Either she wants to torment me, or this is a trick to distract me and throw me off the scent. The worst thing is not knowing if this is a real threat, or if it is just a game she is playing.
She’s made this personal. She hates me. I am sure of it. But why?
How can I possibly take this to Storm when I have no idea what it is? What kind of psychic am I?
And what is this thing that is supposed to mean most to me in the world? My eyes go to AngelBeastie curled up on my duvet. AngelBeastie is the only thing I have in the world.
I hurry to my door to double check the lock. I wedge the back of my other chair up against the handle. It’s a stupid measure, because I know she is unlikely to come back right now. I should be worrying about when I’m out. It’s not exactly like the lock on this door is secure. She could get into my room easily. She could poison Beastie’s food. She could attack her with an axe. The thought makes me feel sick.
What has the coin got to do with AngelBeastie anyway? Is the coin another ruse to throw me off the scent? Or a clever clue I’ll regret not guessing the meaning of?
I return to my table and carefully remove the gold coin from the plastic bag. It is heavy as real gold. Too expensive to not be a real clue. I place it onto the table top and put the tip of my finger onto one small edge, hoping I am not smearing any fingerprints. But touching it gives me nothing. It just feels like a cold gold coin.
I sit down in the chair and take several long deep breaths, holding each breath for as long as I possibly can before taking the next one. I’m trying to calm myself down and clear my mind. I can’t get anything from the coin if my mind is full of other worries.
I close my eyes and try to focus on nothing but the feeling of my breath coming slowly into my lungs and then slowly back out again. After a while I put my finger on the coin again, and keeping my eyes closed I picture the coin inside my head. I imagine the smiling face of the woman. I imagine that she wants to tell me the truth. I make my mind blank with only the coin and the woman in it. I will with all my being for the truth I need to come to me. Nothing comes.
I pace the room some more. Damn my visions that won’t come when I need them. And damn Beatrice Grictor with her uptilted nose and her soft breathy voice and her prim little blouses buttoned all the way to her neck. Beatrice Grictor who said that she and Raif moved their offices into her house so that they could put more money towards her charity. How the hell am I supposed to find out if that is true or not? I don’t even know where to start.
As I pace I fume about Beatrice. Every once in a while I returned to sit at my desk and touch the coin to give it a chance to tell me something. Nothing less than solid evidence will do for Storm. If only the coin would speak to me. But I’m agitated. Too agitated to be able to hear it. And I’m so tired. My mind is fuzzy. I put my head down on the table to rest it, and close my eyes.
Sometime later I am aware that I am asleep, and yet I am also aware that my cheek is pressed to the surface of the coin. And that it shouldn’t be, because I am destroying any fingerprints. And yet I can’t move my head and I can’t open my eyes because I am asleep. And I am dreaming.
A little boy with black shiny hair and black shiny eyes with a wedge of brilliant green in the left one is bouncing up and down. I smile, knowing it is Storm. Storm as a little boy no older than five, and he is delightful.
He is with his mother in a place that I know must be their home, and I can smell something delicious. Little Storm can smell it too. He is begging his mother for a treat, and she is shaking her head and laughing. But that doesn’t stop him begging. She picks him up and twirls him around and he laughs too.
On a table nearby are freshly baked little lemon cakes, so many of them, arranged artfully as if awaiting guests. Their aroma is mouthwatering. Storm reaches for one, but his mother shakes her head, still laughing.
“It’s mine!” he says. “You know it’s mine.”
“Later,” she says.
“Heads or heads,” he says. “If she smiles, I can have it now!”
His mom tweaks his nose, but she agrees. She flips a golden coin, and it lands in the palm of her hand. The lady of the coin is smiling. Little Storm cackles in glee, and he snatches up a lemon cake, the only one with a bright red cherry on top. The one that his mother baked especially for him.
I wake up from the dream smiling. It takes a while for reality to catch up with me and for the smile to fade from my face. The coin is Storm’s mother’s. How did she get it?
The next thing I know I am on my feet, my heart pounding loudly in my eardrums. The coin is Storm’s. She said she would destroy the thing I cared about most, and she meant Storm.
Chapter 16
DIANA
I grab my phone to call Storm, pleading with the universe for his phone to be switched on though it is night. The call refuses to go through. I have not topped up my credit. I don’t have enough money for it.
Screaming in frustration, I snatch my satchel and Beastie and race out of the room, banging my door shut behind me. It is late night, no tube available for me to speed to Storm’s place. And no bus either. And I can’t run there. I’ll be too late.
I sprint down my road towards the main road, looking back and forth for a cab, and when I spot one with its yellow light lit, I run right into the road in front of it to flag it down.
It nearly flies right into me. The driver is furious. I don’t care. Breathlessly I give him Storm’s address, which I shouldn’t know, but I do.
