Red Angel (7 page)

Medici looks like he’s enjoying himself far too much to consider leaving. I grab Kimchi’s collar and bring him round to the other side of the table so that he’s further away from the vampire Lord. The last thing I need is for him to bite and snap in full view of all these people. Medici would start crowing about the Dangerous Dogs Act before I could do a thing.

‘Come, come,’ he drawls. ‘We’re all friends now, aren’t we? Especially now that New Order includes all our representatives.’

I forget to breathe. Is he admitting that he sent Dahlia to us?

‘You’ve changed your tune,’ Michael interjects.

Medici reaches over to Michael’s place setting and takes his napkin, carefully unfolding it and tucking it into his collar to form a bib. ‘I didn’t have much choice. Damn female fledgling ran away to join you, didn’t she? I should have known recruiting her would be a bad idea.’

‘You didn’t recruit her,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘You forced her.’

He looks up as if trying to remember. ‘Oh yes. I’d forgotten that part.’ He gives me what is meant to be a charming smile. ‘Oh well.’

‘Her defection reflects badly on you. Why haven’t you tried to bring her back?’

Medici’s gaze turns unpleasant again. ‘I will. I’m just waiting for the right moment.’

My eyes narrow. Either he wants to force Dahlia back into the Medici fold at the point where it’ll cause Arzo the most pain – or all this is a bluff to make us think she’s not still working for him. A ball of frustrated anger rises up inside me. He knows every single button to push to piss me off. The only way I can win this is by staying calm and playing him at his own game.

I gently kick Michael under the table to give him as much prior warning as I dare. His eyes meet mine as if he’s afraid about what I’ll do. He really shouldn’t worry so much.

I raise my hand to the waiter and indicate that he should set an extra place for Medici. He rushes over while I carefully extract the Montserrat engineered flower from my hair and pass it over. ‘Here,’ I say. ‘Isn’t it pretty? You should wear it in your lapel. It would look fantastic against that Medici red.’

The only hint I have that he’s affected by my actions is the faint tightening around his mouth. ‘I couldn’t possibly,’ he demurs. ‘It’s so becoming in your hair.’

‘Oh, but I insist. After all,’ I smile, ‘we’re all friends now.’

Left with little choice, he takes the little bloom from me, pinching it in between his thumb and forefinger as if he’s afraid it’ll bite. He shoves it into his buttonhole and forces a smile. I cross my fingers, exulting when another of the pavement paparazzi nabs a shot. That’ll look good in the morning papers – Medici wearing Montserrat colours.

Unfortunately for me, Medici hasn’t finished playing either. He leans across the table, taking my hands in his. For propriety’s sake I resist recoiling, although his touch makes me shudder. My mind flashes to the white pebble in my clutch bag on the table. I hold it in my mind’s eye while Medici goes in for the kill, planting his own mouth firmly on mine. There are delighted shouts and a strobe-light effect as yet more cameras go off.

I pull away, using every part of my being to resist slapping him round the face – or breaking his slimy neck. Michael’s body is rigid, his fists clenched. He starts to rise from the table and I know that he’s about to punch Medici in the face. It will be a PR nightmare. I stand up hastily and position myself between them.

‘That wine has gone right to my head,’ I exclaim loudly. ‘I really don’t feel very well at all. Michael, darling, take me home, will you?’

I can tell that my words are falling on deaf ears. I know what it’s like to be filled with burning rage; the last time it almost overtook me, Michael brought me back from the brink. It’s time for me to return the favour. I coil my arm round his neck and reach up on my tiptoes to kiss him deeply. He doesn’t immediately respond but I don’t give in. A few seconds later, I feel his body relax against mine. His hands move to my waist and he deepens the kiss. He tastes not only of the wine but something deeper and more masculine.

I forget about Medici until one of the paparazzi, who somehow managed to sneak inside the restaurant while everyone was preoccupied, takes a photo from inches away. I pull away from Michael, telling myself that my rapid heartbeat is because of the tense situation with Medici, not the kiss.

‘That was lovely, darling. It even got rid of the bad taste in my mouth. I still think I should go home though.’ I pat my stomach. ‘I don’t feel quite right.’

Medici turns to the photographer and bares his fangs. I could swear he’s about to bite the man and I almost hope he does. Vampires are above human law but no one would be able to ignore such a blatant act of aggression. It’s a shame he manages to restrain himself and the hapless journalist escapes. ‘She does look rather pale,’ he comments, as if nothing untoward has happened.

