I looked down to the Trafalgar Square fountain and then up to the columns of the ancient Tate portrait gallery. I couldn’t have picked a more populated and central location to enjoy a nude jaunt.
But it wasn’t me that they were all there to see. At least, it wasn’t just me.
Floating in the centre of the dirty water was a man without a head.
A paramedic placed a shiny blanket over my shoulders while they rummaged through their ambulance to find something for me to wear. I was surprised to find that my teeth didn’t chatter. I wondered if the lack of reaction to temperature was something that I could chalk up to the Queen of Hell that took over my body from 6 pm to 6 am every morning without paying rent.
A police officer sidled up to the back of the ambulance as I sat on the floor, looking out of the open doors. I watched the body droop like a deflated balloon, the bloated arm swung from the gurney like a forlorn accessory, covered in a white sheet. The stretcher was pulled into an ivory tent by four different people in jumpsuits. The headless man was no longer visible, but it didn’t stop all the reporters and news stations from clambering at the yellow crime scene tape and trying to get a peek at what was going to be the next headline on the BBC news.
A harsh light shone in my eyes, and I was checked for a concussion and found lacking.
“Is there anyone that we can call for you?” the paramedic asked, she was a woman in her forties with a kind face.
I bit the inside of my cheek and thought about talking. My throat stung with unspoken words, I didn’t even know if I could talk. It felt like my voice had been taken from overuse.
We all heard the scream, and all the uniformed police officers and even the man with bug-eyed glasses that took water samples turned around to the source of the sound.
What had been a stressful morning at the scene of a crime quickly became a mad rush.
An elderly man in a tweed jacket ran down the steps of the Tate portrait gallery, his silver comb-over stuck to his bald head with exertion. His portly torso heaved with strain.
He pointed back at the gallery, the man looked like he was going to be sick.
“The head!” He shouted.
A wave of people took off up the limestone steps, clambering to see what the police would no doubt shut away when they got to the crime scene inside.
The paramedic that was taking care of me ran forward and tucked the man inside of a silver blanket and brought him over to the ambulance. He seemed to be going into shock.
Almost everyone had left to go and gawk at the severed head of the man in the fountain, while a select few stayed and collected evidence from where the body had been found. People had their phones out, filming the chaos.
“There was something carved into his forehead. A message.” The elderly man whispered, his voice frail.
“What did it say?” I croaked.
“Give her back.”
Even though Charing Cross police station was within walking distance of Trafalgar Square, I was led to the road around the back of the Tate Gallery. Still clothed in a crinkly metallic blanket, they cuffed me and led me away to the flashing red and blue lights of a police car.
My hands rubbed together behind my back. I was not inclined to fight. What would have been the point?
My nails were caked in blood, the edges marred by the dark and flaky substance.
The forensics team had poked and prodded me since the head was found. Taking samples from every part of my body. Hair, saliva, and skin.
I shivered against the cold, as I was manoeuvred into the backseat of the Police vehicle by a female officer. For all intents and purposes, I was a criminal being held on suspicion of murder.
The drive to the station was short, but being in the confined space with humans was almost unbearable.
I felt their desires and needs. The male driver, with his short buzzed hair, did not look at me once. He attempted professional apathy but his pupils twitched and ached to look at me. It wasn’t vanity, I knew because I could feel all his emotions. They pressed against my mind and alerted me to my surroundings.
I was led past the reception for processing, and when it came time to offer up my possessions and acquiesce myself to the holding cell, I had to give up my blanket. It was promptly replaced by a London Metropolitan Police t-shirt. The lady officer watched me change in the bathroom and then led me to my cell.
I had no idea what time it was, but the red tape of being a criminal took an age. I could feel the chill against my skin, even if it didn’t affect me.
They took me to the concrete room. Tally marks had been scratched into the turquoise paint. I stared at it, intrigued. The steel doors closed behind my turned back, and the latch slid into place with finality.