Shortly after I had moved to London, he had met with me in a cafe to discuss the job. I followed him afterwards. Feeling particularly lonely and lost in the big city, I’d justified it to myself that if only I knew where Storm lived I would feel safe and secure in this alienating metropolis. As if my ability to picture his home was like a comforting teddy bear that I could cuddle in my mind. So I had told myself I wasn’t being a creep, even though I was, a fact which deeply shames me. But now I am glad of it.
Storm lives in Wapping in East London in a converted riverside warehouse. It is a forty minute drive away.
I bounce impatiently in my seat, biting my tongue to prevent myself from snapping at the driver to hurry up. London passes by outside of the window, the cityscape in amber light beautiful at night. I am in no frame of mind to appreciate it.
By the time the cab pulls up outside of Storms building, I am frantic. I run out of the cab, slamming the door shut with enough force to make the driver curse. But I don’t give a damn.
Storm lives in an apartment building. The front entrance is a double security door. It being the middle of the night the concierge is not at his desk inside the lobby. I can see that the lobby is dark through the panes of glass in the doorway.
I don’t know the number of Storm’s apartment. I stab a random number on the intercom, when a mark on the glass catches the edge of my eye. I turn back to look at it properly. It is the mark of the Devil Claw Killer, small but perfectly formed, same as inside my card.
I give a cry of shock, and then I frantically stab the intercom again. I try three numbers before somebody answers, saying “Hello,” in a sleepy voice.
“Hi, is Constantine Storm there?” I say, unable to keep the panic from my voice.
“No, he is not!” says the woman. “Do you know what time this is?”
“Do you know which apartment he lives in?” I ask insistently.
“No, I don’t. Don’t call me again.” The woman hangs up abruptly.
I let out a high-pitched giggle of hysteria. And I proceed to call every single number on the intercom. Finally, a sleepy voice answers that I recognize.
“Storm!” I screech. “You’re okay. Thank God you’re okay.”
“Diana?” he says, his voice husky. “Diana, what the hell are you doing here?”
“Let me in,” I demand. “Let me in, and I’ll tell you, okay?”
He does as I ask. I rush through the lobby and up the elevator to his apartment. When he opens the door
he is wearing pajama bottoms and nothing else. The sight of his bare torso, broad shoulders tapering to lean muscled abdomen, brings me to an abrupt stop. The little voice uncurls inside my head and purrs in delight.
Thrown off by the sight, I have to stop myself from throwing myself into his arms. At least I save that much of my dignity. He is alive. Not hurt or anything. Except for a black eye.
“What happened to your eye?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Oh!” I say, remembering it was me. “Uh, sorry.”
I shove the little envelope in its plastic bag at him. “This came! It’s a threat to kill you. It says it’s from DCK, but it’s not really from DCK. I had to come. I didn’t know what else to do.”
He takes the plastic bag from me. Looking at the contents the skepticism disappears from his face. He pulls me towards him by my elbow as he looks behind me to check if I’ve been followed. Reassured, he guides me inside and steers me down a hallway and into a spacious lounge. He sits me down on the couch. He tips the contents of the plastic bag out onto a dining table nearby, and when the little coin rolls out he curses.
“Was this coin inside the card?” he demands.
I nod. I can see that his eyes are on the little mark of DCK inside the card. “There was another Devil Claw Mark outside your apartment,” I tell him.
He demands to know exactly where, and then he makes a phone call, requesting for a forensic team to come to his apartment and mine. He hangs up, and I can see his eyes scanning the message inside the card.
An indignant blush spreads across my face, knowing he is reading the part where it says that it is going to destroy the thing I care about most. I had said the threat was to his life. And now he thinks he is the thing that I care about most.
“I saw the coin in a vision,” I say stiffly. “That’s why I knew it was about you.”
I am going to die on the spot if he asks me about that. He saves me that embarrassment by asking me what time I found the card. I give him all of the details.
“The coin is yours, isn’t it?
He nods. He does not seem happy about it. He double checks anyway, fetching his jacket from where it is hung in the hallway and rifling through the pockets.
A furious hissing sound emerging from my satchel makes him raise his eyebrows. I let Beastie out, and shrug at Storm’s enquiring look. “I couldn’t leave her there. What if the killer went for her instead? That would make more sense. Wouldn’t it, Beastie?”
I tickle her ears, refusing to look at him. Beastie prowls around his couch until she finds a spot that she deems comfortable enough. Ignoring both him and me, she resumes the nap she had been taking on my bed earlier.
“Who do you think it’s from?” I ask him, wanting to spill my theory about Beatrice Grictor.
“We’ll have to wait for forensics,” he says.
“But you agree that it’s not actually from DCK, right? It must be connected to this current case?”
“What makes you think that?” he says.