Michael takes my shoulder, gently pushing me to one side. My stomach drops when he steps up to Medici, nose to nose. ‘Try that again and I will kill you.’

Medici throws back his head and laughs. I silently plead with Michael to let it go. For a moment I think it’s still touch and go, then he turns back to me, folds my arm under his and we stroll out of the restaurant.

*

Michael drops me back at home. He was virtually silent the entire journey, his expression a brooding maelstrom of emotions. I can’t tell if he’s angry at me for what happened with Medici but, when I get out of the car with Kimchi, he gets out too and kisses me gently on the cheek.

‘I’m sorry for tonight,’ he says. ‘I’ll make it up to you.’

‘It wasn’t your fault. We need to do something about Medici. He’s sailing too close to the wind.’

‘I know,’ he answers grimly.

I wait until he drives away before I spin on my heel and open the main entrance door, letting Kimchi inside. He immediately starts sniffing at Drechlin’s door as if he’s expecting some doggie treats to appear. I leave him to it and head back out and down the street, rather than following the dog in. I’m home much earlier than I’d anticipated but I still don’t want to waste a second of what’s left of the night, even to change my shoes.

I’m relieved to see O’Shea leaning against the wall, waiting for me. ‘Hey,’ I call out. ‘It’s time.’ It may feel like I’ve already had an epic evening but I’m only getting started.

We park the bike some distance away from the army base, concealing it in a copse of trees. I double check the paths, imprinting them firmly in my mind. If we need to make a fast exit, I need to know our options. I kick off my high heels.

‘You should wear shoes like that more often,’ O’Shea tells me.

‘Because they make me look taller?’ I ask distractedly, peering across the expanse of darkness for any sign of activity.

‘No,’ he grins, ‘because it means I get to drive the bike.’ He flips back his hair. ‘I think it makes me look rather James Dean.’

‘You’re certainly a rebel without a cause,’ I mutter.

O’Shea laughs and puts an arm round my shoulders. ‘Darling,’ he whispers, ‘you’re my cause.’

I snort and push him away. ‘You don’t have to get involved in this, you know. There’s no guarantee it’ll work or I’ll find out anything about Toby Renfrew. It
is
entirely freelance. You might not get paid…’

‘I’m not completely mercenary, Bo. Does anyone else know what you’re up to?’

‘No.’

‘Not even Michael?’ I shake my head. ‘Well then, I need to stick around. If something happened to you while I knew you were up to no good, he’d have my head. I can protect you.’

He starts walking, stumbles over a tree root that’s jutting out of the earth and goes flying. I manage to pull him back before he lands face first in the dirt. ‘You do that, O’Shea. I need a big strong man like you around to keep me safe.’

He sticks his tongue out and I laugh. ‘Come on.’ I check my watch. ‘We’ve got five hours. Let’s find a way inside then get that Trace thing going.’

We jog down a small hill towards the base. From this elevated viewpoint, I can see what O’Shea meant: it’s a sprawling complex. It would have taken me far too long to locate the time bubble orbs – not just because I can only operate during the night hours unless I want to spontaneously combust, but also because the more time I spend inside the base, the more chance I’ll end up getting caught.

I wrinkle my nose at the high fence. The top is looped with barbed wire and I have no doubt that it extends far enough underground to stop us digging our way in. ‘How did you get inside when you had your, um, assignation?’ I ask.

‘I had a visitor’s pass, of course.’ O’Shea squints at me. ‘Do you mean you don’t have a plan to get us in through the gate?’

‘Why do you think I asked you for help?’

O’Shea throws up his hands. ‘Do I have to think of everything?’

I glance down towards the road leading into the base. Two headlights on full beam are bearing down on us. ‘Actually, no – but we need to run.’

We’re in luck that the vehicle is some kind of large truck; it means there’s more room underneath the chassis. This is far from an ideal method of transport but I’m counting on the fact that we won’t be travelling far and definitely not at high speed. The difficult part will be bringing the damn Trace along with us.

I reach the slow-moving vehicle before O’Shea. It’s helpful that there are speed bumps along this stretch although it will be more painful. I keep to the truck’s blind spot, flinging myself underneath as it slows down before another bump. Then I use my fingers to cling to the undercarriage, pull up my feet and gain enough purchase with my toes to keep my body off the ground. The metal is searingly hot to the touch but I’m a vampire: I can stand a bit of pain. I rest the box containing the Trace spell on my stomach and try to stop it falling off. That would be disastrous.

