Mammon (18 page)

Joe's eyes were deep in concentration.

Ivan ran forward and kicked Jesse in the stomach. The knife fell as the boy stumbled backwards, vanishing inside the rift.

With panicked breaths, Joe closed it.

For a moment there was silence.

Ivan stepped in front of Grace, gun trained on the roller-door. It hurled upwards, and in the gap stood five men, pointing their guns.

Grace felt her eyes drawn to Travis, who was watching her with a furious scowl, teeth bared, eyes enraged. His anger seemed to animate his Shadow – it looked to be tearing off his skin, trying to grab at her.

A torrent of bullets flew through the air.

Grace caught her breath and closed her eyes, waiting for the impact.

Joe shot up his arms – and a bigger rift exploded, swallowing the bullets, consuming the demons, leaving them standing in the middle of something that they couldn't comprehend.

A wind came.

It converged in the centre of the rift with a devastating boom, a clash of light and sound – and in a rush of thunder the demons were gone.

Too fast.
The lightning subsided into small slivers once more. Inside, the rift resembled a low-level tornado. Then it vanished. Joe slumped, arms hanging forward; exhaustion weighing his limbs down.

Ivan looked at the ceiling. Only the back wall was left standing. The two side walls had collapsed, leaving jagged columns of brick at either side.

The roof was gone.

‘Run!' He grabbed Grace's arm and pulled her towards the street. A deafening boom sounded; a dust cloud erupted. Ivan's fingers were still pressed into Grace's arm as the group formed a loose circle on the other side of the street. They watched the dust subside in shock.

‘God,' said Joe.

The ground was blasted out, leaving a crater where the garage had stood.

‘I did this,' Joe whispered.

Ivan released Grace's arm. He nodded at Sarah. ‘See to those neighbours.'

Sarah turned and swept a look around the surrounding homes. People rushed out to the street and gathered in herds. Some clustered together in gossip groups; others shot curious looks at the strangers standing opposite the wreckage.

No looks of sympathy. No tears.

‘They must have blown themselves up.'

‘They were cooking drugs . . .'

‘Couldn't have happened to nicer people,' said one man. ‘Good riddance!'

‘Shut up!' his wife hissed. ‘They have friends around here, you know!'

Taking a deep breath, Sarah blanketed their minds with a calming direction.
Go inside.
A gas leak. Nothing exciting.
Calm restored, the people turned and went back into their houses.

Ivan dialled Diana's number. ‘Hi. Yes, all done. A bit messy, though.' He grinned. ‘To be expected, I guess. We will need full demolition as soon as they can get here. The neighbours are under control, but someone will need to do a follow-up. Yes. We're on our way back now.'

Ivan pocketed the phone. ‘Let's move.' As the other mercenaries headed off, he grabbed Grace's arm. ‘Not you. I need a word with you.'

Malcolm was last to go; he shot an approving glance back, nodding. ‘Give her the boot, Ivan.'

Ivan's voice was hard, his eyes cold. ‘You deserve a reprimand, Grace. You just went ahead and did what you wanted to do. Again, you were arrogant.'

Grace fought the urge to shrink away. She lifted her chin in a small show of defiance. ‘We were lucky,' Ivan added. ‘That boy wasn't highly gifted. If he had been telepathic or very fast, we could have been looking at a very different outcome.'

‘But . . . everything worked out, didn't it?'

‘You disobeyed my orders and put your team at risk.'

‘I'm sorry,' she whispered.

‘No. This is your last chance. If you do this again, I'm kicking you off my squad.'

She gasped. ‘People make mistakes!'

‘Three strikes, and you're gone.'

She flinched at his heartless tone. ‘That first time doesn't count! That was training!'

‘You've been warned, Grace.' Ivan released her arm and headed towards the car. Grace ran to catch up with him, her eyes pleading. ‘What if he could have been helped? He was forced into this life by his brothers –'

Ivan stopped and turned to her. ‘Stop it! Stop thinking! It's not your place to think! You were told at the start that this is what we do! If you can't follow instructions, you have no future in this job.' Shaking his head, he walked away.

JOE RESTED HIS
head against the pillow, watching the trees swaying outside his window. It had been a silent, shocked trip home; his mind consumed by the devastation he'd just brought to that house, to those demons.

