“Don’t pull that hangdog look with me.” Orella took the pipe out of her mouth, waving it my way. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Don’t expect sympathy from me either. You’re the one who chose to be out all night in whatever hole you fell into this time.”
“Easy on,” I protested, but then my brain stuttered and stopped, unsure of how to proceed. I wasn’t keen on letting Orella know about my activities last night. “Never mind,” I finished lamely and pushed myself to my feet. “I’ll get changed.”
“Take a quick bath as well. Morgan deserves more respect than the pig-sty you look like now.”‘
Feeling as if I’d been assaulted on all sides, I hauled myself upstairs, thinking of the bruising I’d gotten last night. Closing the bathroom door behind me, I gingerly undressed and looked in the body-length mirror in the corner. The kick I’d taken from Andela had left a massive bruise on my upper chest, making it difficult to take deep breaths. The rest of my body was covered in scratches and fresh bruises, my hair full of filth.
Bone-weary, I turned on the taps, listening to them rattle as the hot water kicked in. I watched the bath fill, picking twigs and muck out of my hair. Everything felt like it was falling apart, my life like a big piece of shit. I had too many enemies at the gates and was too exhausted to strategise. I needed a safe house to crash and sleep for a good few days. Then maybe I could get back into the fray with a clear mind and kick some serious butt. Or at the very least, survive.
I stepped into the bath and began to wash myself gingerly. Sleep would have to wait, I reminded myself sternly. Today I had a duty to honour Morgan’s memory. Then I would have a good night’s sleep, and see the world clearly.
Chapter 24
By sunset, I was halfway through my third boilermaker. Back at the Mermaid’s Cleft, I was tucked in a corner behind a rickety table with only three legs, my cane leaning against my chair. I was still wearing the outfit I’d worn to Morgan’s funeral: knee-high leather boots, black pencil dress and thick winter coat with a cream faux-fur trim. My work-belt hung loose, my curls were free and I suspected going in all directions. My chest hurt from where Andela had kicked me, and I’d lost too much money on a dice game half an hour ago. So now I had decided to get drunk and sulk the night away.
Here, Cloete found me and was now standing in front of my table with hands on hips. She was decked out in leather, a belt studded with throwing knives at her waist. Her tail coiled around one leg, the end curled suggestively under her crotch.
“What do you want?” I sighed, not happy to see her.
“Gideon’s got everyone out looking for you.” Cloete reached up to scratch one of her stubby horns. “Are you trying to provoke him by being here?”
I gave her a blank kind of shrug. I’d fallen asleep at home after Morgan’s funeral, but woke after a few hours later. Getting back to sleep proved impossible, my mind rehashing Caleb’s threat over and over. It was difficult to reconcile this new Caleb to the man I’d once known. It was as if a stranger had sat in my kitchen, explaining so calmly how he was going to destroy me. The more I thought about it, the more my blood stirred, and I knew the oblivion of sleep would evade me longer.
Cloete sat down next to me, her face twisting into a sympathetic look. “Bad day?”
“Harder than some.” I stretched my spine, wincing as my battered body protested. Funerals were traditionally held quickly after death. Morgan’s had been held at a graveyard just beyond the city’s outer walls. A handful of Kianna priestesses dressed in blue and gold silk had sung sweet songs of death and renewal. No family had shown, only Orella and myself had stood by Morgan’s graveside, listening to a priestess bless the plain wooden casket before it was lowered into the ground. I hadn’t cried, my tears frozen somewhere inside me.
I sucked down the rest of my boilermaker then tilted my empty glass at Cloete. “Buy a drink for a condemned lady?”
“You here looking for action?” Cloete scoped the room. I glanced around as well, though with little interest. A small bunch of filthy looking sailors leaned against the bar. They saw us and grinned, displaying an alarming number of missing teeth.
Cloete pulled a face. “Hope the talent gets better.” She looked around the tavern again. “Where’s the blond guy that’s been sniffing around you for days? The new guy.”
“Crowhurst?” I shrugged. “Don’t know. Don’t care. He’s a loser.”
