Vigil: Verity Fassbinder Book 1

by Angela Slatter

  ‘It’s a deal.’

  I tapped the tabletop, mirroring her rhythm. ‘Any chance of a piece of marshmallow caramel log before I go?’

  *

  At City Hall, the guards let me through without comment, despite my lack of chaperone, which was nice, but Ursa – today in baby blue overalls – was less welcoming. She gave the jeans and T-shirt under my leather jacket a disapproving stare; obviously supplicants were meant to be well-dressed, no matter her own sartorial style. Yet she brought me the books and maps I asked for, and she showed me how to search the database, though it was obvious she wasn’t happy to have me there. She gave off a funny smell, like an animal does when it’s distressed, so I was surprised when, about an hour after setting me up at a desk as far away from hers as possible, she broke the silence by asking, ‘Do you remember your father?’

  I froze. On the List of Unexpected Things to hear, that was close to the top. I’d made a point, most of my life, to talk about Grigor as little as possible, and I made a special point not to ask about him, because it’s harder to suppress memories if you’re constantly dredging them up. Clearing my throat, I said, ‘Some things. I’ve jettisoned a lot.’

  ‘But he was your father,’ she insisted. ‘An important person to a child.’

  ‘Certainly important to the children he murdered,’ I said, keeping my eyes on the fat register of Council minutes in front of me and hoping she’d take the hint.

  ‘Did he teach you things? The protections, the spells, the offerings?’

  I shook my head – not because he didn’t, but because I didn’t want to discuss it. Bela and the Council might have watched me from a distance, but it wasn’t the same as being included. It wasn’t the same as belonging.

  ‘Your heritage? After he died—’

  ‘After he died my heritage disappeared. It vanished along with all the Weyrd who’d once been his mates. All the people who wanted to forget they ever knew the Kinderfresser, or that they’d bought meat from him, or drank with him and laughed at his jokes,’ I said tightly. My hands were shaking, the pages in my fingers making rustling noises. ‘After he was gone, all I had were my mother’s family. None of his fair-weather friends stopped by to see how I was after my world broke apart.’

  ‘Really?’ she asked, feathery eyebrows raised. ‘No one?’

  ‘No one.’ With an effort I got my tremors under control.

  ‘No one?’

  I bit back a shout and opened my mouth to calmly repeat, no one . . . then I felt the itch of recollection: one night, a full moon hanging in the sky, a knock on the door . . . my grandmother answering, while my grandfather waited out of sight, a cricket bat in his hands, just in case. Me, supposed to be asleep but sitting at the top of the stairs, watching as a well-dressed visitor tried to convince Grandma to let him in . . . to see me. Now I recalled her refusal, despite the man’s insistence, and Grandy stepping forward, solid, nuggetty, the muscles from his years as a coalminer still firm, still evident.

  ‘An old man,’ I said slowly, ‘after the trial, after Grigor was dead. Not one of the Friday-night drinking crowd. My grandparents sent him away; he never came again. There might have been some unusually salty language from Grandma.’

  ‘Then perhaps you weren’t as deserted as you have always felt. We have long memories,’ she said.

  ‘Who was he?’ I asked.

  ‘Who knows? Someone concerned for you, for Grigor’s daughter.’

  Well, since we were friends now . . . ‘Did you know Vadim and Magda Nadasy?’ I asked.

  Her face twitched as if slapped. Guess I’d said the wrong thing. Again. Maybe it wasn’t just me. Maybe the Nadasys had been even more unpopular than Theo had implied.

  Ursa turned away very deliberately and fixed her attention firmly on her work, discouraging any further conversation.

  That was okay by me.

  I didn’t bother with the subterranean maps – I’d asked for them just in case Bela checked up on what I’d been doing. The golem was using the sewers to move around some of the time, but it wasn’t living there and it sure hadn’t travelled to Pullenvale that way, because they only stretched as far as the edges of the inner city – the outer suburbs were decidedly tunnel-free. Instead, I looked for any mention of the Nadasys. There should have been records, some documentation of their arrival in the city, interactions they’d had with the Council, any disciplinary matters, notification of their deaths . . . but there was nothing, not even a photo.

