Dire Straits (Bo Blackman)

by Helen Harper

  ‘I don’t know where she is.’

  ‘Gallivanting somewhere, no doubt. When she gets in touch, I’ll let her know.’

  ‘Tell her I love her.’ My voice shakes. ‘I love you too.’ Blood is thicker than water after all.

  ‘Goodbye, Bo.’ He hangs up.

  I stand there for a moment, still holding the receiver. Then I replace it and walk back to the limousine. The driver gets out this time and opens the door for me. I smile at him briefly and get in.

  ‘I have a phone,’ Montserrat says stiffly.

  ‘Just because I’m going to work for you doesn’t mean I trust you. It was a private call.’

  Something flashes in his eyes but it’s gone before I can work out what it means. ‘You made two calls.’

  ‘They were both private,’ I say shortly. He can mind his own damn business. Allowing myself to be recruited into the Montserrat Family doesn’t mean I’m going to be their property.

  A muscle throbs in Montserrat’s cheek. He taps the driver’s window and the car glides off. ‘You’re going to stay?’

  ‘Yes. I’m also going to be Sanguine. I can stick out a month of bloodlust,’ I say, with far more confidence than I feel.

  He merely nods and we lapse into an uncomfortable silence.

  Chapter Fourteen: Fear

  I’m expecting us to head straight for the Montserrat headquarters on the edge of Hyde Park but, instead of going in that direction, the car turns left and we pull up outside an old building. It’s a majestic piece of architecture, built out of sandstone; it looks as if it’s been here for hundreds of years.

  ‘Nice place,’ I comment.

  ‘Recruitment doesn’t start until tomorrow so you can stay here. It’ll be safe.’

  ‘And where is here, exactly?’

  ‘My apartment,’ Montserrat answers shortly.

  O’Shea clambers out and whistles. ‘I like a man with style.’

  ‘If you want to stay alive,’ Montserrat tells the daemon, ‘then you’ll stay here and out of sight.’

  O’Shea purses his lips. ‘Do you have satellite TV?’ Montserrat looks at him. ‘Okay, okay. I’ll stay here and hide away. It’s nice of you to be so concerned for my safety.’

  I smile involuntarily and Montserrat glares at me. ‘You can stay here tonight too.’

  ‘Great. Thanks,’ I mutter.

  There’s no doorman at the front but the security is still impressive. Montserrat enters by pressing his thumb to an electronic sensor. ‘If you leave, you won’t be able to get back in,’ he warns.

  O’Shea and I nod dutifully. The door clicks open and we wander into the grand lobby. It’s a darn sight better than the last place I stayed at.

  Montserrat leads us to the lift. The walls are mirrored and I wince at my reflection. There are dark bruises under my eyes and my nose is an interesting shade of purple. I touch it gingerly and hiss with pain. Both of them look at me.

  ‘It hurts, alright?’

  ‘So don’t touch it,’ Montserrat says. He turns away while I stick my tongue out childishly at him. Unfortunately, he catches me in the mirror.

  ‘You’re not going to get away with that when you’re recruited.’

  ‘I didn’t ask to join your Family,’ I point out.

  ‘You’ve agreed now.’

  I sigh. I suppose I have. Never one to let a moment pass, however, I say, ‘I can still back out.’

  ‘Yes. You can.’ Then, without warning, he leaps towards me.

  Alarmed, I lash out with my fists, but he reaches for my nose and, with one swift movement, jerks it hard to the side. There’s a loud cracking sound and I scream.

  He inspects his handiwork. ‘There,’ he says. ‘That’s better.’

  I slap him. O’Shea stares at us with wide eyes.

  ‘Um, Bo?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Maybe don’t piss off the bloodsucking powerhouse.’

  I shoot the daemon a nasty look. ‘He started it.’

  Montserrat smirks. It’s just as well the lift stops at that moment or I might not be responsible for my actions. My nose is smarting like hell but I stride past the vampire as if I’ve never felt better and gaze around.

  ‘Wow,’ O’Shea says. ‘This is a serious pad.’

