by Alexis Hall
I’d half turned to go when Aeglica walked calmly forwards, caught Thomas Pryce by the throat, and threw him through the window. And here was me thinking I was going to be bad cop. Aeglica crunched through the glass to the gaping hole where the window used to be and stepped off the building.
Shit.
The whole place was in lockdown, so there was no hope of a lift, which meant I had to run down twenty-six flights of stairs, and past several security teams, who, fortunately for me, were still mostly unconscious. Four minutes later, and knackered, I staggered out into the plaza. Aeglica was waiting for me in the centre of a spider-web of cracked paving stones. The Prince of Coins was impaled on a bit of modern art. He did not look happy.
“That,” said Pryce, “was uncalled for.”
A spider slipped from under the collar of his shirt, crawled across his face, and lowered itself off the edge of the sculpture on a long strand of silk. Another ran out from beneath his cuff and did the same. And eventually his entire body, clothes and all, dissolved into a teaming mass of spiders that swarmed down the somewhat dented sculpture. They gathered in the centre of the plaza and reformed into the shape of the Prince of Coins. He still did not look happy.
Aeglica turned to me. “Ask your questions.”
There was something to be said for the direct approach. “Was it you?” I asked.
Pryce sighed. “No.”
“Was that really worth being thrown through a window for?”
“Is that one of the questions?”
I sighed. “But,” I tried again, “you’ve attempted to buy Julian out before.”
“Yes, I have.”
“So, it would benefit you to devalue her properties?”
He folded his hands in front of him, his expression unchanging. I made a mental note never to play poker with this guy. “The acquisition of the Calix Group is no longer part of our development strategy.”
“What changed your mind?”
“Miss Saint-Germain was disinclined to sell. With enough time and energy, I’m sure I could have persuaded her, but there was little profit in it. I am not in the habit of using my business to pursue personal vendettas. I consider it unprofessional.”
“No offence, but why should I believe you?”
“Because you have no choice, Miss Kane. If I had been involved in this affair and wished to conceal the fact, I could. It would take you a lifetime to understand even a fraction of my operations. The sooner you conclude that I am not, in fact, a plausible suspect, the sooner we can both continue our lives unmolested.”
He was probably right, and I’m a big fan of being unmolested, but I’d come all this way, and I was buggered if I was leaving with nothing to show for it. “I’ll need more than that.”
He sighed. I got the feeling it was something he did a lot. “I am willing to release to you the full records of my previous dealings with the Calix Group. Anyone with a modicum of financial experience will be able to see that the project has concluded.”
I did not, in fact, have a modicum of financial experience. I didn’t even have a Business Studies GSCE. But Archer’s wife—by which I mean, of course, Archer’s widow—was a forensic accountant. We hadn’t worked together much since I got her husband killed. But business was business, right?
“That’ll have to do,” I said. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Pryce.”
“Do not impose upon it so lightly again.” He nodded to Aeglica and disappeared back into the building.
“Well.” I looked up at the Prince of Swords. “Thanks?”
“That is unnecessary. The Council has been threatened. The Prince of Coins was standing in the way. He had to be reminded of his loyalties.”
“A twenty-six-storey fall is a pretty harsh reminder.”
“He is young.”
Aeglica turned and walked away.
I called a taxi because I’d had it. I’d climbed a wall, walked from Holland Park to Lime Street, got up twenty-six flights of stairs in the middle of a gun fight, and then down the same twenty-six flights of stairs in pursuit of a falling vampire. I sat down heavily in the back of the cab, and then realised my leg was bleeding.
Well, fuck.
Three hours later, I was explaining to a man in blue pyjamas that I had no idea how I’d torn the stitches out my leg. I just found it like that. Honest. And five hours later I was at home, face down on my pillow.
