Wolf in Shadow-eARC

by John Lambshead

  Oh God, it’s another one, Rhian thought.

  “I don’t think I like your new pet, Max. Maybe I should teach her some manners,” Sefrina said.

  She moved a step towards the bed but Max grabbed her wrist, his hand moving faster than a striking cobra.

  “Leave her alone, Sefrina,” said Max.

  Sefrina hissed at him, showing her teeth.

  Max’s voice hardened and he jerked hard on the woman’s wrist. “I mean it, Sefrina. She belongs to me. Or do I have to teach you some manners?”

  Sefrina tested her strength against Max’s grip. Rhian thought she intended to challenge him, but Sefrina suddenly relaxed. “Of course not, Max,” she said, smiling sweetly, as if the incident had never happened.

  He let go of her wrist and she stalked out, shooting one last venomous glance at Rhian. I have not, Rhian thought, made a friend there. Not that she cared overmuch.

  “What’s in the case?” asked Rhian.

  “Clothes,” Max replied, succinctly. “Clothes suitable for a small girly.”

  The odious man seemed to work hard at being offensive.

  “I prefer the word petite,” Rhian said.

  Max laughed. “Get dressed and I’ll drive you home.”

  Rhian didn’t move, although she was relieved to hear that she was not going to have to fight her way out.

  “Aren’t you going to get out of bed and take a look in the case?” Max asked.

  “When you leave the room,” replied Rhian. “Or have you forgotten that I’ve nothing on?”

  “How could I, Snow White?” replied Max. “It just never occurred to me that you’d still be bashful after all that has passed between us. However, if you insist.”

  He bowed to her, turned, and walked out.

  “My name’s Rhian,” she said to his back. He closed the door without answering or even looking back.

  She carefully levered herself out of bed. The pain her side was down to a mild ache. The wolf healed her so very quickly. The cuts she made on her arms disappeared in days without leaving scars.

  Her first action was to see if she could lock the door, but the key had been removed. She hurried over to the case and lifted it. It took two attempts for her to get it up on the bed. It was heavy. That bitch Sefrina must be stronger than she looked.

  Rhian unclipped the catches. They flipped open easily with sharp clicks. The tie belts were more problematical, as the case was stuffed tight. In the end, she sat on top of it to get the tension off the belts. That lousy man could have opened the case for her and spared her the embarrassment of perching naked like a monkey on a branch.

  She gasped when she saw the contents. They were the sort of clothes that she had only read about in magazines. Reverently she removed a folded tan coat that was beautifully cut and lined, the tag proudly declaring it to be a product of Givenchy of Paris. She burrowed deeper into the bowels of the suitcase like a kid checking out her Christmas stocking. She unfolded a black minidress by Proenza Schouler of New York and held it against her body. She draped it over her hips. It fitted perfectly.

  She pulled more clothes out of the case until she was surrounded by elite labels like a model backstage at a fashion show. She found blouses and skirts from Marni of Milan, a little black dress from Nina Ricci of Paris, shoes and boots by Jimmy Choo, and even a rather daring catsuit from the young Scottish designer Christopher Kane. At the bottom was a makeup set and Ricci perfume.

  “Ready?” Max’s voice carried through the door.

  “No, go away,” she yelled back.

  After some deliberation she chose to wear Armani denim jeans with a minidress. She spent some time at the dressing table, putting a face on, dabbing some perfume on her wrists and neck as a final touch. She draped the Givenchy coat around her shoulders and examined herself in the mirror. Turning the collar up set off her short dark hair. Perfect! That bitch Sefrina wanted to play games, did she?

  A heavy hand knocked on the bedroom door. “What are you doing in there?” Max asked.

  She carefully closed the case and extended the handle. She stopped at the door, took a deep breath, and carefully pasted an expression on her face that she hoped indicated detached disdain. Only then did she open the door and parade out. A moment of instability on the high heels of her boots only slightly spoiled her entrance.

