by Deanna Chase
‘O’Shea!’ I shout again.
The figure droops. Skirting round it, I go to the windows and yank open the heavy curtains with one hand, keeping the pepper spray outstretched in front of me. Light floods in. I gape. Tied to a wooden chair, his face a bloody pulp, is one very badly beaten daemon. I realise that the other smell I couldn’t identify is fear. He moans again. What in bejesus is going on here?
It’s impossible for me to positively identify him as O’Shea; for all I know O’Shea’s the perp who’s attacked this guy. But I have to deal with what’s in front of me, regardless of my almost overwhelming misgivings. The dark stain soaking the floor beneath the man indicates that he’s losing a lot of blood. Staunching the flow is my priority.
I stuff the pepper spray canister into my pocket, ensuring it’s still within easy reach but not about to fall out when I need it most, and immediately start searching the limp body for wounds. He starts gurgling again and I curse aloud. ABC, I tell myself sternly. Airway, breathing, circulation, in that order. I need to get him into the recovery position.
I realise that his hands are secured with an old-fashioned set of steel cuffs. I keep my own pair, passed down from my father for old times’ sake, but I prefer using plastic ties these days, like most people. The fact that he’s been tied to a chair with a cumbersome old set means something. Not that I have the time to muse about it right now. The cuffs are looped around the wooden bracket at the back so I lift my foot on to it and kick downwards. Thankfully the chair is as rickety as the rest of this godforsaken house and it snaps with one blow, allowing the daemon’s arms to fall backwards. I extricate the hanging piece of wood and chuck it to one side, then yank him off the seat and onto the floor as quickly as I can, manoeuvring his body and neck to force his airway clear. He coughs weakly and my face is sprayed with a mist of blood droplets, letting me know I’ve been successful. Then I return to searching his inert form for the wound.
There are two: one piercing his side, just to the left of his upper rib cage, and one higher up at the base of his neck. Clearly it’s the neck wound I should be most concerned about. Using the base of one hand, I press hard to try and slow down the pulse of blood that’s pumping out. With my other hand, I dig out my phone and tap out 999 with my thumb. I lift it to my ear and, as it starts to ring, the daemon’s eyes snap open, orange slitted pupils taking me in through a glaze of pain. Well, it’s definitely O’Shea.
‘999, what’s your emergency?’
O’Shea shakes his head.
‘I’m in a house on Wiltshore Avenue,’ I say.
‘No.’
‘Number 23,’ I continue. ‘I need an ambulance immediately.’
He moans. ‘No. Stop.’
‘Is that Wiltshore Avenue in Belvedere or Trockston?’ enquires the voice.
O’Shea reaches up and grabs my wrist. Given the state that he’s in and the blood loss he’s suffered, his grip is surprisingly strong. ‘Tell them,’ he rasps, ‘and we’re both dead.’
I stare down at him. Death threats are nothing new in my line of work; daemons, even quarter-daemons, bleeding out in front of me, are. His eyes implore me.
‘If you don’t get to a hospital in the next five minutes, then you’re dead anyway,’ I tell him.
I can hear the emergency responder repeating her question. The futility of the situation hits me. We’re in Trockston, the worst end of Trockston, no less. No paramedic is going to rush to get here. They’d rather take their time so that whatever is going down has gone down by the time they arrive. Which means Devlin O’Shea won’t make it.
‘False alarm,’ I mutter into the receiver and hang up.
O’Shea blinks gratefully at me.
‘Don’t,’ I say, kneeling down and shoving him onto his side, then pulling out a pick so I can undo the cuffs and free his hands. ‘Don’t thank me. You’re about twenty breaths away from rejoining your maker down in the depths.’
I’m surprised at the ease with which I manage to unpick the lock. The cuffs fall, one steel circle hanging loosely from his left wrist. He mumbles something into my ear.
‘Nope,’ I reply with as much forced cheeriness as I can muster, ‘you’ll need to speak up if you want me to hear you.’