  I was about to give up when I finally found a trace of Donovan Baker’s mysterious grandparents. Careless shelving had pushed a slim journal inside one of the property registers, making one page fold back on itself. The paper was thin and the crumpled folio was easy to miss. I smoothed it out and found Vadim Nadasy’s name halfway down the long list – but that was not what made the breath catch in my lungs. That was the address.

  The register dated back about fifteen years, when it had been a prime piece of bend-of-the-river real estate on a long, wide strip of land. Now it was an abandoned house, still smelling of the mud that had been carried inside by floods a few years ago. I’d assumed nothing had been done to fix it because insurance companies were arguing about paying out, but maybe that wasn’t the case at all.

  Maybe the owner of the dark, empty abode in Chelmer had neither any need nor intention of making a claim. Maybe there was no desire to fix the place up, for it was better fit for purpose in its current state. It was, after all, the house where we’d found the ’serker.

  Chapter Twenty

  The day had waned while I’d been in the Archives and by the time I made it to the Botanical Gardens, darkness was falling fast. Teles’ body had been discovered there, hanging from one of the Moreton Bay figs, so that seemed as good a place as any to go and re-direct my thoughts back to the sirens. The air was cold and I wouldn’t have been surprised to see the fountain frozen and icicles forming on branches, but there was nothing more wintery on show than my breath frosting. I didn’t bother sneaking around; without wings I was unlikely to be in danger from whoever was hunting Eurycleia’s clan, and I hoped the golem would be wary of approaching me again any time soon. The dagger, no worse for wear for its impromptu dip, vibrated gently against my ankle.

  As I wandered, I tried to put my thoughts in order. Where was Donovan Baker – and what was he? Were his grandparents still alive? And who or what was killing the sirens? Where was Calliope Kallos? Was she even alive? Who was the Winemaker – and who were her clients? Was Sally Crown still hanging around? And how the hell could I go back to the abandoned house without a skinful of liquid courage and a gunned-up posse?

  Meandering didn’t magically produce answers, but it did make me realise someone else was lurking, though it took a while. I was down on the boardwalk, considering heading home to David, when I finally heard stealthy sounds behind me. The promenade led over the water, zigging and zagging amongst the mangrove trees. When I reached a point on the path where the canopy of leaves overhead broke and let the moonlight through, I stopped and turned.

  ‘Come out,’ I said quietly, half-expecting Eurycleia.

  For a moment there was silence, then a shuffling, all unwilling, until she stepped into the light. Not Eurycleia, not even close.

  This one was ragged, with none of the manicured beauty of the conclave sirens. Age sat heavily upon her: hair grey-white, skin dirty and carved by the centuries, eyebrows thick with feathers, lips as cracked and canyoned as a heavy smoker’s, eyes as ancient as the world, and black with it. Her dress had once been a summer frock; even in the moonlight I caught hints of yellow, lavender and blue remaining, though it was filthy. Her wings were grubby silver, their plumage scant, almost skeletal, and she wasn’t bothering to hide them with any kind of enchantment. Her legs were fully feathered, with patches of chicken skin showing through where she’d moulted. In one hand she held a tattered black umbrella.

  Even if I hadn’t recognised her, I’d have known that umbrella anywhere
: I’d been almost spitted upon its tip not long ago at the Hardgrave Road squat.

  She smiled, and her teeth caught the moon’s glow. Something moved there, reflected in an expanse of surprisingly clean dentition, and I remembered the legends of bygone sirens, those who’d never given up the taste of human flesh. Sometimes, it was claimed, the souls of their victims could be seen in the sheen of their fangs; something of them always remained, a memorial, like a hint or a stain.

  ‘You’re an exile,’ I ventured.

  She gave a quick dip of the head, birdlike, but birdlike as a hawk, predatory and alert.

  ‘One of the veterans who didn’t stop.’

  Again, that sharp affirmative. How many of the city’s homeless had kept her fed over the years? As if the poor sods didn’t have enough to contend with. And add the golem to the equation . . .

  ‘They cast you out because you’re a danger; your habits risk attention.’