He had no idea . . . no idea at all.

He rolled over onto his side and turned his thoughts to more pleasing matters. Running his fingers along Haures's cheek and the softness he would find there. Winding her silky hair around his fingertips, pulling her face close to his and tasting the sweetness of her lips . . .

Something buzzed on the bedside table. Jolted, he rummaged around until his fingers landed on a small, cold shape.

Sitting up, he pressed the phone to his ear. ‘Ah . . . hello?'

‘Good evening, Joe. This is Mammon Jones.'

Joe sat up. ‘Hi!' He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Ah – how are things?'

‘We're going on a mission tonight. Would you like to come along?'

‘Sure! Definitely!'

‘I'll give you directions for a place to meet. Wait there for my car, and I'll fill you in then.'

G
ULPING WATER, GRACE
cringed as pain sliced through her throat. Diana was perched on the edge of her bed. She reached over and pressed her hand to Grace's forehead. ‘You're quite warm, dear. You should put on your pyjamas – the fabric will breathe better.'

Grace fell back on her pillow. ‘I can't be bothered.' She struggled to draw a deep breath. Her lungs felt as if they were full of sawdust. ‘Hope it's not the flu.'

Diana held out two painkillers and watched Grace take another mouthful of water. ‘It's just a bad cold. Get some sleep and you'll feel better.'

‘Thanks.'

With a mounting sense of loneliness, Grace watched her aunt leave the room. She was not going to feel better. Ivan hated her.

A few minutes later, a thump sounded at the door. Joe flew in. ‘Grace!'

‘What is it?' She sat up, wide-eyed.

‘I need your help.'

‘With what?'

Joe held up Mammon's phone. ‘They called me.'

‘Who?'

‘Those mercenaries. From the festival? Remember, Absinthe Girl?'

‘Ugh.' Grace lay back on the pillow. ‘Don't mention that. I don't want to think about that night.'

‘They've invited me to go on a mission with them. I want to, but I need you to sneak me out of here.'

‘No.'

‘Grace, come on!'

‘Why? We just came back from a mission. You really made an impact there. Isn't that enough?' She coughed and took a drink of water. ‘I feel like death warmed up. Anyway, I don't want to do that to Brutus again. You don't know what it's like when someone messes with your mind.'

‘I really want to go.'

She studied his face, noting the pink flush around his neck and chin, the feverish glint in his eyes. ‘
Oh.
I know why you're so desperate.'

‘Look – if we swapped places, and you wanted to go and see Ivan, I'd help you.'

Her smile dropped. ‘What makes you think I'd want to see
him
?'

Joe sighed. ‘Grace. It's obvious!'

‘Not to him!' Cringing, she shook her head. She hoped he hadn't noticed. Especially now . . .

‘Look – if you help me, I won't say anything to him.'

A horrified expression crossed her face. ‘You would do that?'

He shrugged. ‘The guy has a right to know, doesn't he?'

She narrowed her eyes. ‘That's blackmail, Joe.'

‘Just help me get out.' He glanced at the wall clock. ‘It's half-six now. I'll try to get back by midnight.'

Sighing, she got out of bed, shuffling into her slippers and robe. ‘Just this time, Joe. And never again.'

* * *

TEN MINUTES LATER
, a firm knock sounded on her bedroom door. Grace jumped. She'd only just sat down on the bed. Her slippers were covered in wet grass. Panicked, she shook them off. Surely they hadn't noticed he'd gone.

To be safe this time, she'd put Brutus into a trance at a distance, rather than waiting until they were under his nose. ‘Remember, back by midnight!' Joe had given her a thumbs-up as he ran through the Renfield gates and into the darkness.

Grace looked at the door. ‘Who is it?'

Ivan poked his head in. ‘May I come in?'

‘Sure.' Apprehensively, she watched him cross the room carrying a bowl and spoon. ‘What's that?'

‘A remedy.' Ivan reached past her, sending a tingle across her skin as his hand brushed her arm. He placed a pillow in her lap and lifted the bowl onto the pillow.

She watched him, bemused. ‘Aren't you mad at me?'

