by Ilana Waters
“Just call me Abigail,” she said.
“And you may call me Aurelius,” he said. “Not that I imagine we’ll be seeing one another after tonight.”
“You never know, Titus.” She winked at him. “You just never know.”
He resisted the urge to give an annoyed growl. “You’re really returning to the PIA?” he asked. “Even with your—” Titus glanced around quickly and lowered his voice. “Even with your burgeoning powers?”
Abigail’s eyes went from playful to steely. “I’m never one to back down from a challenge.” Behind them, a bleary-eyed clerk opened the ticket office, and commuters filed silently inside.
Titus grunted. “Truer words were never spoken—for you and me. Still, you ought to be more careful.” He gave her a smug smile and turned to go. “There won’t always be a handsome hero around to save you.”
“Really?” Abigail said. “If a handsome hero shows up, be sure and let me know.”
Titus scowled at her and began walking toward the inn.
“And if he has a decent job and doesn’t live with his mother,” she called, “give him my phone number!”
He glanced over his shoulder and considered a retort. But Abigail had already disappeared into the ticket office, and the sky was growing brighter.
What a bizarre encounter. Why hadn’t he fed on her? Just satisfied his hunger, and left her body by the side of the road. No one would’ve been the wiser. Likely he’d been distracted by all her talk. He closed his eyes and sighed. At least what he said to the woman was true.
They’d probably never lay eyes on each other again.
Chapter 4
“Elean—er, Ms. Cunningham?”
Abigail knocked softly on the large oak door. It was already partially open. She gave it a hearty push. With a loud, long creak, it opened entirely to reveal a dark room lit by a single desk lamp.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d be here this late,” Abigail said to the woman sitting behind the massive desk. And was half hoping you wouldn’t be. Abigail couldn’t see much in the dim light, but her eyes flickered to an autographed photo of Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher on the desk.
Earlier that morning, after her train pulled into London from the village, Abigail went back to her flat. She looked in the direction of the shower. Then, she promptly passed out on the bed. When she awoke late that afternoon, she managed more than a cursory glance at the bath. Afterward, she dressed quickly, wolfed down nearly the entire contents of her fridge, and made for the PIA building.
There, she dashed off a report about what happened at the pub and forwarded it to the appropriate parties. Obviously, she didn’t tell the PIA the whole truth. Certainly not the part where she and a vampire were the only survivors.
There were a few people she relayed the report to in person. Arthur and Richard seemed especially relieved she was all right. Arthur insisted her injuries required a hospital visit, but Abigail said she was fine. The person she really wanted to talk to was Cunningham. Sort of. She didn’t want to talk to the woman. But, in all likelihood, she was the only one who could answer Abigail’s burning questions.
“Why, Abigail!” Cunningham looked up and gave the briefest of smiles. “Hello, dear. What? Oh, yes, I’m still here. The supernatural world never sleeps. And so, it seems, neither do I.” She gave a resigned sigh and put her pen on the desk blotter. Without glancing down, she placed it at a perfect parallel to her crisp, white sheet of paper.
“But I’m glad to see you looking so . . . well,” she continued, removing her reading glasses and folding her hands in front of her. Today, Abigail noticed, Cunningham’s hair was in a perfect bob. Large, circular earrings of solid gold matched the buttons on her tweed jacket. Her thin lips pursed as she looked Abigail up and down. Suddenly, Abigail couldn’t remember if she’d put on a bra when she got dressed, let alone combed her hair. Her main concern had been covering the scratches and bruises she received last night. She was pretty sure she’d concealed most of them.
But suddenly, her blousy peasant top seemed out of place. She swallowed and tugged the folds of it over her high-waisted jeans. She wasn’t used to feeling like she had to impress people. Like she had something to prove.
So why does coming to see Eleanor Cunningham feel like getting sent to the principal’s office? She settled for adjusting her wide-brimmed sun hat.
