by Alexis Hall
“Help people? It’s an enormous sentient rat gestalt.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean it’s got to be a dick.”
There was a short, awkward silence.
“So,” he asked, still using his casual voice, “what’s her story?”
“This might sound a bit weird, but she’s an animated statue.”
“That doesn’t sound weird at all.”
“I really need to get more mortal friends. So, yeah, a wizard made her, didn’t like her, threw her out.”
“Didn’t like her?” He sounded incredulous.
I shrugged. “Be careful what you wish for, I guess.”
“She seems...nice.”
“She did say you were well configured.”
“She said I was what?” He slanted a wary glance at me. “Is that good?”
“I have no idea. Elise has her own way of thinking about things.”
I see a lot less of St. Paul’s than you might think. The movies want you to believe that you can see the Cathedral and Big Ben from basically every window in London, but actually, I hardly ever had a reason to come down here. In fact, thinking about it, I might have only ever seen it on TV.
It looked smaller in real life. These things always do.
There was a steady trickle of tourists going in and a scattering of people sitting on the steps, talking and eating sandwiches. Slightly apart from the crowd, in the lee of one of the pillars, a man sat feeding the pigeons from a crumpled bag of breadcrumbs. He looked to be about fifty or sixty, which meant my streak of men in their late fifties who were really beings of unspeakable power and evil continued unbroken.
“Is that what passes for subtle among your people?”
The demon’s head came up, and he looked straight at me with pale silver-blue eyes.
“Nice start, Kate,” said Ashriel. “We should go over, but don’t sit down.”
“Hadn’t planned on it.”
We climbed the steps. The Angel of St. Paul’s raised his hand to shield his eyes from the sun and squinted up at us. “Come and sit down.”
“I’m good, thanks.”
“Feed the birds?” He held out his little bag.
There are two schools of thought about the pigeons in London. One is that they’re a charming feature of the landscape of the capital. The other is that they’re basically rats with wings. I was squarely in the rats camp. “No, thanks.”
He smiled in a way that reminded me of my granddad. “What is it that you want?”
I was just about to say I want to talk to you when Ashriel cut in. “We don’t want anything. I’m going to ask you some questions. The lady here is going to listen.”
“It’s been a long time, Ashriel.” He frowned slightly. “You look like shit.”
“I’m not the one in the mac and the flat cap.”
The Angel of St. Paul’s smiled again. This time, he did not remind me of my granddad at all. “Fine words from a vampire’s lapdog.”
Ashriel smiled back. The sort of smile that was all teeth and no warmth. “And there was me wondering why we don’t have these little chats more often. Have you heard anything about a soul box?”
“Why would you want to find one of those?”
“I didn’t say I wanted to find it. I’m just asking if you’ve seen one.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not.” His eyes glinted like light skittering across diamonds. “Why don’t you let the lady speak for herself?”
I had my sanctified steel dagger strapped to my right arm, and I seriously considered pulling it on him. But even if I survived the fight, I didn’t fancy getting done for knifing an old man in the street. “I’m fine.”
“I’m not here to play games,” said Ashriel, with a touch of impatience. “I thought you might know something. I thought if you did, you might tell me. Apparently you’re not going to.”
There was a moment of silence. A strange warmth touched the Angel’s ice-bright eyes. “I would help you, Ashriel, for old time’s sake, but I’m afraid that would involve breaking a promise.”
“Then I guess we’re done.”
“Don’t be a stranger.” He glanced at me. “And if there’s ever anything you desire, you know where I am.”
“Well, that could have gone worse,” said Ashriel, as we walked away.
“True, we didn’t get killed. But we got no useful information whatsoever.”
“That’s not strictly true. I think the Angel would have told me where the box was if he could. Since he didn’t, he probably has a deal with someone involved.”
Huh. “I’m not sure that really helps.”
“Probably not, but it’s always better to know these things.”
We pressed on through the meandering late-afternoon crowds.
“Is there a Plan B?” I asked.
“We’re going to a bookshop.”
“What, and say, ‘Hi, do you have anything on ancient mythical demon boxes?’”
“We’re looking for someone.”
“Are they going to be any more helpful?”
“It’s worth a shot.”
About half an hour later, we found ourselves at Foyles on Charing Cross Road. It did not exactly look like a hive of demonic activity.
I gave Ashriel a sceptical look. “What kind of demon hangs out in a bookshop anyway?”
“A dangerous one. Be careful.”
“Is there anything I shouldn’t say or do?”
“Don’t sleep with her.”
“We’re going to see a succubus who works in a bookshop?”
“Gethsemane isn’t exactly a succubus.”
Inside, it was basically a book temple. The truth is, I’ve never really been a big reader. Patrick lent me his copy of Wuthering Heights once, but I couldn’t really get into it. Sometimes he’d try to talk to me about the book, and I’d just agree with everything he said. I don’t think he ever worked out I hadn’t read it.
We wandered up and down the aisles and went up and down the escalators, which I would have found exciting when I was about four.
