by Rachel Green
“That’s incredible. You’ve got to translate it for me.” He hesitated. “I’ll pay you, obviously, whatever you want.”
Julie stared at him until he felt uncomfortable under her blank glare. “Anything?”
Harold nodded. “Of course. Just name it.”
Julie nodded and took a deep breath. “It’s not going to be easy. There are some pages in there that don’t want to be read and others that are trying to escape. I’m going to ask for something big.”
“Ask away.” Harold’s fists were clenched tightly.
“I want my sight back.”
* * * *
Felicia dropped the pamphlet she was glancing at when her number was called, the announcer’s voice apparently recorded in a crowded train station with a vaulted roof when two commuter trains had come in. She stepped up to the window.
“Yes?” The woman behind the triple-glazed counter stared at Felicia. “Can I help you?”
“I’ve come for a coroner’s certificate to register the death of my mother.” Felicia blinked in the dim light. Perhaps it was supposed to be soothing, but she felt it was more like the claustrophobic land of the dead. It was appropriate, really.
The woman nodded. “Name?” She opened the top drawer of the filing cabinet.
“Felicia Turling.” Felicia paused. “Sorry, that’s me. I meant, Patricia Turling. She died on Monday.”
The woman turned around. “That’s too soon for a certificate. He won’t have finished with the body yet.”
“There wasn’t a body. She was cremated in a house fire. Not even a scrap of bone left of her.”
“Oh.” The woman paused. “I read about that in the paper. I’m so sorry. You must be devastated.” She turned back to the filing cabinet and extracted a small sheet torn from a pad. “Here it is. Have you any identification?”
Felicia showed her driving license, still with her mother’s address on it and got the certificate without further trouble. She signed the papers and headed outside, where the warm sun on her face instantly buoyed her mood. How, she wondered, did Gillian survive with knowing she could never see the sun again?
For the first time she was grateful to be a werewolf.
Chapter 20
Felicia reached the registrar’s office just as it was about to close. The woman there, more cheerful than the one in the coroner’s office, smiled.
“You were cutting it fine. I was about to lock the doors.”
“Thanks.” Felicia returned the smile. “I need to register the death of my mother.”
“Oh, dear. I’m sorry to hear that.” The woman moved back behind her desk and took out a book of forms in triplicate copies. “Have you got the medical certificate?”
“Here.” Felicia took the coroner’s form from her purse and handed it to her. She sat in front of the desk. Her mother’s death seemed so final in black and white.
“Thank you.” The woman managed to retain a neutral expression as she read it. “If you could give me the time and place of death...”
“Four, Sandringham Crescent. Monday, the fourth of May.” Felicia felt tears threaten as she remembered her mother falling down the stairs and took out a paper tissue. “That was her home. Burnt to the ground now, of course.”
“I’m sorry.” The woman touched her arm. “I’m sorry for asking you a lot of questions too. I know that this must be a difficult time for you.”
Felicia dabbed at her eyes. “That’s all right. Ask away.”
The woman moved on. “Her name and maiden name, please.”
“Patricia Ann Turling, Banks.” Felicia watched her fill in the information and read the next question. “She married Gordon Turling, building engineer, deceased.”
“Thank you, dear.” The woman looked up. “We’ve missed a question out, though. When and where was she born?”
Felicia grimaced. “I don’t know. She never, ever discussed her age or her past, and all the papers were destroyed in the fire. She did mention that she’d watched the London Exhibition go up when she was six, though.”
“What exhibition was that? We could narrow down the place and year.” The woman paused and looked at Felicia expectantly.
“The Great Exhibition. The one at Crystal Palace in eighteen fifty-one.”
* * * *
“Well that was fun.” Felicia threw herself onto the kitchen chair at Harold’s shop.
“Was it?” Jasfoup raised an eyebrow. “What was?”
“Registering Mother’s death.” Felicia grimaced. “That was irony, by the way.”
