The Human Herders

by Michaela Haze

  “I’ll help you,” Trix whispered. She held me and stroked my hair. “You’re my family, Fia.”

  She always called me Taylor, never Fia.

  Trix held me until my tears ran dry.

  8.

  It had been a few weeks, although time meant something different now. My toes were constantly warm with a strong buzz, and although many of my problems had started because of drinking daemon blood, I found myself knocking a shot or two back before Trix and I hit the town.

  Trix had assured me that the tattoo on the back of my neck would make it almost impossible for Damian to track me, and with no reason to avoid Lillian’s reach because Henry and I were done, the Fold became open to us again. Folds were pockets of purgatory, links between worlds, hidden away. They were caused by immense suffering, death and decay. El Dandy had been an illegal dance club on Denmark Street before an arsonist had killed every single immigrant inside. Now, it was home to a salsa club of the same name; only the club was trapped between London and Hell. El Dandy was the nearest Fold to the Camden flat and as such, Trix and I were regulars.

  The thick smog of lust and life clogged my senses as I knocked back another Sambuca. It wasn’t my favourite choice of drink but I was shaking it up a bit.

  I sat in the booth with Trix, who was just as drunk as I was, although you would never know it.

  The club was full of Latin American electronica fusion music and various daemons. Not all of them sucked the energy from the room, and some of them even put out different waves. I recognised the sunburst orange of a Kitsune, a fox daemon in the body of a young woman. Once I thought I had even seen someone with cloven goats’ feet.

  A stark contrast from the perfection of the Incubi and succubae who were designed to lure in humans to feed on.

  My brow furrowed and before my mood shifted because I had thought about him, Trix grabbed my hand and pulled me to the dancefloor.

  I was well practised in the art of drunk dancing, but it had been ages since I had worn heels even though I didn’t need them. At five foot nine, I towered over everything, Trix was my little Witchy sidekick. Although, technically, I was more of her sidekick. She was powerful, I was weak and very occasionally did things I shouldn’t.

  A blur of movement in my peripheral drew my attention, and I saw Melanie on the dancefloor, beside a female succubus daemon and a man that were so close they seemed attached. Despite the thumping music of the club, I still heard my dead sister whispering my name. She lived inside my mind. Her violet eyes flashed and met mine, mischievously. Melanie began to sway to the music, gyrating her hips and running her fingers through her hair without a care in the world.

  In real life, the last time I had seen her was through yellow police tape, her skin blackened from a heroin overdose. The last time I had seen her in a vision was when she had laughed at me for stabbing someone in a bar.

  I was not happy to see my sister.

  “Are you alright?” Trix shouted over the music. A few heads twitched in our direction. Daemons had super-sensitive hearing.

  “Yeah,” I said, bobbing my head to the dance music. A fusion of electronica and acoustic guitar.

  You’re going to die, Sophia.

  The dancefloor was packed with writhing bodies, all of us were bathed in red lights. I closed my eyes and focused on the music. I could feel my buzz wearing off, I needed copious amounts of booze or a little bit of daemon blood in my system. Either/or.

  “Do you have any D?” I crooked my finger and spoke into Trix’s ear. She was grinding on a male daemon, who looked a little bit like a famous rockstar who’s name I couldn’t remember.

  Beatrix shook her head and wound her arms around his neck, allowing his nose to trail a sensual path up the skin of her throat. I could have stayed close, and danced parallel to them like an awkward third wheel, but I needed another drink. I didn’t feel ready to find a conquest just yet. I was still raw and hurting even if I wanted to be numb.

  I ordered a double whisky and downed it, before circling my finger for another. I leant on the bar and took a slower sip from the second glass. I allowed my eyes to travel over the club and my gaze drifted up to the VIP platform overlooking the dance floor. I shook my head to clear my paranoid thoughts. Pureblood’s did not come into the Folds. They were owned by the daemon Families and as such were out of their ‘jurisdiction’.

  I drained my glass and forced myself back to the dancefloor. I reached Trix and the Rock star and danced on my own as they sucked face. Trix's energy sparked like a gas stove and the daemon's fingers roamed the skin on her arms. Her lifeforce clung to his hands like glowing snowflakes.

