Henry snorted bitterly but I didn’t feel insulted, it was not directed at me, he was looking at the ceiling as if talking to God himself.
“What is my purpose?” he asked the ceiling. The ceiling didn’t answer but I did.
“To live?”
Henry looked at me, it felt like he had stripped me naked and was staring directly into my soul—I had never felt so exposed before. He opened his mouth to speak but all I could concentrate on was his pale pink tongue licking his bottom lip, the colour of rubies…so soft…I almost leaned forward.
“Maybe you’re right,” Henry shrugged, breaking me from my reverie. “Maybe the rest of my kind is right.”
“What do they say then?” I bit back. Henry put both of his hands on his lap, his legs parted awkwardly with his arms balanced on his knees, his shirt wasn’t tucked in but was absent of any creases, I wondered how he could move so fast without having any effect on his clothes or surroundings.
“Daemons are designed to kill,” he said in a monotone voice as if mimicking something that had been said to him before. “Sharp teeth, healing abilities…we never die.”
The way Henry said it sounded like he had tried…to die.
“It gives you a God complex,” Henry admitted. “I want to kill, I can kill, I’ll feed and they’ll never catch me.”
I shivered.
“Many of my kind kill for the thrill of it. Some kill so many that they don’t even need to feed on the corpses, I knew this one guy that had a belt made of nipples...” My face paled, Henry wasn’t joking. He looked at me, his eyes lifeless.
“We aren’t all like that. But there are times when you have to kill. I have narrowed my restraint down as far as possible for me. I can feed every three weeks without losing any of my abilities or getting what daemons call ‘the self-induced death’ from not feeding. But others of my kind, they kill, and after a while, it becomes instead of having to kill—of wanting to kill.” he explained.
“I can understand why you do what you do Henry,” I said, “killing people that harm others. Killing the scum, the murderers. But don’t you ever think that is just an expression of your god complex. Who are you to decide who lives and who dies?”
Henry laughed gently and nudged my shoulder.
“And who are you to decide that as well, Sophia?” he asked.
My eyes watered. “They deserve what they get, they deserve to die,” I said through gritted teeth.
Henry didn’t nod but he didn’t disagree either. He sat with his hand on my shoulder, making small circles on the skin on the top of my arm. My soup lay forgotten on the small coffee table; it was probably cold now anyway. Henry cleared his throat.
“We should go out sometime,” He said nervously. “Although I just want to warn you that over the next few weeks, someone may be in the area that you should be wary of.”
My lips scrunched to one side and I contemplated that.
“Who?” I asked. “Police?”
Henry shook his head. “Nothing like that, but I warned you about the Elite—the aristocratic families,” Henry corrected. “I have an old friend in the area; I would appreciate it even if he introduces himself to you, to not be alone with him.”
“If he is royalty doesn’t that mean I have to talk to him?”
“Talk, yes. Be alone with? Certainly not.”
“I promise…” Then I paused, placing my finger carefully on my lip. “How many daemons do I pass a day and not realise it?”
Henry started to laugh uncontrollably, it was perfect and musical.
“Not that many, really.” He assured me. I felt a wave of relief.
“When was the last time you fed?” I asked him. The daemon chuckled.
“A week and a half ago,” he told me.
“Are you hungry?” He ruffled his hair and tilted his head to one side.
“Only a little.” The daemon hedged. “It helps to be around you when you have been drinking but I want you to stop.”
“If I stop drinking will you leave me?” I asked in a tiny voice.
Henry’s face was a perfect unreadable mask. “No, I wouldn’t leave you,” he clarified.
I yawned.
“It’s getting late—you’ve had a long day. You should sleep.” Henry said, but his perfect voice, low bass, and dripping honey seemed to fuzz with the edges of my mind. I nodded silently and I felt a pair of cold arms pick me up. I closed my eyes for a second. I heard Henry tentatively take a breath through his teeth.
“You acting like I fainted,” I said dreamily “I’m just tired.”
“Sorry—I can’t remember what sleep was like.” My eyes were closed and I heard his soft laughter.