“Well, don’t just stand there, young lady.” Cunningham’s tone was warm enough. But Abigail felt the chill behind it so distinctly, she nearly shivered. “Sit down and tell me what happened.” She motioned to the chair in front of the desk. “I’m only sorry my business in Scotland prevented me from being here in person when you relayed your . . . tale. Silly train was late. Typical, isn’t it? And I’m off to Shropshire straightaway as it is. Won’t get back till the day after tomorrow. Tedious stuff.”
Abigail sat down. She slung her purse over the chair’s shoulder and tried to discreetly glance around the room. But it was so dark, all she could make out were bookshelves full of odd-looking statues, and strange masks and relics fastened to the walls.
“Anyway, horrid business about that gas leak at the pub,” Cunningham continued. “Arthur rang and told me all about it. It was all over the news as well.” Now, she and Abigail were at eye level with one another. And yet, Abigail got a prickly feeling the woman was looking down at her.
“I was also able to read your report on it via one of those new . . . what do you call them?” Cunningham twirled her finger in the air. “Facsimile machines? Anyway, I’m just catching up on some paperwork before I go home. But I thought you’d gone back to your flat hours ago.” She withdrew a letter opener from the organizer on her desk and skillfully sliced through several envelopes. “Really, I don’t see how you’re still on your feet after what you went through. Most novices—and even experienced members—would be reeling for years from a harrowing encounter like that.”
Abigail hesitated. Something in Cunningham’s voice was a challenge, a threat. Abigail just couldn’t figure out what. She removed her sun hat, held it in her lap, and squared her shoulders.
“Well, I guess I’m made of stronger stuff.” Abigail smiled, but the smile did not reach her eyes. “Takes more than an explosion I saw from a parking lot to do me in. And really, there’s not much more to tell than what I put in my report. But I wanted to ask you—”
“So, you really weren’t able to glean any insights before those vampires started fighting?” Cunningham put her glasses back on. She plucked one of the letters from its envelope and skimmed it.
“I—what? Are you kidding?” Abigail’s eyebrows shot up. “I was lucky to get out with my life.”
“Mmm. Pity.” Cunningham crushed the letter in one hand, which she moved, robotically, to drop the letter in the rubbish bin.
A pity I couldn’t gather more intel, or that I escaped with my life? Abigail had no idea which one Cunningham meant. Her eyes wandered over the woman’s pointy chin, the high cheekbones. All soft words and sharp edges, Abigail thought.
“Ah, as I was about to say,” Abigail cleared her throat, “why did you send me on such a dangerous mission? Why not send someone more experienced? Or at least send a pair of PIA members. Seems safer that way.”
“Why, my dear, I had no idea it would be such a bother!” Cunningham looked up from the letter she’d chosen as her next victim. “You know I’d never do anything to bring a colleague to harm.” She crushed the letter, and it met the same fate as the first.
“Hmmm.” Abigail feigned agreement. You’re lying. Somehow, I know you’re lying. “Well, I did a little digging, and the monkey in question was mundane. Valuable in a monetary sense, but otherwise, completely ordinary. So why have me—or anyone—document the exchange if the piece wasn’t magical?”
“Well, one never knows until one observes, yes?” Cunningham was browsing through a third letter. Apparently, it was worthier than the other two; she folded it back into th
irds and placed it squarely between her blotter and lamp. “That’s the whole point of these little investigations,” she continued. “To find out all we can and document it for posterity.”
“Okay, then why did the vampires want the monkey so badly, if there are easier ways to make a buck?” Abigail’s fingernails dug into the straw of her hat. And why are you being so cagey?
“Now, you can hardly expect me to know, dear. The ways of immortals are often arcane and mysterious.”
Abigail let go of the hat and folded her arms across her chest. “The ways of these immortals were mercenary and money-grubbing. Nothing mysterious about it. Besides, if the PIA can’t uncover their motives, who can?”
This time, Cunningham looked up. “You cannot expect the PIA to know everything, Abby dear.” Her bare eyes were just visible over the rims of her glasses, her tone decidedly less friendly than before. “We are not omniscient.”