“Was it?” Jasfoup grinned. “What was?”
“That comment about it being fun.” The suppressed laughter on her sister’s face made her realize the demon was deliberately needling her. “Ooh! That was rotten.”
Jasfoup laughed. “I’m a demon. What do you expect? I’m not the comforting sort.”
“I hope you told them what a cow she was.” Julie gripped Wrack’s tail. At least, Felicia hoped it was a tail. “They ought to pay us for having to deal with it.”
“No, I didn’t. I know you didn’t get on with her, Julie, but I did. Mostly anyway. I’m going to miss her.”
“You’re going to miss the house. It was insured, wasn’t it?”
“I hope so.” Felicia shrugged. “All the paperwork’s gone, of course. I haven’t a clue who she was insured with.”
“I can find out for you.” Jasfoup lifted his cup. “If you make a fresh tea.”
“How? Is there some angel that tracks all that too?”
“I doubt it. I’ll use Harold’s computer to do a search on the address. He’s got more bangs and whistles than any other desktop unit in the country.”
“Bangs, anyway, so I’ve heard.” Julie grinned and sat back rubbing her eyes. “I think my brain is going to explode with all the information I’ve absorbed over the last four hours.”
Jasfoup put his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Go on then. I’ve never seen a brain explode. Not without pumping it full of air, anyway.”
Felicia laughed and got up to make Jasfoup his tea. “It’s just an expression. What have you been learning, Julie?”
“Stuff. Spells.” She concentrated on the kettle in Felicia’s hand. “Watch this.”
The kettle began to boil. “That’s amazing.” Felicia put it down. “I hadn’t even plugged it in.”
“It’s just a matter of using your mind. A bit like jamming a screwdriver into the gap between atoms and twisting.” Julie smiled. “I can do other stuff too. Have you lost anything recently?”
“My mother?” Felicia gave a half-smile. “I don’t think so.”
“I lost my favorite mug.” Jasfoup sat forward. “I put it next to the sink last week and it vanished overnight.”
“Have you got a photograph or drawing of it? A piece of it would be best, but unless you saved a chip...”
“No.” Jasfoup pulled out a notebook. “I could draw it though.” He made a detailed sketch of his missing mug in the style of a Renaissance cartoon, every detail perfect in scale.
“What sort of cat is that?” Felicia pointed at the picture rendered in exquisite detail on the mug.
“An Egyptian Mau. We have some at the manor. You fed them.”
Felicia nodded. “I didn’t know what they were called. You draw beautifully.”
“Thanks.” The demon passed the sketch to Julie. “I was taught by a master.”
Julie closed her eyes and concentrated. “It’s in the dishwasher.”
“The imps ate it?” Jasfoup clicked his fingers. “I’ll eat them.”
“She means the machine for washing dishes.” Felicia opened the front and recognized the mug from his drawing. “Here. All clean.”
Jasfoup looked surprised. “We have a dishwasher?”
“Apparently.” Felicia took the mug back and made his coffee. A thought struck her. “Can you find people as well?”
“I don’t see why not. As long as I have something of the person
to focus on.”
Felicia nodded. “I’ll get back to you on that. I could do with finding the bitch who infected me.” She handed Jasfoup his tea, spilling a little of the scalding brew on his hand. “I’m just going to check the gallery and see if there’s any post.”
She went downstairs with a mug of coffee, delighting in her improved eyesight. Being a werewolf had benefits.
Something was wrong, though. The landscapes on the walls had changed. The vibrant reds of the sunset over the red mountains had muted into grays and blacks, and Felicia could see, quite plainly, the brush marks of an earlier painting on the same canvas. The others had suffered a similar fate. Study of a Woman in Scarlet had become Study of a Woman in Payne’s Gray and the series of delicate pastel watercolors had all but faded into the paper.
“Oh my God!” She stopped at the first painting. “I’ve never going to be able to claim all this on the insurance.”
