by Helen Harper
The producer glides away as the music fades. Joyce and Jim turn towards me, their wide-mouthed grins broad and fixed.
‘Ladies and gentleman, we are thrilled to welcome our first guest for the day. She was captured on camera saving the life of a woman during the recent terrorist attack on the esteemed Agathos court. And even though she’s a vampire, she’s assured us that she will keep those lethal fangs of hers safely hidden away this morning! Welcome to the Red Angel, Miss Bo Blackman.’
There’s a smattering of backstage applause. I smile weakly. ‘Hi.’
‘So,’ Jim booms, ‘how does it feel to be a real-life hero?’
I stare at him. My tongue has clawed itself to the roof of my mouth and my mind is utterly blank. ‘Uh…’ I stammer.
Joyce steps in smoothly to cover my sudden inability to speak. ‘We really are so lucky to have you here. Why don’t we see that footage first before we start the interrogation?’ Her eyes are kind but that doesn’t stop my nausea.
‘Let’s!’ Jim agrees, turning towards a screen. Images appear of my stooped figure carrying Meg, the Agathos court receptionist, away from the inferno in the building.
Jim hisses at me under his breath, ‘What the hell’s wrong with you?’
I turn to the bank of cameras as if they can help me. The smoker nods encouragingly. I glance to his left and see that Marcus Lanscombe has joined us while he waits for his turn to shine. The banker’s oily amusement at my obvious fear does the trick. Something in my belly hardens and, as the footage ends and the camera turns back to me, I find my voice. Anything to avoid that wanker feeling superior.
‘It seems strange looking back at it,’ I admit, with a girlish giggle to hide the tremor in my voice. ‘At the time I didn’t realise I was being filmed. I was just focused on getting everyone out of the building as quickly as possible.’
Joyce, palpably relieved that I’ve recovered the power of speech, beams. ‘Yes, because after you rescued that woman, you went back in, didn’t you?’
‘I only did what anyone would,’ I answer meekly.
‘I’m sure that’s not true.’
‘I was in the right place at the right time,’ I say. ‘But I know for a fact that any vampire would have done the same in my position.’
Jim leans forward. ‘But fire can still kill a bloodguzzler…’ He clamps a hand to his mouth for a second. ‘I’m sorry. I mean vampire, of course.’
‘You can call me bloodguzzler.’ I grin, even though his embarrassment is obviously a calculated gesture. ‘I don’t mind. And, you’re right: vampires aren’t immortal like some people think. We live longer and we are stronger than humans but we still die. Just a few days ago, one of my colleagues was almost flattened by a bus while trying to rescue a boy who’d run out in front of it. If he’d been hit, then he wouldn’t still be with us.’
‘This is one of your colleagues at New Order? The firm that’s been described as a conduit between the Families and us humans?’
I nod. ‘Yes. We started out with a few of us from the Montserrat Family.’ I gesture down at my suit to draw attention to its colour. ‘Now we have investigators from Gully, Bancroft and Stuart as well.’
‘But not Medici?’ Jim probes.
I smile pleasantly. ‘Not right now.’ Dahlia doesn’t count – at least not as far as I’m concerned.
‘It’s fascinating that all this began with one severed ear. Do we have a picture of it?’
The screen next to us dutifully flashes up the shrivelled piece of flesh. The ruby is still there, winking away in the dark lobe. Both Jim and Joyce shudder.
‘That’s the one,’ I say calmly. ‘The presence of the ruby suggests it belonged to Tobias Renfrew, the billionaire who disappeared back in the Sixties, but DNA testing has proved otherwise. However we believe it was because the ear was at the Agathos court that the terrorists attacked.’ And tried to kill Rogu3 too, although I refrain from bringing him into the conversation.
‘And these terrorists? The police know they are in Venezuela which has no extradition treaty with the United Kingdom?’
‘Yes, a few of them are definitely there. Probably not the ones who were in charge, though. We’re still looking for them.’
‘Have you had any luck?’
I open my mouth to answer him when a sudden shriek pierces the room. Joyce jerks her chin up in confusion while Jim freezes. Clearly screams don’t often interrupt the show.
‘Kakos daemon!’ someone yells.