“What are we looking for?” I asked, eventually.
“I’ll know when I see it... Wait. There.”
I followed his gaze. We were in that kind of weird crossover section between fantasy, horror, and romance, where it’s all books with swirly writing and flowers on the cover, and half of them have the word night in the title. A strikingly handsome man wearing the world’s most nonthreatening jumper had just caught the eye of the young woman who’d been browsing there.
He gave her a self-deprecating smile. “Hi,” he said, in a voice of sex and chocolate that reminded me of Ashriel’s but about a hundred times more potent. “Sorry to interrupt, but you seem to know a lot more about this than I do.”
She gave him a wary but interested look. If she was thinking it was too good to be true, she was right.
“I’m looking for something for my goddaughter, Isobel. I know she really likes this writer called Lauren Kate, but I think she’s read all her books, so I was wondering if you could point me at something similar.”
The mark guided him over to one of the shelves, and they began talking together in low voices. After a couple of minutes his laughter rang out, sweet as honey. The woman gazed at him, entranced, and when she reached to take a book down from the shelf, he reached up too and his hand brushed hers.
And I felt it from across the room.
There was no way I letting an incubus drag some poor woman off on the first floor of Foyles. I checked my knife was ready to go. It was, but if I couldn’t get away with stabbing someone outside St. Paul’s, I really couldn’t get away with it in a crowded bookstore at four in the afternoon.
There was only one thing for it.
“Kate, don’t—” called Ashriel, behind me.
/> “Darling, there you are,” I cried, as I rushed across the floor towards them. I grabbed the incubus in an enthusiastic embrace. “Oh, and you’ve found a book for Isobel. You’re so clever.”
The woman’s hazy eyes cleared. “Um, sorry.” She backed away quickly. “I should leave you guys to it. I hope your goddaughter likes the book.”
Her footsteps clattered on the wooden floor as she retreated in obvious embarrassment.
The demon turned in my arms, sliding his hands around my waist. His body shifted against me, hard planes and muscle fading into softly curving flesh. “Congratulations,” she murmured, “you have my attention.”
She looked a little bit like Eve, a little bit like Julian, and a little bit like every girl I’ve ever wanted to sleep with but not quite managed to. Her eyes were gold like Ashriel’s, but warmer and deeper, pulling me in like a bottle of bad whiskey.
Note to self: never cockblock a sex demon.
Her hand cupped my cheek, turning my lips up to hers. Sex and promises and forevers came rolling off her like scent. I think she was about to kiss me, and I didn’t care. I wanted her to.
I wanted her to take me away.
She could have me.
She could do anything to me.
It would kill me, but I’d beg her for it.
“Gethsemane.” Ashriel? I had a feeling that was good, but I couldn’t remember why.
I leaned up impatiently and curled my fingers into her upper arms, frantic for her touch.
She sighed, and it rippled over my skin like silk. “I hope this is something interesting, Ashriel, otherwise I’m having your pet for dinner.”
And even though I protested, she stepped away.
Suddenly I remembered who I was, and what I was doing, and my all-important don’t fuck demons rule. I went for my knife and Ashriel’s hand closed over mine.
“Don’t do that either,” he whispered. “You’ve fucked this up enough already.”
I really wanted to pull the knife anyway, but I figured there was no way that could end well, so I stood down.
Gethsemane watched me, looking tauntingly hot, and smirking. “What’s this about?”
“I was wondering,” said Ashriel, “if you’d heard anything about a soul box showing up on the market.”
“I’m not precisely in the mood to help you right now. I’d been after that one for weeks.”
“I don’t suppose ‘sorry’ will cut it?”
“You don’t have anything to apologise for.”
Two pairs of golden eyes looked at me expectantly.
“I’m sorry I stopped you from sucking an innocent woman’s soul out of her body?”
Gethsemane curled her lip. “Don’t be passive-aggressive, darling, it doesn’t suit you.”
She was right. I preferred just plain aggressive.
“Look,” I growled. “You fuck with me, and I’ll fuck with you right back, and I fuck harder than you think.”
Okay, that had sounded better in my head.
She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Careful, you’re almost starting to sound like fun.”
“I promise you, it will not be fun. I don’t like demons, and I don’t like people who fuck with my head, which means I really don’t like you. Tell us what we need to know, and if you’re really, really lucky and I’m feeling really, really generous, I won’t hunt you down and kick you back to hell.”
“Or”—Gethsemane ran the tip of her tongue over her teeth—“I could just kill you now as I originally intended.”
“Can’t we just talk about this?” tried Ashriel.
“Nothing personal, darling.”
Her power hit me again, but I was ready for it this time. I reached out to the Deepwild and the dark places. My mouth flooded with the taste of blood. I smelled damp earth and broken stone. I let the hunt take over.
There were weaker creatures in the paper tomb, but my quarry was a thing of sulphur and shadow. The knife was in my hand. I sprang. We were pressed against a wall of wood. My knife was at her throat, blood black on the blade.