Ivan handed her the spoon. ‘I was too hard on you earlier. I don't like losing my temper. I just don't want anyone to get hurt under my command. Especially you.'

Her heart began to pound. He trapped her with his eyes; liquid warmth again, the way they were when she'd fallen from the tree and looked up to see him leaning over her.

‘May I sit down?'

‘Sure.' Grace slid sideways to make room. She felt comforted by the welcome weight of his body as he sat, the way he rested his leg close to hers.

She took a deep breath, inhaling the spices. ‘Yummy,' she breathed. ‘I like tomato soup.'

‘It's Borscht. Traditional Russian recipe.'

She glanced up and smiled at his proud expression. ‘You made it?'

‘Yes. It's about the only thing I know how to cook well.' He smiled in a matter-of-fact way.

She couldn't help but grin. ‘You're a strange guy. I mean, in a good way. Not many guys I know would bring me soup like this.'

‘It's my mother's fault.' He laughed. ‘She made me this way.' He watched her take a spoonful.

‘You don't like it.'

‘No, I do. It just feels like I'm swallowing razor blades. It's yummy, honest.' She took a rattling breath. ‘Did your mum teach you to cook?'

‘Yes.'

‘Do you see her often?'

‘She lives in London with my sister.'

‘Oh. That's a shame. Do you ever visit them?'

He shook his head. ‘Not lately.'

‘What about your dad?'

‘He was murdered.'

Grace's eyes dropped. ‘I'm sorry.' She took another mouthful of soup.

‘Don't be.' He gave her a quizzical look. ‘It is not your fault.'

She shrugged. ‘It's a way of saying I feel sad for what has happened to you. Sorry is shorter and easier – I guess.' She reached across for her water bottle. ‘Whoops.' She froze as soup tipped over the edge of the bowl, staining the pillow.

‘Here.' Ivan passed her the bottle, his fingers brushing against hers.‘My father was a university professor in Moscow. I had a privileged life. Private tutoring, lots of travelling. By the time I was six I could speak fluent English – better than most adults. Everything was going well until my uncle was murdered. A journalist – he was investigating government corruption.'

‘They killed him because of that?'

‘They killed him because, along with my father, he was a member of a dissident organisation that held regular protests against the government. They were becoming too powerful, and the authorities couldn't have that. To them, my uncle was dangerous. He had charisma and the ability to charm people. In their paranoia, they thought he would overthrow their government and take power.' He chuckled, shaking his head.

‘Surely the people knew what was going on?'

His face grew serious. ‘Yes – but the government pro- paganda made sure people saw my uncle as a madman. They didn't just murder him, they assassinated his character.'

‘And your dad?' Dread filled her as she imagined what he would say.

‘After the police linked him to my uncle's dissident activities, they went after him.'

‘Couldn't he have found protection – from someone in power?'

He smiled, watching her bring the spoon to her mouth. ‘This wasn't the West, Grace. They came in the night, when he was working late, and shot him at his desk.'

Grace watched his face. He didn't falter, his voice didn't tremble. She guessed it was several years ago.

‘Mother, Tatiana – that's my sister – and I moved out to the country. Then I joined Spetsnaz.'

‘This might sound strange, but you don't seem like the military type. Not totally.' Her gaze dropped. She could feel his eyes burning into her.

‘That's the first time anyone's said that to me.'

‘Okay, so maybe I'm thinking of the stereotype.' She ran the spoon along the bottom of the bowl. ‘But you seem different, somehow.'

‘Well, I never intended to enter the army. I joined Spetsnaz because someone I trusted lied to me about who murdered my father. I killed innocent men because I thought they were linked to his murder.' His eyes drifted to the window. ‘I still carry the guilt.'

‘That's it! That's what makes you special.'

He looked over. ‘What's that?'

‘You have a conscience. You didn't like what you had to do in the special forces.'

‘Mmm.' He shrugged. ‘Perhaps. I would have left eventually, but finding out that this so-called ally of my father's was a demon certainly sped up the process.'

Grace's voice tightened. ‘He had your father killed.'

‘He betrayed me.'

‘Did you –?'

‘Yes. I killed him. How ironic for him: the training he helped me acquire in turn enabled me to destroy him.' He laughed – a bitter, sharp sound.