“All what?” The reek of sulfur announced Devious’s presence. He stood out against the darkness of the shadows as a nightmare in orange and blue.
“All this.” Felicia waved a hand to indicate the gallery. “Someone’s been in and stripped the color off the entire collection.”
Devious sniffed. “They look fine to me. Admittedly, they display a certain naivety that one wouldn’t normally associate with great painting, but they show promise.”
“How would you know? You’re just an imp.” Felicia glared at him.
“Listen, love.” Devious put down the package he was holding and took out a cigarette lighter. He pulled a dog end from behind his ear, lit it and inhaled. “You’re in no position to be speciesist. You’re a werewolf, remember, and while I might not have the bloodlust and the hygiene, I do have a virtually indestructible form and the experience of four hundred years.” He sniffed. “I was also assigned to Billy Hogarth a few years ago, so I know quite a bit about painting, thank you very much.”
“Sorry.” Felicia squatted so she was nearer to his eighteen-inch height. “I had no idea you were so old and experienced.”
Devious took another drag of his cigarette before grinding it out under his hoof. “There’s nothing wrong with your paintings. You’re just seeing with wolf eyes. You’re enhancing the available light and seeing heat and smell instead of color. That’s why all your paintings look gray.”
Felicia felt close to tears. “That’s too high a price to pay.” She choked out the words between sobs. “I’ve lived for art all my life.”
Devious looked anywhere but at her, his gaze flickering across the paintings until he could no longer ignore her sobs. He stretched to touch her cheek with his paw. “There-there. It’s not that bad. Look at me.”
She raised her eyes to meet the imp’s goat-like orbs. “You’re not angry anymore, are you?” Felicia shook her head, seeing the imp not in red and blue, but in his usual browns and grays.
“Look,” he said, sweeping his arm to encompass the gallery. “Let there be color.”
And she looked, and she smiled, and she saw that it was good.
Devious coughed. “Putting the lights on would make them even better.”
Felicia laughed and walked around the empty gallery. “Why is it so empty? I don’t mean today, because I’ve closed for the week. I mean generally. Do people not appreciate art here?”
“Probably.” Devious stared hard at a painting of an angel over a gravestone before turning back to her. “But mostly, I think it’s because these paintings are awful.”
Felicia frowned. “I thought them rather good, actually. A hint of post-modern expressionism in an otherwise classical method.”
“You’re deluding yourself.” Devious pointed to the angel. “Look. This geezer has painted a statue of an angel. A statue, I might add, that was carved by an apprentice stonemason called Charlie Wright in eighteen seventy-four, and despite the fact he’s drawing an immobile object, he still can’t do hands.” He snorted. “What do they teach them in art schools these days? Too much time thinking about computers and boobies and not enough solid graft in the life drawing studio.”
Felicia shrugged. “Modern art is about ideas and concepts, not technique. If you want technique you can look at the National Gallery.”
“All I want is a piece painted with skill. Is that too much to ask?”
“All I want is more coffee. All this excitement has made me miss lunch.”
“Sorry.” Devious picked up the packet he’d brought with him. “I brought you this. Fetch.” He threw it toward her and she caught it, sending him a glare in return.
“What is it?” she asked, opening the bag. She almost wished she hadn’t.
“Tripe.”
* * * *
Jasfoup tapped the details into the search engine, turning on the security icebreaker installed at considerable expense by Backdoor Harry. Generally, demons were happy to use technology but had no idea how it worked. Jasfoup was an exception and prided himself on his skill with the machines. He had taken a week-long course about computer viruses recently. Now he knew how to make them untraceable.
It took him just over three minutes to not only find all the information on Felicia’s mother’s insurance, but also to file a claim on her behalf. He also found details of a savings plan which made him laugh aloud and hit the print button.
* * * *
Felicia looked through the latest exhibition applications and handed one packet to Devious, who was building a tower from gallery postcards. “Who is that addressed to?”