  The Witching may have looked distracted, but she was as good as her word when she said that she would protect me. If I allowed my mind to stretch out and drift, I could see the incredible swirling energy that clung to my skin, my magical shield courtesy of Beatrix Klein. If it didn’t stop a daemon from killing me, it would at least stun them and allow me time to try and escape. The spell was woven into a tattoo on my wrist, on the other side to the Blaire Sigil. It was a thick black band.

  I saw burnt energy, the colour of rust, overcome my vision before I realised what was happening. The crowd had parted, and a direct path in our direction had opened. I whipped around in time to see a large black shape bound onto the dancefloor and advance on us fast.

  A string of expletives escaped my mouth and drew Trix’s attention.

  “I fucking hate Hellhounds.” She swore, as she pushed her admirer away.

  The shape moved too quickly to describe as anything other than large and animal-like. The beast trailed orange whorls like flames into the air.

  “Hellhounds?” My voice hitched in panic.

  “You didn’t think that incubi and succubae were the only daemons?”

  I shrugged. “I know. I know. But I’ve never seen a Hellhound before.”

  When the hound reached my feet, it tried to pounce, but Trix’s spell coated my skin and flung it back onto the floor with an ungraceful thump.

  “You know my client Steve, right?” Trix said casually. “He’s a Valkyrie.”

  “No way,” I replied, intrigued. The hound rolled at my feet, its tongue hung out of the side of its mouth. It hadn’t been trying to attack but seemed to be the victim of its own exuberance.

  I looked to its sharp line of the hound's canines and saw a thick parchment envelope in its jaws.

  I took it from the hound’s lips. It was an invitation to the VIP lounge.

  I looked up to the exclusive platform above the club. It was dark so I couldn’t see the daemon’s face, only enough to know it wasn’t Henry, William or Damian. I shrugged, taking my chances. I rubbed my hands over to short PVC dress that Trix had loaned to me, it had looked longer on her than on my gangly frame. The fabric across my flat chest was borderline obscene, I didn’t know what it looked like on my best friend who was more buxom than I was.

  As if nothing was wrong, the large shaggy dog rolled to its feet and it was evident that he meant no harm. I was able to touch him and scratch behind his ears. He was larger than an ordinary dog, and his head came up to my waist.

  “Aw, thanks love.” He said, “That feels great.” It was strange to hear a human voice coming from a dog and his voice made me jump, and I smiled in apology. The hound’s orange eyes flickered in amusement, and he turned around and trotted to the edge of the dancefloor.

  I took one look at the platform overlooking the entire club and screwed up the letter and handed it to Trix. She held the bundle of paper in her hand until it burnt to a cinder.

  “Are you not going up?” She asked.

  “I don’t have a death wish,” I smirked.

  We both walked to the bar, thirsty from dancing. I ordered a round of Jack Daniels, not bothering to savour the cheap whisky as I downed it. I looked up to the VIP platform again as a strobe light illuminated the railing and the people on it. I saw the outline of the Hellhound; his sleek ebony form was hard to make out in
the dim of the club. His orange eyes flashed to mine, and I tipped my empty tumbler in mock salute. Whoever was with him could go swivel.

  I turned around to the bar and slammed a twenty down for the barmaid.

  “It’s already taken care of, sweetie.” She smiled pleasantly and walked away. I dumped the cash in the tip jar instead and narrowed my eyes, searching for our benefactor but found no one. Trix and I walked back to the dancefloor, both dressed as a shiny black plastic sex dream. I had no idea what time it was but the buzz filled my head, and I was having fun. Even if I had to pretend he wasn’t in my thoughts, every time I saw the flash of pale blue when emotions sparked in a daemon’s eyes. Every time someone moved just a mite too quickly, I thought of him. Even as I danced in a crowd of writhing lust, I swore I could see Henry perusing the edge of the crowd. I jumped as if I had been struck directly in the heart.

  It couldn’t be, could it?

