‘May I?’ She gestured to the boy’s hand, the one not mangling a piece of tropical fruit.
He reached out his hand, as if in a dream, and she took it. The moment their skin touched, the current began. Oh, this little one had a lovely spark. She closed her eyes in pure pleasure. With training he could even have had the sight. There weren’t many of those left; she and Pringle had swallowed them all. Choked them down quick as they could to keep their edge. Now it had been years without a decent meal. They had formed their truce, consolidated their own little corners and developed their interests to keep busy, but they were both bleeding hungry and that was the truth.
The spark snuffed out far too quickly. The little one’s eyes glazed over and he sat down on the black asphalt. Mary King was already turning away. The hunger at her centre had quietened, but she knew it wouldn’t last and that it would soon be baring its teeth. She was back out on the main road, her phone to her ear, ready to summon a car, when a thought dropped into place – what if the missing girl had a spark? If Pringle was lying to her about the girl then maybe she had more than a spark. Maybe she was a flame, or even a bonfire. A bloody feast. Mary King licked her lips.
* * *
Back across town, Mal caught up with his target and her diminutive blonde friend. He stayed a cautious distance behind, and followed them along the busy pavement of Princes Street. They cut up to Charlotte Square and, as the streets grew quieter, Mal allowed the distance between himself and the girls to increase. It was harder to follow unobtrusively with fewer bodies to act as shields, but he was well practised in the art.
Luck was on his side, too, as the girls appeared deep in conversation and oblivious to their surroundings. He got close enough to catch Rose’s expression as she looked at her friend. She looked frightened and Mal was surprised to find himself responding to her fear. Sympathy. It had always been Euan’s weakness, not his, but it seemed his brother had passed on the gift when he’d sunk into his permanent sleep.
There was no time for that now though. They had turned down a side street, a cobbled cut-through with a closed French restaurant, a couple of boxy metal bins and no people. Mal slid his hunting knife from inside his jacket and sped the last few steps. He would grab Rose, hold the knife to her throat, and tell the other girl to run. In the unlikely event that she tried anything heroic, he would disable her with a blow to the head. Knock her out as carefully as he could.
Time expanded, as it always did in the moments of action. Mal had no trouble in closing the gap, taking Rose and pulling her against the front of his body, his arm up in one smooth movement to hold the knife at the optimum angle a hair’s breadth from the vulnerable skin on her exposed throat. He had time to note how light she was, lighter even than he expected from her small size. He had time to feel her human warmth, the biological scent of her sweat and hair that was like a wrong note in a symphony. Demons didn’t smell like humans. When he grappled with a demon, no matter how they looked at first glance, he was under no illusion that he might be hurting a human being. This was different. Every signal Rose gave was of a human woman – a young, frightened human woman – and it took every ounce of will in his considerable reserve not to let her go and apologise.
He was going to tell the other girl, Astrid, to get away, but in the next second he felt a warmth spreading through his body. It was like sunshine and he had the ridiculous urge to glance up, check the sky.
‘Rose,’ the other girl said, her voice gentle. ‘You can stop him any time you want.’
And then the warmth was abruptly heat, far too hot, running under and over his skin like fire. He dropped his knife and let go of Rose, stumbling back. The last thing he saw, as the pain increased with the heat, licking every nerve ending and setting it screaming, was Rose’s pale face as she turned to look at him, her eyes wet with tears and her mouth forming words he couldn’t understand. He felt himself fall and he welcomed it, opening his arms and diving into the cool darkness, desperate to get away from the burning pain.
Chapter Eleven
Rose stared down at the man on the ground, trying to ignore the buzzing in her ears so that she could think. She recognised him from that day in the bar, when he had chased them. Adrenaline was pumping through her body and she felt as if she were on her tiptoes, almost floating. She hoped she wasn’t about to zap somewhere like she had on that day. She wondered if it was under her control and, just in case, thought, ‘stay here’.
One of the man’s jeans-clad legs twitched and she hoped that meant he was still alive. Not conscious, not about to leap up and attack her, but alive. His knife was on the ground where it had had fallen, and she kicked it further away from the prone body, aiming for the handle but missing the first time she tried, her foot scuffing along the pavement next to the weapon.
‘Okay.’ Astrid had her hands on her hips and was studying Rose intently. She didn’t look surprised, more interested. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Sick,’ Rose said. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the man. She had been so frightened but now that he was unconscious, he looked so young. There was blood coming from his temple, where he must have hit the pavement. Quite a lot of blood. It kept flowing steadily from just beneath his hairline, and something snapped inside her. She pulled a wad of tissues from her bag and folded them into a pad. She knelt next to the man and pressed the pad onto the wound. He didn’t groan or wince or grab her by the throat, and she felt something else mixed in with the relief that she wasn’t being attacked. Concern.
‘Leave him. We need to move.’
‘No.’ Rose spoke without looking around. The man’s face was grey. His skin looked waxy and there was a layer of sweat. She could see pain etched into his face. ‘We need to phone for an ambulance.’
‘For the man who just tried to kill you? I don’t think so.’
The tissues were soaked through but the blood seemed to have slowed down. Rose took a cautious peek.
‘Head wounds bleed a lot,’ Astrid said, sounding impatient. ‘He’ll be fine.’
‘Are you a doctor now?’
Astrid sighed loudly but Rose felt her kneel down beside her. She put her head on the man’s chest, her blonde curls splaying out and covering part of his face. ‘His heart is beating at only slightly above normal speed and he’s breathing.’ Astrid began searching the man’s pockets, bringing out a flat wallet and flipping it open. ‘Mal Fergusson,’ she muttered. ‘Why are you buzzing around?’
‘We need to do something,’ Rose said.
‘Nonsense,’ Astrid dropped the wallet onto the man’s chest. ‘Look at him. He’ll be awake and ready to kill us in no time.’
On cue, the man’s eyes flickered and his head twisted to one side. He let out a groan that sounded like a name.
Astrid stood, pulling Rose with her. ‘We have to go.’
‘I’m going to throw up,’ Rose said. She had done this. She had let something out and it had hurt this man. Badly. He could have internal injuries or brain damage or broken bones—
‘All the more reason,’ Astrid said. ‘Come on.’
Rose allowed Astrid to tow her a few feet down the alley, back towards the main street, but then she planted her feet. ‘Dial 999,’ she said.
‘He’s awake,’ Astrid said, but her phone was already in her hand and she was hitting buttons with her thumb. She spoke rapidly, giving the street name and saying ‘some guy collapsed’ before hanging up.
A bus came into view on the road and Rose imagined faces pressed up against the windows, looking at the man lying on the ground and the girls who were walking away from him.
‘Perfect.’ Astrid held out her arm.
‘It’s not a taxi,’ Rose said, but the bus was already slowing down. It stopped with a grinding noise and a hiss from the brakes. The doors unfolded and Astrid half-dragged Rose up the steps and inside.
Sitting on the fuzzy seat of the bus and hearing the hum of the engine, the familiar sight of the castle looming over the road,
Rose felt the urgency of the moment drift away. Her habitual calm was flowing back, slipping over her mind like warm water. She shook her head, trying to stay clear. ‘What just happened? Who was that?’
Astrid patted her hand. ‘It’s all right. It’s over now.’
‘It’s not all right,’ Rose said, and Astrid’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘What did you do to him?’ Rose fought harder against the numbness. She pushed her sleeve up and looked at her tattoo, rubbing her fingertips across the raised skin and not even caring that Astrid could see her.
‘I didn’t do anything,’ Astrid said. ‘It was you.’
‘No. I didn’t do anything.’ Rose frowned, trying to remember. They had been in an alley. Cobbles and bins. A slice of grey sky high above and a faint smell of onions and cooking oil. There was a light. A flash, maybe, and a man falling to the ground. ‘Was he hit by lightning?’ She knew the words were stupid as soon as they left her mouth.
‘No.’ Astrid started speaking quickly and quietly. ‘There’s an energy inside of you. Some of it must’ve leaked out. You’re not in control at the moment because you can’t remember what you are. It’s not good. It’s like in those moments when you’re just waking up from a really deep sleep and you maybe talk nonsense for a bit or your limbs spasm and you kick the wall.’
‘I didn’t do it. I didn’t do anything.’ Rose knew she was lying. Deep down, she knew. ‘I’ve got to get out of here.’
She stood up and made her way to the front of the bus. ‘Stop,’ she said, not even looking at the driver. The bus lurched as the driver braked. Car horns sounded and there was a ripple of discontent in the bus, passengers shifting and muttering. Rose ignored it all, her eyes on the doors which seemed to be taking forever to open.
Finally they unfolded with a flapping noise and Rose was back on the street, a fine drizzle instantly soaking her hair and sticking her fringe to her face.
She began to walk but then Astrid was there, clattering down the steps of the bus and grabbing her arm. Rose shook her off.
‘Rose,’ Astrid said, her voice weird and breathy. ‘Let me help you.’
‘How?’ Rose said, fear and confusion giving way to anger, pure and hot and overwhelming.
Astrid swallowed. ‘I can protect you. Explain what is happening. We just need to go somewhere quiet.’
‘I have to go,’ Rose said.
‘That’s what I’m saying.’ Astrid looked relieved. ‘I think we should—’
‘Not you,’ Rose said. ‘Me. I’ve got to go.’ She pointed at Astrid. ‘Don’t follow me. Keep away from me.’
She turned away and began walking. She half-expected Astrid to follow, to tug on her sleeve and argue, or, more likely, to simply walk alongside her for a wee while and then start chatting as if nothing had happened. Truth be known, she was thrown when that didn’t happen.
She reached the corner and, unable to resist, glanced back. Astrid looked tiny. She was stood next to a black litter bin and was too far away for Rose to make out her expression. She had the impression that it was anguished and felt a stab of guilt. It was closely followed by anger though. Why was she just standing there? Deserting her? Rose ignored the fact that she was the one doing the deserting and stomped around the corner, out of sight and view of her best friend.
Ex best friend.
* * *
Mal opened his eyes just as the paramedic was preparing to insert an IV. He jerked his arm away, sending the needle clattering to the floor of the ambulance. There was something restrictive on his face and it took his brain a second to realise what it was. He ripped the oxygen mask away and looked around, trying to work out how much time had passed. There was no sign of Rose, or her friend with the curly blonde hair.
‘Hey!’ The paramedic was a man in his forties with a shaved head and a five o’clock shadow. He looked like he could wrestle Mal back onto the gurney with one arm tied behind his back. ‘Take it easy. I’m here to help.’
‘I’m fine,’ Mal said, trying to placate him. His mind had clicked into life and was racing through an inventory of his physical state. His head hurt like a bastard and a stabbing pain in his chest suggested he had re-broken his healing ribs. Not fun, but he would live. ‘Thank you.’ He sat up carefully. ‘I need to go.’
‘Nae chance, pal. You’re needing to get checked oot.’
Mal reached into the pocket of his jeans, wincing as moved. He pulled out a crumpled twenty and offered it to the paramedic. ‘Couple of painkillers and I’ll be on my way.’
The paramedic glanced towards the front of the ambulance where his partner was in the driving seat, then plucked the money from Mal. ‘Aye, suit yerself.’ He rooted around in his bag. ‘Paracetamol do you?’
Mal tried a winning smile. ‘Be serious.’
‘Co-codamol then. Just two, ye ken? I’m no having an OD on my hands.’
‘I’m not going to top myself over a kicking,’ Mal said. ‘You got something stronger?’