The next day I woke up around noon again, feeling like I’d been run over. I limped to my computer, where I had several emails from lawyer types working for the Prince of Coins that wanted me to electronically sign a series of hard-core non-disclosure agreements. I negotiated an allowance to share the information with an expert third party on a need-to-know basis, and then I emailed Lucy Archer to tell her I had a job for her. Lucy was more than capable of taking it from here, and I wanted to avoid getting into a long conversation with her, so I left them all to it.
By the time this had all been sorted out, it was early evening, and I made an executive decision to spend the rest of the day lying on a sofa, drinking heavily, with my leg in the air.
I woke up in a complete panic midway through Sunday afternoon, remembering I had a werewolf funeral that evening and nothing to wear. I didn’t even know if I should be looking for a cocktail dress or strategically placed animal skins.
I’d thrown the entire contents of my wardrobe onto the bed and was digging through the pile for the third time, wondering if I could get away with jeans and a black tie when the buzzer rang. I picked up the handset.
“Delivery for Kane.”
Great. On top of everything else, someone had sent the world’s least original hitman after me. “No one by that name here.”
“As you wish, Miss Kane,” replied the incredibly posh hitman/delivery guy. “I have a parcel for you from Miss Vane-Tempest and, with your indulgence, I shall leave it on the doorstep.”
I ran to the window just in time to see a middle-aged man in an immaculate dark suit step into a silver Bentley Spur and drive away.
Huh.
Figuring I’d better get the parcel before somebody nicked it or pissed on it, I hurried downstairs. It turned out to be one of those white oblong boxes that I’ve only seen in tacky romcoms. I took it back to the flat and put it on my kitchen table next to a roll of Plenty and a bottle of ketchup. There was a miniature envelope tucked into the ribbon, and inside was a single square of eggshell card that read: Wear this, T.
Oh, my fucking God. I was Pretty Woman.
I opened the box. Lying in a bed of crisp crackling tissue was a dress. I lifted it out and looked at it.
It was a really fucking nice dress.
I know nothing about fashion, but even I could see it was a really fucking nice dress. Versace. It was black silk with sheer lace sleeves and a cut-away shoulder. It was fitted at the top, clinging in the middle, and flowing at the bottom. It almost certainly cost more than my car.
I put it back in the box and went to make a cup of tea while I worked out how I felt about this. On the one hand it was kind of a dick move. On the other hand, it was a really fucking nice dress. I wasn’t sure how Julian would feel about me partying on another girl’s ticket, but people who live in glass houses full of naked chicks shouldn’t throw stones. I liked Julian, and the sex was . . . well . . . not something I was going to forget in a while, but that didn’t mean I was going to sit around waiting for my prince to come. Especially when my prince had the attention span of a cupcake.
I took out the dress again. What were the chances it was an innocent gesture from a new friend who was concerned I might not have a suitable gown for the occasion? The cool silk poured over my fingers like shadow.
No. This was a fuck-me dress.
I was kind of out of my league here. Usually all it takes is a pint and a packet of crisps.
It was hard not to feel flattered in a prostitute-y kind of way. But at the same time, I really hate being told what to do. I’d just about resolved to wea
r a suit on principle when I somehow accidentally tried the dress on. The last time I’d done the fairy princess thing, I’d been seventeen, deep in the closet, dating an arsehole, and a cabal of vampire alchemists had kidnapped me on the night of my sixth form leavers’ ball. And that had kind of put me off.
But this time it was going to be different. I was going to wear a fabulous dress and have a fabulous time on my own terms. In my own way. For me.
At a funeral.
For a man whose murder I had, so far, failed to completely solve.
Well, bollocks.
But, since I was back on the case, this would be a great opportunity to double-check the weird shit at Safernoc. Vampire politics were looking like a dead end, which moved the werewolves, and their forest full of monsters, up the suspect list again. After Mr. Squidgy, I’d been pretty certain that Andrew had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, but if there were two killers, they could easily have two motives and two targets. Tara had been pretty adamant that werewolves don’t kill their own, but after lovers, family were the next most likely suspects. I’d been okay to backburner the wolf connection when I had other leads, but right now I had squat, so I couldn’t afford to dismiss anything. Unless it really had been Maeve all along, and this was a huge waste of time. I suppose I could have gone and asked her, but I had no reason to think she’d tell me the truth, and besides, I’d already caused enough trouble for Nim, so I didn’t think she’d be all like, “Hey Kate, of course you can come and interrogate my people again.”
