Vowed

by Liz de Jager

  ‘Mrs Taylor? My name is Dante Alexander and this is my partner, Kit Blackhart. I’m with the SDI.’ Here he shows her the badge, which she takes from him to look at, before handing it back. ‘We’re looking for someone whom you may know. Ulrich Pfeiffer and his son, Theodore? We have it on good authority that they may be here at present.’

  ‘Is anything the matter?’ she asks. From inside the house I can hear what sounds like the radio. Over her shoulder the place looks immaculate, like something straight out of Home & Garden or some other magazine celebrating home interiors.

  ‘I’m afraid we can’t say, Mrs Taylor. We do need to speak with Mr Pfeiffer or his son, though. It’s quite urgent.’

  She purses her lips, considering our request. She looks me over again and I stand tall, hoping that my sturdy jeans, thick-soled biker boots and jumper over a black polo neck T-shirt meets with her approval. I left my biker jacket in the car because I didn’t want to look like the poster child for teen rebellion.

  ‘Ulrich is in the back,’ she says, beckoning us in. ‘He’s helping my husband do some DIY.’

  ‘And Theodore?’

  She shrugs. ‘You’ll have to ask his father.’

  I let Dante walk ahead of me and follow closely behind. There’s no magic here, I decide, as I pass through a small foyer and into a comfortably large sitting room. The furnishings look well cared for but none of it is new. There are a few pieces, like the painting over the fireplace, that look as if they might have been in the family for a fair few years.

  I get a sense of a well-off family living here, enjoying a quiet life, as Mrs Taylor leads us towards the back of the house and the garden. We end up in the utility room, where two men are working. They stand up when we near.

  ‘Ulrich, these people are here to talk to you. They say they’re from one of the police departments, but I have to say I’m not sure when the police started working with children.’

  The younger of the two men stands upright at her words. He’s my height but broad across the shoulders and looks like he keeps himself fit. His face is tanned and his eyes are an arresting golden colour.

  ‘Ulrich Pfeiffer,’ he says, shaking Dante’s hand after wiping his own on a bit of cloth. ‘And you are?’

  Dante introduces us both and Mr Taylor decides the room is too small, ushering us all back into the kitchen area. Ulrich, I notice, seems to be more at home in this room, with its big windows and expansive garden visible at the back, than the two Taylors are. The place really did look like a show home.

  ‘Mr Pfeiffer, would it be possible to speak to you privately?’ Dante looks at the two hovering Taylors seriously. ‘The questions are quite personal.’

  ‘We’ll go to the lounge, Uli,’ Mr Taylor says, nudging his wife. ‘Nadine, come along.’

  ‘But Uli is a guest in our house, Philip. We can’t just let these children pester him.’

  Philip Taylor says something quietly to his wife that shuts her up and I wonder exactly what he said. Ulrich – Uli – Pfeiffer watches us with some interest.

  ‘Please, I’m very interested in why you’re here.’

  ‘We are investigating the disappearance of some children. Our research has led us to the Folk and Indie Harvest Festival in Yorkshire. Our information shows that you’ve been working the festival since it started.’

  Mr Pfeiffer nods slowly. ‘Yes . . . but then so have Neville, Stella, and a dozen others.’

  Dante keeps his face passive yet interested. ‘Correct. We are also in the process of talking to others about this. Can you tell me where you were two nights ago, between 10 p.m. and 3 a.m.?’

  ‘Here, I’ve got notes.’ Ulrich gets something from his bag and I move sideways so I can see what he’s doing. Here I’m also out of Dante’s range if Mr Pfeiffer gets violent and Dante decides to throw a punch. ‘I keep a strict record of my comings and goings. It’s for accountancy purposes. Two nights ago I was in Cricklewood, at the Molly Malone pub. They were hosting a ceilidh.’

  Dante’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. ‘I’m not sure I follow?’

  ‘Ceilidh is a Celtic word that means . . . party. If you play an instrument, you’re welcome. It’s like being part of a super band. You sit around, talk and play music and, of course, you have a drink or two.’ He adds the last bit with a cheeky smile.

  ‘And what time did your ceilidh finish?’