O’Shea doesn’t bother responding. I heave him onto my back in a piggyback and force his uncuffed hand up to his throat so he can continue to press on the wound. His weight drives my knees and shoulders downwards, but I do my best to ignore it and stagger to the door and on to the landing. I haul both myself and him down the stairs, this time thumping loudly with every step.
We’re barely at the bottom when my watch beeps, indicating I should at this point be entering the property to find him, not leaving the property with him. And certainly not with him half dead. Those last seven minutes felt more like a bloody hour.
I nudge open the front door with my toe and edge out. The vacant one-eyed doll stares at me as I shuffle back through the garden with O’Shea’s heavy body. I can feel his warm, sticky blood seeping underneath the collar of my jacket and connecting with my skin and I try to speed up. He can’t have long.
Stepping over the garden fence is like scaling Mount Everest. I try to ignore that I’m about to collapse and instead run calculations in my head. Forty seconds to get him to the car. Another minute to get back to the crossroads. Praise the heavens that I don’t already have to reverse and lose even more time. Then I can take the A road past Silverstein to Manorbridge hospital. Five minutes. Tops. I’ll register him under a false name in case he was telling the truth about the dead part. It won’t stop someone from finding him, but it’ll stall them until I can speak to Tam and get a permanent guard stationed.
I try to reach into my pocket for my keys but his leg is in the way, so I’m forced to squeeze my fingers around to grasp them. Yeah. I should have left them in the freaking ignition. I was stupid not to trust my instincts.
Gasping for breath, I lurch round to the passenger side and open the door. I throw in O’Shea’s blood-soaked body, noting with satisfaction that he’s still conscious and pressing tightly on his neck wound. I slam the door shut before dashing round to my seat and starting the car.
I move up the gears, accelerating down the empty street. Come on, come on. I turn left towards Manorbridge, then abruptly slam on the brakes as sirens scream their way into my consciousness. Part of me can’t quite believe it. The emergency responder must have taken my half-baked, half-garbled and half-finished phone call seriously, sending ambulances in both directions. Relief floods through me and I glance behind to welcome the cavalry.
Except it’s not an ambulance. I stare at the vehicle bearing down on us while O’Shea moans at my side. The familiar stripes of an armed response unit wink at me tauntingly as the tyres screech and it wheels round into Wiltshore Avenue. Trying to ignore the tremor in my hands, I very deliberately start the car moving again, away from the sirens.
I run over the phone call in my mind. I’m sure I said nothing more than the address and that I needed an ambulance. There was no reason to send goons with guns to check it out. And how in the hell had they arrived so quickly? I only hung up on the responder a few minutes ago; response times are never that fast. If I’d waited to enter the house until I was supposed to, O’Shea would have lost so much blood he’d probably be dead and I would be the sole witness to the crime. Or the prime suspect. I grip the steering wheel and swerve right.
‘What in the hell have you gotten me into?’ I say aloud to O’Shea, not expecting an answer.
His spooky orange eyes swivel in my direction and he opens his mouth.
‘Don’t speak,’ I tell him curtly. ‘Conserve your energy. You can give me answers later.’ I’m damned if I’ll let him croak on me before I find out exactly what is going on.
I press down on the accelerator, speeding up again, and make a snap decision. I don’t know who this guy is and why the police – and someone else much more violent – are so interested in him, but my interest
is piqued. The hospital is now out. There’s only one place nearby where I can get him some proper medical help and avoid the suddenly undesirable eye of the law. I’d rather choke on my own tongue than go there but I’m out of other options. Shit in a hell basket.
Chapter Two: Family Ties
I ignore the red lights; right now I have worse things to worry about than traffic violations. And it’s not as if the roads round here are busy. I’d have been impressed with my speed if the situation weren’t so dire. Even so, by the time we arrive outside the familiar terraced house, I can tell that O’Shea is beginning to fade. Blood is leaking from between his fingers where they continue to clutch at the gaping wound. Arse.
I stop the car and jump out, running up the path to the door. I bang on it loudly and try to open it, even though I know it will be barred. ‘Open up!’ I yell, crouching down to flip open the letterbox.