“You can’t sleep?” I breathed sceptically.
“I’m a daemon. Why would I need to sleep?”
That made sense; I nodded to myself as darkness took me and all I could feel was a mixture of cool arms and the warmth of sleep.
10.
My life before Henry was out of focus, fuzzy and unsure. Now it was clear and there was no mistaking what I felt. Love? An overused emotion, a term too readily applied. Attraction, amongst many other things.
I knew that I was intrigued by Henry Blaire, with a smothering helping of ‘I don’t want him to feel pain’ and ‘I don’t want him to know what a weird and emotionally broken person I am.’ But Henry knew—he was the person that gave me my reprieve, the light at the end of the tunnel, the hand reaching from the clouds, the life preserver in the dark murky waters.
I no longer prayed to God. I begged for Henry to give me strength. Perhaps that was my first mistake. Worshipping false idols. Henry was mine, tangible. I hadn’t been alive, not until now. He set my body and my mind on fire and I knew that I had never felt that way before. A tranquilizer when needed but he also made me feel.
What an odd occurrence; he was my window in which I could see the world through.
At the time, if someone would have told me about my rose-coloured glasses, I would have shrugged it off. I already felt enough pain, if there was a little more then I was sure I could handle it. Deal with it later and add it to the piles and piles of emotional crap I knew I was meant to deal with but drank instead.
“You snore,” Henry informed me, proudly, when I woke up in his large four poster bed, he sat in the small armchair in the corner of the room.
“I know,” I groaned and ruffled my hair before floating back down to the pillow.
“Like a numeric drill,” he continued.
I borrowed some of Henry’s clothes for the day. White shirt and black sweatpants. It seemed that we shared the same taste in clothing, practicality rather than fashion. Only, his clothes were more high-end than mine.
I didn’t want to go home because my mother was there. I didn’t want to stay at Henry’s because that would be awkward even though we hadn’t slept together in any sense. Somehow I didn’t know if I wanted to know all of Henry’s secrets yet. I was comfortable with the level of intimacy we had currently. We talked of daemons and morality but not necessarily about ourselves.
I walked down Henry’s staircase on the right-hand side. The pictures on the walls were generic as if they came with the frames. Pictures of families hugging, chasing a Labrador puppy, a rose opening. How long had Henry lived and never taken a photo to put in a frame?
The walls were ivory and the dark wood contrasted. The carpet was a deep maroon. I trailed my hand down the banister and walked into the living room. It still gave off an old and dusty feeling.
I heard Henry in the kitchen and the smell of burnt food hit me. It made me feel nauseous. The lack of vodka in my system made my hands tremor. I clenched my fists and took a deep breath.
I was one of those people that felt sick when they were hungry and sick when they were too full. I secretly hoped to one day find a perfect balance. I turned around and walked down the hall into the kitchen. It was a basic kitchenette at best but then, I assumed, Henry didn’t need to eat.
“Wha
t are you doing?” I leant on the door frame. Henry stood, in a pair of jogging bottoms without a shirt. His skin was unblemished, and it looked almost odd not to see a mole or a scar anywhere. His grin was wide as he faced the oven, holding a spatula for no real reason.
“I was trying to make you breakfast, something…nice?” he said it as a question.
“What did you come up with?” I asked. There was no food on the grill.
“I got you a cheese and ham sandwich from the corner shop,” he admitted with a sly grin.
I started laughing and rolled my eyes. “I guess that’ll do,” I conceded.
I went to work that afternoon, wearing my underwear from the previous day and a shirt of Henry’s that I had safety-pinned at the back. Thankfully it was long enough to cover my arms. My mouse brown hair was tied back in a high ponytail and Henry graciously walked me to the bar.
When I arrived at Bar Noir, Chris stood by the door as if waiting for me to arrive. I turned around and my daemon was gone. I had to say that Henry had good instincts for avoided awkward social confrontation— especially considering the reaction Chris would have had if he knew I was breaking my flimsy promise.