Would it hold the Queen of Hell, come nightfall?
10.
I’d been put in the cell to sweat for a good hour, maybe more, before I heard the footsteps down the hallway outside. The inhabitants in the other holding cells were quiet. With my daemon hearing, I listened to the rustle of fabric and shuffling of bare feet. I could smell the residual liquor on my next-door neighbour, who had been imprisoned for twenty-four hours to sober up.
I shivered, even though I could no longer feel the cold. My back stretched out on the concrete ledge that was masquerading as a bed. There was a teal cellular blanket scrunched up and discarded in the corner. No windows.
The bolt on the door clanged loudly and made me jump. My eyes shifted over to the doorway, but no other part of my body followed. The hatch slid open, and a pair of eyes watched me for a second before a disembodied voice floated over to my ears.
“Ms Taylor, get on the floor. Hands behind your head. Face away from the door.”
I had no idea what was correct protocol, but when I heard the click of plastic and metal together I knew that the officer had gotten his standard issue cuffs out of his pocket.
When they settled on my wrists, I pulled my arms apart to see how much I could move. Turns out the cuffs were a fixed distance apart so I couldn’t go far.
I didn’t hace the strength to break free of my restraints. Even though Asmodeus had told me that she would give me power, I didn’t feel any different than I had before.
I could feel the sun in the sky, it was around noon. I didn’t know how I knew, but I just did. I had about six hours before the Queen would fill my body like an empty vase.
I cleared my throat and prepared myself to ask a question of the officer. Something mundane like: “Why am I here?” or “What am I being charged with?” I caught the curl of his lips and his disgust with me, so I refrained.
What good would it do?
I wondered why I wasn’t reacting like a normal person would have done. I honestly didn’t care that much that I was in a police station. It didn’t seem real.
Part of me was biding my time until the evening, when Asmodeus would take over my body and run rampant. I could probably try ‘Lacing’ as Damian had put it. Bend the fabric of reality, until two points met, and then jump between them.
The thought didn’t seem so foreign, considering I had felt the shift of moving through worlds before. I had travelled into the Fold where the space between Limbo and the Human Reality was exceptionally thin.
The Human Reality? I wondered where that name had come from. I certainly had never heard it or used it before. A tendril of fear curled around my heart when I realised that Asmodeus was seeping through the cracks of my consciousness.
My escort led us to a room populated by two metal chairs and a shiny table. An apparent one-way mirror overlooked the whole space.
I was walked to the chair on the left, and I held out my hands so that my guard could connect me to the table. Another man walked in. The new edition was in a business suit. Cheap polyester and Paco cologne. I wanted to gag at the fragrance but held it back. My heightened sense of smell made the artificial scent almost overbearing.
My guard, clad in a full London Met uniform, nodded at what I assumed w
as the detective trying to pin me for murder. The Bobby stood by the door and focused his attention elsewhere; an empty piece of space just above the mirror.
The detective sat down and smiled, it was easy and professional as if it belonged on his face.
I glanced at the uniformed guard and then back to the detective. If his easy manner was meant to fool me into forgetting that I was in a police interrogation room, it wouldn’t work. The uniformed guard rammed my location down my throat.
“Ms Taylor,” The detective crooned; he pulled out a Manilla file from under his arm and laid it on the table. “My name is Charlie Ebbs. I’m in charge of your case,”
I stretched my fingers out, but even if I reached as far as I was able, I couldn’t reach Ebbs and the file. I cocked my head to the side, but didn’t return his smile.
“My case?”
“The Satanic Slayer murders.” He clarified.
My brow furrowed, confused. “Is that why I am here?”
“Why did you think you were here?” Ebbs asked softly, his words were probing.
“Indecent exposure. What would I get for that?”
“Time on the Sex Offenders Registry,” The detective’s eyes were hard.
I nodded in understanding and sucked on my bottom lip.
