by Deanna Chase
Shuffling more quickly now, I use the sound of the door opening to mask my own noise and make it over to the ceiling gap. I push myself hard against the wall; if I angle my head just right, I can see into the office. I force down every betrayed, angry and impossibly wounded emotion and blink away the tears. Then I look.
I hiss when I see Arzo’s unmistakable heavyset shoulders. His head begins to tilt and my eyes widen in alarm. Then, just as I’m sure he’s about to stare right at me, there’s a high-pitched scream from somewhere behind him. It lasts barely a second before it’s cut off, as if the screamer had just dropped dead. Arzo whirls around and I see Tam pulling open a drawer to scrabble for the illegal gun he keeps there.
It’s already too late. I watch, horror struck, as something dark and very fast snaps into Arzo’s midsection. He spins around then falls to his knees. Whatever attacked him launches itself at Tam. I register the attacker’s broad shoulders and brown hair, tied back at the nape of his neck, before seeing his flashing fangs sink into Tam’s throat and rip at it with one swift, vicious bite. He pulls away a chunk of bloody flesh. Tam clutches at his neck and gasps a loud, incomprehensible word before falling in slow motion onto the desk.
I raise my hand to punch through the flimsy tile and do whatever I can but then I see Arzo’s large brown eyes staring at me. He shakes his head, mouthing at me. It takes a moment before I realise what he’s trying to say.
No.
Helpless, I gaze down as the life drains out of his body and I try to make sense of what has just happened.
Chapter Five: Knowledge
I stay squeezed in the dropped ceiling until I can no longer bear it. Even though my emotions are numb, every muscle in my body is screeching with pain by the time I yield and shove across the nearest tile so I can drop down into Tam’s blood-spattered office. Any semblance of tears is gone as I take in the scene. The air reeks of dark smoke from the vampire who attacked Tam and Arzo. I try to avert my eyes from their fallen bodies and use my brain to assess what I witnessed and what I’m seeing now. But my gaze drifts to the sickeningly large chunk of flesh lying next to the wall and I swallow hard.
Something catches my peripheral vision and I spin round, shoulders braced and ready for an attack. When I realise it’s Arzo’s chest moving, I rush to his side. He’s unconscious but definitely still alive – a miracle considering what has just happened. But I have no hope of dragging him out in the same way I did with O’Shea a few hours before. Arzo is too large and the whole building is too central for me not to be stopped in mid-stagger. His only chance is to receive immediate medical attention.
I glance back at Tam’s desk and realise he’s fallen across his phone. A dim flicker of logic settles in my brain. I’m in these offices every day so there will be traces of me everywhere for the police to pick up on, but allowing my fingerprints to smear their invisible way across Tam’s corpse would be tantamount to suicide. I step away carefully, avoiding treading in any blood, and pick up the phone on Arzo’s desk, trying to ignore the very visible shake in my hands.
‘999, what’s your emergency?’ asks the cool, collected voice on the other end for the second time today.
I deepen my voice to avoid recognition. ‘There’s been a vampire attack at Dire Straits. Tenth floor of the Artisan Building on Fitch Street. One of the victims is still alive and requires immediate attention.’
‘Can you give me your name and telephone number?’
I drop the phone on the desk, leaving the voice hanging, and prepare to leave, hardening my heart against Arzo’s state to focus on my own precarious chances of survival. If I end up in a police cell because of this and what went down at Wiltshore Avenue, I’ll never find out what is going on and I may end up as a puddle of blood on a floor. Common sense might suggest that I stay and answer any questions as honestly as I can, but my day has been anything but common. And the way things are going, I can’t trust anyone but myself.
I’m forced to pass through the social area. It is a bloodbath and I stare open-mouthed at the chaos that’s been left in the vampire’s wake. At least five of my co-workers are sprawled across the floor. Everywhere I look all I see is red. It appears that the attack happened too quickly for any of them to defend themselves. I shake my head to clear the fog that’s forming there and quickly move out. We’re in the city centre. The police and ambulances will be here soon.