  ‘It was a lock-in.’ Ulrich Pfeiffer laughs delightedly. ‘I love your country and their quirky ways. I got home after 9 a.m. We all went for breakfast first.’

  ‘Can you tell me where your son was at this time, Mr Pfeiffer?’

  ‘I’ve not seen Torsten for about two months now. It’s his holiday time before we head back to Germany to do some of the Christmas markets.’

  I twitch at the name ‘Torsten’ and Dante shoots me a look of interest before I question Mr Pfeiffer again.

  ‘Torsten? I thought your son’s name was Theodore.’

  ‘What can I say? The boy hates his name and has been calling himself Torsten for around five years now. To keep him and his mother happy, that’s what I call him.’

  Dante looks down at his notebook and scribbles something down.

  ‘How old is your son?’

  ‘He’s twenty-nine.’ A frown draws his brows together. ‘Do you think Torsten has anything to do with these children disappearing?’

  ‘We’re just following up information, sir. And you’re sure you don’t know where he is right now?’

  ‘No, I mean, he works in various pubs and clubs.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘He’s a DJ and has gigs across London. It’s hard keeping track of him.’

  I’m grateful that Dante’s keeping the attention on himself by asking all the questions now so neither of them notices how the world drops beneath my feet. Torsten? The boy who might be stealing kids is maybe (possibly) the DJ at Milton’s? Can’t be . . .

  Dante asks a few more questions, checks Torsten’s mobile number and takes photos of Mr Pfeiffer’s diary. He then gives Mr Pfeiffer his business card. Mr Pfeiffer asks a few questions about the investigation that Dante deflects with ease.

  Before we turn to leave, I smile at Mr Pfeiffer. ‘Do you have a photo of Torsten?’ I ask him.

  He looks unhappy but opens his wallet and digs a photo out from the billfold. ‘This is us in France, at the Balaruc-le-Vieux Medieval Festival. Two years ago, in fact.’ He taps his finger against the photo. ‘Torsten had a new costume made that year. He looked good.’

  He turns the photo over to me to see. I do my best poker face when I realize the DJ I spoke to just the other day is genuinely the same Torsten as in the picture. In the photo, Torsten is dressed in a harlequin’s costume – but instead of a motley collection of colours, the costume is black and red. He’s striking a pose that I recognize from a CD cover. The lone piper, one leg tilted and resting against his thigh. His arms are up and he’s staring straight at the camera, in the process of bringing the flute to his lips. His expression is serious, if a bit challenging.

  The costume accentuates his lean build and tawny good looks.

  ‘Would we be able to get a copy of that?’ Dante asks Mr Pfeiffer, who just waves it off.

  ‘I have another. Keep that one if you must.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Dante shakes Pfeiffer’s hand and I give him a nod then follow Dante as we exit the house. The Taylors are behind us, both of them, and they stare at us as if we’ve just brought the plague to their home.

  ‘You know who he is, don’t you?’ He watches me closely as I pull on my seatbelt and fiddle with the keys. ‘Why didn’t you say anything earlier?’

  ‘I know now, yes, but not before Mr Pfeiffer showed us the photo and called his son Torsten.’

  ‘So, what do you know?’

  ‘The DJ at Milton’s? His name is Torsten, or that’s what he calls himself. The picture we’ve been shown confirms that it’s the same guy.’

  He shifts in his seat, leaning
away from the door. ‘We need to make one hundred per cent sure he’s our guy.’

  ‘But don’t you think it’s weird, that it’s all falling into place so . . .?’

  ‘Don’t say it,’ Dante groans. ‘Don’t say it’s been too easy because it hasn’t. And that usually means that there’s going to be more trouble.’

  I feel a wave of fatigue as Dante yawns and leans back against his seat. I feed a thread of my magic towards him but stop well short of letting it mingle with his. His colour’s off and I resist the urge to reach out and press my hand to his forehead because he looks so flushed.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘What? Yes, just hot, weirdly. Aren’t you warm? We need to get back to the estate and we need to talk to a few of the parents from the other disappearances to see if they recognize Torsten.’

  I start the car and pull into the traffic. We talk as I drive. Even the few minutes we’ve spent at the Taylors’ helped the evening rush hour dissipate and we manage a decent speed.

