New Order (Bo Blackman Book 2)

by Helen Harper

  As much as I would like to deny it, I can’t. ‘Yes.’

  ‘They are not good people.’

  ‘I did not choose this life.’

  As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. It’s not like poor Maisie chose her life either. I’d bet my own soul that I’ve had it easier than her. She doesn’t seem to register the unintended slur, however, she just reaches towards me and lightly brushes my cheek. I feel nothing more than a frisson of ice on my skin that vanishes the moment she withdraws her hand.

  ‘You are unhappy.’

  ‘Have you,’ I swallow, ‘heard of anyone who changed? Who was a nightwalker and then went back?’

  She shakes her head. O’Shea walks up. ‘Are you talking to a ghost? And is that what this is about, Bo? You’re trying to find a cure?’

  I give an uncomfortable shrug. ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘There isn’t one,’ he says.

  ‘So everyone keeps telling me.’

  ‘I mean it.’ He’s very earnest. ‘I know a bit about spells, remember?’

  I bite my tongue to avoid snapping that it was his use of spells that landed me in this mess in the first place. I turn away from him. ‘Maisie,’ I say, ‘I’m looking for Mother. Is he around?’

  ‘He’s at the shrine,’ she murmurs.

  I start to thank her and ask her to wait but she’s already gone, melting into the rain.

  ‘Who’s Mother?’ O’Shea asks.

  ‘The guy with all the answers.’ I don’t look at him; I just stare at the spot where Maisie was. ‘Stay here.’

  ‘Confucius said to respect ghosts but to keep away from them,’ he shouts at me. I ignore him.

  The gate is festooned with paper, material and colourful flotsam and jetsam left by well-meaning humans. Many of the scraps include names of the departed; they hang soggily and are difficult to read. It’s a much more impressive sight on a sunny day with a slight breeze blowing. The gate yields at my touch, although it still lets out a rusty squeal in protest. Several ghostly shapes turn in my direction, curiosity on their worn faces. When I stride in, hands reach out to me in supplication. Whatever it is they’re looking for, I don’t have it in me to give. Tentacles of cold wrap round my flesh. A flowery dress and a leather jacket are no protection against the touch of the dead.

  I try not to flinch and incline my head in acknowledgment at each one. Some are faded versions of their human selves, wearing patched, old-fashioned clothes that advertise the date of their death. Others are more terrible to look at: ruined faces and caved-in skulls. Rather than diminishing with time and experience, it feels like my empathy for their situation has grown. I’m relieved when they finally move aside and I spot the familiar shape of Mother beside the oddest collection of bricks and knicks-knacks that ever made up a shrine. I walk up and stand beside him.

  He nudges a plastic skull with his toe. A circle of bricks lies to his side, enclosing a cross. We’re surrounded by carefully laid, intersecting paths, banks of poppies long since in bloom and a jungle of vertiginous weeds. The overall effect should be that of a junkyard; instead there’s a rustic charm which seems more fitting than a perfectly manicured graveyard.

  Observing propriety, I wait for Mother to address me. ‘You have not visited us for some years,’ he says finally in a grating raspy whisper.

  ‘I have no excuse.’ I bow my head.

  ‘You have life.’ His eyes flick towards me. They are neither benign nor malevolent. ‘Even vampires have life.’

  Mother knows and understands a great deal. ‘I’m seeking a newly departed soul,’ I say. My voice echoes around the walled space. ‘His name was Samuel Lewis.’

  ‘More than 250 people pass every day in this city,’ he intones. ‘Why should I know this one?’

  ‘He was young. And healthy. His death was not natural.’

  Mother raises his head. ‘There are no longer many stars,’ he comments, apropos of nothing. Then he looks directly at me. An involuntary shudder shakes me but I hold my ground. ‘I know of this one,’ Mother says. ‘He has gone.’

  ‘He is blessed,’ I murmur. ‘Did he speak with anyone before his passing?’

  ‘Why should I talk to you? The living lands are not my concern.’

  I have nothing to offer Mother in return for information. I rack my brains. ‘Life and death are balanced on the edge of a razor. Someone is trying to unbalance the blade.’

