“You prey on us. You kill us for our blood. You can see how we might have formed the view that you’re not very nice,” said Redlaw.
She grinned, and her fangs were the sharpest and most even that Redlaw could recall ever laying eyes on. Not a tangled snaggle of teeth but a neat array, like spears in a rack or knives in a drawer.
This wasn’t Sunless. This was something else, a whole other order of the species, a different class.
“I am,” she said, “Illyria Strakosha. And the answer to the question your eyes are asking, and your stumbling tongue is not, is that I am a vampire but not merely that. I share many of the traits and characteristics of my vampire cousins, but I am of a special bloodline, as it were. There are few of us. Very few.”
“Shtriga.” It had swum up from the depths of memory. “But shtrigas are—”
“A myth? And vampires aren’t?”
“I take your point.”
“And before you say it, no, we do not feed on the blood of infants. That is a myth. A scurrilous slander that was put about by certain vampires to foster resentment against us. Hatred of the more powerful is common in all walks of life.”
“And non-life.”
“Indeed. So, having satisfied your curiosity, I would now ask you to satisfy mine. Why are you here? Why do you wish to see me?”
“For the sparkling repartee, of course,” Redlaw said evenly. “When we met last night, something clicked between us. Didn’t you feel it too?”
Next thing Redlaw knew, he was bent painfully backwards over the concrete parapet, Illyria’s fists bunching the material of his coat. He was accustomed to how quickly vampires could move, but this hadn’t been just fast. It had been lightning.
Eleven storeys’ worth of freefall yawned beneath him, and Illyria was both pushing him over and supporting him. The edge of the parapet bit into his lower spine. He was almost upended. If she let go, there would be nothing he could do except plummet.
“Mockery,” she said. “Not a wise course of action, I think you’ll find, Redlaw. I have a very low tolerance for disrespect.”
Redlaw, in response, tugged his crucifix free from inside his shirt, at the same time latching firmly onto her wrist with his other hand.
“How’s your tolerance for this?”
He expected her to recoil, and in recoiling pull him back onto the balcony. Instead, Illyria just looked at the crucifix and laughed, merrily, scornfully.
“A small piece of wood on a chain?”
“It represents the Holy Cross on which our Redeemer suffered and died,” Redlaw said. “It is a constant reminder of the grace of God, through which even the most sinful may be saved. It is hope in the shadows, a beacon in the dark. It is the promise of resurrection and the life eternal.”
“Right you are, Redlaw.”
“It is not just a small piece of wood.”
“If you insist.”
With an abrupt, effortless motion Illyria drew him up so that he was standing on the balcony once more. The blood rushed from his head and he teetered. Shock set in, belatedly. The balcony seemed unsteady beneath his feet. He waited for the shaking to pass.
“I do not share all the frailties of a vampire,” Illyria told him. “I am superior in almost every way. And now that we have established this, I will ask you politely, for the last time, what is it you want? What brings you to the ghetto on such a dismal night?”
“Because there was a riot in this ghetto,” said Redlaw, “and I want to know what caused it.”
“You know what caused it,” Illyria said. “Vampires went mad for blood. Their primal urges came out. They could not control themselves.”
“Did you witness the events yourself?”
“I did not. I choose not to stand in line to have my sustenance handed out to me. I send others to fetch my share.”
“Handy. You run a little gang in this building here, then?”
“I have... followers. Loyal associates. Livingstone Heights is exclusively ours.”
“Your own turf. A ghetto within a ghetto.”
“Should you be saying ‘ghetto’ so much?”
“You used it first,” Redlaw said. “I reckoned that gave me the green light.”
“You would be censured for it, if one of your colleagues or a member of the public heard.”
“Report me to Commodore Macarthur. See if she gives a damn.” Actually, in light of her current attitude towards him, she probably would. It might even be the final straw for his career. Not that Redlaw cared.
Illyria appraised him with haughty curiosity and, he thought, a hint of wry amusement.
“You feel there was more to the riot?” she said.