I looked around the street, the stained concrete at my feet and the cigarette stubs that had been caught the rain and turned to soggy mush. I wore small canvas pumps and the rain seeped in around the edges, making my socks wet. Using my hand as an impromptu umbrella, I raced to the door and fumbled for the keys to the bar.
Chris beamed. I nodded my head and said nothing.
“I heard from a little birdie that your mother is in town,” Chris chimed, my key scratched the lock at the top of the door. I had to stand on my tiptoes to reach it.
“What a gentleman,” I thought “he’s chattering away instead of actually helping me.”
“Who told you…?” I narrowed my eyes. He chuckled and tugged his earlobe.
“No one at Bar Noir…” I added.
Chris shook his head and looked uncomfortable. “No, She was in The Spotted Grouse, you know, the bad bar I won’t let you go to,” Chris said in a low voice.
I nodded knowingly and pushed the door open.
The Spotted Grouse was a notorious spot for acquaintances of the Archer family to drink. I had only been once and that was without Chris’s permission or knowledge. It did not have the stylised modern drinking of Bar Noir, the Grouse was, in fact, a hole—a smoky hole.
“What would my mother be doing at The Spotted Grouse?” I wondered.
Chris shrugged. “Maybe her new boy toy is in trouble…I heard they flew in from Singapore,” I flicked on the lights.
“I thought they came in from Australia—fuck,” I blurted out, “Mrs. Windermear, my mother, flighty whore and— Ugh!” I huffed in exasperation.
“What did she do now?” Chris asked, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve gone all incoherent.”
“What didn’t she do,” I retorted, crossing my arms over my chest. Chris turned on the rest of the lights and walked over to the bar. I readjusted my bag on my shoulders and shuffled into the staffroom, re-emerging a few seconds later.
“She took all of Mel’s stuff,” I explained as I headed to the bar. I needed to get it off my chest. “I don’t know what she did with it, sold it, put it in storage, it could be in my tiny patch of a garden—I didn’t check.”
Chris looked over my large white shirt that I had readjusted for my skinny gaunt frame.
“Where did you sleep last night, Fia?”
I snorted and looked over at the clock, debating whether I should count the till float now or later. “I slept at my house,” I lied coolly.
For the first time in years, Chris called my bluff. “No, you didn’t. Unless you murdered your mother and spent yesterday digging up the floorboards in your living room to bury her. You did not sleep in the same house as your mother after all the shit she had put you through in the last year.”
“Finally, you get it,” I smiled. “The bitch thought I was insane for actually reacting the way I did when she fucked off after Mel’s funeral.”
“Your mother doesn’t do things by halves. I think she just realised that if she was here after Mel died then she couldn’t be the centre of attention because everyone was grieving,” Chris said lightly.
I laughed bitterly. “You’re damn right—I can’t fucking think about it, Chris…I have to start work soon and I’m going to—you know,” breakdown, “if you talk about Mel anymore,”
I didn’t want to have an ‘episode’ before work, though those had been few and far between since Henry had entered my life. I didn’t cut anymore. My mind was no longer bogged down by a dark cloying feeling anymore.
“Not going to tell me where you slept last night?” Chris teased.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “I slept at the brothel around the corner—apparently they offer cheap rates for a room if a man is lying in between you and the bed you’re kipping on,” Chris let out a low whistle.
“You’re not asking me if I want to smoke…” I said after a few seconds and tried to recount the last time Chris had hassled me for a fag.
“I don’t really need to, do I? You’re actually talking to me,” he said innocently. I turned on my heel and threw open the back door. I pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one.
Lack of nicotine always made me on edge, willing to barrel into an argument without thinking about it. I took a long drag and eased myself onto the concrete ledge.
“Are you going to give me one?” Chris asked. I took a long pull of smoky goodness and crooked an eyebrow at him, looking up from where I sat. He had a tiny smirk on his face, cocky bastard.
Chris was always a bit chubby. I used to tease him about it before everything had happened. He used to mock me for my puppy fat as well but a year of vomiting every night, at every mention of my sister soon got rid of that, now I looked like a shell of a person.