All ease drained from Cloete’s face, leaving behind a stony expression. “Keep an eye on that one. He laughs and jokes…but he’s got the eyes of a killer.”
Her warning took me by surprise. Were we talking about the same person? What did I care about Crowhurst? I had bigger problems than a clock-maker with a hard-on for wanting to be a tough guy.
I changed the subject, trying to focus on the reason I’d come to the Mermaid’s Cleft in the first place. The elusive Spink-Fucking-Clicker. “I’m looking for a man.”
“Aren’t we all?” Cloete’s tension dissolved and she dished up a big smile. “Heard you’ve been asking around about the Butcher of Applecross. You want to tell me why you want to stick your nose in City Watch business?”
“Just a concerned citizen,” I said, feeling morose.
“Of course you are,” Cloete laughed. She stood and walked to the bar to order drinks. Her tail swooshed behind her, swaying in time with her athletic hips.
My eyes drifted to the open window near me. The grey sunset had passed quickly and the moon had risen in a deep blue night sky. The air was cold and I shivered in my thick jacket. I’d dressed appropriately for the Mermaid’s Cleft this time, with the gun rig strapped to my right arm and a couple of daggers inside my vest. I was wearing my steel sewn gloves and custom made boots, complete with retractable blades. No one was going to fuck me over tonight.
The doors to the saloon slammed open, assisted by a gust of cold night wind. The iron hinges squealing in protest and I watched a group of young men strut into the room, their voices loud and slurred. They sauntered to the bar, chests puffed up and a sour air of destruction around them. I identified three humans and two otherkin.
The three men continued their loud talk and big gestures before noticing Cloete. Then, they began to whisper and snigger. I noticed they had black twine woven in their hair. Grabbing my cane, I stood and approached the bar to stand beside Cloete.
“Keep your pants on.” Cloete frowned. “I’m getting you a drink.”
A hand fell on my shoulder and I turned to see one of the men standing behind me. My eyes skated over the black twine in his greasy hair, then dropped to the clunky-looking wheellock pistol tucked into the front of his pants. His face was set in the hard lines of someone in search of trouble and expecting to find it.
“Yee-es?” I drawled, not needing a map to know where this was going to go.
The man gave me a wide, shit-eating grin. “How much for a roll?”
“Fuck you.” I arched an eyebrow like he bored me, and turned back to the bar.
“What’d you say, bitch?” he growled.
“Alright.” I kept my back to him. “I take it back. Un-fuck you.”
Next thing I knew, my arse was being grabbed and rubbed like he was wishing for a genie. I spun and knocked his hand away.
“Like it rough, do you,” he growled. “Ugly white-haired bitch like you would have to take it doggie style.”
“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Cloete was all coiled energy, eye zeroed in on the warlock and one hand hovering near the knives at her belt.
“Too early in the night for this, innit?” the barkeep behind us asked. “This is why women aren’t welcome here. Nothing but trouble.”
“They started it,” I protested, not taking my eyes off the warlock.
The sailors were watching with interest, stupid grins on their dirty faces as they waited for the night’s entertainment. Cloete gave me a wild look that promised violence and I said some bad words in my head.
“I’m not up for this,�
�� I told her. “I’ve had a rough couple of days.”
“Shut up.” The warlock spat on my foot and looked back at his friends for encouragement.
I stared down at the spittle on my boots, my mind going blank. There was spit on my shoes. Spit that I would have to clean. Tension hummed in the air and my fingers tingled with expectation. My blood demanded violence for the insult, and I wanted it too; anything was better than the grief that lurked so close to the surface. A familiar oily rage reached up from inside my chest, clutching at my mind, flaring bright to embrace me.
The warlock must have seen the bloodlust in my face, and yanked the wheellock from his belt. “Don’t even think—”
To his credit, he got most of the words out before I smashed my fist into his face. Blood exploded from the ruin of his nose and his knees hit the floor as he howled. His friends stilled with shock, watching their friend.