“I feel there have been too many incidents like it in recent weeks,” Redlaw said. “This year so far, to April, at least two major breaches of the peace have occurred in each of the main inner-city SRAs, and countless minor ones. Last year, guess how many there were? Five. In the entire country. Almost all of the outbreaks of violence have been centred around the blood deliveries. That means something, although I’m not sure what.”
“Maybe it means vampires are not content to drink cattle blood.”
“That did cross my mind. It’s supposed to be an acceptable substitute for your preferred diet. Is it?”
“It will do,” Illyria said after a pause for thought. “It certainly slakes the thirst and keeps the agonies at bay.”
“The agonies of having nothing to drink?”
“It’s a need, Redlaw. You must understand this. It isn’t just about filling our bellies. We suffer a compulsion. We must drink. If we do not... To go without blood for any length of time is to crawl through Hell with a thousand devils pricking you with their goads.”
“Good practice for the real thing.”
“Am I destined for Hell?” She seemed tickled by the idea. “Perhaps so. If one believes in such things.”
Redlaw decided he wouldn’t be drawn into that argument. Not with a Sunless, or even a shtriga.
“Cattle blood isn’t good enough, that’s what you’re saying. It doesn’t quite hit the spot.”
“It sends the pain away, but not entirely, not in the way human blood does. A gnawing ache remains even after one has had one’s fill. We accept the cow blood. Tolerate it. It’s given to us, on a plate as it were, sparing us the effort of having to hunt. We take it because it’s on offer. I cannot claim, however, that anyone truly relishes it.”
“Heroin addict forced onto methadone.”
“I have no experience of drugs, but I imagine that is a fair comparison.”
“So when a shipment comes in, ’Lesses fall on it, consume it, then get peeved because it isn’t human? That seems a little, well, feeble. They know it’s from cattle. So what are they expecting? That one day, magically, it won’t be?”
“I agree. It isn’t in itself a reason to go berserk. But perhaps there are other considerations. Dwelling in one of these places, for example.” Illyria waved, straight-armed, to indicate the SRA. “Confined in one area. No freedom. A city full of potential prey, and no liberty to go out and stalk and slay. Everything instinct demands is forbidden. It’s a recipe for insanity, eh what?”
“So we’ll let you all out.” Redlaw made an expansive gesture. “Why not? That’d be a great idea. Off you go. Have fun. Run rampant. Fill your boots.”
“Sarcasm, Redlaw,” Illyria said, “is as offensive to me as mockery. Watch your tongue, or I shall rip it clean out of your mouth.”
“I was aiming for irony.”
“Irony is simply sarcasm in formal dress, and no less deserving of contempt and punishment.”
Illyria Strakosha was, Redlaw thought, a very touchy individual. This being his first encounter with a shtriga, he wondered if all of them were so sensitive.
“I still have this feeling that it’s the blood that’s key to this,” he said. “The correlation seems too clear cut. Delivery, then riot.”
“And I’m inclined to agree with yo
u,” said Illyria.
“In which case, would you help me?”
Those eyes—pitilessly, unfathomably dark—bored into his. “Help you? Why ever would I wish to help the Night Brigade? You people are our sworn enemy.”
“That’s putting it strongly. We have a responsibility to safeguard our kind from your kind. That doesn’t make us your enemy.”
“It hardly makes you our friend.”
“I’m not asking you to swap sides, Ms Strakosha. Nor am I after some form of alliance. You need to realise that the riots are causing widespread unease. Last night’s especially, with those two men dying. Having Sunless among us is a source of tension in itself. Having restless, angry Sunless among us is bound to make matters worse—for you.”
“You’re appealing to my own interests.”