  He’s right. Montserrat’s place is as sharp as his suits. The floor is wooden, a burnished amber that warms the room, and is covered in expensive looking rugs. A vast sofa faces a fireplace and there’s a modern kitchen towards the back. The wall to my left is covered from floor to ceiling with books; to the right, great bay windows look out over the London skyline.

  ‘It’ll do.’ I hope I don’t sound over-awed. I’m still pissed off with him for the nose thing.

  ‘Not as nice as the love hotel?’ Montserrat asks.

  ‘How did you know we were there?’

  He puts on a mock accent. ‘Vee have vays.’

  I stare at him. The vampire Head has a sense of humour. Who knew?

  He smiles. ‘Come on. I’ll show you the bedroom. The daemon can sleep on the sofa for tonight. I’ll take the floor.’

  He opens a huge wooden door and I gape. The bed is king size and then some. It’s covered in black satin sheets and looks like it’s been designed for the set of a porn movie. I guess Montserrat is currently single.

  ‘I think the bed is big enough for both us,’ I say, grinning. ‘I won’t bite if you don’t.’ As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realise they sound like an invitation and I start to blush. Montserrat doesn’t seem to notice.

  ‘Whatever you’re comfortable with.’ He points to another door to the left. ‘The bathroom’s in there if you want to clean up. I can get you a clean t-shirt or something to wear.’

  Feeling awkward now, I mumble thank you. He stands in front of me and gazes down, his dark eyes glinting. ‘Thank you, Bo. I know what you’re giving up by doing this. I won’t forget it.’

  ‘I’m not giving up anything,’ I answer. And it’s the truth. ‘I no longer have a job. I’ve got a bunch of traitor vampires out for my blood. And it’s only until the full moon. I’ll be Sanguine.’

  His eyes fill with unexpected warmth. ‘Good.’

  We both remain standing like that until O’Shea calls out from the main room. ‘Do you have any snacks?’

  Montserrat shakes himself. ‘I’ll get you that t-shirt.’

  ‘Cheers.’ I walk into the bathroom and take a very deep breath.

  ***

  Montserrat comes to bed far later than me. I’m not sure what he’s doing, whether he’s telling O’Shea where he can find the cornflakes and how to work the remote control, or he’s off doing some mysterious ‘Head of Bloodguzzling Family’ work. Hell, for all I know, he has a willing victim tied up in a cupboard somewhere and he was off for a snack. Regardless, when he finally clambers in to the far side of the huge bed, I’m still wide awake. I don’t pretend to be asleep; he’s a vampire, after all, I’m sure he’d know if I were faking it. But I’m not in the mood for night-time chit-chat and my glib remark about not minding sharing a bed with him now seems rash. I don’t turn around but I sense him keeping a fair distance away and doing his best not to disturb me. I lie there, listening to his steady breathing, and gaze across the room.

  I’m worried about whether I’m making the right choice. I think part of me had hoped that my grandfather would put his foot down and refuse to let me to take this step. Of course, I’d have ranted and railed and gone ahead regardless. Except … despite being a grown woman, sometimes a tiny part of me hankers for the simplicity of being a child again and having big decisions taken out of my hands. With only three Sanguines in the entire bloody world, my chances of making it through the moon’s cycle are miniscule. That’s not to mention the dangers of trying to turn vampire in the first place, and the fact that the group of traitorous bloodguzzlers may want to continue their efforts to slit my throat rather than welcome me into the fold. Whatever does happen when I turn tomorrow, I’m goin
g to have to tread carefully.

  I flip onto my back, annoyed with myself for still being awake. This is probably the last time I’ll have the opportunity for safe, uninterrupted sleep. Montserrat doesn’t stir. I glance over at him, registering his bare skin and taut, clearly delineated muscles. The dark twisting shape of a tattoo is etched across his upper back and curves round his arms, although the light is too dim to work out what it actually is.

  Something in me tenses. It’s not that I expected him to be wearing stripy pyjamas but he looks as if he’s completely naked. It’s difficult to tell because the satin sheet is pulled up to his waist. Without thinking, I turn fully in his direction to check. Maybe it’s de rigeur for vampires to sleep in the buff. Despite my snarky comments to Angelique about not sleeping in coffins, I actually have no idea how vampires sleep. Or eat. Or do anything. I smile grimly to myself. I suppose I’m about to find out.