“We have video footage of your arrival to Trafalgar Square around the time of the murder. We also collected blood samples from under your fingernails.”
I tilted my neck to the side, to ease the ache that had come from lying on a concrete bed for the last hour. I could probably have Laced out of the room. Maybe I could have subdued both men. Blast them with a taste of the hunger, the lust, coursing through my body that I was trying to ignore. I could probably make them fuck each other if I wanted to.
I was having a hard time concentrating. But I held myself back. I felt like I needed more information about the murderer.
Honestly? I could have been me. Or my body at least.
I didn’t know what would happen or what I had done when the clock struck six pm and I had blanked out the night before.
“Are you sure it’s that man’s blood?” I groaned.
“The lab will have a result in two hours. But if it’s the victim’s blood, I advise that you tell us now. Save us some time.”
The detective’s eyes flicked to the uniformed guard for just a second and I could tell that Ebbs wasn’t happy. I decided that I would keep talking, if only to get more information.
“Any more charges I should know about?” I cleared my throat.
“We found your fingerprints on the inside of a stolen vehicle, a Lamborghini. The vehicle was in a police chase in March.”
I nodded slowly and bit back a smile. Vincent Rose had stolen a car and then taken me for a joy ride. I sobered when I compared my moral compass to Pre-soulless Sophia.
A knock startled Ebbs, and he pushed away from the table. Stood at the door, in a business suit and a turtleneck blouse to cover the tattoos on her neck, was Beatrix Klein.
She breezed forward and handed Ebbs and business card.
“Katya Klein?” Ebbs cursed. “Of Klein, Trysten and Wallis?”
Trix did not break eye contact. She didn’t smile. She simply moved around him like a piece of furniture and swung her briefcase onto the metallic table with what seemed like practiced ease.
My best friend did not look at me. I gathered that she must have stolen the business cards when we were in Katya’s office.
Ebbs sat back down. His smile had moved from soft to condescending. “You have money, Sophia Taylor. Your file didn’t say you had money.”
I wanted to cross my arms over my chest, but they were cuffed. “Well, you obviously didn’t look hard enough then.” I bit back.
It was true that I wasn’t rich, but I had enough from my days as a Bleeder that I didn’t live month to month. I was also certain that my mother, Ms Julia Windermear, had also continued to deposit an allowance into my bank account. Even though I hadn’t checked it in an age.
I had always refused her third husband’s money before. But it was hard to pick a fight about it when I was locked away in a mental facility on her dime.
As my thoughts drifted to the asylum, Trix sat down and threaded her fingers together.
“My client is a medically diagnosed Paranoid Schizophrenic. Have you contacted a clinical psychologist to be present during her questioning?” The Witchling asked delicately.
The detective's jaw clenched, but the rest of his body gave no indication of his annoyance. However, I could feel it. It was pulsating and growing into a rage.
“I take that as a no,” Trix said. “I also have a copy of the blood cultures from the samples taken from under my client's fingernails.” She took a piece of paper out of her briefcase and slid it across the table. It was just a white piece of paper with nothing on it, but the detective picked it up and surveyed it for a whole minute. His eyes moved across the page as if he was reading.
I glanced at Trix, and she quickly wiped a drop of blood from her inner ear. The detective didn’t notice.
“Where did you get this?” He seethed.
“Detective Milligan,” Trix held back a smirk, I felt the squirming smoke of her lie.
Charlie Ebbs gritted his teeth and shot to his feet. He looked from Trix to me and then the armed guard. “I’ll be back in a moment,” He spat and left the room with the blank piece of paper.
“What happens when the grand master Detective realises that he’s waving a blank bit of paper around?” I asked, laughing. The uniformed officer hit the ground with a thud, and Trix kicked off her high heels. Even though she was naturally short, she hated stilettos.
“We’re not sticking around to find out, Taylor. Move!”