He held the padded envelope up to the light. “The gallery director, why?”
“Because it also says ‘Ms. F. Turling’ in washed-off blood. I can smell it.” Felicia took the packet back and tipped out the disk, sliding it into her computer.
Devious chuckled. “I think you’re taking this werewolf lark a bit far.”
A series of paintings flashed past on the screen, leaving an impression of teeth and claws and blood spattered across the floor of a white-painted room. The images were followed by a cut to a woman with such impossibly blue eyes that they had to be contact lenses as she explained each painting in detail.
“That’s her! That’s the woman who bit me in the night club last week.” She grabbed the packet from the table and looked for the return address.
“She’s your sire, is she?” Devious looked closer on the screen. “I can see why you went for her. She’s a bit tasty. I don’t know what she saw in you, though.”
“Thanks a lot.” Felicia tore the paper. “There’s no address.”
“What exactly do you want to do? It’s not like you can make her take it back. She’s probably unaware she passed the virus on in the first place.”
“I don’t know.” Felicia ejected the disk. “I just want to find out things, I suppose.”
“Such as?” Devious returned to his house of postcards.
Felicia shrugged. “Why me?”
“Why didn’t she practice safe sex?” Devious raised an eyebrow.
“How to cope with being a werewolf?”
“What’s the best razor for women?”
“What diet should I follow?”
“Whether you can get a two-for-one discount at the Poodle Parlor?” Devious ducked the punch and laughed.
Chapter 21
Felicia paused the presentation at the sound of Harold’s voice.
“Felicia? It’s six o’clock. I’m about to lock up. Are you coming?”
Felicia came out of her office, Devious on her shoulder. Harold was a silhouette on the stairs to the bookshop. “I didn’t notice the time. I’ve been reviewing gallery submissions.”
“No problem.” Harold waited for her to lock the office door and come over. “Jasfoup and I think you ought to stay at the manor for a while. Just until all this is sorted out. It’s not safe for you to be out without backup.”
“Are you sure?” Felicia touched his arm. “It’s kind of you to offer. Have you got room?”
Harold laughed. “You’ve
seen the house. There are forty rooms free. You’re welcome.”
“I don’t want to bring the trouble to your doorstep, though.” Felicia followed him up the stairs and locked the door that connected the shop to the gallery.
“You heard Jasfoup. Trouble’s coming, whether you’re there or not. I’m on the list as well. At least if you’re at the manor, we’re not splitting our resources between two places, and besides, the house has wards.”
“Wards?” Felicia paused. “Like a hospital?”
“Defenses.” Harold paused. “They don’t exist in the physical world but slam into one in the spiritual and you’ll regret it. It’s like having your soul cheese-grated.”
Felicia turned her nose up. “That doesn’t sound very pleasant. How do I know where they are?”
Harold shrugged. “You don’t need to. They won’t affect you because you’re not of the elohim.”
“The what?”
“The elohim. The angelic choir.” Harold led the way to the kitchen where Jasfoup and Julie were waiting. Julie had wrapped the book up in brown paper and was holding it under her arm. “You’re nephilim, eternally barred from Heaven, so the house wards wouldn’t touch you.” He picked up his keys from the kitchen table. “You didn’t feel that, did you?”
“Feel what?” Felicia reached out to squeeze her sister’s arm.
“The ward we just walked through.” Harold grinned. “The one in the kitchen here is very similar to the one at the house.” He looked at Jasfoup. “Would you escort the ladies through the front of the shop?”
“Sure.” Jasfoup held out his arms to usher them out. “This way, please.”
“Why do we have to go to out through the front doors?” Felicia asked. “We’re standing right by the back one.”
“There’s another ward on the back door. One less forgiving. Only Jasfoup and I can go through the back door without tripping the sanguination trap.”
Felicia gulped. “Why didn’t you warn me about that? I could have tripped it inadvertently.”