I spring to my feet. Well, it’s one way to get out of an awkward interview but I’m not sure I’d have wished for a Kakos daemon to appear. Of all the tribers in the world, they’re the most dangerous and the most unpredictable. Most people don’t survive encounters with them. Fortunately, I’m not most people. I may not have the strength to match one but I do have a fairly good idea of what to expect. Though it makes no sense for one to show randomly up on early morning breakfast television.
I lunge forward, grabbing Jim with one hand and Joyce with the other and push them behind me. ‘Get out of here,’ I snarl. ‘Get everyone out of here!’
For a second no one reacts. Then a door to the far right of the studio slams open and a huge shadowy figure appears. People scatter. I empty my mind of every coherent thought and start counting. As I discovered not long ago, Kakos daemons possess the unpleasant ability to mind-read. As long as I can keep my counting at the forefront of my thoughts, the daemon won’t know what I’m going to do next.
I search around for a weapon. This is daytime television though – the set is hardly teeming with useful items. In the end, I snatch a boom mike from above the sofas.
The daemon glides into the room. I can’t see its face, which is obscured by a samurai-style helmet, but its head twists from side to side as if it’s searching for something. From its size, it’s definitely Kakos. When its gaze lands on me, ice slides through my veins – but it’s still less scary than Joyce and Jim.
There’s a squeak from the opposite side of the room. The daemon turns to look. I don’t bother; my attention is focused on it. If I can keep it occupied long enough for everyone to get out of the building, I’ll deem this a success. I’ll probably get my heart eaten in the process. With any luck, the cameras won’t still be rolling.
Even though I’m the only one not hiding, the damn thing decides to leave me alone for now and focus on whoever is in the corner. It marches forward as two pale faces bob up from behind some fragile wooden crates. I recognise Lanscombe and my Samaritan smoker. Bugger it.
Gripping the boom in my hands, I race forward to intercept the daemon. Before I can take a swing, however, it casually thrusts out one arm. Its large hand slams into my chest, knocking me backwards. Winded, although oddly not in pain, I leap to my feet but it’s too late. The daemon has already kicked away the crates and is lifting Lanscombe up by his throat. It drags him over to the nearest sofa; I catch a glimpse of its black, glittering eyes.
‘Let me go!’ Lanscombe stutters. ‘I’ll give you money! Girls! Anything!’
The daemon throws back its head and laughs. Then it thrusts its free hand into his chest. Blood spurts everywhere, decorating the cream sofa with vivid splashes of red. Lanscombe’s body slumps forward. Still counting, I rush at the daemon again.
I know I need to keep well out of the way of those powerful hands. My palms are sweaty and it’s difficult to maintain my grip on the mike but I swing it as hard as I can. This time I catch the daemon on the side of its head.
It roars in pain and spins round in my direction. Out of the corner of my eye, I spy the smoker scrambling to his feet. He looks anxiously in my direction as if he wants to help. I shake my head. Thankfully, he takes my advice and decides to run for the nearest door instead. It clangs shut behind him.
Now it’s just me and the daemon. Sirens are screaming outside as the emergency services arrive, but it’ll all be over by the time they get up to this floor.
I swallow hard. ‘Come on then.’
>
It rushes me, head down and body barrelling into mine. We both fall backwards and I’m forced to drop the mike. The daemon curls one steel arm round my waist and lifts me up into the air like I’m nothing more than a rag doll. Its grip is so tight that I have no room to manoeuvre. All it needs to do is fling me against the wall and I’ll be out for the count.
Instead, the daemon adjusts its hold slightly and throws me in the opposite direction so that I land on the cushioned sofa. It could have killed me by now. The damn thing is playing with me, like a cat would with a mouse. It’s galling but it might give me enough wiggle room to get away.
I jump to my feet and elongate my fangs. Most tribers would see this as a sign of aggression and flee. Unfortunately, this is a Kakos daemon. I can’t see its expression but I have the feeling that it’s grinning at me. Leaping upwards, I throw a scissor kick. It’s only meant as a feint to put me in a better position but, much to my surprise, my feet smash into its chest and it staggers back. I take advantage of the situation and launch a series of fast punches at its exposed neck. It moves further back until we’re beyond the now useless cameras. There’s a faint snarl from underneath the helmet and it abruptly vaults upwards, landing behind me and between the two couches. It doesn’t so much as look at Lanscombe’s corpse.