Full of the helpless anger that had been eating at me all night, I kicked the warlock solidly in the balls. He crumpled sideways, head bouncing off the ground. Some of the otherkin started to look frisky, pulling a couple of hunting knives. I froze them with a look. “Leave while you can,” I said. “Or I’ll let my friend loose on you.”
A pause hung heavy in the air. The fallen warlock tried to aim his weapon at me through blood-clotted eyes. I slapped the wheellock away and kicked him in the head to keep him down. His friends looked more discouraged at this point and were stepping away.
Cloete pouted. “Thought you were setting up some entertainment.”
“I’m not here for that,” I told her. The barkeep put a couple of boilermakers down in front of us, looking grateful for the lack of broken furniture. More patrons had begun to spill through the front door, the bar beginning to fill with Regulators. I threw back half my drink. “I’m going. I don’t think my man is coming here tonight.”
“Already?” Cloete was sipping her drink daintily. “The night is young. I won’t tell Gideon you’ve been a bad girl.”
“Don’t do me any favours,” I said sourly. At this point, I really didn’t care what Gideon thought. I flipped a terse goodbye and left.
Chapter 25
Deciding I needed some food, I headed to Avalon Square. During the working week, it was populated with politicians in starchy white collars and caps that hung with coloured tassels. It was a popular place for tourists, visiting dignitaries and kids feeding the wild pigeons and swallows. Come the weekend, Avalon Square was turned into an open air market, the paved expanse turning into a rumbling sea of colour and excitement.
Tonight, the square was coloured with easy chatter as acrobats tumbled and magicians practised their sleight of hand. Dried flowers and herbs were strung between posts and columns and the tantalising aroma of a roasting lamb wafted invitingly on the air. I had bought some food and drink and now sat on the steps of the Holy Church of Kianna, watching the colourful fray.
The Church of Kianna was easy to miss, with its narrow, dark-painted front and lack of signage; even I’d wandered past it sometimes. It sat in the constant shadows between the towering Harken Clock Tower on one side, and a huddle of administration buildings on the other.
Across the square sat City Hall, a white mammoth of a building that was the centre of the city’s legal activity and ceremonial events. Its ornately carved marble columns and grand arching doorways were heavily lit by lamps with blue-glass, lighting the steep steps that led up to the high arcades.
Behind me, the church gong sounded for the evening prayers, and the soft murmurings of the priestesses faded as they retreated to their inner sanctum for meditation.
As I watched the bustling market activity, an itch tickled my shoulder blades, like I was being eyeballed, but I couldn’t pick anything unusual in the crowds. I bit into the roast chicken stick I had bought from a vendor and hissed as the juices burnt my mouth. I gulped down the cup of schnapps I had purchased with the meat, which tasted like peaches and petrol.
The gears in my mind were slow and rusty, turning over the events of the last few days. I knew I had to try to talk to Orella again about Seth’s theory.
A boot heel scraped the stones behind me and I stilled, recognising the drag of the step. A furtive whisper reached my ears.
“Meet me by the lion.”
I turned, but saw no one. Tossing back the rest of the foul schnapps, I righted my cane and pulled myself to my feet. Ambling up the rest of the stairs, I entered the empty public antechamber. My cane clacked and echoed when it hit the tiled floor, which was a mosaic depicting Kianna’s birth on the back of a phoenix, and honey-wax candles sweetened the air.
I passed small alcoves that housed statues of gods and men considered to be Kianna’s lovers. I stopped where the last statue resided, a well-built man sitting on a lion. Anon, the God of War, and, by all accounts, a very satisfying lover.
Spink Clicker stood waiting for me, tapping a foot nervously. He was otherkin: part goblin, part faerie and a whole lot of ugly. His cleft top lip pulled his snub nose down and his pointed ears were scaly and covered in dandruff. He wore shabby trousers and a gentleman’s jacket that had seen better days. A worn cloth hat was shoved low over his face.
“Why are yer looking for me?” His eyes darted around the empty room. “Do you understand the risks I face, talking to you? If Daleman ever knew I gave you information, he’d kill me dead. They call him Hacksaw for good reason, you know.”