I’m starting to think that O’Shea won’t make it before we reach the main gates to the base but he appears when it’s almost too late, squeezing up to join me. Just about the only part of him that’s visible is his eyes. He doesn’t look happy.

‘This is a really bad idea!’ he hisses to me.

‘I know it’s hard to cling on but it won’t be for long,’ I soothe. ‘You’re a daemon. Your fingers are virtually made of asbestos.’

‘That’s not what I mean!’

‘What then?’

The truck comes to a juddering halt and there’s the sound of muffled voices. I hear a clank and my insides freeze as I realise someone is checking underneath with an angled mirror.

‘Drop!’

Both O’Shea and I fall to the ground. I hug the Trace box and roll away from the mirror. I pray that there’s only one guard; if we have to deal with two checking both sides simultaneously, we’ve no hope.

It’s the night shift so we’re in luck. And they’re probably looking for bombs – not a vampire and a daemon.

When the boot-covered feet move round the back of the truck, O’Shea and I scoot forward and to our left. He keeps muttering under his breath and I catch the words ‘fucking stupid’. He’s not wrong. It’s not until the vehicle finally jerks forward that I think we might be in the clear. I reach up and hold on again, ignoring the blisters that are forming on my fingers and toes.

I count to twenty in my head as the truck accelerates. I can’t cling on for much longer and I daren’t turn my head to look at O’Shea and see how he’s doing. The moment I reach twenty, I let myself fall. My back bangs against the tarmac, sending a jolt of pain through me. A second later I hear a thump as O’Shea follows.

I stay flat on the road until the truck has driven away and then crawl to the side of the road. I lie on the cool, dewy grass and pant.

‘Thanks,’ O’Shea says sarcastically. ‘Thanks a lot.’

I peer up at him. He has every right to be pissed off. ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper, clambering slowly to my feet. ‘I should have thought that through better.’

He points to a dark stain on his shirt. ‘I’m covered in grease. You’re paying my dry cleaning bill, Blackman!’

There’s another smear down his cheek, shaped like a black witch’s tattoo. I stifle a giggle. It’s not really funny but, for some reason, mild hysteria overtakes me.

Unimpressed, O’Shea lifts his fingers to his cheeks. When he sees the dark grease, he shudders delicately. It makes me snigger even more.

‘You’re covered in oil too,’ he points out. ‘But I’m too much of a gentleman to make a thing of it.’

I touch my cheek and feel the sticky substance. I get my giggles under control and sober up. ‘What does it look like?’

‘Like you’ve been clinging to the underside of a freaking truck. What do you think it looks like?’

I reach over and adjust the smear on his face so it looks like a witch’s tattoo again. ‘I have an idea,’ I say. ‘Can you make the oil look like a black witch’s signet?’

His brow furrows. ‘Huh?’

‘One of their tattoos? There are cameras all over the place. It might depend how high tech they are but if we both look like we’re witches and the cameras happen to pick us up…’

He nods in sudden understanding. ‘Gotcha.’ He steps over to me and peers down. ‘There’s a lot of grease on both your cheeks. Without some soap I’m not sure I can clean enough off.’

‘No problem,’ I tell him. ‘Make me look like a hybrid.’ I hate those bastards. It’ll appeal to my sense of self-righteousness for one of them to get blamed for this ill-advised heist.

O’Shea does what he can while I twist my hair into a tight knot. My face might currently be one of the more recognisable ones on the planet but if I have a more boyish hairstyle and keep my chin down, I might get away with this. Eventually O’Shea steps back. ‘It won’t hold up to close inspection.’

‘If anyone gets close, we’re already doomed,’ I say. I lift the lid off the Trace box and stare at it doubtfully. ‘How do we make this work then?’

‘Pick it up.’

I start to do as I’m told. My fingers barely brush against the cool glass of the orb, however, when I receive a shock of static and draw back, hissing through my teeth.

O’Shea juts out his bottom lip. ‘Aw. Did the big bad vampire get an electric shock?’ I narrow my eyes at him. ‘Sorry. I meant little bad vampire.’

I don’t rise to the bait. Instead, I try again, this time managing to scoop up the globe and hold it in both hands. Almost immediately it tugs me forward. I blink.

‘Cool, huh?’ O’Shea grins.

‘If it works.’

‘Bo, you’re no fun these days.’

‘We’re not out on a jolly,’ I tell him. ‘This is a serious matter. If anyone catches us … or even sees us…’

He casts a hand around as I’m yanked forward again. ‘No one’s here. It’s the middle of the night. Just let yourself relax.’