“Right. Of course not.” Just secretive, even with your own members. “Oh, wait.” Abigail took her purse off the chair and went through it. “I know my write-up said my camera broke, but I did manage to get down a few things that weren’t in the report.” She held out several sheets of legal paper, crumpled but smoothed over, the blue ink on them bleeding and illegible.
“Thank you,” said Cunningham, barely moving her lips. She took the sheets between two fingers and placed them gingerly on the furthest corner of her desk, closest to the bin. “And you’re sure you found nothing else of interest, dear?”
I may have befriended a two-thousand-year-old vampire, Abigail thought. Who’s kind of tall, dark, and handsome. Emotionally dark, that is. His hair was light. It matched his round, blue eyes . . . Her own eyes snapped up to meet Cunningham’s. She shook her head quickly. “Sorry. Not a thing.”
“It’s just as well.” The pseudo-friendly tone returned. Cunningham pressed her glasses back onto the bridge of her nose. “What’s important is that you’ve returned, safe and sound.”
“I also wanted to ask you about—”
“Your next assignment!” Cunningham cried. “Of course. My, but you Americans are go-getters, aren’t you?” She flipped through her Rolodex and handed Abigail a card. “Something a bit more sedate this time, I think, yes? Why don’t you try alphabetizing the books in the Reynolds wing? Shouldn’t be too much trouble. Nice and relaxing, with no danger involved. Unless, of course, a heavy bookcase falls on you,” she chuckled.
Why do I think you’d love that? Abigail looked down at the card. It was a map of all the libraries in the Reynolds wing. It was, as her mother used to say, ginormous. Putting all those books in order will take me forever.
“And dear? Do get some rest.” Cunningham began going back through her mail. Evidently, the conversation was over. Abigail stood up, grabbed her purse, and tugged her hat on. “Even if you are made of strong stuff, no need to overtax yourself when you’re just starting out? Right?” Cunningham flashed a toothy smile.
The chided-schoolgirl feeling had vanished. Now, Abigail had the impression she’d spent the last half hour in the presence of a shark. A shark in a blonde wig and Chanel suit. And one did not show timidity in front of a shark. She gave her own knowing smile before replying:
“Riiight.”
***
Cunningham’s smile faded as she watched Abigail shut the door behind her.
So, the Yank survived. That’s . . . interesting. Cunningham was sure when the deal over the monkey went sour—as she knew it would—that certain vampires would respond with violence. And where vampires and violence met, mortal deaths weren’t far behind. Of course, the gas leak and subsequent explosion had been unexpected. But that just made the current outcome even more improbable. Cunningham narrowed her eyes at the closed door. Saw the whole thing from the parking lot, indeed. How did she make it out of there alive?
It should have worked. A simple suicide mission to dispose of someone with budding magical powers. No need to alert the senior members with such a trifle. After all, she hadn’t even told Dennis or Brex. Or Arthur, for that matter. They’d only want to sack the would-be witch from the PIA.
Sack . . . snuff out . . . what’s the difference, really? It amounted to the same thing, when you thought about it. And Abigail Silver was someone Cunningham could deal with quickly. Quietly. Or so she’d thought. Back when the American was a mere inconvenience.
Yes, the Yank survived, all right. But now, she’s beginning to snoop. To ask the wrong kinds of questions. And that is unfortunate.
No. Cunningham took the letter opener and stabbed it into a pad of paper until it stood straight up. It is more than unfortunate. With one hand, she pulled the glasses away from her face. With the other hand, she twisted the letter opener, still staring at the door.
It is intolerable.
Chapter 5
The sun had set by now, and it was noticeably cooler than it had been the previous night. The sky was cloudy, promising rain. But Abigail had learned that English weather seldom kept its promises.
She walked quickly away from the turreted, redbrick building of the PIA. She was several blocks out, on the Mayfair perimeter, when she realized she’d forgotten her jacket back in the PIA’s library.
“Crap,” she whispered. It would be even colder where she was going. Oh, well. Too late now. She headed into the subway—or “tube,” as the English called it. It wasn’t long before she reached her destination.