As I move through reception, Tansy’s glazed eyes stare at me with the emptiness of the dead. Her nail file is still clutched in her hand. For some reason this detail is seared into my brain as I open the fire exit and run down the stairs to the ground floor. There’s not a soul in sight, not even a die-hard smoker is out taking a few hasty puffs, so I grab my plastic bag from the skip and leave, just as the sirens begin to scream.
This time I duck into the nearest underground station, keeping my head down to avoid the CCTV cameras. I receive several wide-eyed stares and for a moment I wonder if I’m drenched in blood. When I look down, however, I see that my borrowed dress is still tucked haphazardly into my knickers. I smooth it down, too shocked and numb to feel embarrassed, but I know that my presence here will be remembered. Bugger.
Once I’m safely on the train and rattling back to the outskirts of the city and my grandfather’s house, I squeeze my eyes shut and press my hands against my thighs so hard that it hurts. Of course I was worried after what happened with O’Shea but I was still calm. Now all I feel is a suffocating panic. Nothing makes any sense. Not O’Shea being attacked and left for dead, not me being set up for his apparent murder, not the vicious genocide at Dire Straits. Why a vampire? It obviously wasn’t just because they were hungry. There’s enough fresh blood on tap for any bloodguzzler to drink their fill from a willing victim. It’s a well-known fact that adrenaline and fear make even the sweetest blood taste sour, and vampires prefer to use the many human vampettes who are always lining up to be sucked. Besides, neither O’Shea nor any of my co-workers were tasted. Equally, this can’t be about me; as much as I’d like to believe otherwise, in truth I am a nobody.
I think about Tam’s betrayal. His reaction to Boris’s worries about the police being after me proves he was involved in setting me up. Did he frame me at the behest of someone else who then turned the tables on him? I have no way of knowing. At least the brutality of the attack precludes me from being a suspect. No one would believe a five-foot-one human woman did that. Would they? And why did Arzo tell me to stay hidden instead of try to help?
The police could easily believe that I tried to kill O’Shea. My grandfather may have instinctively known the daemon’s wounds were from a vampire but if I’d been found at the scene with his body tied to a chair with my handcuffs, it’s likely the post mortem would be rushed and I’d be put away for the rest of my life. If things had happened the way the perp had planned though, there’s no way I could be implicated in the office massacre. I wouldn’t even have been there. Now I’m wondering whether, in hindsight, staying at Wiltshore and allowing myself to be arrested might have been the best course of action after all.
I want to scream in frustration and anguish. Instead, I open my eyes slowly and take a deep breath. This is not the time to panic. The train trundles into the station and I make my way back to my grandfather’s house. Now, more than ever, I need O’Shea to be conscious long enough to answer my questions. I can feel myself teetering on the edge of sanity and I need something to pull me back.
When I arrive at the small cul-de-sac, my grandfather’s door is open and he is standing at the threshold, watching my approach. I don’t have time to deal with any of his usual theatrics and I’m too numb to care about pissing him off, so I reach up to kiss him on the cheek before he prompts me. He surprises me, however, and puts up a hand to stall my action. The fact that I recognise sadness in his normally steely eyes is disturbing.
‘It’s all over the news,’ he says gruffly.
I feel a wash of fatigue. ‘What are they saying?’
&nb
sp; ‘That seven people at Dire Straits are dead. One is critical and in intensive care.’ He gives me a hard look. ‘They are looking for you to help them with their enquiries.’
I almost – but not quite – snort with laughter at the euphemism. ‘They can’t seriously believe I’m responsible.’
The cat pads out and snakes round my ankles. I half-leap out of my skin. It’s never bloody done that before. Things must be even worse than I thought.
‘I made a few discreet enquiries of my own. They don’t.’ I exhale loudly, but my grandfather continues. ‘They do, however, think you are involved in some way. That maybe you’re working with a new bloodguzzler Family or something.’
‘That’s stupid.’
‘I said as much. No granddaughter of mine would be in league with those things.’