Since I had a funeral to doll up for, and I wasn’t going to get anywhere with the case by sitting on my arse, I multitasked. I backtracked through my mental case notes while showering, tending to my many wounds, wriggling back into the dress, doing make up and shit, and fretting about shoes. I tend not to wear heels because they make me fucking enormous, and they’re really rubbish when you have to run away or fight something. Finally I settled on some knee-high gladiator sandals, and I was just admiring the ensemble in the mirror that came with the wardrobe when I realised I had nowhere to put my knives. And to think I’d been worried about the shoes. Having actually been to Safernoc, there was no way I was going out there again without my iron dagger, and I eventually strapped it to the outside of my thigh without wrecking the line of the dress too much. It wasn’t exactly subtle, but I wasn’t planning on wandering past any cops and I was going to have travel through a faery-haunted forest.
Then I cranked up my car and drove to Oxfordshire. At least I didn’t have to stop for directions this time. When I came to the massive wrought iron gates, I turned through them onto a gravelled driveway. It was all way easier when you were actually invited.
I’d kind of expected getting through the gates would mean I’d arrived, but it just took me deeper into the forest. It was still early evening, but the trees strangled the light. Strange shadows moved in the mist. Nice place for a funeral. Atmospheric.
At last, the house loomed at me out of nowhere, reaching jaggedly towards the sky. It was one of those old English castles that had been knocked down, rebuilt, and extended so many times it was like Frankenstein’s monster with buttresses. The sort of place with a New Wing that was older than the United States. I drove carefully round the long-dry fountain in the centre of the courtyard. Through the moss and the weeds, you could still make out the statues in the middle: a circle of six howling wolves. Subtle.
I eased my second-hand Corsa between a Veyron and a classic E-Type. I wasn’t sure if I should feel inadequate or just surrounded by wankers. Slithering free, I made for the main door, where a couple of waiters were standing around with trays of canapés. I helped myself to a roll of something posh and a glass of something expensive, and wandered inside. I found myself in a vast, echoing entrance hall, all stained glass and dark wood. I ate the canapé like that had been the plan all along, and wondered what the fuck to do next. Basically, I had to blend in at a funeral and figure out if anyone in the family had a reason to off the dead guy—y’know, without being massively offensive and disrespectful. “Sorry for your loss. Did you kill him?” tends not to go down too well.
Then I spotted Tara. She was wearing a dark gold dress that had no visible means of support, and was greeting people as they filed past her. I tagged onto a cluster of toffs to wait my turn.
Her eyes swept possessively over my body. “I’m glad you came, Kate Kane.”
I wasn’t quite comfortable doing sexy banter at a funeral.
“Least I could do,” I muttered. “Sorry for your loss.”
“We’ll talk later, yah.” She put a hand on my hip and steered me after the other guests, down the corridor and into a spacious room with no obvious function, probably a drawing room or a morning room or some other sort of room that ordinary people don’t need. There were more waiters with more canapés, lots of people I didn’t know, and Andrew laid out on a bed of fresh oak leaves by the far wall. I downed my drink and went over to pay my respects, feeling a bit of a knob since I hadn’t actually known the guy.
Sorry you got murdered, mate.
He looked depressingly young and depressingly dead. I suddenly remembered I still had his iPhone.
A voice came from behind me. “I do not believe we have been introduced.” The tone suggested this was a serious failing on my part.