I glance fleetingly to my left. The light on one of the cameras is blinking green. That means it’s still broadcasting live – and for some reason the daemon wants this to be filmed. I grit my teeth. It’s not merely playing with me, it’s playing for the millions of people watching. I’m not in the mood for that kind of show.
I shuffle back, swiftly yanking up a length of electrical cord. It will serve two purposes. I sprint forward before the daemon can stop me, using the edge of the nearest sofa as a step so I can fling my body upwards. Then I loop the cord round the daemon’s neck and twist it hard. I kick it in the stomach, forcing it to stumble backwards so that the cord is pulled tight.
It’s not enough. I launch myself at its body as it makes a choking noise. Its fingers claw at its neck but it’s too late – the plug behind us pulls out of the socket, the sudden movement making the daemon crash down. I reach down and wind the loose cord round my hands.
‘You’re not being filmed now, you bastard!’ I sneer, as I pull it upwards to try and choke it to death.
The daemon’s deep black eyes regard me steadily then it simply yanks the cord apart, freeing itself from the binds. My stomach drops. I toss the useless wire to one side and back away as it gets to its feet. It shakes its head then, with both hands, grabs its helmet and slides it off.
‘Not bad,’ X says mildly. ‘Although I think we could have dragged it out for longer.’
I gape. ‘What…?’
He laughs. ‘Come on, Bo. You didn’t really think you’d be able to fight a Kakos daemon, did you? Even with all that ridiculous counting, I still knew what you were going to do before you did.’
‘But you … you...’
‘Me.’ He smiles lazily.
‘Why?’ I gasp. ‘Why would you do this? I thought we had an understanding.’
‘But we do.’ He throws the helmet to one side and takes a moment or two to adjust his hair. ‘I hate hat hair, don’t you?’ he murmurs. He registers my open-mouthed horror and sighs as if I’m an idiot. ‘I am trying to help,’ he says calmly.
‘Help?’ I shriek. ‘Help how? I might not have wanted to be on television but bringing the place down around our ears and killing someone is hardly helping!’
‘The camera was recording,’ he says mildly. ‘Now the whole world will have even more reason to believe that you’re a national hero. What’s the term I should use?’ He frowns. ‘Kickass?’
‘You’re crazy,’ I whisper.
X looks at me with derision. ‘I have plans for you. I need you to be a hero, Bo. I need the world to believe you’re a hero. And what better way to achieve it than by having you beat up a Kakos daemon live on TV?’
I drop my head and look into Lanscombe’s dead, staring eyes. ‘You killed someone. You actually killed someone for a bit of fucking PR!’
X shrugs. ‘He deserved it. Check his dressing room.’
I back further away. ‘You’re nuts.’
‘No I’m not.’ He half smiles. ‘You’ll understand later when I ask you for that favour you still owe me.’
‘Stay away from me, you freak!’
He tuts. ‘And to think you were once so terrified in my presence that you could barely speak.’ Before I can react, he steps over and chucks me under the chin. ‘Now you’re nearly all grown up.’
I jerk away, folding my arms across my chest. X leans his head to one side as if listening. ‘Interesting,’ he murmurs. He raises his eyebrows in my direction. ‘I should go. Tell them that you stabbed me in the chest and I disintegrated.’
‘Huh?’ I stare at him stupidly.
He reaches into his inside pocket and takes out a baggie filled with what looks like ash. He tips it onto the floor and points down. ‘Me.’
‘You’re a homicidal maniac! You need to be stopped!’ There’s an edge of hysteria in my tone.
‘Suggesting that I’m still alive will serve no purpose, Bo. Even if you want it to happen, I can’t be caught.’
‘You’re a visible face. You work for Streets of Fire. And you’ve been seen at the Agathos Court.’
‘Not me, my alter ego.’ He smiles. ‘Tell the public who I really am and all you’ll do is create a panic. They’ll imagine Kakos daemons hiding round every corner. If you want more blood in the streets, then go for it. But do nothing and I will stay out of the way – for now.’ He takes my hands and I can’t suppress a shudder. ‘Do the smart thing.’ He leans over and pecks me on the cheek. Then he’s gone.