  Mother touches the wall and traces the faint lines of old graffiti with his finger. ‘Someone is always seeking to unbalance the blade.’

  I twist Maisie’s rose in my hands. A single petal falls off and drifts to the ground. The rain distorts its heavy shape almost immediately.

  ‘She likes you.’

  ‘Who?’ I ask, surprised.

  ‘Maisie.’ He cricks his neck as if easing his aching muscles although that’s impossible for a ghost. ‘She was sad when you didn’t return.’

  I’m confused. ‘I lost her. I looked for her many times but I never found her. I thought she’d passed on.’

  ‘She was hiding. She did not want you to feel beholden to her, to continue visiting until it became a chore. Sometimes we are afraid of the things we want most.’

  A heavy weight settles on my chest. I crane my neck round, trying to spot her slender shape again.

  ‘Visit,’ Mother says suddenly.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Visit. Regularly. She needs a friend.’

  ‘I will.’

  He nods his head. ‘You speak the truth,’ he rasps. ‘Do not be afraid of it.’

  I’m still trying to make sense of his words when he whispers, ‘Janus.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘That’s what he said. Janus. Do not ask me about the dead again, Bo Blackman.’ Mother turns away and it’s clear I’m being dismissed.

  ‘I don’t know what that means!’

  There’s no answer. Just like Maisie, he’s becoming ethereal as the last of the night swallows him up. I stay where I am, staring at the stone circle. Then I bend down and carefully brush off the wet leaves and fallen twigs until it’s cleared. It’s a small gesture; there are many who look after this place diligently. It feels appropriate though. I stand back and look around. The remaining icy ghosts are quiet; all I can hear is the patter of raindrops. I leave, picking my way back carefully. This time no spectre reaches forward and I’m granted access to the gate. I close it behind me, re-arranging a few of the names and scraps of material, taking my time in case Maisie shows her face again.

  When I can wait no longer, I turn back to the car. O’Shea is already inside, having closed all the doors and windows as if he needs protection from a ghostly assault. The windows are fogged up. I get in and start the engine.

  ‘Did you find out which morgue to go to?’ he asks.

  ‘It’s a bust,’ I tell him. ‘His spirit has already gone to the other side. I thought we might get lucky and he’d still be here.’ I think of Maisie and abruptly regret my words.

  ‘Is he a secret too?’

  ‘No.’ I tell him about my encounter in Fingertips and Frolics, along with the green feathers and Samuel Lewis’s untimely demise.

  ‘This isn’t about some petty thief,’ he says. ‘You really think that this woman gave you that feather because she would give you information about a cure in return for meeting whatever challenge she set?’

  ‘No,’ I snap. ‘It’s about someone having the temerity to waltz into a sodding police station, kill a suspect and steal a bloody feather.’

  ‘Lying to yourself is still lying.’

  I scowl at him in the mirror, Mother’s words about not being afraid of the truth come back to me. I don’t argue.

  O’Shea leans back in his seat. ‘We should go. It’s almost dawn.’

  I drop the handbrake and move into first gear, giving the gates of Crossbones Graveyard one final look before I drive off. It seems I’m spending every night running from the sun these days.

  Chap
ter Ten: Streets of Fire

  I’m sitting on my hands on O’Shea’s leatherette sofa, waiting for the sky to darken again, when there’s a soft rap at the door. O’Shea is in the shower, singing loudly out of tune, so I get up and answer it. Connor is standing there with an older vampire in tow.

  ‘Hi, Bo!’ he beams.

  I’m started to feel an odd fondness for his freckled face. ‘Uh, hi Connor,’ I say. ‘How did you know I was here?’

  He looks puzzled. ‘The daemon called, of course.’

  I curse O’Shea under my breath. For a moment, Connor looks worried then he smiles at me with sudden understanding. ‘You’re hungry. That’s why you’re annoyed.’ He pushes past me and settles on the sofa, pulling up his sleeve. ‘Breakfast of champions!’

  ‘Actually, I drank from you yesterday, so I don’t think…’

  He shakes his head and tuts. ‘Lord Montserrat said you’d do this. You have to drink every day.’