The door swings open noiselessly. A fat ginger tom cat is sitting in the hallway glaring at me.
I snarl. ‘Where is he?’
The cat licks a paw before starting to wash its face.
‘I don’t have time for this. Where in hell is he?’
A man appears behind the animal. He has the kind of straight-backed posture a ballroom dancer would envy. He raises his eyebrows at me. ‘Bo.’
‘I need help. There’s a…’
He interrupts. ‘Obviously you need help. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here. But this is not how we do things.’
I grit my teeth. This is one of the many reasons why I avoid this place like the plague. I step over the threshold, ignoring the cat and give the man a perfunctory kiss on the cheek.
‘Grandfather. How lovely to see you again.’
He inclines his head. ‘And you, my dear.’
‘Now will you help me?’
His eyes drift down my torso and his upper lip wrinkles. ‘You are covered in blood.’ There is the faintest tinge of disgust in his voice.
‘It’s not mine.’
‘I know that.’ He sniffs. ‘A triber. Agathos daemon, if I’m not mistaken.’
I sigh inwardly. Most people need to get up close and personal to recognise a triber. You can usually tell them by their eyes: Agathos daemons, even quarter breeds like O’Shea, possess pupils of different hues while vampires’ pupils contain a telltale red dot. Both black and white witches don’t have irises at all, whereas Kakos daemons …well, I’m not sure anyone has seen a Kakos’s eyes and lived to tell the tale. Some people don’t need to look into their eyes, however; they simply have an inbuilt intuition. It can be learned, much in the way that you can learn to tell the difference between the epicanthal folds of Chinese people versus Japanese people, or work out from two Caucasians which one is French and which one American. I can usually do so with tribers without getting into their face and peering at their eyes. My grandfather, unusually, can do it from fifty metres. He also enjoys making his talent known.
I try to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. ‘Well done. But he’s only a quarter Agathos and right now he’s dying in my car.’ I gesture outside. ‘If you’d be so kind?’
He seems to be mulling it over. I curl my fingers into fists at my sides.
‘Very well,’ he agrees finally. ‘But only because I don’t need a corpse littering my front garden. I can do without the police asking unnecessary questions.’
I narrow my eyes at that comment. Right now it’s a little too close to the bone. Fortunately he refrains from further discussion and I go back to the car, pulling open the passenger door. O’Shea falls against me, his head lolling. Cursing, I thrust my palm against his neck. I’m pretty sure I can still feel a pulse, although I’m amazed there’s any blood left inside him.
I realise my grandfather still hasn’t left his house. ‘What are you waiting for?’ I shout. ‘He’s dying. You said you’d help.’
He winces. ‘Raising your voice is so vulgar. You should keep your tone more dulcet, it’s more becoming for a lady. I said I would help the daemon and I will.’
‘So freaking help!’ Desperation is leaking from my every pore.
He gestures down at his clothes. ‘This is Savile Row. I’m not about to sully it with arterial blood. Bring him inside and I’ll save his life.’ He purses his lips. ‘For what it’s worth.’
I watch open-mouthed, as he goes back inside. I swear the bloody cat is grinning at me mockingly. Then an ominous rattle comes from O’Shea’s throat and I give in, hooking my hands under his armpits and dragging him up to the house while trying to staunch the wound at the same time. A snail’s trail of blood leads from the open car door and up the perfectly paved path behind us. I huff with exertion, noting out of the corner of my eye that several curtains are being pushed aside as the neighbours look on. At least I know they won’t be calling it in to the authorities. They wouldn’t dare.
After what seems an age, I’m back at the door and trying to pull O’Shea inside the house. One of his shoes catches on the lip of the entrance and, even though I tug hard, it won’t budge. Something taps my shoulder and I twist my head round. My grandfather has donned a plastic apron. He has kept his impeccable grey suit – complete with waistcoat, cravat and fob watch – on underneath. I avoid rolling my eyes. Why he insists on wearing such clothes when he lives on a rundown housing estate in one of the less salubrious areas of London, I have no idea. I let him take O’Shea’s upper body, and he produces a pressure bandage which he presses to the daemon’s neck while I free his caught shoe and lift his feet. Together we manoeuvre him inside and onto the kitchen table.