“ ‘Mystical artifacts are often traded on the magical black market.’ ” The words came back to Abigail as she emerged in the East End from the tube, map in hand. The neighborhood was far less agreeable than Mayfair. Broken streetlights darkened the narrow rivers of road. Buildings that weren’t abandoned were run-down, shattered glass in their storefronts, weeds in their lots. Shadowy figures stood on corners, motioning to one another and pointing at Abigail. Hurriedly, she memorized the rest of the way, folded the map into her purse, and walked quickly.
She hadn’t expected that looking into the jade monkey would yield such fruit so fast. But the books she’d researched after visiting Eleanor Cunningham were clear. “ ‘Many immortals still only trust the most ancient methods of transport for these treasures, preferring ships to aeroplanes,’ ” she quoted.
Ships. That meant the docks. Maybe someone there would know the truth about the monkey. Of course, it was dangerous. She might come across more vampires—or other creatures—who didn’t appreciate her sniffing around. But she was counting on running into someone susceptible to bribes. It would be easy enough to get more intel on the monkey that way. For once, she had the cash; most of her midwifing fee from Mrs. Ellis was still in her purse.
Now, if I can just get to the docks and back without getting mugged, or worse, she thought, I’ll be all set.
As she made her way down the wharf, the briny smell reminded her of the ubiquitous scent of fish-and-chips that pervaded certain parts of London. All the docks in this area were officially closed, but Abigail knew that didn’t mean they weren’t in use. Since when do criminals let a little thing like the law stop them? she thought.
Abigail looked quickly to the left and right, but there were no more shadowy figures like those she’d seen on the street. Except for a stray cat or two, she appeared to be alone. Across the river, through the mist, she could see pinpricks of light from the London skyline. The only sound, other than cats yowling, was that of the waves as they slapped drunkenly against the sides of ships.
Abigail rubbed her arms. She’d forgotten how much colder it was by the water. She glanced around, but even in the dim light, she could see nothing that marked this place as supernatural. There was just the usual dockside paraphernalia: cranes, small trucks, and long, metal shipping containers, at least ten feet high. A few metal barrels and wooden crates on pallets also dotted the landscape. Beyond those was a large building, as derelict as the ones Abigail had seen earlier. In big, faded block letters on its side was painted “C41.” On the second sto
ry, a single light shone from one of the only intact windows.
Abigail narrowed her eyes. Without a word, she began climbing the chain-link fence that stood between the building and her.
***
Titus would have liked to go immediately to London, where the city’s underbelly would’ve made a sumptuous feast. A feast richly needed—and deserved—after his harrowing ordeal at the pub. However, his ancient nemesis, the sun, prevented it. He was obliged to stay behind at the little inn, where his bloodied and disheveled attire provoked too many stares and unanswered questions. He silenced the ones from the clerk at the front desk with a wad of cash. He left as soon as the sun set the next day, with several members of the staff markedly paler.
Yes, London had to wait. But not for long. Several hours after his departure, Titus got off the train and went to the docks. He’d procured a beige, belted trench coat and fedora from an obliging patron at the inn.
Well, perhaps obliging isn’t quite the word. Titus smiled. It wasn’t as if the man had any choice in the matter. He just had the misfortune to be the same height and build as Titus, who was in need of a temporary wardrobe. Titus sighed. Pity he hadn’t been able to drink his fill of the man, as he’d wanted. But the risks of exposing his secret were too great. He could risk leaving behind a dazed and confused patron in a quaint village, but not a dead body.
A gentle breeze was blowing, which only seemed to add to the dock’s eerie stillness. It also carried with it the scent of dirty river water, and oil that stained the concrete. Hell, thought Titus, I remember when this used to be a Roman port. Fog billowed up from the Thames, and he looked over the expanse of river, past the detritus of the shipyard, to the multistoried building with its single lit window. He read the lettering on the side: C41. It wasn’t the most pleasant place to investigate the woman, but it would have to do.