  As soon as I’ve kicked O’Shea into oblivion for constantly giving away all my secrets, I’m going to send Lord freaking Montserrat after him. Bile rises in my throat. The vampire outside gives a little cough. I glance in his direction and he waves. Until O’Shea gets out the shower and invites him in, he’s stuck there.

  ‘Who’s your friend?’

  ‘Doctor,’ Connor says, practically thrusting his wrist into my mouth. I gag, then let my teeth do the work.

  When I’m finished, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. The bathroom door opens and O’Shea struts out, wearing a tiny towel around his waist. I look him up and down. For someone who puts on a good show of being a lazy good-for-nothing, he certainly works out. Unfortunately he knows it because when he clocks both Connor and the waiting doc, he grins and takes his time going to the fridge. He pulls out a carton of orange juice and stretches upwards to flex his pecs. Then he starts to drink. All of us watch him; there’s no doubt he’s achieving his desired effect. In my case, however, it’s because concentrating on something other than my troubled stomach will keep the blood down.

  Once O’Shea’s finished, I stand up. ‘There’s some doctor at the door you should invite in.’

  ‘Oh yeah. Lord Montserrat said he’d be coming.’ He flicks his fingers airily upwards. ‘You’re invited.’

  I blow my cheeks out in exasperation. Bloody hell. If there’s a circle of trust surrounding the Montserrat Family members and hangers-on, it appears that I’m not part of it. I’m painfully aware of the doctor’s scrutiny so, in a bid to not come across like a raging lunatic, I paste on a smile. I’ll save my useless death stare for when O’Shea and I are alone.

  ‘Your desire to avoid blood is clearly an important symptom of your trauma, Ms Blackman,’ the doctor says, shaking my hand.

  ‘It’s nice to meet you,’ I murmur, not bothering to tell him that my blood avoidance is a symptom of not wanting to be a damn vampire. It has nothing to do with my alleged PTSD. ‘You have me at a disadvantage though. You know my name but I don’t know yours.’

  ‘Love,’ he says.

  I blink, not sure I heard him correctly. ‘You want me to call you love?’

  He chuckles. ‘Doctor Love will do. And before you say anything else, I’ve already heard all the jokes.’ He glances around. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’

  Given that I spent the night on O’Shea’s lumpy sofa, not really. Connor realises my dilemma and departs, giving me a wide, reassuring grin. I look at O’Shea.

  It takes him a moment. ‘Oh. You want me to hide out in the bedroom of my own apartment?’

  ‘Well, you do need to get dressed,’ I point out.

  He glances down at himself as if surprised. Then he offers me an arch grin and disappears into his room. The doctor settles on the sofa and pats the seat next to him. Feeling like a child, I sit down.

  ‘So,’ he says, ‘tell me what the problem is.’

  I suspect that the good doctor is in Michael’s circle and knows every detail but I describe the hallucinations anyway.

  He nods. ‘And this has happened twice?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He frowns. ‘The best cure for PTSD is to receive counselling immediately after the event. Several weeks later makes it more complicated.’

  ‘It’s not debilitating. I can still function normally most of the time.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ He scratches his head. ‘But you’ve had mood swings.’

  It’s not a question. That confirms he’s already been fully briefed about my situation. I sigh. ‘Yes. A bit.’

  ‘Well,’ he says, ‘there are several different approaches we can take. The most effective would be regular sessions of cognitive behavioural therapy.’

  ‘That sounds nasty,’ I interject with a nervous laugh.

  He doesn’t smile back. ‘There’s no guarantee of success but I can assure you it’s completely painless. We can start straight away. It’s a good thing you’re still entirely nocturnal as my schedule is free in the evenings.’

  I stare at him. ‘How many evenings are we talking about?’

  ‘Oh, I think every day to begin with.’

  ‘I don’t have time to sit down with you every day!’

  ‘What else are you doing?’

  Finding a cure for vampirism that no one in the triber world has ever heard of and tracking down a kidnapped woman so that my friend’s heart doesn’t get smashed into smithereens for a second time, I want to say. ‘You mentioned there were other approaches?’

  ‘There’s medication. I don’t think…’

  I nod vigorously. ‘Yes. Medication sounds good.’ It’ll take me all of two seconds to pop a pill. I don’t have time for anything else at the moment.