  Sefrina lounged in a chair reading Elle magazine. Rhian watched the woman carefully out of the corner of her eyes. She noted Sefrina’s lips tighten when she realised how well Rhian looked.

  A hand clap caught Rhian’s attention.

  “Very nice, you chose her clothes well, Sefrina. Snow White, give us a twirl,” Max said.

  She had actually started to turn when she remembered that she was not going to do anything he suggested.

  “You mentioned taking me home?” she asked, sticking her nose in the air.

  “And so I shall. I am glad that you went to some trouble over your appearance before you came out with me. You scrub up rather well.”

  The arrogant so-and-so actually thought that she cared what he thought of her looks. Rhian opened her mouth to issue a denial but closed it again without speaking. He would choose to misinterpret anything she said.

  “I get to keep the other clothes?” Rhian asked.

  She hated giving up some of her independence but was unwilling to abandon a cornucopia of fashion that she could never have afforded.

  He grinned broadly. “You may as well. They wouldn’t fit Sefrina here.”

  “Thank you,” she made herself say.

  Max approached her, holding a silk scarf in both hands. “Let’s get your blindfold on and we can go.”

  She blocked him with a hand. “Why would you want to blindfold me?” she asked.

  “I can think of all sorts of interesting possibilities,” he replied. “But in this case it is simply that I don’t want you to know where I live. Fair enough?”

  She nodded and allowed him to knot the scarf around her eyes. He gripped her firmly by the elbow and steered her out of the room. A cold wind on her face and the slamming of a door indicated that they were outside. He led her twenty paces or so then let go. She heard the electronic click of a car unlocking. He put his hand on top of her head, like the cops do on TV shows, and put her into a seat.

  The car engine was quiet, but Rhian was pushed down into the seat as it accelerated away.

  “May I ask you a question?”

  “Why not?”

  “In the subway . . .” Her voice trailed off. She was unsure how to proceed.

  “Yes.”

  “You had fangs. You bit that woman in the neck, and Sefrina has fangs, and you both seem inhumanly strong and quick . . .” Her voice trailed off again. “You interrogated me but you’ve told me nothing about yourself.”

  “That’s right,” he agreed.

  She waited for him to explain, but he said nothing. God, he was irritating.

  “Who are you—or should that be what are you?”

  He chuckled. “You really are a delightful paradox, Snow White. You turn up at a critical moment armed with high-level witchcraft and yet you seem to know nothing about the nature of the world. I shall look forward to our further meetings.”

  “Are you a vampire, one of the living dead?” she asked.

  This time he laughed out loud.

  “You’ve been watching too many old films,” he said.

  She was not sure what she felt about that and was silent for the rest of the journey.

  The car stopped.

  “Here we are.”

  She lifted off the blindfold. It was still night, but the streetlights showed her that they were outside Frankie’s flat.

  He put a hand on her knee and leaned across. “Do I get a goodnight kiss?”

  “No,” she replied, removing the hand.

  “I am devastated,” he said, not looking it. “I have something for you.”

  He handed her a phone. “A replacement for the one you lost helpi
ng me out. I’ve put in my number.”

  “Thank you,” she said, nonplussed. She examined it briefly before putting it in her pocket. It had a touch screen and looked expensive.

  She pulled the heavy case out and walked up the path without looking back until she heard the car drive off. She caught site of the rear end of a large executive saloon car as it disappeared around a bend. Rhian let herself into the flat and almost bumped into Frankie, who shot out of the lounge.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Frankie said, which was not quite the greeting Rhian had anticipated.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Rhian said.

  “Late? You’ve been gone two days,” said Frankie, snapping on the corridor light. “And where did you get a Givenchy coat?”

  CHAPTER 7

  FITTING IN

  Rhian slept well that night; in fact, she overslept. Frankie was eating toast when she slid into the kitchen.

  “I made you some tea,” Frankie said.

  “Thank you.”

  “But it went cold,” Frankie said with satisfaction.

  “Ah,” Rhian said.

  “There’s another brewing in the pot.”

  “About last night . . .” Rhian said.

