Vigil: Verity Fassbinder Book 1

by Angela Slatter

  The neighbourhood used to be a good one, but it had been devastated by the deluge of a few years back and was taking a long time to recover. Thanks to hefty insurance payouts, most of the very expensive houses on that bend of the river had been renovated to within an inch of their lives and had then been sold on by gleeful owners to folk who actually believed all that hype about ‘once-in-a-century’ floods. Buyers had been tempted with colourful paint jobs, sparkly new kitchens and polished floors, and sometimes it had worked and someone decided the bargain was worth the risk. But a lot of these abodes hadn’t been snapped up; instead, they’d been left standing empty, their families long-gone to higher ground. The houses looked all bright and shiny, like kids scrubbed up at the orphanage, desperately hoping someone would take a chance on them and love them.

  But this place was decidedly unloved, and what’s more, it looked like it didn’t want to be loved, thank you very much. Even out on the footpath I could smell the damp, earthy stink of rot. The house was high-set, reached by an ornate but sturdy staircase at the front, though some of the steps were now missing and there were gaps in the verandah rails where palings had disappeared. Someone had hosed the whole place off at some point and the French doors on the ground level had been boarded up, but the walls were the faded, cracked colour of mud, and around the base was a nasty kind of black-brown layer that looked almost like it was trying to pull the building down.

  Upstairs was another wide verandah that ran around the whole structure, with more French doors and wide bay windows, also boarded over. The front door was shut, and that was noteworthy because last time we were here it had been left hanging open after Ziggi and Bela had carried me out. My leg ached at the memory. Then again, maybe it wasn’t so noteworthy – a good strong breeze could have blown it closed, or a concerned neighbour might have tried to be helpful . . . although it was worth remembering that the last time we’d been here there’d been a definite lack of those in the vicinity.

  ‘Looks different in the daylight,’ Ziggi commented.

  ‘Not better, though.’

  ‘No,’ he agreed.

  I thought it was telling that our fearless leader hadn’t put a stop to the procrastination party and charged on ahead. He spoke now, his first words all morning, surprising me. ‘V, you don’t have to do this, you know. We can take care of it.’

  It was such an incredibly tempting offer that I almost salivated. But after a moment, I said, ‘Thanks, Bela, but if I don’t do this now I will never be able to walk anywhere dark and scary ever again.’ I pushed away from the cab and walked up the garden path of blue-grey pressed concrete. Determined weeds were already poking through its weakest points. The trees in the yard looked like they’d been badly buffeted by the flood-waters and never really recovered; they leaned to one side as if drunk. The ‘lawn’ stood thigh-high. If it had been summer I’d have been tiptoeing for fear of snakes.

  Behind me reluctant footfalls sounded as my companions trailed after me. I stopped at the bottom of the staircase and lifted one boot onto the first step, then bent forward and pretended to retie the laces, although I was actually checking to make sure the Boatman’s knife was still there, ensconced in its sheath. My heart was going a mile a minute and adrenalin heated me up as surely as an open fire. Then I moved fast, because if I didn’t, my nerve would break and I’d be bolting down the street like a howling cartoon character. It also made Ziggi and Bela increase their own pace, and by the time my hand was reaching for the tarnished doorknob they too had reached the verandah.

  I gave the door a push, and it surprised me by not squeaking. A pungent rush of decay rose to greet us as we stood shoulder to shoulder at the entrance and peered in. It was unexpectedly light too, pouring in through the doors at the back. The boards that had been nailed there last time had been torn off and thrown across the enormous deck. The interior had originally been a triumph of open-plan design: the left-hand side the lounge, dining room and kitchen, each large space once defined by the furniture that was no longer there. All that was left in the kitchen was the long chef’s island, and above it a stainless steel rack where pots and pans used to hang. To the right, three doorless gaps ruptured the wall, leading into huge ex-bedrooms. Bela flicked on his torch and shone it across the debris to give us that extra bit of clarity. It certainly looked like there was a lot more garbage on the floorboards than last time.

