by Helen Harper
He draws himself up. ‘So it’s alright for you to go waltzing out on the streets but not for me? You’re the famous one. You’re the one people are likely to recognise.’
‘They’ll recognise you too.’
‘Not if I…’
Michael groans and we both freeze. He coughs weakly. ‘Go and get some rest,’ I whisper to Rogu3. ‘We have to move soon and we’ll need to be alert.’
He blinks in affirmation. I pat him on the shoulder and turn my attention to the former Lord of the Montserrat Family. His face remains pale, as if all the colour has been leached out of it. Even when he’s asleep there’s evidence of pain around his eyes and his mouth and his dark hair hang limply. His visible wounds are superficial but what’s going on internally is anyone’s guess. We have little information to go by.
Rogu3 was turned before returning to human using the same blood from X that has affected Michael, but Rogu3’s stint as a bloodguzzler was only momentary. Michael is recovering from decades of being a vampire. If I thought a hospital could help, I’d take him there and stand guard over him for every minute of every day until he recovered. But not only will that mean the whole world knows what’s happened to him, it could place him in greater danger. And there’s only one of me.
Trying to be gentle, I wipe away spittle from his chin. He stirs, his eyes fluttering open. Every time it’s the same: there’s a cloud of confusion, followed by pain. And fear.
‘Hey,’ I soothe. ‘It’s alright. You’re safe.’
‘Bo,’ he whispers.
‘I’m here.’ I find his hand and grip it. He tries to squeeze my fingers but the pressure is barely noticeable. He’s as weak as a damned kitten.
‘Turn me,’ he begs. ‘You can turn me.’
I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek and shake my head. ‘I can’t. I don’t know how. And even if it was possible to be turned twice, you’re too weak. You’ll die.’
His lips move but I can’t hear what he’s saying. I dip my head to listen. ‘Anything’s better than this.’
I squeeze my eyes shut. ‘You’ll recover.’
He stares at me, the unspoken question hanging between us. What if he doesn’t? I press my cheek against his and lie down beside him, taking care not to hurt him any further.
‘We’ll get through this,’ I say. ‘You’ll get through this. Just wait and see.’
***
Moving him is not easy. We have a stretcher, helpfully purloined by O’Shea. Twenty minutes before we go, he also boosts a van from a window cleaner living nearby. We hustle out with Michael between us. While Maria and Rogu3 stay with him in the back, O’Shea and I sit upfront, ready for any evasive – or retaliatory ‒ action.
We travel less than five miles before switching to a pre-booked rental car from a small outfit that is too cheap to buy CCTV or to check IDs. Then we set off again, doubling back several times and looking for any tails. Only when we’re absolutely sure that we’re in the clear do we head for the next safe house. It might seem like over-kill but no one’s complaining. Our biggest concern is that the constant upheaval is merely delaying the inevitable and damaging Michael’s health further.
I bang on the partition when we arrive to let Maria and Rogu3 know, then I glance up at our new home – an abandoned warehouse by the look of things.
‘I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised,’ O’Shea tells me. His eyes crinkle suddenly. ‘I don’t know about you, darling, but all this cloak-and-dagger crap is playing havoc with my complexion.’
I frown at him, not understanding what’s so wonderful about our latest digs. The location is good: we’re central enough to make it easy to get out and about if need be. There’s also excellent visibility and only one road leading in, so there’s no worry about getting surrounded without realising. It’s just a shed, though. There are probably rats.
We hop out. This is our fourth move and we’re starting to get into a rhythm. Kimchi and I check out the perimeter, skulking around to satisfy ourselves that we’ve not been followed before moving in on the property itself. The others stay with Michael until I give them the all clear.
Rounding the first corner, I’m assailed by a reek of rotting food so powerful that I almost gag. Kimchi, who will eat pretty much anything whether it’s green and furry or not, whines. The back of my neck twitches. I don’t like this. Something doesn’t feel right. The path round the warehouse is covered with weeds, sprinkled with the odd crushed fizzy drinks can or discarded crisps wrapper. It doesn’t look as if anyone has been here in months. Possibly years. And yet…
All of a sudden, Kimchi jerks at the lead. For all his rounded stomach and gentle, soulful eyes, he can exert power when he wants to. It doesn’t help that I wasn’t expecting the sharp tug. I’m yanked forward, more from surprise than anything else. His paws skitter cartoon-like along the ground and he yelps loudly. I feel my fangs lengthen in preparation. This place is a mistake. But Kimchi is determined to pelt forward.