  Grief now, and anger, a refusal to acknowledge any wrongdoing. Could she help herself? Was eating mortals a choice, or was she simply so ancient, so set in her ways that she couldn’t change? Her eyes glittered darkly, and there was something in the regal, defiant angle of her head that made me realise she wasn’t so entirely different from Eurycleia.

  ‘The Boatman said you’d come,’ she crackled, her voice like an ancient gramophone record.

  ‘Really? Then he told you more than he told me.’

  ‘We’re old friends, he and I. We’ve travelled far together.’

  ‘I’ll bet.’ I frowned. ‘He said they’re trying to break the sky.’

  ‘Did he now? He’s not supposed to interfere, you understand.’

  ‘Do you know who they are?’

  She didn’t answer, just smirked and sidled closer until I held up a hand. ‘Do you know who I am?’ When she nodded, I said firmly, ‘Then you’ll know there’s half a chance I can take you in a fight. And even the mozzies don’t touch me, so I probably don’t taste very good.’

  She pouted, stopped.

  ‘Surely you didn’t come to make a snack of me?’ I said and her top lip curled, caught between a sneer and a snarl.

  ‘Stop looking for the child, girl. Stop asking questions, or next time it’ll be worse than just a warning,’ she said and made to leave.

  I started to yell, but stopped myself, instead saying more calmly, ‘Wait!’

  She paused and said almost tenderly, ‘What do you want, little half-blood?’

  ‘I know there’s a baby somewhere, and I hope someone’s looking after her. I want to know why sirens are being murdered. I want to know what the fuck this golem wants, and where it’s hiding. And I want to know what the Boatman means for me to do with that knife.’

  ‘So many questions.’ She laughed. ‘So few answers.’

  ‘Do you know where the child is?’

  She didn’t speak.

  I took a breath. ‘Did Raidne know where the baby is?’

  ‘Raidne? Raidne is a good girl. Raidne doesn’t judge. She understands the old customs.’ Clearly she didn’t know about Raidne and I wasn’t going to be the one to tell her. She began to shuffle back to the shadows.

  ‘Hey, hang on. The baby?’ Please don’t let her have eaten it. For a moment I didn’t think she’d reply, but then in a gentle voice that had a hint of beauty, she said, ‘The child is being looked after. She’s safe.’

  ‘Are you Ligeia?’

  She hesitated, her mouth open as if to answer, then her head jerked to the side as if she’d heard something beyond my range. She slipped into the darkness when I stepped forward – then I too heard the rhythmic beat of heels on the boardwalk: something corporeal, not the golem with its insane whirling. I waited.

  ‘To whom were you speaking?’ Eurycleia demanded, coming into sight.

  ‘I have no idea,’ I half-lied. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Looking for someone. Not you.’

  ‘Story of my life,’ I sighed.

  ‘Did Raidne find you?’

  ‘She came to me, but I didn’t get much out of her.’

  ‘Well, I did warn you,’ she said dismissively. There was something mean and triumphant in her tone and I wanted to knock the smug out of her.

  ‘You didn’t warn me she’d die on the floor of my house.’

  ‘What?’ Even in the near-dark I caught a flash of something other in her eyes.

  ‘She came to me last night, but something had already got to her. She didn’t last long. I did try to call; you should pick up.’

  Eurycleia crouched as if she’d been hit and I felt sorry then, and petty. But not petty enough not to ask, ‘How many more must die before you tell me what I need to know?’

  She started keening and after a moment I made out, ‘It’s all her fault!’

  ‘Whose fault?’ I didn’t move any closer; I couldn’t trust her not to strike out.

  ‘There was no reason,’ she blurted, terribly distressed, ‘no need for her to be seeing that thing. There were humans aplenty to play with – it’s simple enough, a good life, follow the rules, don’t draw attention. Even an ordinary life as a siren is still so much more than the most extraordinary existence of a mortal.’

  ‘But she wanted something else,’ I stated, wondering what ‘that thing’ was. I understood that sometimes ‘enough’ never was.