  ‘After you,’ I said, gesturing. My gung-ho had been exhausted – and besides, Bela held a hefty Maglite that doubled very nicely as a cudgel. I moved behind him, and Ziggi brought up the rear. I’d seen him take his Taser out of the glove box, but I wasn’t sure how much good it would do against whatever was – or hopefully wasn’t – there. Stepping inside, I felt the craquelure of dried mud under my Docs. I was a little surprised to see there were paintings still hanging, crooked on their hooks, brown tidemarks partway up some of the canvases.

  The only out-of-the-ordinary thing was in the back bedroom: a stained mattress that hadn’t been there previously, with a hillock of rubbish and dirt and twigs, looking like an outsized nest. Bits of it had been compressed, presumably by the weight of a heavy body.

  ‘That’s the same kind of thing I found in Donovan Baker’s bed,’ I said. ‘Except bigger.’

  Bela’s head swung towards me, his gaze questioning, and I remembered I’d kept that information back. I’d been trying not to overwhelm him after he’d discovered the Greenills were gone. But he didn’t attempt to extract more from me, not then. I moved closer and crouched down, then, grabbing a thin branch that looked marginally less grubby than the rest, poked about in the mound. I was about to give up when I saw a glimmer of gold picked out by the beam of Bela’s flashlight. I dug a bit more and managed to hook the thing. I held it up.

  It was a Rolex, that deep almost greenish gold, a traditional design best suited for a slim wrist – not really something a young man would buy for himself, but rather a gift imposed by an older man, perhaps a father. I flipped it over, checking for an inscription. No warm sentiments, no message, just the name: Donovan Baker, and a date two years ago; his sixteenth birthday present, probably worth more than Ziggi’s cab, and discarded, neither needed nor wanted, and no longer fitting on a slender wrist in a life newly remade.

  The knoll on the mattress heaved and gave a squeak—

  It was only by sheer force of will that I kept myself from scaling the walls and clinging to the ceiling. I half-staggered to my feet and was pulled back by Bela and Ziggi as three of the biggest rats I’d ever seen burst forth, protesting the disturbance – and probably also the theft of their shiny-shiny-pretty-pretty. They reared up on hind legs, a nightmare soundtrack of screeching erupting from their toothy mouths. Ziggi hit one with a bolt from the Taser and the other two scampered away through a hole in the corner, leaving behind the scent of singed rat and the echo of their fury.

  ‘We need to check downstairs,’ said Bela.

  I groaned. ‘I knew you were going to say that.’

  We didn’t get far, just halfway down the internal staircase at the end of the kitchen. The sound of squeaking was overwhelming, and when Bela angled the Maglite towards what used to be a family room, he lit up a jumping, writhing sea of fur: rat city.

  Everyone has their limits and we’d found ours.

  Outside in the cold sunshine, the air was decidedly fresher and the sensation of having travelled to an outer suburb of hell slowly lessened. We all sipped peppermint tea from the Thermos David had handed me as I’d left home: a surprise, and an unexpected pleasure. I leaned against the hood of the cab, contemplating what I knew lay beneath the rug of rodents: a bright orange carpet, a monumental failure in taste in every way. I knew this because my face had been pressed into it just a few months ago as I fought for my life against the ’serker. My blood was probably embedded into the weave still. Identical carpet fibres had been left at the Greenill house and, now I had some context, in the car park the day David and I went bushwalking. We silently ref
illed our mugs; no one wanted to start the conversation.

  In the end I bit the bullet. ‘I think it’s safe to say we’ve located Mr Baker’s son, or his new digs, at least.’

  Bela protested, ‘That’s crazy – we only found his watch, a trace of him. There’s no evidence that he’s the golem—’

  ‘You think he’s a victim?’ I asked, disbelieving.

  ‘Maybe.’ But he didn’t meet my gaze as he spoke.

  ‘Bela,’ I said gently, ‘you saw what the golem did to those kids by the river. And there was nothing left of the Greenills: hair, jewellery, clothing – everything was absorbed. I don’t think a Rolex is proof against that thing’s digestion.’ I examined my nails, scraped a stubborn bit of dirt from under one. ‘And there was the beginnings of a nest in his bed at Baker’s.’