  Curiosity gets the better of me so very, very carefully, I tug at the sheet. It falls half an inch, displaying well-toned dimples on either side of his spine. I’m convinced now that he’s naked. The man has no sense of propriety. Apparently neither do I because I tug the sheet down a little bit more.

  ‘Bo.’

  My hearts leaps in my chest. Oops.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  I can’t think of any answer that makes sense. ‘I can’t sleep,’ I mutter eventually, sitting up.

  He turns over, resting his head on one elbow. Despite the darkness, I can make out the wicked dance in his eyes as if he is perfectly aware of what I was trying to do. I look down and see that the tattoo travels all the way from his tanned back to his broad chest. I realise it’s an intricately drawn set of wings that wraps around his skin from his shoulder blades to his collar bone, the lower edges just millimetres away from his dark nipples.

  ‘I can help you with that,’ he murmurs.

  I feel tense and suspicious. ‘What do you mean?’

  He rubs the stubble around his jawline. ‘I can help you sleep.’

  A tiny, terrified part of me wonders if he means permanently. ‘Oh?’ I squeak.

  He sits up, swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands up. He’s wearing white drawstring trousers. Oh well.

  He grins, as if he knows what I’m thinking. ‘Wait here.’

  He pads out of the bedroom. Avoiding thinking about how I just made myself look a total idiot, I also get up. Instead of following him, I walk to the window and draw back the heavy curtains to stare out at the night. I can’t see the moon from here, which is just as well because it would only remind me of what is to come. There are, however, several visible stars. I stay where I am, even when I hear Montserrat return. I can’t help wondering if this will be the last time I look out on the night sky with human eyes.

  He comes up next to me, his bare footsteps as light as a cat’s, and hands me a mug. I stare at it stupidly.

  ‘It’s hot cocoa,’ he tells me.

  He’ll be offering me a pair of fluffy slippers and a dressing gown next. I take the mug and sip it cautiously. It scalds the inside of my mouth but it tastes good.

  ‘Thanks.’

  He watches me with hooded eyes. ‘I stayed up all night,’ he says, suddenly.

  I’m confused. ‘What…?’

  ‘The night before I turned. I stayed up all night.’

  ‘I’m afraid,’ I whisper.

  ‘I know.’

  I’m grateful he doesn’t waste time offering platitudes. It’s enough to know that he understands how I feel. I drain the mug.

  ‘Go to sleep,’ he says softly.

  ‘I’ll try.’ I head back to my side of the bed and lie down. Moments later I’m fast asleep.

  ***

  It’s early when I wake up. The sunlight streaming in from the open curtains has a bright new quality – the sort you only get shortly after dawn. I turn over but Montserrat’s not there, although there’s a dent in the pillow where his head was. Butterflies dance in my stomach. I have no idea what the day will bring but I know that it will change my life irrevocably. I stay where I am for a moment, thinking about Charity Weathers and Tam and Tansy and everyone else from Dire Straits. I think about how different things might be if O’Shea had died in that grubby room. And then I get out of bed, splash water on my face and get dressed before carefully making the bed and erasing any evidence of my presence. Bring. It. On.

  Unfortunately, when I go to the living room, my determination is already starting to desert me. I find O’Shea sprawled across the sofa, his arms stretched behind his head. He springs up. ‘Hey!’ His voice is far too bright and breezy. ‘How are you feeling? Ready to join the triber clans?’

  I give him a dirty look but he just shrugs amiably. ‘At least you’ll be busy. I have to stay holed up here.’

  I’m tempted to tell him he’s damn lucky to be alive but I manage to bite my tongue. ‘Where’s Montserrat?’

  ‘Michael? He’s gone already. Said to tell you not to worry about breakfast, it’ll be provided later. There’ll be a car to pick you up in about a couple of hours and take you to the headquarters.’

  ‘Okay.’ I sit down heavily down on the sofa. O’Shea sits next to me.

  I need something to take my mind off my impending doom. ‘Do you have records I can look at for the vampires who came to get the spell?’ I ask.

  ‘Are you nuts? Keeping records is a sure fire way to get caught.’