  ‘She wouldn’t obey, just like those who refuse to let the old eating habits die – and just like them she has brought catastrophe upon us. She kept seeing him, and we argued, she and I, so terribly, the last time, and we never spoke again.’

  ‘Serena.’ Had Serena been stubborn, or had she simply fallen in love? And with what?

  ‘My own daughter did this to us. Mine!’

  ‘Do you know who he is?’

  ‘His name, when he walks the earth, is Tobit.’ She looked at me and smiled, tight as a pulled bowstring. ‘We don’t socialise with his kind.’

  ‘What kind, Eurycleia? You’ve got to help me out here.’

  ‘The perverts, the watchers, the voyeurs.’ Her bitterness soured the air. ‘The writers, the note-takers, the self-righteous, the law-givers. The ones left behind.’

  I threw my hands up in despair. ‘Still not getting it, Eurycleia.’

  ‘Angels! He’s an angel,’ she yelled at last. ‘God’s shit, they are, yet they think themselves better than everything else in creation!’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I knew very little about angels except this: they don’t like us. For all the Good Book paints them as glorious deliverers of tidings of comfort and joy and protectors of the innocent; for all the illustrations of handsome, calm-faced men glowing at you from the pages of Improving Children’s Literature, they thought we were a little lower than insects. The Heavenly Host, according to legend, at least, were the right hand of the Deity, doing some of the Lord’s creational buffing and polishing, and even – apparently – some of the actual heavy lifting: the angels spoke, and words became worlds. They had beauty. They had power. They were not just given dominion over the earth and the sea and the air, they were given wings – and let us not forget the flaming swords for vengeance and all the smiting.

  Mortals, on the other hand, were made last and least perfect: an amalgam of clay and stolen ribs. We were the spoilt-and-not-very-bright kids as far as the angelic hordes were concerned, the most oblivious and yet the most privileged. We warranted a sort of low-level contempt; they didn’t like us, but at least we didn’t offend them, not so terribly. In the greater scheme of things, we were tolerable, the way ants are tolerable.

  The thing was, as belief in an Almighty deity declined, so the angels began to diminish too. They no longer covered the globe as they once had. They needed places where large crowds of the faithful gathered, sending nourishing waves of worship upwards – although it didn’t matter what flavour; faith was faith, after all. So St Peter’s, St Paul’s, Lourdes, Mecca, Jerusalem, the Bible Belt, Tibet – in fact, most capital cities with decent-sized
populations – generally had one or two angels hanging around. They were a bit like sirens: the piety ecosystem could only support so many of them. Being dependent on us might not make them happy, but mostly that was resentment, not an active hatred.

  They didn’t like the Weyrd things either, though they tended to ignore them. But at least one celestial being had managed to put aside natural enmity long enough to get close – in a Biblical sense – to Serena. Was he on his own? How long had he been in the city? Long enough to make a baby, it looked like, but how long before that? Did he have Calliope now? Maybe that was what Ligeia meant when she’d said the little girl was safe . . . Had he repented whatever impulse had attracted him to Serena and turned all murdery, or was there something else entirely? If anything could kill a siren, I guessed it could be an angel . . . but I came back to why? Eurycleia’s hatred of this Tobit hinted at a far deeper loathing . . .

  ‘Great, just great, because things have not been bizarre enough.’ I clenched my fists. ‘Don’t suppose you know where to find him?’

  Eurycleia shook her head and straightened, clearly closing herself off, regretting having shown her pain and her rage and her shame. There’d be nothing more from her, not tonight. I turned and walked away.

  ‘You’ll keep me informed,’ she demanded.

  I didn’t bother to respond. She wasn’t the boss of me.

  *

  ‘So.’

  ‘So,’ I repeated. My eyes felt full of grit after yet another sleepless night. I glanced at Ziggi, who had beads of sweat forming on his forehead in spite of the chill. I knew how he felt. Bela, though still pale, was his normal immaculate self, poker face firmly in place once more. He didn’t say anything, and he certainly wasn’t sweating. He just stared at the house, which was impossible to distinguish from a shit-heap. I’d filled them in on my encounters from the night before, which might have been why we were all a bit nervy. Things were piling up – and not just bodies but nasty things.