I take out my phone, ready to send my SOS text. It’s not that I’ll need saving, of course; it’s the signal for O’Shea and the others to get Michael out of here. My thumb hovers over the button as I yank Kimchi backwards and make a vain attempt to calm him down while keeping my voice low.
Without warning, Kimchi’s tail drops between his legs and he wheels round, now trying to bolt in the opposite direction away from whatever is waiting for us up ahead. I let go of his lead and he careens away at a gallop as I hunker down and snarl softly. Come on, then.
A tiny shape appears from out of the darkness. It hisses, its eyes flashing at me in disgust. My shoulders drop as a voice booms. ‘For pity’s sake, Bo. Aren’t you training that vile creature?’
I curse under my breath and straighten up. The voice is coming from above my head. I crane upwards, scanning until I spot a small speaker nestled next to the drain, almost obscured from vision by a lump of ancient moss. As I grit my teeth, the cat saunters towards me, stopping less than a foot away. It starts to wash its face but one slitted eye remains on me at all times. Bloody creature.
‘Everything alright?’ O’Shea enquires from behind.
‘You could have told me the old man was out of hospital.’
He shrugs amiably. ‘He was released on his own cognisance.’
The ornery idiot. The voice booms once more. ‘And that, my dear, is why I didn’t tell you first. Your thoughts are written all over your face. You really should learn to maintain more of a façade, you know. You’ll never make a spy.’
I ignore the words and remain fixed on O’Shea. ‘I take it he’s inside?’
He grins at me. ‘Yep.’
‘What is this place?’
O’Shea holds out his hand. ‘Let’s find out.’
‘Don’t use the front entrance,’ my grandfather’s voice says cheerfully. ‘It’s booby-trapped. There’s a hidden door round the other corner.’
Of course there is. I roll my eyes. Secretly I’m beyond relieved. The pressure of trying to keep everyone safe has been bearing down on me; at least now there will be someone to help, even if that someone spends hours telling me off for not speaking properly or for wearing form-fitting leather clothes.
O’Shea and I return to the others, who have managed to grab hold of Kimchi after his escape from my grandfather’s cat. We haul the stretcher with Michael’s prone body towards the small door concealed round the side. There’s no doorknob and no apparent way to gain entry. I wait half a beat but, when it doesn’t open from the inside, I exhale in irritation. I fumble round until I spot a small knot of wood. When I touch it, it slides open revealing a smooth rectangle of black plastic with a blinking light on the bottom.
‘No way,’ Rogu3 breathes. ‘That’s a state-of-the-art optical scanner. I read about them last month. They cost the earth because, unlike previous versions, they can’t be fooled. You can’t just rip out someone’s eyeball and hold it up. It’s a work of art. And the technology is supposed to be limited to the…�
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‘Government?’ I ask.
Rogu3 nods, awe still reflected in his expression. I tighten my mouth. My grandfather is one thing; MI7 is quite another.
I angle my head so I’m looking directly at the rectangle. Is something supposed to happen? The little light momentarily flashes green, there’s a faint whoosh and, just like that, the wooden door slides open, revealing a small entrance area. Unlike the exterior of the warehouse, which is made of what looks like rotting timber, this is shiny chrome.
Maria squeaks. ‘I no want go.’
Her and me both. There’s another whooshing sound and another metal door glides open, this time revealing my grandfather. He has a walking stick in one hand and there’s no denying his frailty but the intelligence in his eyes is as sharp as ever.
‘How wonderful to see you all,’ he says.
I’m tempted to curse him for escaping from the hospital and forcing me to go through with this stupid charade but it would be pointless; he’d only make me feel bad about myself. It’s his special gift. Perhaps I’m also learning something about self-control.
Nah.
I step forward and kiss his cheek. It feels delicate and papery under my lips but when I draw back, concerned, he ignores me.