“You said you only smoked because it was the only way I’d talk to you,” I pointed out. “Now that I’m talking to you without the help of these little white death sticks, I don’t need to give you one,” I concluded. Chris sniffed as if I had wounded him.
“If you clean the ladies…” I started my offer.
He scowled and jabbed a finger in my direction.
“Why do you always make me do it?” Chris groaned.
“Women are animals. Worse than the men.” I laughed.
“You’re in a good mood.” He noted.
“I decided to take control of my life,” I informed him carefully. I had almost said, I decided to kill those assholes. “I heard that Parr got married again, if he can move on, then so can I.”
He wouldn’t be allowed to be happy for long, I wanted to make it last—get him to beg as I stripped his skin off layer by layer. I didn’t know how Henry would kill them both. I wasn’t going to add any more to my list of things to talk to Henry about.
“It wasn’t that simple, though, was it?” Chris said, cutting straight to the point.
I shuddered and hoped he didn’t see. “Nothing is simple, Archer. But I’m trying.”
Chris smiled sadly, “I see that. I just think that you need to stop mourning this god-like creature, berating yourself over what happened…you couldn’t have known—”
I held up my hand but he didn’t stop speaking. “Your sister wasn’t perfect.” He said.
I reached behind the bar and poured a shot of tequila.
“You shouldn’t be doing that,” Chris stated nervously. I threw my head back and drank the shot, without a word I moved the tiny shot glass to the side.
“It’s one fucking shot, Chris. I won’t tell if you won’t.”
He nodded and looked down to his feet as if he was witnessing very wrong. I considered taking another shot, but I’d have to do it in the bathroom when Chris couldn’t guilt-trip me.
I heard Henry’s voice in the back of my mind.
“I want you to stop.”
I swallowed the excess saliva that had
gathered in my mouth and ran my hand through my hair. It was just a memory but it stopped me pouring another shot.
I couldn’t drink at work; I’d lose my job. If I wanted to drink then I could go and see Henry after work, he frequently took that feeling away. I plastered a fake smile on my face and straightened my shoulders.
“There…just one shot,” I said proudly. He nodded and smiled weakly. He probably knew that I wanted to take the bottle of tequila into the ladies’ toilets the minute he turned his back. The only difference was that this time, I wouldn’t.
The shift passed slowly as I checked the clock over the bar regularly. At the end of my shift, I would have to go home and face the monster that I called a mother. At the very least, I’d have to get some clothing. I purposely waited on the ledge outside in the freezing cold, my teeth chattered as my shaking hands struggled to light my cigarette—I talked to Chris about trivial stuff and he seemed more than happy to ramble back at me.
An hour after we closed, I struggled with the snowballing disappointment that maybe Henry wasn’t coming to pick me up and I would have to walk home alone and face my mother. Maybe facing her was something I would have to do alone but frankly, Mrs. Windermear was terrifying. The vessel from which I was born, she seemed little more than that.
She didn’t treat me like a human being, to Julia, everyone was a robot that didn’t have feelings. She probably thought that she was the only human and everyone else existed purely for her needs.
I was just a shell. Revenge had eaten away at my core, but since Henry, I was doing better. Waking up in the morning wasn’t such a chore. I could eat, I could keep food down without the trauma and memories rushing it back up from my stomach.
I started walking home after an hour of waiting in the cold for Henry. My fingers became too numb to text so I gave up. Halfway down the street from Bar Noir, I stopped walking and turned. I wasn’t aware of where my feet were taking me until ten minutes later, I was well on my way to Henry’s home in Notting Hill.
I wanted to drink, anger welled up inside that had no outlet but I was not forthcoming with its request. I hoped that nothing would annoy me or hassle me because the last thing I needed was to show hostility to a daemon. Even if it was Henry and I knew he would never hurt me.
Daemons of London Boxset (Books 1-3) The Bleeders, The Human Herders, The Purebloods Page 11