My mouth twists. ‘No, it’s stupid to think that there’s a new Family. The other Families would never allow it. Besides, what would any of the vampires have to gain from all of this?’
His gaze is frank. ‘Dire Straits must have done something to annoy them.’
‘But we don’t work for vampires,’ I point out. ‘They have their own in-house investigators.’
He speaks quietly. ‘Maybe your firm was working against them.’
I mull this over. It seems implausible. We did look into vampires from time to time for some client or other but, as far as I know anyway, nothing Dire Straits has ever done would come close to deserving retaliation on this scale. In fact, I’d been under the impression the vampires allowed us a modicum of professional courtesy and would help us out from time to time if it served their interests. But then again, my own employer framing me for the murder of some two-bit, magic-dealing, half-breed daemon is equally implausible. Speaking of…
‘What about O’Shea?’
‘Who?’
My grandfather’s confusion is faked. I roll my eyes at him. There’s something about his attitude that’s reassuring and makes me feel normal again. ‘The daemon?’
‘Oh. Him.’
I put my hands on my hips and give him a death stare. The trouble is that I’m just not as good at it as he is and he knows it. ‘Is he awake?’ I demand.
He shakes his head and gestures inside. Disappointed, I follow him into the small kitchen. O’Shea is still sprawled out on the kitchen table, his chest moving up and down regularly. I watch him for a few moments.
‘He’s involved in this,’ I say eventually, as much to myself as to my grandfather.
‘Yes. So what’s your next move, Bo?’
Despite everything, I feel a flicker of pride. He may be an ornery bastard with an entrenched core of racism, but he believes I can sort this out on my own and without his help. If he thought otherwise, he wouldn’t be asking me what I planned to do next. A thought strikes me: unless he has no idea what to do now, of course.
‘I have a safe house,’ I answer. ‘I’ll take him there.’
‘Are you sure it’s safe?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’re just going to wait until he wakes up?’
I bite my lip. ‘I don’t have any other choice.’
He regards me silently. I wonder what’s going through that head of his. He had better not be gloating about the demise of my firm.
‘I suppose you’ll need some form of transportation,’ he says finally.
I look at him hopefully. I had been counting on the old man realising I’d had to dump my car and that he needed to help me out with a vehicle if he wanted to get shot of O’Shea before nightfall.
He throws me a set of keys. ‘It belongs to one of my neighbours. If you get a scratch on it, they won’t be happy.’
‘I’ll look after it,’ I promise. ‘Thank you.’ I really mean it.
He inclines his head. ‘You take care now,’ he says. Then he walks out of the kitchen. ‘I like the dress,’ he calls back. ‘You should wear one more often.’
I sigh in exasperation and glance down at O’Shea’s prone body. ‘He doesn’t like it enough to help me get you out of here,’ I say to him.
Unsurprisingly, the daemon doesn’t answer. I shrug to myself, then bend and push his body up and over my shoulder in a fireman’s lift. At least he’ll be easier to carry now I don’t have to worry about him bleeding out. My knees buckle for a moment but I manage to steady myself and stagger outside. There’s a shiny car waiting in the driveway. I could swear it wasn’t there when I arrived less than five minutes ago. Shaking my head at my grandfather’s ability to get people to do exactly what he wants, I press down on the key and the car beeps loudly, signalling it’s open. I heave O’Shea’s weight onto the back seat, making sure his legs are inside before I slam the door shut. Then I get in and drive away.
***
When I was fourteen years old and particularly precocious, I came home from aceing an arduous mathematics test and spent a considerable amount of time crowing about my accomplishment to my father. It didn’t take him long to grow bored with my egotism and he told me in no uncertain terms that it hadn’t been as difficult or as complex as I supposed.
‘That’s not true,’ I sniffed back at him. ‘It’s one of the hardest tests there is. And one of the hardest subjects.’ I had no way of knowing whether this was true but, to my teenage mind, I had to be right.
‘The hardest test isn’t something you sit in school, Bo,’ he told me gently.