‘Devlin. Thank you for bringing Bo. I know she can be … difficult.’
‘Buthy baby! It was my pleasure!’
My grandfather’s lip curls and he nods at Rogu3. ‘And thank you for your collusion, Alistair.’
Rogu3 coughs and shuffles his feet. ‘Wasn’t much.’
Feeling put out, I fold my arms. ‘You could have told me,’ I say accusingly to them both.
My grandfather doesn’t let them speak. ‘If they had you wouldn’t have come.’
‘This all belongs to MI7, right?’
‘Naturally.’
I hiss. ‘Well, then. I’ve already had one bloody Member of Parliament trying to kill me. I don’t need to knock on the government’s door and present myself for the taking. Michael…’
‘Lord Montserrat is too weak to keep being moved,’ my grandfather interrupts. ‘And there is a world of difference between the elected officials at Westminster and MI7. They are temporary; we are not.’
‘You’re retired. One leak and…’
‘No one is going leak anything about you being here, Bo, because no one knows you’re here.’ His eyes gleam. ‘Besides, I didn’t yield all of my power, knowledge or abilities when I retired from MI7. Only a handful of people are aware of the existence of this facility. You have no need to worry.’
From the back of our small group, Maria spits. ‘Here,’ she says. ‘Take stretcher. I no stay here.’
‘Maria,’ my grandfather says gently, ‘you are in more danger than everyone else. As you well know.’ She stiffens and I narrow my gaze. They’ve never met each other before so what is going on? There’s always been more to the damaged girl than is visible to the world, and my grandfather has an uncanny knack for picking out triber elements in all manner of people.
Before I can say anything, he steps to the side. ‘Why don’t I show you around first? Then you can all make up your minds.’
I look at O’Shea and Rogu3. They both nod. Maria’s bottom lip juts out but she shrugs reluctantly. Kimchi’s tail wags. Michael doesn’t say anything. He’s dropped back into unconsciousness and it’s that alone which makes me decide. ‘Lead the way.’
‘You can leave the mutt outside.’
Aware that he’s suddenly the topic of conversation, Kimchi nudges his way forward before rising onto his back paws and angling upwards for a slobbery lick. I beam. ‘I can’t. He’s missed you too much.’
My grandfather scowls.
***
I expected the interior to be large and cavernous but it is remarkably compact. ‘The walls are three feet thick,’ my grandfather says. ‘They’re capable of withstanding almost any attack.’
I wonder whether any building, regardless of its high-tech equipment, is capable of holding off an attack by a Kakos daemon. For now, I hold my tongue.
We trail through numerous corridors. Leading off them are bedrooms, each one very simple but with real beds and real en-suite bathrooms. This will be better for Michael; he’ll have a real chance of recuperation here. But I’m still afraid.
‘You can leave Lord Montserrat in one of these rooms.’
‘He’s staying with us,’ I say firmly. I need to know the lay of the land first.
A trace of a smile crosses my grandfather’s lips but he doesn’t argue.
We continue to a larger room. There are camera displays at the front, each one showing a different angle of the warehouse’s exterior. Something flashes in the corner of one of the screens and I immediately stiffen before realising it is heat-sensing imagery picking up the bloody cat.
‘This is so cool,’ Rogu3 breathes.
I glance at him. ‘Maybe you’ll be able to get that software you need here.’
He looks excited and darts over to a desk with a computer. He runs a worshipping hand over it. ‘I’d be surprised if even Streets of Fire has this model.’ He sits down on the swivel chair and beckons to Maria. She and O’Shea lay Michael’s stretcher down on a long leather sofa and she joins Rogu3.
My grandfather raises his eyebrows at me. I shrug and look away.
‘This place was designed for visiting dignitaries,’ he says. ‘In case of attack upon their person.’
‘Oooh, I like having my person attacked,’ O’Shea remarks.
My mouth quirks up slightly. I appreciate his attempt to keep the atmosphere light but we need to know more about this place before we break out the champagne. ‘What if someone gets inside with a bomb?’ I ask.
My grandfather smiles sympathetically. ‘The attacks on the Families weren’t your fault.’