  ‘But there’s two of them,’ I point out. ‘Who’s the other guy?’

  ‘The dad?’

  ‘Nothing magical about Dad Pfeiffer. He is as mundane as . . . tomato soup.’

  Dante laughs at that but he nods. ‘Do you think it’s someone from the club?’

  ‘Who knows? Hopefully if we beat Torsten up a bit he’ll reveal all his secrets.’

  ‘Why do you sound personally annoyed by this?’

  I click my tongue against my teeth in a gesture of annoyance. ‘He just seemed nice, you know? He plays great tunes. He even gave me about five hours of decent new remixes, ones that he’d been working on, to listen to.’

  ‘When did you speak to him?’ His voice is sharp and I glance at him guiltily before looking back to the road. ‘Kit? I thought you said you wouldn’t go back to the club without me. Was Aiden with you? Tell me Aiden was with you.’

  ‘Wow. Can you stop playing the controlling macho dude?’ I frown at the car in front of us. ‘I went to the club yesterday to check something out with Miron. When I left, Torsten called me up to the DJ box and we chatted. He gave me a USB with some new music to listen to, that’s all.’

  ‘So you plugged the USB into your laptop’s hard drive . . . ?’ He inclines his head at me and raises his eyebrows. ‘Kit, seriously? You didn’t think to have Kyle check the USB for Spyware?’

  I immediately dip my fingers into my hip pocket and pass him my phone. ‘Call Kyle, right now. Get him to check my laptop. It automatically backs up to our external server. If he gets in there he can wreak havoc.’

  The telephone conversation that follows is terse and I can sense Kyle’s deep annoyance at my stupidity. I can’t even remember why I was last using my laptop. How many of my case notes and thoughts did I transfer onto it? Definitely the photos from Tia’s home. Including the photos I took of my parents’ files from Dante’s car. While Kyle tries not to have a nervous breakdown about the server being compromised, Dante briefly tells Kyle what we’ve found out from Mr Pfeiffer, asking him to do a thorough Internet search for Torsten Pfeiffer. He also asks him to check his DJ name and to do searches on that too.

  When he’s done, I ask him to ring Chem then hold the phone up to my ear. Chem answers within two rings.

  ‘’Sup?’

  ‘Chem? It’s Kit.’

  ‘I can see your name on the display.’ He tuts irritably. ‘What do you want? Do you know where Tia is yet? Marv’s mum had to go to hospital. She couldn’t stop crying.’

  ‘That’s the thing, Chem. We have a pretty decent lead. I need you to do me a favour.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Go on then, what is it?’

  I take a deep breath and explain that we want to show a photo to all the parents on the estate who have missing children.

  There’s a silence before he speaks. ‘This is – what do they call it, serendipity? They’re all here, having a meeting because of what’s happened to Tia.’

  ‘Where exactly?’

  ‘The community hall, behind the main building of the estate.’

  ‘How long have they been there?’

  ‘Don’t know man, how would I know?’

  ‘Can you get there? We’re on our way. Can you ring me if they leave or something?’

  ‘You want me to spy on them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  His grumbling tells me he’s not impressed by the favour but he agrees and hangs up. We’re probably about fifteen minutes away.

  ‘I’m just going to close my eyes for a few seconds, okay?’ Dante leans his head back against the car seat. ‘I feel wiped out right now. Like I’m on the other side of bad flu or something.’

  ‘Yeah, world’s worst type of flu. Go to bed, wake up and suddenly you have horns and your friend tells you she thinks you’re a faerie.’

  He laughs, while giving me a mock-evil look. ‘Do you ever stop being full of it?’

  ‘Yes, maybe at about three in the morning when I wake up, my heart pounding and my throat raw from screaming because of a nightmare where I watch all my family die or get taken away from me. Then I can’t go back to bed because I can’t unsee any of it and my brain is a crazy place anyway and so I lie there and think of ways to keep them safe. Then I get up and pretend everything is okay.’ I blink. ‘Uh, that was not supposed to come out.’

  I feel him watching me as I drive and, instead of feeling awkward, it’s okay, not quite as soul-baring as I’d thought. There’s a pulse of warmth and I sense that he’s resisting the urge to reach out and touch me, for which I’m grateful.