  Frankie gazed at her toast reflectively.

  “The marketing clowns claimed that falling sales of marmalade showed that the English had stopped eating toast for breakfast.”

  She scooped a generous helping of marmalade out of a stoneware pot and spread it on her toast.

  “About last night . . .” Rhian tried again.

  “’Course, they failed to spot that people are buying Seville oranges and making their own.” Frankie said.

  “About last night . . .” Rhian said, clenching her fists in frustration.

  “I shouldn’t have yelled at you,” Frankie said. “I am not your keeper. You can come and go as you like.”

  “No, you were understandably worried. I’d have rung but my phone was smashed and I did not realize how much time had passed because I was unconscious or asleep most of the time.” Rhian rushed it all out with one breath.

  “What, you were unconscious?” Frankie asked.

  She looked Rhian in the eye for the first time.

  “I was mugged,” Rhian explained. “I must have hit my head when I fell.”

  “You were attacked?” Frankie asked, mouth open.

  “That was when my phone broke and my clothes were all ruined. Max bought me new clothes and a new phone,” Rhian said,

  “Max?” Frankie lifted an eyebrow.

  “My rescuer,” Rhian answered the unasked question. “He, ah, chased off the mugger and carried me back to his house to recover.”

  “I see,” Frankie said, in a carefully neutral voice. “And he bought you the expensive wardrobe to replace your ruined clothes?”

  “And a new phone,” Rhian replied, thinking she might as well get it all out in the open. She fished it out of her jeans pocket and passed it over.

  “Very nice,” Frankie said, playing with the touch-sensitive interface. “It must have cost a bit. This Max is well off, then?”

  Rhian shrugged.

  “Will you be seeing him again?” Frankie asked.

  “Shouldn’t think so,” Rhian replied. “He is older than me and we are hardly likely to meet socially.”

  “Ah, it must be a complete accident that he’s put his number in your new phone’s memory.

  A smile played on Frankie’s lips. She turned the phone around to show Rhian Max’s name in the Contacts List. Actually, it was the only name on the list.

  The rotten cow thinks I gave Max a horizontal thank you, Rhian thought. She wanted to put Frankie right but held her tongue. Better to be thought a slut than a wolf.

  Frankie lost the smile. “Seriously, Rhian, if you lost consciousness you should be checked out by a doctor.”

  “All done,” Rhian said. “I’m fine.”

  “Max again, I suppose.” Frankie said. “He thinks of everything.”

  Rhian managed a weak smile.

  Rhian steeled herself and went to work that night as if nothing had happened.

  Gary greeted her with a smile. “Hi, Rhian, feeling better?”

  “Ah, yes,” Rhian replied. “Sorry about missing my shifts.”

  “That’s okay. You can’t help being ill. Frankie phoned in and said you wouldn’t be able to make it so, I got Sheila to cover for you.”

  Sheila was a middle-aged Londoner who was the third member of their little team. Rhian rarely saw her as they inevitably worked on different days.

  “Yes,” Rhian said uncertainly. So Frankie had covered for her. She was the first person willing to lie for Rhian since James. She was not sure how she felt about that.

  Gary fussed about behind the bar, pushing glasses onto the spinning rubber head of the cleaning machine.

  “Your landlady seems a nice person.” Gary said.

  “Yes,” Rhian replied, noncommittedly, wondering where this was going.

  “Does she have a significant other?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” Rhian replied. “Why do you want to know?”

  Gary kept his head down over the machine.

  “Oh, no reason,” he replied casually. “Just making conversation. Would you do a sweep for dirty glasses, please?”

  Rhian buried herself in the minutiae of work. She found the undemanding tasks soothing. There was a satisfaction to doing a simple job well.

  Gary tapped her on the shoulder.

  “Sorry, Gary, did you say something?”

  “Yes, I just asked if you were okay on your own. This is my rest night, and I wanted to catch the documentary on the BBC.”

  “Sure, you go ahead. What’s on?” Rhian asked.

  “A Horizon program on string theory.”