  You’re pathetic. Damian’s coming for you. You are an empty husk just begging to be filled. You have no hope. Melanie hissed in my ear, her words vibrated through my skull. I craned my neck and caught another glimpse of Henry’s profile, but it quickly disappeared into the weaving crowd. I pushed myself away from Trix, with whom I was grinding against in a faux sexual display, and walked to the edge of the dancefloor. He was nowhere to be seen. I had imagined it.

  Someone tapped on my shoulder, I turned around with my heart in my throat.

  Had he come for me? No. I didn’t want him to. He was broken. A lying bastard.

  When my eyes met the warm amber of the Hellhound, but in a human form. The same orange whorls, like embers from a flame, drifted into the air surrounding him. I recognised his magic instantly, even if no one else could see it.

  I couldn’t stop the disappointment that had crept into my stomach. I recoiled but forced a coy smile on my face. The hellhound was attractive, reed thin with deep umber hair that almost covered his eyes.

  “Mr Rose doesn’t like being denied, love.” The Hellhound smirked, his voice held a delicious cockney twang.

  “Rose… Rose?” I mused, tapping my bottom lip absently. “No, I don’t know him.”

  “You just declined his very polite request for your company.”

  “Did I do that?” I laughed, “I didn’t even read it.”

  The Hellhound’s mirth faded, and a serious expression overtook his young face, it looked like it didn’t belong there. His gaze flickered to my butterfly mark. “You belong to Haage?”

  I scoffed, “I don’t know a Haage. This mark is from a man named Henry Blaire and it means nothing.”

  “It means a hell of a lot.” The Hellhound shifted his weight from one foot to the other uncomfortably. “A Demon only gets to give one mark.”

  “Well, he cheated on me. So… he probably should have given it to someone else.” I said spitefully. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

  I turned away and began to march to the bar, I was stopped by a cold vice-like grip on my forearm. I tried to tug myself away, but it was like going against a solid wall of muscle. I forced myself to look up to the owner of the hand, I needn’t have bothered, it was a daemon I didn’t know. He was all brawn with a close-cropped military haircut.

  “You damn Incubi can’t keep your hands to yourself!” I snarled and tried, vainly, to tug my arm away from the stranger. I looked over to the Hellhound, but he shrugged his shoulders as if to say ‘I told you so’.

  “Ms Taylor.” Buzz-cut admonished, “please come with us.” He was much too submissive to be my watcher from the VIP platform.

  “This is getting real old, real fast.” I hissed. “If you don’t let me go right this second, I am going to rip your balls off and wear them around my neck like a trophy!”

  “Master Rose wishes for an audience with you.” The daemon replied stiffly. The Hellhound started to giggle like a teenager, and I shot him daggers.

  “Don’t give out threats like sweeties, love.” The Hellhound advised, light-heartedly. “My name is Louis, by the way.” And he winked.

  Turning back to Buzzcut, I reached forward and gripped between the stranger's legs, I clenched my fist until I could have popped his testes with little thought. I leant forward, conscious of my energy swirling around my skin like a black, malevolent cloud.

  “I am here to get drunk. I am not here to be toyed with.” I gave a final hearty squeeze, and the daemon let go of me. Instead of marching to the bar, I turned to the stairs to my left and began to march up the aluminium. I pushed the plastic skirt down over my thighs as I climbed. I felt heat climb up my chest, it was the familiar swell of rage and excitement.

  When I reached the top of the metal staircase, a wide shouldered bouncer pulled back the red velvet rope without so much as a how-do-you-do. I crossed my arms across my chest, even with such a revealing top there wasn’t that much to hide. No one welcomed me to the VIP lounge or offered me a drink. I guessed that whoever had summoned had done it with nefarious purposes. Who’d offer a drink to someone you want to drain?

  They could have at least sprung for complimentary bottle service. I wasn’t anything special, but Trix was a celebrity in these circles.

  The red velvet sofa overlooked the dancefloor like a viewing platform built for the obnoxious. All I could see was the back of a man’s head as he leant on the railing and surveyed the dancing masses like a king. I sidled up to the plush furnishings behind the stranger.