  ‘It never actually occurred to me that you were ever scared,’ he says after some time when I’d thought he’d fallen asleep.

  ‘I’m scared all the time.’ What is wrong with me? He doesn’t need to know this stuff and yet here I am, telling him my feelings. ‘I doubt myself all the time. I worry about what people I try to help might be thinking; if they believe they are doomed, if all they have to save them is a teen girl who acts like she has all the answers. If they think that because I’m a girl I can’t be as tough as a boy. And I think because I’m young, the fight to get respect is even harder. In the past people haven’t taken me seriously until I show up with Uncle Jamie in tow and then it’s all, Oh, okay, now we’ll do what you tell us to do. It’s just the same when I turn up with my cousin Marc. He’s big and tall and although he’s still young, probably your age, he has this air of confidence that just gets people to believe in him. Maybe it helps because he’s male too.’

  The smile Dante gives me is slow and I wonder if he’s managed to get stoned between us leaving the Taylors and here, because he definitely doesn’t look all there.

  ‘You worry too much,’ he says. ‘You’re brimful of confidence and you can sometimes let the fact that you’re an attractive girl work in your favour, you know? Don’t scowl so much, give people a chance.’

  ‘Are you stoned?’

  ‘No, just really sleepy. I don’t know what’s going on.’ He yawns an impossibly wide yawn and stretches. ‘All of me aches.’

  ‘As soon as we’re done here tonight, we’re getting you back home.’

  ‘Will you nurse me again?’

  ‘Mr Alexander, are you flirting with me?’

  ‘Possibly. I like how it makes you look a little flustered.’

  I laugh at him and feel a blush curl up my cheeks. ‘Yeah, you freak me out a bit.’

  ‘Is it Aiden? Do you have someone else?’

  ‘I . . .’ I look at him. ‘It’s difficult. There’s this other guy. We went through some bad stuff last year and things were left unresolved . . . I don’t know if I’ll see him again.’ I smile and try to lighten the moment. ‘Besides, you need to talk to Aiden, I think. He keeps asking me the same questions about you. I think you can both bond over that.’

  ‘Sucks.’ He makes a soft noise in the back of his throat and shifts closer to me. ‘About the other guy, I mean. Is that – Thorn?’
>
  ‘Yes. He’s . . . if we’re right about who you are, he’s your cousin.’

  Dante’s eyes widen. ‘But . . . I thought that Fae can’t have relationships with humans?’

  ‘Yes, well, there’s that too.’

  ‘There’s more?’

  Why is he asking all these things? And why am I telling? I suppress a sigh as I bring him up to date on Thorn and my brief history, ending with why he was sent away. ‘Turns out there was a prophecy about Thorn. Eadric caught him with the sole purpose of using him to fulfil it, which Eadric interpreted as designed to bring the Elder Gods back.’

  ‘And did he? Succeed, I mean.’ Dante’s voice still sounds very far off and strange.

  ‘Almost. Eadric came close but we stopped it from happening. And then Thorn went away to become this fabled guardian of the realms.’

  ‘Sounds like Heimdall.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘From Norse mythology. He’s the guy who keeps watch at the end of the Bifrost for the start of Ragnarok.’

  ‘How do you even know this?’

  ‘Comics. I can’t be a bad boy and not be into comics, can I?’ He laughs. ‘That’s not entirely true. My mum’s a teacher and she always had books lying around the house on fairy tales and mythology. So I grew up on a steady stream of the stuff.’

  ‘What else do you know about Heimdall?’ I almost don’t want to know, as his story makes me feel Thorn’s absence all the more keenly.

  ‘Basically that he keeps watch over the nine realms, that he has foreknowledge and is aware of any threats they face.’

  I try to swallow down my hurt. ‘That definitely sounds like what they’re asking of Thorn.’

  Dante’s hand rests on my shoulder, squeezing lightly before it drops away.

  ‘You can talk to me, you know.’

  ‘Oh, and you know so much about relationships?’

  ‘I’ll have you know I had a girlfriend for two years. And a boyfriend for about six months. That worked out less well, so ignore the fact that I said that.’