I completely misunderstood what he was driving at. ‘Grandfather says university is for wimps. That even the exams you sit at Oxford are easy and that they’re breeding a nation of incompetents.’ I told you I was precocious. The memory of my snotty tone still makes me wince.
My father sighed heavily and patted me on my shoulder. ‘There are other tests.’
‘Like what?’
I remember the look he gave me: measured and calm, but still assessing how far he could go. Of course I know now that the hardest tests aren’t even tests. They’re how you cope when your life falls apart. When you bite your tongue and let your best friend cry on your shoulder because the loser she’s been dating has dumped her. When the same loser comes on to you too strongly at a party the weekend after. When you’re trying to decide between paying the rent or eating. When one of your parents dies. I think my father knew that I would snort with adolescent derision if he pointed this out to me, so he took a different tack.
‘The Knowledge,’ he said instead. ‘That’s the hardest test.’
‘What’s the Knowledge?’
‘It’s what all taxi drivers have to do before they’re allowed to drive a black cab.’
I probably curled my lip. ‘You mean a driving test.’
‘No. I mean memorising 35,000 London streets so you always know the fastest way to get from point A to point B. It takes a minimum of two years to learn. Most people take five.’
He folded his arms and looked at me pointedly. I think I tossed my hair and wandered off in search of someone who would be more willing to listen to me boast about my accomplishments. But he had stirred my interest and the next day I stayed late after school to look up the Knowledge in the library. Imagine my surprise when I realised he was right.
Deciding then and there that I would become the youngest person to ever pass the Knowledge, regardless of the fact that I had no desire to become a taxi driver and was three years away from being allowed to drive, I took up the challenge. I studied every evening and spent weekends cycling around the city to challenge myself. Had my father known what a monster his comments would unleash, he probably would have been happy to sit there for hours to listen to my blow-by-blow account of algebra and fractions. I bored my friends to tears by forcing them to test me. I wouldn’t say I ever got to the point where I knew thirty-five thousand streets, or where I’d even have come close to passing, but I did learn a hell of a lot.
My study of the Knowledge was cut short abruptly about six months later when I discovered that Dean, the most annoying boy at my school, had hair that curled invitingly aro
und the sexy nape of his neck and a voice that made my toes curl up inside my trainers. Boys, I decided, were infinitely more interesting than the streets of London and I ended my quest almost as suddenly as I’d begun it. A lot of what I’d learned in that time never left me, though. At least now I know exactly where Markmore Close is without having to worry about maps or GPS. I’ll never know boys – or rather men, now that I’m older – as easily as that.
***
Even driving carefully to avoid any undue attention, it takes less than forty minutes to get to the safe house. The sky, which was already darkening by the time I reached my grandfather’s, is now definitely advertising that it’s night. It feels like it’s been the longest day of my life and it’s far from over yet.
I’m fortunate enough to pull up and park directly outside the block of flats. I’m even more fortunate that there’s a tiny lift inside, so I hook O’Shea’s dead weight of an arm round my neck and hoist him up by the waist. A fireman’s lift would be easier but any curious residents might think he’s spent the afternoon in the pub and had one too many if I haul him up this way instead. It’s a struggle and seems to take forever, but finally I find the key exactly where I was told it would be and get him inside.
It’s a small place; property is at a premium in this part of the city so I’m not surprised. At least it’s clean and well kept. I flop O’Shea’s body down on the small bed which was probably advertised as a double – but only if you are sharing with a midget. It’ll do, I suppose. I can crash on the sofa when I need to sleep.
I turn to leave when I suddenly think of something. The last thing I need is the daemon waking up and doing a runner. He’s the best lead – the only lead – I’ve got right now and I’m not letting him slip through my fingers. I turn back, grab hold of the cuffs which are still dangling from his wrist and clip them onto the frame of the bed. It’s not particularly sturdy but I figure he’ll still be weak from blood loss when he wakes up and the cuffs will hold him. Then I head back down and move the car a few blocks away. Better safe than sorry.