  “String theory?” Rhian asked, wondering what on earth Gary was blathering about.

  “You know, modern physics, string theory, multiple dimensions and universes. CERN are setting up an experiment to test string theory using the Large Hadron Collider. Apparently quarks disappear in the plasma ball.”

  “Riiiight, hadrons, quarks, plasma balls,” Rhian said, smiling and giving a thumbs up.

  “Or I might just watch the football.”

  “Plasma balls versus leather balls. I can see that you’re torn for choice,” Rhian said.

  Gary fled.

  The pub’s clientèle consisted of Old Fred and Willie the Dog reading the Morning Star at the bar and a small group of male students sitting around a table. Neither party was exactly splashing out. Rhian went over to collect empty glasses from the students’ table in an effort to shame them into spending. They were deep in conversation.

  “But Wittgenstein’s duck-rabbit model clearly supports philosophical scepticism in that we can be certain of nothing,” said an earnest-looking student.

  “I am certain that I came to university to get laid, not to sit in a grotty pub listening to you lot going on about Ludwig bloody Wittgenstein,” a second student said, gloomily.

  “Can I get you more drinks, gentlemen?” Rhian asked brightly.

  There was an abrupt silence. None of the students met her eye except the one who wanted to be laid. He took one look at Rhian and blushed bright red.

  “I’ll, uh, get a round in,” the sexually frustrated student said.

  A third murmured, “Bloody hell, is it Christmas or something?”

  Rhian took the cash and brought the ordered drinks over. You did not normally get waitress service in a pub, but Rhian was bored. The second student examined his change carefully when Rhian plonked it in his palm. He did not give her a tip, not that she expected one. She returned behind the bar and washed the dirty glasses.

  Two men came in and bought double whiskeys. Rhian noticed them because they stood out from the Black Swan’s normal patrons. She guessed their age at forty or so. That was far too old to be students and far too young to be one of the old working-class codgers left behind by the d
eindustrialization of the East End, like flotsam abandoned by the retreating tide. The men sat at a corner table, leaning forward to converse in low murmurs. Over the next twenty minutes they were joined by two friends. The last one asked for something in a thick Glaswegian accent.

  “Pardon?” Rhian said, looking at him blankly.

  “A half of bitter and a large glass of Scotch,” the man said, exaggeratingly enunciating each word. “Can’t you speak English?”

  “In the same glass?” Rhian asked, ignoring his rudeness.

  “Of course not,” said the Scotsman.

  Rhian poured the drinks, assuming correctly that “large” was Scottish for a double. The Scotsman looked at the glass of whisky with contempt. He tossed it down in one go and held the glass out.

  “Another. You English serve ridiculously short measures of Scotch.”

  “The measure might be English, but I’m Welsh,” Rhian said, refilling his glass from the optic of Bell’s behind the bar.

  The Scotsman shrugged, “Same thing.”

  He joined the other three before Rhian could think of a suitably crushing answer.

  The pub door flew open and a tall, well-built man strode in. He walked with a swagger up to the bar. His dark hair was cut neatly and brushed forward to hide a receding hairline. His pale blue tie set off a cream shirt in a blue suit tailored a little too tightly around an impressive musculature. Rhian noticed that he wore diamond-studded gold cufflinks. Everything about the man was flashy and expensive.

  He stopped at the bar and gave Rhian a charming, broad smile that never quite reached his eyes. A gold tooth flashed in the light from the mirror behind the bar.

  Old Fred and Willie the Dog vacated their stools and slid out of the pub. Rhian was alarmed to see that Willie did not even pause to finish his drink.

  “You’re new,” the man said to Rhian, looking her up and down, “and a definite improvement on the usual barmaid in here.”

  “Do you want a drink?” Rhian asked, refusing to respond to the compliment.

  She took an instant dislike to him. There was a black void behind his eyes. He was a man without a soul. Like Max, she realised, just like Max. He would be uncaring and greedy with a woman, taking his pleasure without regard to her desires or fears.