I rolled my eyes, feeling exasperated. “Why does everyone presume I don’t know why the man has a nickname? I get it, all right? He cuts bodies up with a hacksaw. Believe me, I get it.” Taking what I hoped was a menacing step towards Spink, I lifted my chin. “Look, you’re supposed to be my snitch. Not worth much if I can never find you.”
Spink’s mouth dragged lower. He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Well? I’m here now, what do you want?”
With effort, I relaxed my shoulders and tried to concentrate. “Someone killed my housekeeper. You hear about it?”
“I might have heard.”
“You know who did it?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Heard her head got cut off. Maybe you could think a few theories on that. Maybe Benjamin the Bloody getting what he considered due.”
“I don’t think it was Benjamin the Bloody,” I said. “And why would he take his revenge on my housekeeper? Why not take my head?”
“Who knows what a grieving brother thinks.”
“Is that all you’ve got?” I asked impatiently. “A theory even the City Watch would know?” Spink raised a ratty sleeve to wipe his nose, eyes guarded. I reined in my temper with some difficulty. “Do you know anything about what happened at Saint Pendergrast?”
“Heard someone mention a Grigori priest might be responsible.” He sucked on a grey eye-tooth thoughtfully. “A holy man with the devil’s hunger, bewitching a nephilim to do his bidding.”
Now we were getting somewhere. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Around, I guess.” He took his hands out of his pocket and hooked his thumbs in his sagging waistband, trying for a nonchalant pose. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Spink was spooked about something. “Mostly everyone’s being real quiet about it,” he said. “Whoever it is, he’s got to be pretty powerful to keep his identity hidden in this city. Or well connected.”
“This isn’t exactly a great lead to go on. You’re wasting my time, Spink.”
He sneered, suddenly defiant. “I’m not wasting my time. Benjamin the Bloody’s offering a lot of money for your head, you know.”
Too late I noticed his eyes dart greedily behind me. Spinning, I whirled up my cane to block any blows that might be coming, realising the bastard had set me up. Something hit my arm hard and my stomach heaved as my knees were kicked out. My bad leg buckled instantly. A solid shove in my back sent me sprawling to the ground. I grunted as what felt like a knee pushed into my back, pressing me against the cool tiles. My heart hammered in my ears
and my anger flared bright, sharpened by fear.
“You little fuck.” I struggled. “I’m going to twist your fucking head off, you hear me, Spink?”
Hands hauled me to my feet, shoving me face first against a column. My nose cracked against the marble and dots pirouetted before my eyes.
A low voice ruffled my hair. “Such a waste, eh? Perhaps we could have some fun first?” The voice was rough and leering, letting me know I wouldn’t be the one having the mentioned fun. I blinked, trying to focus. I realised I knew that voice.
“Regulator Roarke,” I gasped. “This work’s a bit low for you, isn’t it?”
I was spun around and shoved back against the column. Roarke was wearing a nondescript coat and hat. His gold tooth winked at me. “When the money’s high, baby, nothing’s too low.”
Spink stood behind Roarke, looking nervous. A rusty flintlock with a long muzzle wobbled in his hands. I grunted as Roarke pushed against me, scraping a ragged nail down my cheek. His hips ground suggestively and I tried not to pull a gross-out face.
“How about it, Witch Hunter?” he said. “You look like you’d like it rough.”
“You do realise I’m going to tell on you,” I growled. Bile stung my throat as one of Roarke’s hands inched towards my breasts. If he tried anything funny, I was going to vomit all over him.
His sickening leer disappeared, leaving a void behind, eyes empty of emotion. “Dead bitches don’t tell tales.”
“We aren’t being paid for this,” Spink interjected from behind him. His voice was high with fear. “Let’s just kill her quick. It’s going to take some time to cut her head off. I mean, do we need to saw? I don’t think it’ll come off easy. There’s bone and muscle there.”
“Calm down.” Roarke pushed against me harder. I almost gagged when I felt something hard in his pants. “We’re not going to kill her, we’re going to deliver her to another client.”
“What?” Spink looked like he’d just pissed his pants.
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