I scented fear, sweet and seductive.
A voice from behind. “Okay, Kate, you’ve made your point.”
And I remembered I was not here for this.
Slowly, I let it slip away. The strength and the hunger and my mother’s kingdom.
“If you wanted it rough,” she gasped, “you only had to ask.”
I shoved the knife hastily back into its sheath. If anyone had noticed and called the cops, I’d be looking at actual jail time for that little stunt. “Do we have a deal?”
“You mean, I tell you what you want to know, and you don’t kill me?”
“Yep.”
She flicked out a fingertip and ran it across my jaw. “You know, I could almost like you, changeling.”
“You’re not my type.”
“Oh, but I am.”
“Cut the banter and the shape-shifting bullshit. Are you going to help us or not?”
“Fine, since you ask so nicely.”
I stepped clear, and her body flickered, flowing into a new form. He was tall and slender, snow-drop pale with a cascade of silver-blond hair and delicate, androgynous features. He shook his head irritably. “Better?”
“Whatever. Now tell us about the soul box.”
“I heard someone pawned one to the Merchant of Dreams a couple of weeks ago. I went along to see if there was anyone interesting in it, but it was empty.”
“There. Was that so difficult?”
He gave a long-suffering sigh. “Can you please go away now? You’re cramping my style.”
“Um, thank you,” added Ashriel.
Gethsemane gave him a look. “Think nothing of it. I do so love meeting new people.”
He sauntered away, hips swaying, hair wafting behind him.
Chapter Seventeen
Shadows & Dreams
Everyone in my line of work knew about the Merchant of Dreams, the mysterious proprietor of the pawnbrokers on Seven Dials where you could buy or sell basically anything. Old jewellery, memories, years of your life, magic-enchanted demon skulls. I’d never been. What can I say? I don’t go in much for retail therapy. I headed down there the next morning, leaving Elise to take care of the office.
The shopfront was that very specific colour of faded green you only ever see on dingy antique stores. If there’d ever been a sign, it was so worn I couldn’t read it. Only the traditional brass balls hanging over the door told you what you were walking into. Even though the shop was open, there was still a metal grille padlocked over the windows. I peered through it at a selection of obscure and dusty artefacts, each accompanied by a neatly handwritten ticket.
Well, there was no point standing outside like an idiot. I pushed open the door and went in.
A narrow aisle led through a labyrinth of teetering merchandise to a glass-fronted cabinet at the back of the shop. Standing behind it was the Merchant of Dreams.
They were small, slight, and angular, dressed in faded black velvet. As I got closer, I realised they were younger than I expected, with tousled just-fucked hair, sharp cheekbones, and thin smiling lips. They watched me through eerie, heterochromatic eyes, one ink-black, one ice-blue.
I was going to go out on a limb and say faery-blooded. “You the Merchant of Dreams?”
“Some people have called me that.” They had a light voice, feminine but slightly husky, with an accent that could have been from anywhere.
“My name’s Kate Kane. I’m a private investigator. I’m looking for a soul box.”
“You have expensive tastes.”
I was getting really sick of people being gnomic at me. “Do you have one?”
“I do.”
“Can I see it?”
They smiled. “Nothing is free,
my dear.”
“You want me to pay you to look at it?”
“I am the Merchant of Dreams. Everything is for sale and nothing is free.”
I sighed. “What do you want?”
“The price is in the paying, not the sum.”
“So, you don’t take credit cards then?”
“Oh no.” They pointed at the card machine that nestled next to the till. “We accept all major credit cards and traveller’s cheques.”
“Fine. Whatever. How much?”
“The price is in the paying, not the sum.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I dragged a tenner out of my wallet and threw it onto the counter. “Will that do?”
They picked it up with long, agile fingers and rang the amount into an old-fashioned cash register. When that was done, they reached under the counter and produced an ornately carved skull, its eye sockets stoppered with smoked glass. I guess one ornately carved skull looks a lot like another, but I checked it against the catalogue photo and they seemed to match. “Who brought this in?”
The Merchant of Dreams smiled at me again. “Nothing is free, my dear.”
I gave them another tenner.
“A young woman who was running away from something.” They shrugged. “About five foot four, dark hair, big eyes, and a fragile look.”
Yep, that sounded like Corin. “Did she hock anything else?”
I was out of notes. I fished a two-pound coin out of the depths of my wallet and slid it across the counter.
“A plaster bust of Napoleon, but that’s not for sale yet.”
I sighed and slapped the last of my change on the counter. “What’s the deal with the bust and what did she trade it for?”
“The bust contains a phial of the Tears of Hypnos, and she pawned it for the sum of one penny.”
That didn’t sound like Corin. She never gave away anything for less than more than it was worth, which meant all she wanted was a safe place to put it. She could have stuck it in a locker or a deposit box, but both of those would have been traceable, and nobody stole from the Merchant of Dreams.
“What the hell are the Tears of Hypnos?”
They just smiled at me.
Shit. “Look, I’m out of cash.”