  ‘Until we’ve fully diagnosed your issues, I don’t believe drugs are a good idea.’

  ‘What’s to diagnose? I’ve got post-traumatic stress disorder. Load me up with the drugs.’

  He’s unimpressed by my attitude. ‘Four sessions a week and medication.’

  ‘One session a week.’

  He shakes his head. ‘Three.’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Done.’ He snaps his fingers. I have the feeling that I’ve just been conned. He reaches into his briefcase and pulls out a small white container. ‘This is topiramate.’ I move to take it but he pulls it away. ‘You may experience some side effects.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Aggression. Nausea. Hypersensitivity.’

  ‘So all the things it’s supposed to cure, then.’

  ‘Constipation. Alopecia. Amnesia.’

  I take a deep breath. ‘And a few more thrown in besides.’

  ‘Anaemia…’

  ‘What in hell is a vampire with anaemia like?’

  He opens his mouth to answer but I hold up a hand. ‘I get it. There are a lot of potential side effects. Therapy good. Drugs bad.’ He nods. ‘Give me the drugs.’

  He hands them over. ‘Tomorrow night at nine o’clock.’

  ‘I’m not…’

  I receive a hard look. ‘Okay, Doc. Tomorrow night.’

  ‘We’ll meet in the atrium.’ He stands up and walks to the door as I register what he just said.

  ‘Wait! We can’t meet there! I can’t go back to the Montserrat mansion after…’

  It’s too late ‒ he’s already gone. I grit my teeth in irritation. I may be back on speaking terms with Michael but showing my sorry arse at the mansion after stalking out is not going to go down well with the rest of the Montserrat Family. I’m still frowning when O’Shea comes back in.

  ‘The doctor’s gone?’ he says, disappointed.

  ‘Yeah.’ I scoop up my car keys and phone. ‘I’m going out.’

  ‘Can I come?’

  ‘No. I’m going back to do the secret stuff.’ I waggle a finger in his direction. ‘You’re right, you know.’

  He smiles. ‘I’m always right. Although in this context, you’re referring to…?’

  ‘Keeping secrets. You have a big mouth.’

  He g
rins at me disarmingly. I roll my eyes, leaving him to whatever nefarious plans he’s putting in place to recoup his losses from the previous night. I’d prefer not to know.

  * * *

  Less than an hour later I pull up outside the offices of Streets of Fire. The company obviously demands a lot from its employees because, despite the late hour, there’s still a lot of traffic coming to and from the building. I use my camera phone to photograph as many of the people as I can, then compare them to printouts I have from the company website. Experience dictates that the newbies trying to put on a show of competence will be the ones who leave last, so when the faces change from those listed as middle managers to others who aren’t important enough to be named on the employee pages, I know it’s time to head in.

  Streets of Fire, as a technology-based company, is more concerned about protection from human rather than triber security threats. Most of the big tech firms don’t bother with the sort of intrusion spells that the police or companies like Magix worry about. They probably spend a lot more time fretting about people like Rogu3 than vampires like me. I still need to be canny about how I’m going to get inside, though. I wait until I spy the right person: a skinny twenty-something wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with the photo of a cat. Underneath, in block capitals, are the words ‘Lost. Please return dead and alive to Erwin Schrodinger’. He stumbles slightly as he comes out of the revolving doors and glances down at the offending pavement as if expecting to see a banana skin. He’s perfect. As soon as he starts ambling down the street, I get out of my car and follow him.

  Weaving in and out of the path of other late-night workers, I walk briskly until I’m barely a metre behind him. I can hear him humming a variation of the Star Wars theme. I keep my head down and my hands by my sides on the off-chance that he glances back. I don’t need to worry. When he reaches the first intersection, he waits for the lights to change. I stand beside him, pulling my phone out as I come to a halt. My keys fall, crashing down to the pavement. Letting out a hiss of exasperation, I bend down to pick them up. My unfortunate target does the same and our heads bang together.

  ‘Ouch!’ I rub my forehead while he curses. Then I straighten up and smile ruefully. ‘Thank you.’