers. Then again, my grandfather hates everyone.

‘I still don’t see why male passivity is a problem,’ I say. ‘In fact, I think it sounds like a damn good idea.’

‘You’re not the only woman to think that. The client I was meant to be meeting is female.’

I can see a certain twisted logic there. I think of the odd scent of rosewater when I opened the door on his tortured body. But even though I didn’t see his face, I’m pretty certain that the vampire who attacked Tam and the others was male.

‘Did your client show up?’

He shakes his head. ‘Just that fucking bloodguzzler. He leached the spell, cuffed me to the chair and then tried to kill me.’

‘Do you know who he was?’

‘No.’

‘Was the female client a vampire?’

‘I never met her. But no, I don’t think so.’

‘If you’ve never met her, how did you set up the drop?’