‘When was this?' Grace scooped up the last of the soup.

‘Three years ago. I'd just turned eighteen when the Sight developed.'

She put the spoon down. ‘Was that when you killed –?'

He nodded. ‘A Level Twenty-two? Yes.'

‘Wow.'

‘I know it sounds glorious, but I don't really feel any pride over it. I would rather relinquish the Sight and have my father back.'

Grace pictured Mum and Dad, climbing up the basement ladder. Their dead hands . . .

‘How do you get over it?' Her bottom lip trembled.

‘Time.' He sighed. ‘And distractions.'

She fought the urge to lean over and stroke his hair.

She wished he would reach across and touch hers.

‘I feel a bit better now. The soup was great.' She passed him the bowl; he placed it on the table. ‘Good.'

She loved his smile. Uplifting, like a sunbeam on a cloudy day. ‘You don't have to go, do you? I don't feel like staying in bed alone.'

Ivan raised an eyebrow.

‘I didn't mean it to sound like that!' She felt her cheeks grow hot.

He stood up. ‘You do need to rest.'

‘The soup and painkillers have helped.' She didn't want him to go.

Ivan glanced around the room. ‘Ah.' He bent down to pick up Grace's violin. ‘You play music.'

She nodded.

‘So do I.'

‘What instrument?'

‘Balalaika.'

‘I've never heard one.'

‘Well, then – want to come for a walk?' Ivan slung the case over his shoulder and reached out his hand. Grace took it and slid out of bed. She threw on a hoodie, slid her feet into her slippers and followed him along the corridor, then up a flight of stairs. Below were the sounds of cutlery crashing against plates as hungry recruits stormed the dining room.

‘Ratatouille is on the menu tonight,' Ivan said with a grimace. ‘Not very nice. You can tell Joe that you had some real Russian soup. Better than the slop he'll be eating right now.'

‘Ah . . . yeah,' she muttered, scratching her neck.

Ivan pushed open a light green set of double doors. ‘This is the senior wing,' he said.

‘These rooms are huge!'

‘You should get an upgrade in a few months.' Ivan pushed open his door. ‘After you.' Grace stepped inside; Ivan walked past and pulled the curtains open.

‘Welcome to my humble home.' Ivan crossed the room and pulled open his wardrobe door.

‘Wow. Awesome view!' Grace gazed across to the cliffs, where the moonlight shone on the top of the rocky towers. Her gaze dropped to a bookshelf next to the window. Some authors she recognised from Lit class: Tolstoy, Dostoevsky and the playwright Chekhov. Above his bed hung a large Russian flag.

She turned to see Ivan standing close to her. In his arms was a black-lacquered instrument that resembled a guitar but with a triangular shape to the body.

‘That's really nice.'

He nodded. ‘It was my father's. I thought we might play together, Grace. You wouldn't happen to know any Russian music?'

‘Um . . . Tchaikovsky?'

‘No folk songs?'

‘Only Irish.' A sudden twinge of guilt. All those times she'd whinged at Dad for putting on ‘Danny Boy'.

Ivan began to strum. ‘This is
troika
,' he said. ‘Why don't you try to play along with me?'

Grace watched his fingers moving. ‘Do you have the sheet music?'

‘No.' His eyes were misty with a faraway look. ‘I learned this by heart when I was a small child. Can you play by ear?'

‘I can try.' She took her violin from her case. ‘You're good,' she added, watching his fingers move.

‘Thank you.'

She sat down and began to tighten the bow. Her eyes flickered back to the bookshelf, where a large, silver photograph frame held a prominent position. A tall blonde woman stood, her hand resting on an armchair where a moustached man sat. Both wore stern expressions, but there was a gentleness in the mother's eyes. Grace pointed to the boy in the picture, who was obviously trying to emulate his father's look. ‘Little Ivan,' she said.

He shrugged. ‘I don't remember that photo being taken.'

‘You were a sweet little boy.' She ran rosin along the bow. ‘I don't know what happened.' She grinned.

Ivan smiled but kept strumming. ‘The picture on the right is my younger sister Tatiana, with her English boyfriend.' His voice sounded tight.