  “You ruined my night,” I said. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

  The man turned around, but I had never seen him before. His auburn hair stuck up in all directions, curling where it met the bottom of his neck. His eyes were emerald green, although they flared to pale blue when they saw me. His gaze slid lecherously over my body, and I felt like I was naked, not in the good way but the vulnerable way.

  There was something about him that screamed power, but not like Damian did. Damian’s power pressed against your skin like a thick layer of ozone. The stranger's power was psychological; it was the way he stood. The unsaid demand for respect and attention. The power of wealth and status.

  “My name is Vincent Rose.” He said demurely.

  “My name is ‘What the fuck do you want?!”

  “I heard your name was Sophia Taylor.” Vincent picked up a crystal tumbler of amber liquid from the table in front of me. He swirled the glass and took a small appreciative sip.

  I shifted uncomfortably. “How do you know that?”

  “Everyone knows Haage’s consort.”

  “I don’t know anyone called Haage,” I replied, confused. My fingers sought the mark on my wrist, and I scratched it, as was my habit.

  “He may have called himself something else,” Vincent said simply. “He had not been seen for over a hundred years—his presence has implications.”

  I looked over to the stairs and quickly tried to work out how easy it would be for me to walk away.

  You don’t want to walk away. You want to feel. You want to forget. I didn’t recognise the voice in my mind, like a seductive whisper.

  I had experience with voices that I shouldn’t hear. I knew the new voice was not one of my voices.

  I relaxed my eyes and saw the smoky outline of the claw-like vines of Vincent’s power on my mind. The bastard was trying to manipulate me.

  “Touch my mind again, and you’ll regret it.” I bared my teeth.

  I shook the smoke off as if it was nothing more than an annoyance. It was easy when Trix’s tattoo held anything malicious from getting its hands on me. She was powerful, although all magic had a limit and I had no idea when the tattoo would run out. If it wasn’t in the next hour, I was golden.

  Sighing, I walked over to Vincent and plucked his glass from his pale hands. I knocked back the liquid, surprised that it was the good stuff. I wasn’t a connoisseur, but even I could taste the quality. Vincent raised an eyebrow but said nothing as I plonked down into the velvet seat with as much grace as a hippo. I didn’t bother to lower my PVC s
kirt; he would just have to get a glimpse of my sun deprived thigh. Poor man.

  Vincent chose the high-backed armchair to my left, instead of opting to sit by my side.

  “Smart man.” I murmured, placing the crystal glass onto the obsidian coffee table.

  Vincent leant back in the armchair, his eyes burnt into mine. The tug of power was overwhelming; I couldn’t look away. As if they had been summoned by thought alone, a scantily clad waitress came up to both of us with a shy smile. Not that I could comment on her state of dress, Trix had talked me into dressing like a sex club worker.

  I glanced over her slight, but boring, body in disinterest. Vincent caught my expression and returned it with a sly smile.

  “Gwen, darling.” He drawled, his voice was husky. “Dance for us.” It wasn’t just the command of a superior, a manager, it was laced with dark magic.

  As if she wanted to go nothing else, the silver tray clattered to the floor and Gwen the waitress started to gyrate. She rolled her hips to a song that no one else could hear. I watched her fingers trail down the arch of her breasts and I glanced at Vincent. His tongue darted out and wet his luscious pink bottom lip. It wasn’t her body that made him hard, it was the Incubus magic he threw into the air like confetti.

  He was dangerous. I could tell.

  “What else can you make her do?” I asked, curiosity piqued. Vincent gave me a funny look as if he was truly seeing me for the first time.

  “What do you want her to do?” He asked, as he took a long sip of the drink that Gwen had placed in front of him.

  “Make spill her darkest and most embarrassing secret?” I suggested, I leant forward and took the drink she had brought for me. I had swirled the ice before I took a sip. I didn’t usually order it on the rocks, but it would do.

  “Go on Gwen.” Vincent urged sweetly.

  Her face flushed puce and her lips curled as if she would have rather cut off her toes than tell us whatever it was that she held in the dark recesses of her history. She struggled for a few seconds, choking. Spittle flew from her mouth as she spat out the words: