Vigil: Verity Fassbinder Book 1

by Angela Slatter

  ‘Ziggi, keep an eye on her,’ he said abruptly. ‘And V, when you’re done with this, there’s something else I want you to look into.’

  And he was gone, just like that, leaving the seat beside me empty, smelling vaguely of his expensive aftershave, a chill coming off the faux-leather. Eleanor Aviva had evaporated too. That disappearing act was draining in the extreme and only a very few Weyrd could do it. Things were quiet, except for the final coda of Freddie’s delicate piano work.

  ‘I hate it when Bela does that. Freaks me out,’ said Ziggi, the only other person I knew who got away with using that nickname.

  Bela made even other Weyrd uncomfortable. I felt kind of proud, in spite of everything.

  ‘He used to just appear in the kitchen. I dropped a lot of dishes,’ I admitted, then bit down on my lip – I hadn’t meant that to slip out, hadn’t meant to dwell on the past domestic situation. It wasn’t as if Ziggi hadn’t witnessed all the ups and downs of my relationship with Bela – he once claimed he didn’t watch TV for three years because we provided all the drama he needed – but I felt compelled to say, ‘It takes a lot of effort, so that’s how I gauged how much he wanted to get away.’

  ‘You were a little challenging,’ he pointed out. ‘You need to cut him some slack, you know.’

  I didn’t answer; we both knew Ziggi was right. He hesitated, then said, ‘How’s your leg? I mean, really?’

  ‘How the hell do you think it is?’ Even as I snapped at him, I knew I should have been a bit more gracious. ‘I’m sorry I’m being an arse. It still hurts, and that makes me cranky.’

  ‘To be honest, you were pretty cranky before it happened.’

  We laughed and the tension dissipated.

  ‘You were trying to annoy Aviva, weren’t you?’ I asked. ‘With the music.’

  ‘What do you think? I don’t like uppity folk who think they’re better than everyone else.’ He sniffed. Ziggi Hassman: melodic anarchist.

  ‘Turned it off pretty quickly though.’ I grinned.

  ‘Hey, I’m not stupid.’ Then, unable to resist it, he circled back to his topic of choice. ‘Should’ve gone to a healer with that leg of yours.’

  ‘Well, if you remember, there wasn’t much time to fiddle about that night and the hospital was closest,’ I pointed out. The upshot of my injury was that Ziggi had become my chauffeur, so we’d been spending a lot of time together while doing Bela’s assorted jobs. We investigated things that needed looking into, acted as go-betweens and problem-solvers for him – and by extension, the Council – and generally kept an eye on the Weyrd population, trying to make sure it stayed as unknown as possible. This was sometimes a challenge when the community included those who were still looking for a taste of the old days: feline-shaped things who stole breath, succubi and incubi out for a good time, and creatures who swapped their own offspring for babies left unguarded in their cribs.

  He gave a grunt that might have been a concession. ‘So, where to? You said you’d got some ideas?’

  ‘I might have exaggerated. I have one idea. Let’s start with Little Venice.’

  ‘Probably should have told me that three seconds ago when I could have taken the turn-off,’ he said mildly. ‘Now we’re going the long way round.’

  He cut off a dully-gleaming SUV to change lanes. The sun had fled, and as we drove onto the Story Bridge, the lights of the city down and to the left, and those of New Farm down and to the right, swam in the blackness. High-rise office towers stood out like beacons, standing cheek-by-jowl with the new apartment blocks: all that modern steel and glass juxtaposed with the verdigris dome and sandstone of Customs House and the past it represented. During the day, the river would show its true colour – a thorough brown – but in that moment it was an undulating ebony ribbon reflecting the diamonds of night-time illuminations.

  ‘It’s okay. We’ve got nothing but time,’ I lied and hunched into the upholstery, thinking about melting ice cream cake and kids who wouldn’t ever know what that tasted like.

  Chapter Two

  West End was filled with Weyrd.

  Most folk thought the Saturday market’s demographic was a mix of students, drunks, artists, writers, the few upwardly mobile waiting for rehabilitated property values, religious nutters, common-or-garden do-gooders and dyed-in-the-wool junkies, all mingling for cheap fruit and veggies – or to score weed in the public toilet block in the nearby park. Often these groups overlapped.

  But there was also a metric butt-load of Weyrd, who sometimes featured in one or more of the aforementioned groups as well. They were mostly successful in their attempts to blend in, especially in suburbs that already had a pretty bizarre human population – places where it was difficult to distinguish the wondrous-strange from the head-cases. The old guy who yelled at the trees on the corner of Boundary Street and Montague Road? Weyrd. The kid who kept peeing on the front steps of the Gunshop Café? Weyrd. The woman who asked people in the street if they could spare some dirty laundry? Well, actually, she was Normal. The smart ones used glamours to hide what they were, to tame disobedient shapes and disguise peculiar abilities, but some just let it all hang out, not caring if they were mistaken for psychos or horror movie extras.

  They weren’t a disorganised rabble; any minority group keen on survival soon develops its own leadership. The Weyrd had the Council of Five, chosen from the old families who’d been in Brisbane since its founding. Convicts, overseers and frock-coated men on the make weren’t the only ones doing the invading; lots of folk wanted a new start. In the Old Country – wherever that happened to be – the ancient beliefs and traditions still held sway. Normals were twitchy creatures, but they’d only live in fear of the dark for a limited time. Eventually they got tired of huddling around fires and being scared. As with anything that went on for too long, numbness and fatigue set in, followed by anger, which burned out a lot of the good sense that’d brought on the terror in the first place. They got all brave and started charging around brandishing torches and pitchforks, striking out not just at whatever had frightened them but at anything that was different. Problem was, it wasn’t really bravery, it was still fear – but it was an enraged fear, and that kind wasn’t discriminating. As a consequence, the Weyrd – the different – from Hungary to Scotland, Romania to Mali, Italy to Japan, the Land Beyond the Forest to several dozen tiny nations that had changed their names multiple times, people like Bela, Aviva, Ziggi or my father, often had to find new homes, or cease to exist . . .

  So the first Weyrd came over on their creaking, stinking, packed ships, as stowaways, or convicts, caught by accident or intent, sometimes even as soldiers or governors or wives. Those who survived to put down roots in the new land, who set up shop as the major cities developed, generally became the Councillors, keeping watchful eyes on the rest of the Weyrd population. They ensured peace and dealt with the Normals, using people like Bela – essentially a cross between prime minister and spymaster – to keep the worst ‘disturbances’ under control. And someone like Bela would employ someone like me, because those of us of mixed parentage can walk between the two worlds. As long as we behave ourselves and don’t cause a fuss.

  It had gone relatively smoothly until I got injured. Quite apart from my freshly acquired physical limitations, the ancient car I’d inherited from my grandparents had been found burning outside my house a few hours after I’d been admitted to hospital. The insurance payout was just about enough to buy me a second-hand pair of running shoes. The net result of that particular evening had been one dead ’serker, a long-term limp for me, and a new chauffeur.

  ‘You think they’ll know anything?’ Ziggi had been trying to find a parking space for about ten minutes, although in the grand scheme of things that wasn’t a long time in West End. I figured he had maybe ten minutes of patience left, but I had about two.

  ‘There’s a good chance. Whether they’ll be willing to share? That’s the real question.’ As we passed Avid Reader for the third time I notic
ed the snail-trail of people waiting to get their books signed by the author sitting in the window had dwindled. ‘Do you know what this other something is that Bela wants to talk about?’

  He sort of shrugged and made a noise that didn’t answer me one way or the other.

  ‘Ziggi.’

  ‘Not sure. He met with Anders Baker today, but that might be unrelated.’

  I frowned, but didn’t say anything. Anders Baker was a self-made gazillionaire thanks to a variety of import-export concerns, land development and general dodgy deals, including, so rumour had it, brothels, porn movies and some rather heavy-handed loan businesses. He was Normal, so I wasn’t quite sure why he and Bela would be having dealings, unless it was to do with his once-upon-a-time wife; she’d been Weyrd, so maybe that was the connection.

  We were about to begin another loop around the block when I decided enough was enough. ‘How about you let me out here and I’ll text you when I’m done.’

  He pulled up, blocking the flow of traffic, and a chorus of car horns began. ‘If it’s Aspasia,’ he said, ‘be polite – you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.’

  ‘So my grandma used to say.’

  A great number of Weyrd didn’t cause problems but lived as quietly as they could. Although many were moon-born and preferred the night, most of them didn’t roam the dark hours. They were generally good citizens, paid their taxes, held down all sorts of jobs and kept their secret selves hidden, or at least camouflaged. There were a few places, however, where they could just be themselves, and Little Venice was one of them.

  The name was an in-joke, because none of the floods that periodically overran Brisbane had ever touched the place, not even when everything else in West End was under water. It looked ordinary enough: a three-storey building, commercial premises below, private residence above. The café-bar was cute: dingy little entryway lapping the street, long thin corridor leading into four big rooms filled with shadows and incense. Out back was an enclosed courtyard paved with desanctified cathedral stones, not used much during the day except by stray Normals; its tightly twined roof of leaves and vines was enough to keep off the sun and rain, but not quite enough to hide the snakes that lurked there. Through the wide archway I could see the space was packed, everyone swaying along contentedly to a man with a sitar accompanied by another playing a theremin. Two emo-Weyrd waitresses, managing to look both bored and alert, sloped between tables delivering drinks and finger food. Both had Lilliputian horns on their foreheads, just along the hairline; in the Normal world they’d probably be written off as body mods. They might even have had vestigial tails to match, but Weyrd blood ran wild and it was almost impossible to predict how offspring would turn out.

  When I needed information, this was where I generally started. Gossip washed through Little Venice like a river, the three Sisters who ran the place judiciously deciding what stayed behind and what got carried away. They were equally picky about what they shared. But even when I wasn’t looking for anything, I still came here, because they did good coffee and amazing cakes: fat moist chocolate, rich bitter citrus, and a caramel marshmallow log that could stop your heart.

  In addition to the business of hospitality, the Misses Norn – possibly not their real name – took turns reading palms, cards and tealeaves, each having her preferred method. For twenty bucks you’d get a traditional fortune-telling; fork out a heftier sum and you could see your future in runes, entrails or crimson spatter – in short, the more you paid, the nastier it would get. Maybe the latter were more accurate, but it was hard to know because each choice you made changed something else, shifting Fate like unruly chess pieces. The very willingness to spill blood might be the thing that knocked your destiny out of true.

  But one thing remained constant – or constantly inconsistent: no matter which modus operandi, one Sister genuinely laid out your choices, one made your fate with her words and the third simply lied. Problem was, you couldn’t really tell which did which. They weren’t malicious, just Weyrd. It was their thing.

  I’d been hoping for Theodosia because we got on better, but Aspasia was working the counter, so I kept Ziggi’s advice in mind. Behind her was a mirror that looked like lace made of snowflakes. She gave me a cool smile as I limped in. This Sister was all dark serpentine curls, obsidian eyes, occasional prickly personality and red, red smile. When her lips opened I could see how sharp her teeth were.

  ‘Fassbinder. Come to have your fortune told?’ Her smile widened and she gave a shimmy and gracefully extended her hand, a belled bracelet making a gentle chime. ‘Cross my palm with silver, girly.’

  I shook my head. ‘My answer’s the same as it’s always been – surely you could’ve seen that coming? But I will take a long black, some information and a slice of that caramel marshmallow log. And a super-sweet latte and a piece of mud cake to go.’

  She pursed her lips. ‘You got a new boyfriend?’

  ‘Hardly.’ I considered the idea of Ziggi-as-boyfriend, gave a little follow-up shudder and sat carefully on one of the tall stools, letting my sore leg dangle. Elbows resting on the countertop of fossilised stone, I grinned. I have a good grin, nice and bright, disarming. ‘It’s lovely to see you again, but this isn’t a social call.’

  ‘Colour me shocked.’ Of course she wasn’t going to make it easy. We might manage to be civil to each other but she’s always held a torch for Bela and she’s never quite forgiven me for dating him as long as I had. Or at all.

  ‘Kids are going missing.’

  ‘So sad,’ Aspasia said lightly, and began caressing the coffee machine – which looked like the console of a spaceship – into doing her bidding. It started bubbling and spitting, a comforting sound that made conversation impossible for a little while. I traced patterns on the stone bench, thought I could make out the impression of a rib or two. After my drink had been assembled, Aspasia extracted the cakes from the refrigerated cabinet, sliced off a chunk and plated it in front of me. I took a glutton’s bite, barely letting it touch the sides, then had to chase it down with a big swig of steaming liquid. So much sugar – my heart did a little jig. Aspasia was slower in preparing Ziggi’s, maybe giving me time to tell her more, or maybe to show she had no interest in whatever I was going to say.

  ‘Street kids thus far, so pretty much under the radar. Still . . .’ I said.

  No reaction as she studiously continued to froth milk into a metal jug.

  ‘Still and all,’ I persisted, ‘it’s only a matter of time before some little Normal goes astray and the powers-that-be will sit up and take notice.’

  No eye contact; she was jiggling the pitcher around to ensure all the bubbles were evenly distributed. Her attention to detail was impressive.

  ‘When that happens – and you know it will – people in high places will start looking for answers.’

  She gave the jug a thump against the counter, as much from temper as technique. ‘What do you want me to say, Fassbinder?’

  I continued on as if I hadn’t heard, ‘And you know the Normals: when they want answers, they will lift up every rock and peer into every dark, dank place they can find. And they’re not rational critters.’

  ‘You think because some Normal kids go missing I’m supposed to shed tears? When did they ever care about our kind?’ For someone whose side business was flimflamming the hopeful, she was pretty bad at keeping her true feelings under wraps. But she was also missing the point: this wasn’t about mutual cross-species caring, sharing and handholding, it was about keeping the Weyrd safe: doing what was necessary to keep their existence quiet. In hindsight, I might not have helped things by mentioning Normals. Ah well.

  ‘When they begin to peer into those dark, dank places, Aspasia, this may well be where they start – especially if someone points them in your direction. And that might lead them to take a long, hard look at our kind. Well . . .’ I paused. ‘Your kind.’

  ‘Half-breed,’ she hissed before she could stop herself. It never did take mu
ch: one tiny poke and those nasty hackles always rose like a wave. I watched her hair curl and twist into writhing vipers until she got herself under control.

  I gave a cold smile around another mouthful of caramel heaven. ‘All I’m saying, Aspasia, is if you know anything, now would be the time to share. And I would be the person to share with. I’ll do things quietly, you know that – after all, do you really want Detective Inspector McIntyre traipsing through here?’ I let that sink in. ‘And let’s face it, if word should get out that you’re cooperating with the police – or that this isn’t a safe haven any more – then where will all your customers go?’

  I was bluffing – why would I ruin my favourite coffee-and-cake spot? – but fortune-tellers aren’t mind-readers and she wasn’t sure if I was lying or not. All I needed was for her to be half-convinced. She didn’t like being threatened, and I didn’t like threatening, even if it was cheap and easy. But I needed to know what was going on, so I didn’t stop. ‘I’m sure Shaky Jake’s would be delighted to pick up the slack, were Little Venice no longer able to guarantee its clients refuge from the ordinary.’

  Her hands on the shiny countertop blackened and lengthened, the nails turning to sharp points. I tensed, ready to move as quickly as my injured leg would allow – which would, in this case, mean pushing myself off the stool and falling to the ground – then the moment passed and her hands were slender and white again, her manicure perfect.

  She fixed me with a hard gaze. ‘It’s not about flesh. This city hasn’t seen a Kinderfresser since—’

  ‘—since my father.’ I said it so she wouldn’t; she’d made quite enough cracks about Grigor over the years and I was pretty sure I could do without one more. But it didn’t feel any better to hear the words from my own mouth.

  ‘But I’ve been offered . . . wine.’

  That knocked me back. Of all the things I’d expected to hear, wine wasn’t one of them. My confusion must have been obvious because she leaned forward and instinctively, I did the same. One of the hair-snakes brushed my left ear, soft as a kiss.