“Absolutely I am. If I can get to the bottom of what’s going on, it could save you ’Lesses a whole heap of trouble. Because, mark my words, trouble is what’s coming your way if the situation continues to worsen. There’s going to be a backlash, a crackdown of some sort. You know this as surely as I do.” He was laying it on thick, exaggerating for effect, although nothing he said seemed unlikely. “People aren’t going to let vampires think they can kick up a fuss any time they feel like it. They won’t stand for it. You might find SHADE officers being sent in here to bash down doors and pump residents full of ash wood, simply to make a point. I really don’t think you’d want that, would you? Not least because, with me in charge, this is the first address I’d direct my officers to.”
“So it’s threats, is it?”
“Your own interests, like I said. That’s all.”
Illyria nodded, giving the matter some thought.
“Perhaps,” she said at last, “I could make a few enquiries. Grigori, for instance, would be somewhere to start. He was present at the riot.”
“Grigori would’ve been my first suggestion,” said Redlaw.
“If I come up with anything...”
“I’ll drop by in the next couple of days. Do your best. I’d regard it as a personal favour.”
“Oh, such an attractive proposition—to have the mighty John Redlaw indebted to me.”
Redlaw half smiled. “Sarcasm?”
“I was aiming for irony,” Illyria replied.
“Lucky for you I’m not as judgemental as you are.” He turned towards the balcony door. “Tell your underlings to let me leave now, please.”
“He’s coming through,” she called out, and the door unlocked and swung inward. “Until we meet again, old bean. This has been... entertaining.”
“Not for me,” Redlaw said, with a grimace.
Illyria was no longer on the balcony as he walked away from the building buttoning his weapons vest back on.
It puzzled him that he had looked up to check whether she was.
Annoyed him, too.
CHAPTER SIX
“I was rather hoping we could settle this like gentlemen,” said Slocock to Wax. “You know, come to an arrangement over subsidised G and T’s in the Strangers Bar. Thrash out a deal without one or other of us resorting to bodyline bowling.”
“It’s midday,” Wax said. “I never drink before evening. I have standards.”
“Then we’ll just have to do it sober in this ratty little office of yours. Funny, I thought Cabinet ministers got grander cubbyholes to work in than the rest of us.”
“The senior ones do. Sunless Affairs is very much a junior post.”
“Ah well. Decent view, though. Way better than mine.”
The Thames stretched outside the narrow windows, with Lambeth Palace and the London Eye dominating the opposite bank. A rubbish barge was chuntering by along the turbulent brown water, taking its cargo to some recycling centre, or to a dumping ground in the North Sea—Slocock didn’t much care which.
“So, I’ve asked you nicely, Maurice,” he said.
“And I’ve told you that Nathaniel Lambourne can go hang,” came the reply. “I turned him down in person. I’m hardly going to shift my position when his errand monkey comes calling, now am I?”
Errand monkey. Slocock swallowed the insult, making one last effort to remain civil. “It could be the shrewdest move of your entire political career, you realise that, don’t you? The kind of decision that makes a media darling out of someone who’s—well, no offence, a dull and not especially loved MP. The kind that puts a chap in line for the highest of high office.”
A glint came and went in Wax’s eyes, like a torch flash in the dark. This was not a rare sight in Westminster. Some hid the ambition better than others, but everyone had it.
“Be that as it may, I simply can’t go along with what Lambourne is proposing. It’s a step too far. I can’t offer official government approval.”
“Why not? It promises to resolve the Sunless situation more conclusively than anyone’s managed so far.”
“But the ramifications... the possible repercussions...”
“What are you scared of? A few hand-wringing liberals? A bleating editorial in the Guardian? Trust me, the general public will be overwhelmingly on your side. It could even swing the election in Labour’s favour, which, let’s face it, would be nothing short of a miracle.”
Wax fixed Slocock with the only kind of smile he knew how to give: wan and fleeting. “Surely you want your lot at the wheel next time round.”
Slocock blew out his cheeks noncommittally. “Frankly it doesn’t bother me. I find MP-ing pretty boring, as a matter of fact. I thought it would be fun helping run the country, the thrill of power and all that, but mostly what it involves is endless committee meetings, late-night sittings that go on ad nauseam, and hours spent in my surgery listening to constituents whinge on. Opposition, government, what difference does it make? I’d still have to do the same sort of shit either way. I might not even stand for re-election come October. I’ve other irons in the fire. Plenty more fish to fry.”
