Drake

by Peter McLean

  “I…” I started.

  Oh but there was so much there that I could take the credit for, if I wanted to. If I just had the sheer bloody brass neck and cheek to do it. It was tempting, I have to admit. She was so… just so…

  “Yes, Don?”

  I gave her a wan smile. It was no good, I just couldn’t quite bring myself.

  “I panicked, bullshitted, panicked some more, and fell back on my Catholic upbringing as a refuge of last resort,” I admitted. “I didn’t really do anything, at the end of the day.”

  “You offered to damn yourself for me,” she said, then frowned. “Can you do that? Directly command a demon, I mean?”

  “Buggered if I know,” I said, and grinned at her. “Doubt it. I can’t say I’ve ever tried.”

  She laughed, and it sounded so good to hear her that I was glad I hadn’t taken the credit. Well sort of, anyway.

  “So I suppose you didn’t know how to call the Dominion either,” she said.

  “Not a clue,” I said. “That was a combination of having a rough idea of the right sort of thing to say and sheer bloody desperation, I think.”

  “And one of the strongest Wills I’ve ever seen,” she said.

  I felt myself blushing. “Yeah, well,” I said. “I have been doing this for a while you know. You can talk, the way you stood up to the Burned Man’s curse like that. I’ve been there myself, and I’d never have believed it was possible.”

  “Mmmm, yes well I’ve been doing this a good few thousand years longer than you have,” she said. “I might have picked up a trick or two myself along the way. There’s a funny thing, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The Dominion certainly seemed to think that you could have done it, if you’d wanted to. You wouldn’t have been making much of a sacrifice otherwise, now would you? Believe me, it would have known if you were bluffing.”

  “But I was bluffing,” I said. “That was twenty-four carat Don Drake bullshit. I just wanted to get the Burned Man off you before you did something you’d regret, that’s all.”

  I wasn’t going to tell her how close I suspected she had come to freeing the Burned Man as well. I think we’d all have regretted that, if she had, but as far as I was concerned she had enough to feel bad about as it was.

  “I’m not so sure about that, Don,” she said. “Trust me, if a Dominion thinks you can do something, then it’s a pretty safe bet that you can, even if you don’t know it yourself yet.”

  Well now, wasn’t that an interesting thought. And then there was the matter of how I had somehow managed to summon Adam all by myself, too… thoughts for another day, I told myself.

  “There’s something else about the Dominion,” I said. “It talked about the Burned Man, and it called me guardian. The Dominion did, I mean. So… what? I’m the guardian of the Burned Man now, is that it?”

  “What? Oh good heavens, no,” Trixie said, shaking her head with a smile. “The Dominion wasn’t talking to you then. I’m astonished it even noticed you at all, never mind that it actually spoke to you. You have no idea how much of an honour that was, Don. Dominions are… well, nothing at all like I am. All the same, a Dominion would no more give a task to a human than you’d be likely to hand out jobs to the individual bacteria in your stomach.”

  “Oh,” I said, feeling a tiny little bit crushed. “So, um…?”

  “It was talking to me,” she said. “It was giving me my new assignment. I’m not going home just yet, I’m afraid.”

  “You? What are you the guardian of, then?”

  “The Burned Man, of course,” she said. “You had that part right at least. And since the Burned Man currently belongs to you, well, I think the boss just made me your guardian angel.”

  I stared at her.

  “You’re having a laugh,” I said.

  “No,” she said, and smiled at me. “No, I’m really not.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Well of course it would have been rude not to make the most of that. I took her out for dinner at the little Italian place round the corner and I really did tell her all of it this time. I told her all about Wormwood, and my gambling debt, and about his idea of how compound interest worked. I could see Trixie didn’t think a whole lot of that, all things being equal.

  “An angel’s skull?” she echoed. “That’s the sort of thing you people play cards for, is it? Seriously?”

  “Ah,” I said, feeling slightly embarrassed. Looking back on it, I may not have entirely thought that part though before my mouth ran away with me. “Well, you know how it is. Sometimes, I suppose.”

  “Well don’t go getting any ideas about paying him back,” she said. “I like my skull right where it is, inside my head!”

  I laughed. “Perish the thought,” I said. “All the same though, he’s going to be bloody hard to get rid of.”

  “No he isn’t,” Trixie said, and smiled at me over her glass of red wine. “What time does this club of his open?”

  Oh it was beautiful, it really was. We took a taxi from the restaurant to Wormwood’s club, and I showed her where the door was. After that I didn’t have to do much more than say hello to Connie so we could get up the stairs, and then it was all her. I think that was the night I really fell in love with her.