‘I know,’ I snap, before regretting it.
He pats my arm. ‘Each door can be sealed off with the press of a button.’ He points towards a console. ‘Every eventuality has been thought of.’
‘Magic attacks?’
‘There are spells and wards across every access point. Even the most concerted attack would be foiled. There are also mechanisms in place to ward off any squatters or hapless passers-by. Perhaps you noticed the smell?’
I wrinkle my nose but I’m not yielding just yet. ‘Supplies?’
‘Enough for three months. Electricity runs from a separate generator. Water is recycled and completely bypasses the London mains system.’ He points to the left. ‘Take that door and you’ll find a lift going underground to a bunker built to withstand nuclear attacks.’ He points to the right. ‘Go in that direction and you’ll reach a viral decontamination area. Everything has been considered.’ He pauses and looks at Michael. ‘Straight ahead, there is a fully equipped medical facility with every drug and medicine you can think of. He’ll have what he needs, Bo.’
‘I don’t know what he needs,’ I whisper. Then I straighten my back. ‘This place seems too good to be true. How long before one of your MI7 buddies comes wandering by?’
‘It’s highly unlikely that they will. And I’m sure your boy there can do something to lock them out beforehand.’
Rogu3 looks at me. ‘I can manage that,’ he allows.
I sigh and go back to Michael. I brush my fingers against his forehead. His skin is clammy and he seems even paler than before. ‘We’ll stay,’ I say softly. ‘For now.’ My grandfather nods as if he always knew I’d agree.
‘What did you mean about Maria?’ I ask. She bites her lip and stares at me. ‘Why is she in more danger?’ I meet her eyes and address her directly. ‘It was you he wanted to meet,’ I say, referring to our recent joint encounter with X before my world exploded. ‘At La Boheme. X wanted to have dinner with us not because of Rogu3 but because of you.’
‘He wanted to confirm what she really is,’ my grandfather answers for her.
‘Which is?’
‘It’s up to her to tell you.’
I draw in a breath. ‘I’m getting a little tired of all these secrets and evasions.’
Maria stands up. ‘I am Romany.’ She glares at me, challenge lighting up her face as if she expects me to throw her out on her ear.
Er… ‘So?’
‘Honestly, Bo,’ my grandfather says scornfully. ‘This is why I wanted you to have a decent education. Your understanding and knowledge is severely lacking in so many areas that it’s a wonder you can even add up.’
‘Look,’ I say, with a flash of anger, ‘I…’
‘Guys,’ Rogu3 interrupts, ‘take a look at this.’
The tone in his voice makes us all turn. Maria takes in the computer screen and blanches.
I hurry over. ‘What is it?’ Then my stomach drops. ‘Oh.’
It’s a live feed from Covent Garden, barely a stone’s throw away from the New Order offices. A figure is pressed up against the wall and he’s surrounded by a group of witches, many of them with twin black and white tattoos on their cheeks. Something flies towards him and, as he ducks, the flash of his fangs is suddenly visible. It’s a vampire – one of the few still alive and in the city. And there are at least a dozen hybrid witches after his blood.
Chapter Three: Predators and Prey
The damned van is determined to not go above sixty. My foot is pressed right down and I’m gunning the engine for all its worth. No matter what I do, it’s not going to go any faster. It swerves round the corners, almost coming onto two wheels. I knew I should have taken the time to go back for my bike but, after all the explosions at the Family mansions, it seemed too much of a risk.
I’m certain that by the time I get to the vampire, he’ll be dead. I park illegally, getting as close as I can, and then sprint towards him. The sound of jeers fires my blood. I realise the witches are stretching out this moment, enjoying taking down the hapless bloodguzzler as slowly as possible. There’s no fear of retaliation; there are no Families left to go after them. I smile grimly as I push myself faster. They’ve forgotten about me.
Since I left the warehouse, the group of witches has grown. Where there were only around a dozen, now there seem to be about thirty. The night sky is lit up by their flashes of foul magic. Cameras held by quivering journalists are recording the action. I’m not going to get into an ethical debate about whether the press is there merely to record events, but damn those parasitical vultures for not lifting a finger to help.