  ‘Maybe he’s the one controlling the creature?’ ventured Ziggi in a tone that acknowledged he was grasping at straws.

  ‘You said it yourself,’ I replied. ‘He’s a blank slate, precisely the kind of person who’d give himself up to a stronger will. It would take a much more forceful personality than Donovan. If the golem is being controlled at all, it’s by someone else. Someone powerful.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean the boy’s . . .’ Bela trailed off, then said, ‘That kind of magic isn’t a simple enchantment, V, not something you buy at the corner spook shop. He’s barely had contact with the Weyrd since his mother died.’

  ‘He was trying to find his grandparents, the Nadasys,’ I said, then, ‘Wait – what do you mean, “barely had contact”?’

  Again, he looked away.

  ‘Bela’ – I kept my voice low and even, though I felt my resolution to be nicer to him ebbing fast – ‘what do you know about this? Is Anders Baker pulling your strings?’

  ‘No one’s pulling anything of mine and I don’t owe him. I . . .’ He paused.

  ‘What’s this boy to you? Tell me now, or I will become very unpleasant, and that’s something neither of us wants.’

  He kicked the grass at his feet and came to a decision. ‘I knew his mother. She was a . . . friend. I promised I’d look out for her child. It’s nothing to do with Anders; it’s a matter of honour.’

  I crossed my arms. ‘So if you knew Dusana, you knew her father.’

  He looked away.

  ‘Then why the fuck didn’t you say so before?’ I yelled. ‘I thought this was just another job, not something personal!’

  ‘That shouldn’t affect how you do your job. Does it matter?’

  ‘Of course it bloody matters! The son of your “friend” goes missing after he’s been trying to make contact with his Weyrd grandfather? The husband of your “friend” may be guilty of her murder? You knew these people and didn’t think to offer this relevant information? Jesus!’

  ‘Time out, you two,’ said Ziggi. ‘We won’t get far if we’re fighting among ourselves.’

  ‘We won’t get far if we keep secrets!’ I shouted, but with marginally less volume. I pressed my fingers against the bridge of my nose and prayed for painkillers. ‘So, have you seen him? Nadasy, I mean? Since he disappeared?’

  ‘No.’ Bela wiped his palms against his jeans. ‘Vadim dropped out of sight a few months after Dusana died. We had been close once. He had . . . helped me a long time ago. When his daughter was gone he changed, became especially hateful of Normals. And yes, he blamed his son-in-law, but there was no evidence Baker had anything to do with the death.’

  ‘Baker said Nadasy had cut his daughter off; that she’d become a pariah.’

  Bela shook his head. ‘It was Magda, she was the one who refused to speak to Dusana. Vadim kept in contact, and that drove a wedge between him and Magda. She left Australia.’

  ‘Right. And where’s she nowadays?’

  ‘Dead – a road accident in the Swiss Alps maybe a year before Dusana’s death. I didn’t know her very well. After that, there was just Dusana. Vadim doted on her.’

  My stomach began to rumble and I realised it was well past midday. The hungries were threatening to make me say things I knew I’d regret. With a deep breath I reminded myself that Bela carried his history tightly rolled up inside. All his griefs and losses were well-hidden, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel any of them. ‘Okay. First of all, Ziggi, please find us somewhere for lunch, while Zvezdomir’s having a really good think about everything he’s neglected to tell us. And by that I do mean everything.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  After food, a thorough grilling and a fair bit of castigation, it turned out Bela really didn’t know much more than he’d just told us. We went our separate ways, and I had Ziggi stop at the corner shop on the way home. When he drove off I headed over to Mel’s, carrying the bottle of milk I’d borrowed from her earlier in the week.

  As I wandered along the walkway, the hairs on the back of my neck stood to attention. The front door was open. I could see a discarded pair of Birkenstocks, and puddles of something dark and viscous-looking with flecks of heart-stopping orange in them. Moving carefully, I went inside, listening intently but hearing nothing. In the dim light I could see sticky footprints where someone had stepped in the puddles and splashed on the lounge room floor. I called Mel’s name, but only the shadows answered.