It’s pointless but I still crouch down and check on Lanscombe. I’m closing his eyes when the door bursts open and Michael’s familiar figure appears. He runs forward and envelops me in a hug, squeezing me so tightly that it feels as if my ribs are about to crack.
‘Uh, Michael? Can you let me go?’ I squeak.
He releases me and pulls away. ‘I was watching. I thought…’ His voice trails away and he scans my face. ‘Are you alright? Where’s the daemon?’
‘Gone,’ I mutter.
‘Where?’
I desperately want to tell him the truth but I meet his anxious eyes and know I can’t. If I do, he’ll launch into a full-blown daemon hunt. Even with every Family behind him, X still might win. Kakos daemons are too damn strong. I swallow hard, inwardly praying for forgiveness for the lie. Then I point down at the tiny mountain of ash.
Michael follows my finger and pales. ‘You killed him?’
I shrug uneasily. Fortunately, he doesn’t notice as he bends down to inspect the ash. ‘No one’s ever done that,’ he mutters. ‘Not on their own.’
‘I got lucky,’ I say. Bile rises in my throat and I realise I’m about to retch. I rush out of the studio and down the empty corridor, flinging myself into the nearest bathroom. I only just reach the toilet in time.
When I’m done, I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand. Michael, who was enough a gentleman to keep back until I’d recovered, puts an arm round my shoulder and gently brushes away the tendrils of sweat-dampened hair. ‘You’re a hero, Bo,’ he whispers.
I squeeze my eyes shut. No, I’m not. I’m just a fucking liar.
There’s a sudden thud from nearby and my eyes fly open. I stare at Michael. ‘Stay here,’ he says grimly, turning on his heel.
There’s no way I’m about to do that. I follow him as he edges down the corridor. When he reaches a door with a paper sign proclaiming ‘Marcus Lanscombe’, he puts his ear against it. He looks at me and nods. I bite my lip.
Michael steps back and I tense my muscles. When he kicks open the door, I’m right by his side. Rather than leaping in, however, his body relaxes. I peer round his muscular frame. Hiding behind a clothes rack is a young girl.
I gently nudge Michael out o
f the way. ‘Hello,’ I say softly. ‘It’s OK. You’re safe now.’
For a moment I don’t think she’s going to move, then she stands up shakily. I realise she’s painfully young – probably not much older than Rogu3. There’s a purple bruise across her cheek. Marcus fucking Lanscombe. X was right. I experience a brief flicker of satisfaction at the fact that he won’t hurt her – or anyone like her – again before my fingers fumble in my pocket and I squeeze my little white pebble. I tell myself that Lanscombe deserved to be put in prison, not killed.
As I reach for her, there’s the sound of heavy footsteps and hushed voices outside. The girl flinches.
‘Cavalry’s arrived,’ Michael says softly.
CHAPTER TWO: Spiking your Drinks
I had initially planned to make my way home via London’s underground network. In the end, I spend so long going over my story with the police and Special Branch officers, not to mention being thanked a million times by every damn person in the building from Joyce and Jim to the tea lady, that there’s no need to bother – it’s already dark again by the time I leave. Michael vanished hours earlier, his dark eyes glittering in my direction as he gestured goodbye.
I sidle out of the back exit to avoid facing the gauntlet of flashing cameras and shouting journalists. Connor is already there, seated on my motorbike. He holds out his wrist. ‘I know you’re drinking from others these days but I thought you might be hungry.’
I beam at him in gratitude. ‘Thank you, Connor. You’re amazing.’
The tips of his ears turn pink. ‘I’m glad you’re alright, Bo. Taking down a Kakos daemon like that…’ He whistles.
I try to smile then take his proffered hand and sink my teeth into his vein to avoid responding further. The familiar taste of his blood helps to soothe me. When we’re done, we switch positions on the bike and drive to the office in Covent Garden. There is a line of journalists here too. My heart sinks.
‘I can take you back to my place,’ Connor offers.
I sigh and push back my hair. ‘No. I’m going to have to face them. If I give them what they want now, they’ll leave me alone later.’