  Trixie swept into the club like she owned the place, in the long sleeveless white dress she had whistled up from somewhere while I was taking a shower before we went out. The cuts and grazes on her face and arms were still only half-healed, but they lent her an air of dangerous mystique that made me feel like I had somehow stepped into an old Bogart film or something. She snagged a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and strode straight over to Wormwood’s table. She sat down opposite him without waiting for introduction or invitation, which was an almost unspeakable breach of protocol. I stood at her shoulder, trying and failing to keep the increasingly smug smile off my face.

  “I’ll play you,” she said.

  “What the fuck is this then?” Wormwood said.

  He glared irritably up at her, then blinked and took another, longer look. She still wasn’t hiding her aura, and I knew he could see it every bit as well as I could. He knew exactly what she was. He looked from her to me, and a slightly queasy look crossed his sallow face.

  “Look, mate,” he said. “We ain’t got ourselves into some sort of unfortunate misunderstanding here, have we?”

  Trixie lit a long black cigarette and blew smoke in Wormwood’s face. I kept quiet, not wanting to break her magnificent spell.

  “It’s like this,” she said, leaning forwards with her elbows on the table. She kept her voice pitched low, so only Wormwood and I could hear her. “I am Don’s guardian angel, and I am more than capable of having you for breakfast. In fact I would actually enjoy it a great deal. Now I realize you play an important part in the underground economy of this country, but don’t for one moment think that that protects you from me in any way. You could quite easily be replaced.”

  “I see,” Wormwood said, his voice sounding slightly strangled. “What… well, that is… look, well, how can we sort this out then?”

  Trixie smiled at him. After a very brief and extremely one-sided negotiation he soon came around to her way of thinking. Yes, of course the debt was paid off in full, and completely forgotten about. He was terribly sorry about having Connie slap me about those times too. Naturally he would continue to supply any alchemical requirements I might have in the future, and at a heavily discounted price too. He even offered me my warpstone back as a sign of good faith, that’s how scared of her he was. Now I’m sorry but I’m not that proud, and I really missed that warpstone. I took it.

  Trixie stood up and gave Wormwood a cool nod.

  “Well then,” she said, “I think we’re done here. I’ll be seeing you.”

  He cleared his throat in a way that said he really hoped she wouldn’t. We were about to leave when I spotted Papa Armand on the other side of the club, engaged in a heated
argument with the middle-aged woman with the peacock feather fan. Now I don’t know how much you know about Haitian etiquette, but I’m going to take a guess at not much. You see, if you see your spiritual mama or papa somewhere you always say hello, even if they’re in the middle of something. Even if your mambo is up to her elbows in laundry and on the phone at the same time or your Houngan is having a blazing row with some business rival, you still go and butt in to say hello. Over here it would be rude to interrupt, but in Haiti it’s rude not to.

  “Excuse me for a moment,” I said to Trixie, “I just have to speak to someone before we go.”

  She nodded and I headed across the club, leaving her sipping her champagne and watching a card game. I knew Houngan Armand was only my papa because he said he was and I hadn’t actually agreed to anything, but I felt I needed to be polite all the same. I didn’t know a lot about him, but I knew he was heavy. For one thing he was here so he must be, and for another I’ve always respected Vodou and I’ve always liked him. I stepped up beside him and the fan lady and cleared my throat.

  “…must be joking,” she was saying, her voice carrying a hint of an American accent. “You can’t possibly expect us to…”

  “Um, hello Papa,” I said.

  He turned and grinned at me. He had a glass of rum in one hand and a cigar in the other. The fan lady looked slightly surprised to see that it was me addressing him in that fashion, but she nodded in understanding all the same and took a step backwards to give us some space.

  “Don-boy Drake,” he said, his silk top hat nodding as he bobbed his head in welcome, “good to see you. Papa Armand just reasonin’ wit’ this lady right now, but one thing afore you goin’.”

  “Yes Papa?” I said, leaning closer to let him whisper in my ear.

  “I’m goin’ say it again, Don-boy. Time him come when a man gotta choose what path he goin’ walk,” he said.

  He chuckled then clapped me on the shoulder and turned away, back to his argument with the fan lady. I shivered and went to find Trixie.

  “Everything all right?” she asked as I took her arm.

  “Yeah,” I said, although I was no longer quite so sure that it was. “Yeah, I think so.”

  “I’m tired,” she said. “Shall we?”