“Because it’s goddamn Beatrice Grictor who sent it, is why!” I explode.
“Do you want a drink or anything?” he asks, ignoring my outburst.
“No I do not!” I snap. “I want to talk about why she is sending me a threat like that. And for God’s sake, would you put on a shirt or something?”
He goes out of the room for a moment and when he comes back he is shrugging on a shirt. “What makes you think it was Beatrice?” he says perfectly calmly.
“Ooh, Beatrice, is it now?” I say. “Because I smelled an apple perfume when I opened the card, and I noticed the same perfume when she came inside Raif’s office.”
“There’s an apple tree on the front of this card. It could have been auto suggestion. You could have imagined it.”
“I never imagined it! She put that apple tree there on purpose, so I would know it was her. I’m sure of it.”
He is shaking his head.
“For God’s sake Storm. You’ve talked to her a couple of times, right? And I bet you keep that coin with you all the time. So she had opportunity to steal it!”
“People could say the same of you,” he says in a measured tone.
I glower at him. “I can’t believe you said that!”
“It’s not pleasant to be accused of something without proof, is it?” he says. “And why would she implicate herself in a crime? She’s a smart lady, and she is not even a suspect.”
“She’s made this personal!” I snap. “She hates me for some reason. I know it. I just don’t know why.”
“Listen to yourself! Are you saying that this double-murder was all about you? It sounds crazy. It is you who is making personal when it comes to Beatrice.”
Crazy. He called me crazy. I open my mouth to yell at him, to tell him what the wizard said, but to the little voice in my head hisses a warning. Don’t tell him everything we know, she snarls. We still have to win this wager.
“Are you even investigating her?” I demand. “Or have you taken everything that she said for granted?”
“Diana, what part of rock-solid alibi do you not understand? I spoke to Ambassador Vetruvin, who confirmed she was with him for the entire duration of the murder window. Are you suggesting that the Otherworld Ambassador to London is lying? Or perhaps you think he was her accomplice.”
“No,” I mutter resentfully. “Of course not. But she could have some other accomplice.”
“That’s complete conjecture,” he says in a tone verging on frustration. “What motive does she have?”
The little voice hisses to remind me not to give anything away. Feeling defeated, I slump back against his couch and don’t bother to reply.
“We’ll wait for the forensics to get back,” he says in a conciliatory tone. “Hopefully this will give us a new lead.”
“Just say it,” I mutter at him.
“Say what?” He looks genuinely bewildered.
“I know you’re thinking it. You’re thinking that if I hadn’t got involved in this case then no one would have had a reason to send me a threat. But I’m close. I know it.”
He doesn’t bother to reply to that. His intercom is ringing. “That’ll be the forensics,” he says. “I’m going to speak to them. You can’t go back to your place tonight. Do you have somewhere you can stay?”
“I’ll figure something out,” I say. No way am I going to admit I have nowhere to go.
It mortifies me when he seems to read my mind. “It’s late,” he says. “You can stay in my guest bedroom.”
He leaves without waiting for an answer.
As he exits the room, the little voice purrs in satisfaction. Stay the night, she says suggestively. Such an exciting possibility.
“Shut up,” I tell her.
Don’t pretend you don’t want to jump his bones, she says. Did you see that fine figure of a man or have your eyes gone blind? I know you were salivating. Just admit it.
I groan. “Do you have to be such a lech?”
She cackles. I’m just getting started.
I look around Storm’s lounge. It is very much a guy’s space. Comfy leather sofas. Sleek wood and glass furniture. A single piece of art on the wall in many shades of dark red that evoke an uncomfortable tumult of feelings. No pretty nik-naks. No photos. No sign of a girlfriend at all, for which I am ridiculously pleased.
After Storm finishes talking to forensics, he returns to show me to my room and the guest bathroom. The little voice continues to whisper suggestions on how to make my move. I mutter a thanks to him and quickly shut the bedroom door.
I find that he has left one of his nightshirts on the bed for me to sleep in. It is pale blue and looks like it would come to my knees. It looks cozy and welcoming. I don’t put it on. It would feel far too intimate to be wearing something of his. I decide to sleep in my own clothes instead.
Except I can’t sleep. I lay awake for hours listening to the little voice complaining that she is bored. She is tired of being s
hut away. Oh how delightful it is that Storm is in a bedroom just down the hall. She tells me how easy it would be to tiptoe along the carpet and knock quietly on his door. That I wouldn’t even have to say anything to him. That he and I both know what we want. That he is probably lying awake in bed at this very moment thinking about it.
“Stop it,” I whispered to her. “Please just stop it.”
I put my pillow over my head, scrunching it up around my ears. But that does not work, because she is inside my head, and she isn’t in the mood to back down. This chance may not come again, she says. Make the most of it while you have it. Let go of your inhibitions. It would be so easy.
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