My grandfather leans down to inspect the wound. ‘He’s almost gone,’ he observes calmly. ‘You’ve not given me much time.’
‘There’d be a damn sight more time if you’d helped me get him inside.’
He clucks at my tone, elevating O’Shea’s head and reaching for a steel instrument which is already glowing red at the tip. He lifts up the bandage and cleans away the worst of the blood, then presses the metal into the wound, cauterising it. There’s a lengthy sizzle and the stench of cooking flesh fills the room. Bile rises in my throat.
I turn away and open a drawer, rummaging around until I find what I need. I crouch down next to O’Shea’s neck and start cleaning the area with antiseptic while my grandfather cuts off his t-shirt to attend to the wound on his ribs. He hisses when he finds it, making me look up.
‘Bloodguzzlers,’ he states, by way of explanation.
I start. It doesn’t make any sense for vampires to attack a daemon. ‘Are you sure?’
I receive a withering look in return. Holding the palms of my hands up in surrender, I stand up. ‘Is there a…?’
‘Behind you.’
I turn round and spot the suture kit. Scooping it up, I eye my grandfather again. ‘Is this…?’
‘Catgut,’ he grunts.
‘Do you think you could let me finish just one sentence?’
‘What’s the point when I know what you’re going to say?’
I pull out the pre-threaded needle and bend down to stitch up O’Shea’s neck, counting to ten very slowly in my head.
‘Have you spoken to your mother lately?’ my grandfather asks.
I can’t help snapping. ‘You mean you don’t know already?’
‘There’s no need to be impolite. This is small talk. It’s what civilised people do.’
‘And I suppose civilised people also spend their afternoons sewing up daemons as well,’ I say under my breath.
He hears me. ‘Only when their errant granddaughters arrive on their doorstep demanding that’s what they do. It’s been seven months since you were last here, Bo. The least you could do is pop round for afternoon tea from time to time.’
I stab the needle into O’Shea’s flesh with a little too much vigour and he moans.
‘I have to work. I told you.’
‘You don’t work every day.’
‘When I don’t work, I sleep.’ He has a knack for making me feel both guilty and anno
yed at exactly the same time.
‘I can still put in a word with Thompson and Grant, you know.’
‘So I can spend my days investigating insurance fraud? No thank you.’
There’s a moment of silence. When I finally look up and meet his eyes, his hands are on his hips. He appears genuinely perplexed. ‘You’d rather be saving daemons?’
I sigh. It would take more than the passing of a few laws to take away the old-school racism bred into my grandfather’s psyche. ‘He’s Agathos,’ I repeat, pointlessly. ‘And only a quarter at that.’
‘So you’ve said.’ Something flashes in his eyes and I realise I’m about to get sucker-punched. ‘You don’t normally do this though, Bo. Save daemons, I mean. You normally hang around taking sleazy pictures of affairs or handing out summons. Does that make you feel fulfilled?’
‘You’ve been keeping tabs on me.’ I keep my voice flat. It’s not a question.
‘You’re my only grandchild. Of course I’m keeping tabs on you! I’m concerned about the life you’ve chosen. You can do better than that seedy firm.’
‘It’s not seedy.’ I’m lying. It’s seedier than a prostitute’s unwashed bed linen. I continue, ‘And it’s a meritorious corporate ladder. You start at the bottom and work your way up. I’m working my way up.’ I finish my last stitch and tie the catgut into a granny knot. I stand up, drawing my shoulders back and looking my grandfather in the eye. ‘This is what I want to do.’
He doesn’t give way. He just remains where he is, staring back at me with a challenging look. Long seconds stretch out. Then O’Shea breaks the tension by moaning and coughing. He mutters something and twists on the table in a spasm of pain.
I bend down. ‘What is it?’
He coughs again. I place my ear closer to his mouth, ignoring the distaste that crosses my grandfather’s features.