  I led her out of the club and down to the street to look for a taxi, but Trixie suggested walking home instead for the fresh air. Now I’m not a fan of walking at the best of times, or fresh air as it goes, but after her magnificent performance with Wormwood I wasn’t about to refuse her anything.

  “Yeah OK, why not?” I said.

  We were maybe half of the way back to my place when something whistled at me from an alleyway. I turned to look and made out the unmistakable shadowy outline of a night creature. I felt Trixie tense beside me, but I put a reassuring hand on her arm.

  “It’s OK,” I said, “I know these little buggers.” I walked to the mouth of the alley and looked at it. “What?”

  The night creature looked at me for a long moment, and sniggered. “Don’t you ever check your email?” it said. “You’ve got a message.”

  I hardly ever looked at my email, or even turned the laptop on for that matter. I’m not a big fan of technology, as I might have said. Or much of a businessman either, sadly.

  “I’ll take a look when I get home,” I said. “Cheers.”

  It showed me a few long, crocodilian teeth in something that might have been a smile, and scurried away into the shadows. Of course, it might not have been a smile at all. I shrugged and went back to Trixie, and took her home.

  “Um,” I said when we got inside, feeling slightly awkward. “Sleeping arrangements?”

  It was only a one bedroom flat, after all. Trixie gave me a level look.

  “You’re on the sofa, Don,” she said firmly.

  I sighed. It was my flat but… yeah OK, fair enough.

  “Night then,” I said.

  She stopped at the bedroom door and turned back to look at me.

  “Oh, there is just one thing, before I forget,” she said.

  I frowned. I couldn’t believe Trixie ever forgot anything, and this felt like it might just have a sting in its tail.

  “Yeah?”

  “What happened to Aleto’s dagger? The one Adam gave her, I mean?”

  “No idea,” I lied automatically. “I guess it got blown to pieces when she did.”

  “Oh,” Trixie said. “Pity.”

  I felt bad about that straight away, but it was too late to change my mind now. Obviously she wasn’t going to approve of me having a demonic weapon but, well, a man in my line of work never knew when he might come to need something like that.

  “Night,” I said again.

  “Yes,” she said, “it is.”

  She closed my bedroom door behind her. I sighed and sat down at my desk, and took the whisky bottle out of the bottom drawer.

  Time him come when a man gotta choose what path he goin’ walk. I was starting to think Papa Armand might just be right about that. I dragged my laptop out of the desk and turned it on to check my emails.

  I only had one message, from an anonymous address. It simply said, “You have made an enemy.”

  It was signed Adam.

  Acknowledgments

  Writing can be a lonely business, but nothing worthwhile is ever accomplished alone. I would like to thank the following people for helping to make this book what it is:

  My long-suffering beta readers, Nila and Chris, for their invaluable feedback.

  Alison Clayton for telling me I could do this, all those years ago – thank you, ma’am!

  My editor, Phil Jourdan at Angry Robot, for his guiding hand.

  My wonderful wife, Diane, for everything else and most of all for putting up with all my shit while I did this. Love you babes.

  About the Author

  Peter McLean was born near London in 1972, the son of a bank manager and an English teacher. He went to school in the shadow of Norwich Cathedral where he spent most of his time making up stories. By the time he left school this was probably the thing he was best at, alongside the Taoist kung fu he had been studying since the age of 13.

  He grew up in the Norwich alternative scene, alternating dingy nightclubs with studying martial arts and practical magic. He has since grown up a bit, if not a lot, and now works in corporate datacentre outsourcing for a major American multinational company. He is married to Diane and is still making up stories.

  * * *

  talonwraith.com • twitter.com/PeteMC666

  Untitled

  ANGRY ROBOT

  An imprint of Watkins Media Ltd

  * * *

  Lace Market House,

  54-56 High Pavement,

  Nottingham,

  NG1 1HW

  UK

  * * *

  angryrobotbooks.com

  twitter.com/angryrobotbooks

  Just one last hit

  * * *

  An Angry Robot paperback original 2016

  * * *

  Copyright © Peter McLean 2016

  * * *

  Cover by Raid71

  Set by Epub Services

  * * *

  Distributed in the United States by Random House, Inc., New York.

  * * *

  All rights reserved.

  * * *

  Angry Robot and the Angry Robot icon are registered trademarks of Watkins Media Ltd.

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  * * *

  Sales of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as “unsold and destroyed” and neither the author nor the publisher may have received payment for it.

  * * *

  UK ISBN 978 0 857
66 510 2

  US ISBN 978 0 85766 511 9

  Ebook ISBN 978 0 85766 512 6