“Pick your cliché,” said Wax dryly. “The fact is, Slocock, I couldn’t sell Lambourne’s master plan to the PM even if I wanted to. He just wouldn’t wear it. He’s a man of high moral fibre and a statesman well aware of his standing on the international stage.”
“The Prime Minister can be made to see sense. Anyone can.” Slocock’s expression tightened. “It just takes the right application of pressure.”
“Oh, and is that how you’re intending to make me see sense?” Wax sat back in his chair, folding his arms. “You can try.”
“It needn’t have come to this, Maurice. Let’s be clear about that. You’ve brought this on yourself.”
“What’s it going to be? Bribery? I know Lambourne’s pockets are deep. I’d be curious to see how deep—not that I can be bought, at any price.”
“No, you can’t. I’m not even going to waste my time waving money about.”
“Blackmail, then. Yes?”
“Afraid so.”
“You have nothing on me. No one does.”
Slocock had to admit, Wax had a hell of a poker face. The man could bluff for England.
The trouble was, everybody had some sort of secret they didn’t want the world to know. There wasn’t a person alive you couldn’t get dirt on if you looked hard enough and dug deep enough. Nathaniel Lambourne had the resources and the wherewithal to winkle out the ugly truths and bring them squirming into the light. He’d prepared a dossier on Wax months ago. It was part of an arsenal of precision-targeted blackmail weapons aimed at all of the nation’s great and good, which he stockpiled in case of need. The contents of the Wax file had been delivered to Slocock’s door that very morning by courier in a card envelope. Slocock now produced the envelope and fished out a four-gigabyte memory stick from within.
“It seems,” he said, “that Maurice Wax, Member of Parliament for Washington and Sunderland West, has a very seamy side to his life.”
Wax’s naturally grey complexion greyed just a fraction further.
“I’ve watched the footage myself.” Sloco
ck winced. “Fair put me off my breakfast, I can tell you.”
“There’s nothing,” Wax said. “Nothing on there.”
“Really? Then you wouldn’t mind me running off a copy and sending it to the Daily Mail.”
“You’re lying. This is a barefaced bluff.”
“How do you know I’m lying?
“Because...”
“Because there aren’t video cameras at Mistress Sterne’s Parlour of Correction just round the corner from Tooting Broadway? Well, none that you know of. But Mistress Sterne, a.k.a. Nadine Blevins, is not a stupid woman. She takes covert film of all her clients, especially the high-profile ones. Insurance policy; you’re not going to get prosecuted if you have images of girls tying up and whipping high court judges and top-ranking cops safely stored on a hard drive in a lockup somewhere. It’s how she’s managed to survive several busts for pandering and keeping a house of ill repute. And you, Maurice, are a regular visitor to her rather bijou terraced property, so there are plenty of shots of you here in all sorts of compromising positions.” He waggled the memory stick. “Gimp masks and ball gags and butt plugs—oh my.”
Now Wax’s face had taken on a ghastly sheen of desperation.
“What would the lovely Anthea say?” Slocock went on. “And young Philip, and little Sandra.”
“Shauna,” Wax said numbly.
“Shauna. How do you think they would react seeing your saggy white behind on Newsnight? Bit of a shock, I’d have thought. Hubby, daddy, seemed such an upright man, but all along, this fetish, this perversion he was harbouring. Your ‘vampire’ session is a particular delight. I can see the media having a field day with that. Young ladies dressed up in thigh boots and batwing capes, fake plastic fangs, even faker Transylvania accents... Not to mention the riding crops. The riding crops! Surname like yours, the headlines write themselves. What on earth possessed you, Maurice?”
Wax buried his face in his hands. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, he looked up over his fingertips at Slocock.
“You use prostitutes on a regular basis,” he said. “You take cocaine. You understand—a man has needs.”
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