  I crouched and sniffed at the fluid: an iron tang. Some of it was blood, but not all. Some of it looked like dirty water and sludge.

  I searched the rest of the house: three bedrooms, one treatment room, all redolent of bergamot and lavender and all empty. Cupboards neatly packed with clothes, blankets, linen and scented candles, massage oils, acupuncture needles, cups and other accoutrements required by any natural therapist. The bathroom was spotless and smelled of roses, with a multi-coloured pyramid of guest soaps next to the basin and several bottles of rainbow bath salts on the shelf. I checked under beds and in wardrobes and went through drawers as if somehow the occupants might have shrunk and hidden there, but all for naught.

  By the time I moved through the kitchen and out onto the tiny back deck overlooking the tidy yard, my throat was constricted. Even so, I charged down the stairs, yelling so loudly that I barely heard the little voice that piped from the other side of the fence: Lizzie was standing right where the land between the two properties had sunk and the palings were low enough for her to see over the top. Her face was pale; she obviously thought she was in trouble. I realised at once what she’d done: she’d snuck out to my hollowed-out tree with her books and dolls and some snackables – when I lifted her over the barrier and hugged her fiercely I smelled salt and vinegar, and her sweater was flecked with shards of crisps. Being disobedient looked like it had been the only thing that had saved her; scolding her was the last thing I was going to do.

  ‘Where’s your mum?’ I asked, and she looked bewildered.

  ‘Inside.’

  I didn’t have the heart to tell her that wasn’t so. I put her back into my garden and said, ‘Go to my front door. I’ll be there in a second.’

  *

  Later that night, after Rhonda McIntyre’s people had gone and Lizzie had taken refuge in my spare bedroom, I set wards around the house. There were already basic, everyday spells to keep out the general low-level magical shit you have to contend with – curses were easily repulsed, most unwanted visitors couldn’t just waltz in – but I needed something more stringent, so nothing even vaguely Weyrd could enter. The new wards would bounce any intruder away and, if s/he continued to ignore them, s/he would be shredded by winds until s/he either sensibly gave up or was turned into a form of butter. Unfortunately, it also meant neither Bela nor Ziggi would be able to cross the threshold. Alas, equally unfortunately, it didn’t cover the golem. It was, however, the best I could do.

  I sliced the palm of my left hand, the sinister one, and mixed the blood with salt and sulphur. I took a paintbrush and scripted the intricate symbols required to keep unearthly things from my door across the lintels and over the window. I baked four loaves of bread with stalks of lavender inside
and buried one in each corner of the yard. Next, I took a piece of thick cartridge paper and wrote a spell that would keep the bearer safe on it in tiny letters.

  I left it to dry and went outside. Ziggi was slumped behind the steering wheel, ostensibly asleep, but I figured at least one of his eyes was open. Bela was waiting beside the fence. We sat on the footpath while we discussed what might have made this attack different, and what Mel’s chances of survival were.

  ‘You think she’s still alive?’ he asked.

  ‘I really don’t know. But there are three sets of footprints in there, one barefoot and the other two sneakered. That blood’s not right either – it’s not human, or not entirely.’ I scratched at my cheek where the wounds were scabbing over and starting to itch. ‘Something went wrong, whatever the visitors intended.’

  ‘She might have been—’

  ‘I know. I’m preparing myself for that . . .’ I shuddered. ‘If that’s the case, I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to tell Lizzie. So until I know for sure, I’m going to believe Mel’s alive.’

  ‘I’m always amazed by your optimism.’ But I knew he wished there was even a shred of doubt about the Greenills’ disappearance, that he might have some hope to hang onto. We didn’t speak for a while until he came out with, ‘I’ve been thinking about your dead siren.’ At my look he added, ‘The angel?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That’s new.’

  ‘What part of it? And please get to your point quickly, I’m ageing rapidly here.’

  ‘Angels don’t like sirens.’

  ‘They don’t like us either.’

  ‘I mean, they really dislike them, as in “more than anything on a very long list”. They seldom even reside in the same areas if they can help it.’ He answered my questioning look with, ‘Sirens have wings and no need of faith. Angels have been cut off for a long time. It makes them bitter.’