I clenched my jaw and thought about the burning power inside of me, linked by the thin golden of Hell magic. A redheaded stranger skidded to a halt at the top of the corridor, as Trix held my hand and pulled me along like a disobedient child.
I focused on the anger that had allowed me to create ice before. The fear. Trix’s eyes widened, and her hand fell from my own. She pushed my chest, hard.
“Don’t!” Trix hissed. “You know Aoife, she’s trying to help.”
I tried to reign in my fear, but it had spread through my body like a disease. The floor around my feet had frozen solid, the icy linoleum reflected the dull florescent lights.
I had no idea who the redhead was, but if Trix knew her then she must have been okay. I took a deep but unneeded breath.
Sarah-Belle’s head poked around the corner, her lips were painted a bright magenta.
“Love the lipstick,” I said snidely. “What’s it called? Police Break Pink?”
Sarah-Belle quirked a painted-on brow. “You can never just say ‘thank you’, can you?”
My lip curled. My gaze travelled down to her heels. I wouldn’t know the brand if it bit me on the face, but her shoes looked high and shiny.
Trix put her hand on her hip and popped it to the side. I stifled the laugh that bubbled in my throat when I remembered that she was dressed in a pantsuit, masquerading as her sister. The only thing that looked like Trix was her expression.
“If you’ve exchanged enough snarky insults…” Trix trailed off; her eyes flew behind us and I saw Detective Ebbs come around the corner at the end of the corridor. His hand flew to his waistband, and he pulled his phone out.
His eyes widened and then rolled back into his skull. He slumped to the floor; Trix rubbed her forehead as if she had developed a headache.
“Are you okay?” I asked, rushing to her side.
“I’ve used a lot of magic these past few weeks.” She tried to smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Sarah-Belle cleared her throat and tilted her chin to point to the door.
“We’ve got the CCTV tapes, let’s go.” Her heels clacked against the floor as she brushed past us.
The short redhead with ringlets and wide, frightened eyes followed her like a puppy. It was then that I realise
d that the stranger hadn’t said a word.
“We really should have popped into Tesco on the way home.” Trix said, as she sank into the sofa back at our Camden flat. She kicked off her high heels and they landed with a thud.
Sarah-Belle came into the kitchen holding a mug of steaming coffee, and proceeded to perch herself on the edge of Trix’s work stool. She took a sip from the mug, her eyes peered at me over the rim. I ignored her and focused on my best friend, who was rubbing the tops of her arms as if she was cold.
“Trix, are you okay?” I noted the red crust that had formed on the rim of one of her nostrils, a sign of persistent nosebleeds.
She used the edge of her blazer to wipe her face, “I need daemon blood. Food. A good fuck. All of the above.” Trix pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes, leaning her head against the back of the leather sofa.
“You need to learn how to use Hell Magic, Taylor. I can’t keep bailing you out.” Trix whispered.
A flash of shame rippled through me. I clenched my fists until they went numb. “I’ll try harder. I promise.” And I meant it.
Sarah-Belle placed her coffee mug down with a clatter. “That’s all well and good, Sophia.” She sniffed. “But you have to actually do it. Trix wouldn’t have to save you from all this fucked-up-ness if you hadn’t gone and fucked a daemon.”
I ground my teeth together and took a deep breath as I prepared to tear the blonde a new one. Trix beat me to it. “Shut up, Bellend.”
Aoife, the redheaded stranger sat on the armchair in the room. Her eyes ping-ponged back and forth as she watched our exchange. She cleared her throat delicately and swung her satchel around until it was on her lap. Her tiny fingers pulled out a USB drive and held it up to the light as if it was a foreign treasure.
“What do you hope to find on this drive?” Aoife asked, her accent was a faint dusting of Irish mixed with a heavy dose of American Sitcom viewing.
I shrugged. “Who the real Satanic Slayer is, I suppose?”
Daemons of London Boxset (Books 1-3) The Bleeders, The Human Herders, The Purebloods Page 48