  ‘Well, how many clients were there?’

  ‘At least sixty.’

  Christ. ‘Do you know any of their names?’

  O’Shea shakes his head.

  ‘Distinguishing features? Especially for the Montserrat ones?’

  ‘Mate, all vampires look the same to me.’

  I struggle to see how this is true. I try a different tack. ‘Why do you think they tried to kill you? I mean, if sixty of them used the spell, why not keep going? Or why not kill you after they took it the first time?’

  ‘Copyright.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I copyrighted it. I don’t want some other dealer stealing my shit and making money from it that should be mine, so I placed a copyright on it.’

  I frown. ‘What does that mean exactly?’

  ‘That each spell only has a one-time use. You can’t buy it, then pass it round all your friends for free. If they want it, they have to purchase their own. I’m a businessman.’ He rubs his fingers together. ‘It’s all about profit.’

  ‘Look where that profit got you,’ I mutter. ‘What changed?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You said they leached the spell from you before trying to kill you. If it’s copyrighted, as you say, then how could they use it?’

  ‘They must have found a way around it.’ He doesn’t appear particularly upset. ‘People usually do eventually.’

  It sounds remarkably similar to what Rogu3 does. He told me once that companies keep putting in place bigger and better firewalls and security systems to beat the hackers, but they are only temporary measures because sooner or later the hackers always find a way round them. I wonder if there’s an endpoint – a time when people will stop this cycle of security and slash. Probably not.

  ***

  Two hours later, I’m still feeling anxious and wondering whether I’m doing the right thing when my musings are interrupted by the doorbell. The butterflies in my stomach go into overdrive.

  ‘That’ll be your chauffeur,’ O’Shea says cheerily.

  I stand up but my legs shake, so I sit back down abruptly. The daemon pulls me upright and grabs the lapels of my jacket. ‘You’ll be fine. You’ll find the killers, solve the mystery and get to the end of the full moon cycle as a newly fledged and wholly powerful Sanguine. Go you!’

  I don’t want to be a wholly powerful Sanguine though. I’m perfectly happy being a weakass human in a leather jacket.

  O’Shea gives me a push towards the door. ‘Off you go.’

  For a moment, I dig my heel
s into Montserrat’s perfectly varnished floor. I have to force myself to walk forward. I now realise where the phrase ‘rooted to the spot in terror’ comes from. I swallow hard. This is the fate I’ve chosen. I need to deal with it.

  ***

  Less than twenty minutes later, I’m deposited by the taciturn driver at the front of the imposing Montserrat headquarters. If you were to look up ‘vampire lair’ in a visual dictionary, the building in front of me would probably be what you’d see. It may be situated on the edge of a busy thoroughfare and right next to the bustle of Hyde Park, but there’s an odd atmosphere of silence around it, as if it’s in a bubble. The masonry is old; I have no idea how long the Montserrat Family have been holed up here although I’ve heard tales about how they still hold a grudge against the human royal family for opening up the park to the public. Considering that happened back in 1637, I guess they’ve been there for a bloody long time. Chillingly, if you turn and look back at the park, the old site of the Tyburn gallows is perfectly visible. The last person to have been executed there might have been way back in the eighteenth century but it still gives me the willies.

  I stare up at the grey stone walls and the turrets and gargoyles. I’ve passed this building many times before and never given it more than a cursory glance. Now, as I’m about to enter, I find myself looking at it with entirely new eyes.

  Unusually for this time of year in London, there’s not a single cloud in the sky. The sun beams down at me mockingly. I have to admit that as I step over the threshold, I’m kind of hoping some burly bloodguzzler will clamp their hand on my shoulder and throw me out because there’s been a mistake and I’m not supposed to be here after all. My luck, such as it has been over the last few days, doesn’t change.

  The interior is bright and airy, quite the opposite of what I expected. Standing to my left is a fully tuxedoed butler, holding out a silver tray with glasses of brown liquid. I take one and sniff it suspiciously but it seems to be nothing more than sherry. As tempted as I am to partake of a little Dutch courage, I don’t drink it. I want to keep my senses fully alert. Besides, who knows what the vampires have dropped in to the alcohol?