I turned round. Generally I find old ladies come in two flavours: ones that remind me of my nan and ones that scare the fuck out of me. This woman did not look like my nan. At all. It was like she’d been whittled down until she was nothing but skin and ferocity. Like a Quentin Blake illustration without the quirky charm. A wolf watched me through amber eyes.
“I’m Kate Kane.”
“I know who you are, Miss Kane. I said we have not been introduced.”
I had a feeling this was not going well.
“Tara invited me,” I mumbled.
“See that you do not outstay your welcome. This is a family affair.”
“I’m just paying my respects.”
“I doubt you know the meaning of the word,” she snapped.
I smiled awkwardly. I had no idea how I was supposed to handle this. If she hadn’t been about eighty and we hadn’t been at a funeral, I might have had more options. Like decking her. Was I just supposed to stand here and let her lay into me for shits and giggles?
I was looking for a window to jump out of when I noticed that someone was coming towards us. It was the guy from my last visit, a whole lot less naked this time. He had that effortless grace that posh people have when they’re in formal clothes.
He took the old woman by the arm. “Grandmamma,” he said, with a hint of mischief, “I don’t think you’ve been formally introduced. This is Katharine Kane, a private investigator who’s looking into Andrew’s murder. Miss Kane, this is Henrietta Vane-Tempest, Dowager Marchioness of Safernoc.”
“Stop trying to manage me, Hetty.” The old woman tore her arm away. “If I wish to be introduced to somebody, I shall ask.”
“This isn’t your pack anymore, Grandmother. You will sit down and you will be polite to Tara’s guests.”
The Marchioness actually snarled at him. It was a savage, inhuman noise no little old lady should be able to make. Her grandson bared his teeth and growled back. And I thought my family was fucked up.
The Dowager finally retreated and sat down, glaring.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get Miss Kane a drink.”
He offered me his arm, and I took it gratefully. “That’s the best thing anyone has said to me all evening.”
We skirted the crowd. Small talk, small talk, small talk, help. And we hadn’t been formally introduced, which was apparently a big deal round these parts. I didn’t think him throwing me off his land counted.
“I’m Henry, by the way. My friends call me Harry. Bunny calls me Hal.”
“Dude, that’s a lot of names.”
“Well.” He smiled. “At Roedean my nickname was Binky.”
; “You can call me Kate,” I said firmly. “You know your granny’s kind of evil, right?”
He laughed, not entirely happily. “She was an alpha werewolf, and a good one. That requires a certain strength.” He paused. “But yes, she’s a terrible human being.”
Interesting. “Bummer.”
“As you so astutely observe: bummer.”
It was probably nothing, but a ruthless, psychotic old woman who was clearly hostile to outsiders was too good a lead to pass up. “How does she feel about vampires?” I asked, in what I hoped was a casual sort of way.
His eyebrows went up. “Are you interrogating me, Kate?”
“Maybe a little bit.”
He thought about it for a moment. “She doesn’t like vampires, and she didn’t approve of Andrew dating one, but I don’t think she had him murdered, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“I probably wouldn’t have been quite that blunt about it, but I have to cover all the angles.”
“It’s all right. If I was investigating a murder, she’d be my prime suspect. She’ll do anything to protect the family.”
He plucked two glasses expertly from a passing waiter and handed one to me.
“Thanks.” I knocked it back. “Sorry, I’m shit at parties. Who’d be next on your list?”
He smiled at me. “Oh, I see what you did there.”
I gave him my best innocent look, which did not look very innocent.
“All right,” he said, “I’ll play. But only because I honestly don’t think it was any of them. My number two suspect would probably be Jumbo.” He indicated a large, balding man dozing in one of the few available chairs. He didn’t look like a killer. But who does? “He’s our PR man and general fixer. Terribly clever chap. Fingers in a lot of pies.”
I was about to make a joke, but I realised it was too obvious.
“Don’t let him fool you,” Henry went on. “He’s nowhere near as harmless as he looks. He’s got the contacts to do it, and the will if he wanted to, but no motive whatsoever.”