The paramedic had made the twenty disappear and now he shook his head. ‘You feel that bad, you can take a wee trip to A&E.’
Mal held up his hands in surrender. ‘No, thanks.’ He swallowed the pills dry and climbed out of the back of the ambulance, ignoring the instant increase in pain. A meaty hand on his arm stopped him for a moment. The paramedic’s face was suddenly uncomfortably close. Mal got a view of the large pores on his red nose. ‘You’d better no be a journalist, pal.’
Mal started to shake his head but the pain made him stop. ‘Nope,’ he said instead. ‘I just want to go home. To my own bed.’
The paramedic retreated, looking mollified. The doors slammed shut and Mal was alone on the street. He waited until the ambulance had pulled away before searching for his knife. He had assumed he had dropped it during… Whatever the fuck had just happened. But it must have been flung some distance. The hilt was sticking out from underneath one of the big metal bins and he dried it on his jeans before stowing it inside his jacket. He tried to feel victorious about that, at least. It was a good knife, one of his favourites.
He ignored the pain in his head and ribs and began walking, hoping for a taxi but without any real optimism. He probably looked like hell, and the Edinburgh drivers could afford to be picky during the tourist season. In the depths of winter, then they’d pick up a guy bleeding freely from a head wound. Mebbe.
The thing that he wasn’t thinking about – very carefully and deliberately not thinking about – was the fact that the girl had beaten him so easily. He’d had his arms around her, the knife in position, and she had – what? He couldn’t remember exactly. That was what was truly frightening him. He couldn’t afford to lose his marbles, couldn’t get cloudy. If you got cloudy you got dead.
So, how had a girl who looked like she’d disappear if she turned sideways, knocked him out? The simple answer was that she wasn’t a girl, just as Pringle had said. But she had smelled human, felt human. A technicolour, full-sensation memory came back to him: Rose’s body against his, the scent of her skin, the intense shine of that long black braid and the curve of her pale neck.
He had to find her.
As if on a psychic link (a horrifying thought), his mobile rang and he saw Pringle’s number on the display. He thought about not answering it for a split second but knew that would be suicide. ‘Yes?’
It wasn’t Pringle, of course, but one of his ‘men’. ‘Have you found it?’
‘It’s in progress,’ Mal said. ‘Patience is a virtue.’ He forced himself to keep his voice level. He knew that Pringle would probably be listening to the exchange and he didn’t want to give him any hint of his feelings. He pushed the image of poor Laura Moffat laid out on a bar, her body opened up with a knife, just to release a little burst of energy. That poor kid with her telekinesis would have been like a snack for Pringle, a fucking Big Mac meal to go. An unexpected surge of anger shot through him as he thought of the demonic bastard.
There was a silence and Mal felt the anger flip into fear. P
ure cold terror ran through his system to a liquid place down low in his stomach.
‘Just a reminder,’ the voice said. It was flat, emotionless, which somehow made it worse. ‘We don’t want you getting distracted.’
He forced himself to breathe deeply, control the fear. So Pringle knew he had been to Wiltshire to talk to Laura’s parents. ‘I’m not distracted,’ Mal said. ‘I will finish the job.’ He wanted to add ‘and then we will be finished’ but he couldn’t quite get the words out. His hands were shaking, and he clenched them into fists.
Another pause, and then, ‘We know your brother is alive.’
Mal felt nothing for a second, just numbness. ‘What?’
‘Pringle said to let you know, just in case you were thinking of going off-job. He knows you’ve been to see Mary King.’
‘Information gathering,’ Mal said, pleased with how even his voice was. ‘But I don’t know where you got the intel on Euan. He’s deid.’
The demon hung up.
Mal put his phone back into his pocket and carried on walking. He was not going to fall apart. There was every chance that Pringle didn’t know that Euan was lying in the infirmary, that he was simply taking a punt. ‘He’s just trying to freak you out,’ he told himself. ‘He doesn’t know.’
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