‘We’re slap bang in the centre of an army base, surrounded by lots of soldiers and lots of guns. I’m not about to kick back and chill until we’ve got what we came for and we’re safely away.’

‘No,’ he says, ‘I meant relax and the Trace can do its job.’ He winks. ‘Trust me, Bo. I’m a daemon.’

For some reason his words put me in mind of X and his ridiculous antics at the television studio. I force myself to concentrate on the matter in hand though and follow O’Shea’s instructions. I loosen the tension in my muscles while the Trace continues to exert its pressure on me. It’s easier said than done but soon we’re moving at a brisk pace while I keep the Trace in front of me. I stumble several times as it leads us down the immaculate road fringed with a lawn that is cut so evenly I imagine some poor band of recruits measures each blade of grass every morning to ensure conformity.

The Trace is pulling me over to the left when I hear the sound of voices from up ahead. O’Shea and I exchange quick glances and run to the nearest building, letting the heavy shadows conceal us as best as they can. I’m still nervous about cameras capturing our images so I keep my head down. A moment later, two soldiers appear. Both have identical crew-cuts and straight-backed postures. The army certainly keeps its worker bees in line.

The pressure from the Trace is growing. I shift its weight in my sweaty palms as it tries to make me move. In an attempt to exert more control, I hug it to my chest but it makes my whole body jerk. I grit my teeth and concentrate on remaining upright while the soldiers pass by.

They are about ten feet away, heading towards the main gates, when the Trace apparently decides enough is enough. With a burst of uncontrollable energy, it flings me forward. I feel O’Shea grab the back of my dress to restrain me but it’s too late. My feet kick up the gravel that surrounds the building as I try to regain my balance. The only thing I can do is crouch into a ball but even then the bloody thing still pulls me forward. I’m wondering what Isaac Newton would have made of a Trace when I realise the soldiers have stopped and are turning in our direction.

‘Shit,’ O’Shea breathes.

My instinct is to run but if we try that we’ll be spotted for sure. The soldier nearest to us starts to walk over in our direction. ‘Is anyone there?’ he calls out, peering towards us.

Our only saving grace is that we’re enveloped in darkness and invisible from the road. My mind races through our options. We could rush the soldiers and escape but then we’d have no hope of getting near the orbs we need. I’m still wearing the dress; I could use O’Shea’s story about the lance corporal and wander out to chat to them, making it seem like I have permission to be here. It would buy us about five seconds before they discovered the truth. And what the hell do I do with the damned Trace? If I stand up, it’ll start yanking me again with such power that I’ll either drop it and allow the soldiers to pinpoint our presence, or it’ll fling me directly in their path. Bugger, bugger, bugger. This was such a stupid idea.

There’s a crackle from the second soldier’s radio. He unclips it from his belt and holds it up to his face. He nods briskly. ‘We’ve got to go.’

‘But…’

‘It’s probably a damn cat. You might want to get on Arbuckle’s bad side but I’m not in the mood for another bawling out.’

‘That was Colonel Arbuckle?’ Even in the darkness, I can see his face pale. ‘But…’

‘We’re wanted in the Situation Room. Now.’

The soldier’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows nervously and turns away. My eyes track them as their heavy boots clump away. I stay where I am, hunched over the Trace as it continues to try and move me, until I’m certain they’ve gone.

O’Shea peels himself away from the wall. ‘That was too freaking close.’

‘Did you hear his radio? Do you know what was said?’

He shakes his head. ‘Just a word or two. I guess this Arbuckle fellow is kind of scary.’

I gnaw on my lip. ‘Yeah,’ I say slowly, ‘I guess so.’ I imagine another identikit crew-cut but accompanied by a thicker neck and harder eyes.

‘Can you stand up?’

I grimace. ‘I have the feeling that as soon as I do, I’ll fly through the air at a velocity that defies the laws of physics. No wonder these sodding Traces aren’t used very often.’

‘It’s following your orders.’

‘To find the orbs.’

‘Yup.’

‘Well in that case, let’s find them and get the hell out of here. We don’t need any more close encounters like that.’

I uncurl carefully. The momentum has been building in the Trace so as soon as I’m half upright, I’m hurled forward like a cork popping out of a champagne bottle. My arms are outstretched and my feet drag behind me as I’m shoved straight onto the road. If we’d not managed to hide in time, I’d have run smack-bang into the soldiers.