by Helen Harper
There’s nothing more than a few bin bags filled to the brim with empty takeaway cartons and crumpled aluminium tins of lager. Upstairs then.
I back out, picking my way round to the front of the stairs, and peer upwards into the gloom. Annoyingly, the carpet on the stairs is gone, leaving scuffed bare boards which will make it harder for me to stay quiet. I step up, keeping on my toes to avoid making any more sound than I need to. I clutch the sticky banister and creep noiselessly upwards. When I reach the top, I stop for a moment and wipe my hand on my jeans. I’ll need to scrub myself down with disinfectant as soon as I get home.
I’m about to ease open the first door when I hear what sounds like a gargle emanating from the room furthest away. Considering the state of this place, I doubt that O’Shea is taking time to worry about his dental hygiene. Then I hear a low moan. If I didn’t already know better, I’d assume it came from something of the spectrally challenged variety of being. But this building is less than fifty years old and, smell in the kitchen aside, no records indicated that there has ever been a death on the premises. So it is something else. I bite down on the inside of my cheek and tiptoe forward.
The door is firmly closed. Bad for me. At least the two remaining rooms are also firmly barred, so I’m likely to hear anyone sneaking up from behind before they get too close. O’Shea has to be inside. I reach out for the steel door handle, drawing back with a hiss of breath when my skin touches it. It feels clammy and unpleasantly damp. Sniffing my fingers, I detect the faintest whiff of rose petals. Huh.
I pull the cuff of my jacket over my hand and try again, slowly pulling the handle down and opening the door, wincing at the sound. I give up the pretence of silence and kick it open the rest of the way. It bangs heavily against the wall, bouncing back towards me but I leap through, yanking out the papers from my inside pocket.
‘Devlin O’Shea!’ I deepen my voice and direct it at the dim shape in the centre of the room. ‘You are hereby served.’
The shape doesn’t move but there’s another indistinct moan from its direction. I squint through the gloom. O’Shea may not be performing the illegal magic it has been suggested he would be, but there is still something very, very wrong here. I can smell vomit and urine and something else besides.
‘O’Shea!’ I shout again.
The figure droops. Skirting round it, I go to the windows and yank open the heavy curtains with one hand, keeping the pepper spray outstretched in front of me. Light floods in. I gape. Tied to a wooden chair, his face a bloody pulp, is one very badly beaten daemon. I realise that the other smell I couldn’t identify is fear. He moans again. What in bejesus is going on here?
It’s impossible for me to positively identify him as O’Shea; for all I know O’Shea’s the perp who’s attacked this guy. But I have to deal with what’s in front of me, regardless of my almost overwhelming misgivings. The dark stain soaking the floor beneath the man indicates that he’s losing a lot of blood. Staunching the flow is my priority.
I stuff the pepper spray canister into my pocket, ensuring it’s still within easy reach but not about to fall out when I need it most, and immediately start searching the limp body for wounds. He starts gurgling again and I curse aloud. ABC, I tell myself sternly. Airway, breathing, circulation, in that order. I need to get him into the recovery position.
I realise that his hands are secured with an old-fashioned set of steel cuffs. I keep my own pair, passed down from my father for old times’ sake, but I prefer using plastic ties these days, like most people. The fact that he’s been tied to a chair with a cumbersome old set means something. Not that I have the time to muse about it right now. The cuffs are looped around the wooden bracket at the back so I lift my foot on to it and kick downwards. Thankfully the chair is as rickety as the rest of this godforsaken house and it snaps with one blow, allowing the daemon’s arms to fall backwards. I extricate the hanging piece of wood and chuck it to one side, then yank him off the seat and onto the floor as quickly as I can, manoeuvring his body and neck to force his airway clear. He coughs weakly and my face is sprayed with a mist of blood droplets, letting me know I’ve been successful. Then I return to searching his inert form for the wound.
There are two: one piercing his side, just to the left of his upper rib cage, and one higher up at the base of his neck. Clearly it’s the neck wound I should be most concerned about. Using the base of one hand, I press hard to try and slow down the pulse of blood that’s pumping out. With my other hand, I dig out my phone and tap out 999 with my thumb. I lift it to my ear and, as it starts to ring, the daemon’s eyes snap open, orange slitted pupils taking me in through a glaze of pain. Well, it’s definitely O’Shea.
‘999, what’s your emergency?’
O’Shea shakes his head.
‘I’m in a house on Wiltshore Avenue,’ I say.
‘No.’
‘Number 23,’ I continue. ‘I need an ambulance immediately.’
He moans. ‘No. Stop.’
‘Is that Wiltshore Avenue in Belvedere or Trockston?’ enquires the voice.
O’Shea reaches up and grabs my wrist. Given the state that he’s in and the blood loss he’s suffered, his grip is surprisingly strong. ‘Tell them,’ he rasps, ‘and we’re both dead.’
I stare down at him. Death threats are nothing new in my line of work; daemons, even quarter-daemons, bleeding out in front of me, are. His eyes implore me.
‘If you don’t get to a hospital in the next five minutes, then you’re dead anyway,’ I tell him.
I can hear the emergency responder repeating her question. The futility of the situation hits me. We’re in Trockston, the worst end of Trockston, no less. No paramedic is going to rush to get here. They’d rather take their time so that whatever is going down has gone down by the time they arrive. Which means Devlin O’Shea won’t make it.
‘False alarm,’ I mutter into the receiver and hang up.
O’Shea blinks gratefully at me.
‘Don’t,’ I say, kneeling down and shoving him onto his side, then pulling out a pick so I can undo the cuffs and free his hands. ‘Don’t thank me. You’re about twenty breaths away from rejoining your maker down in the depths.’
I’m surprised at the ease with which I manage to unpick the lock. The cuffs fall, one steel circle hanging loosely from his left wrist. He mumbles something into my ear.
‘Nope,’ I reply with as much forced cheeriness as I can muster, ‘you’ll need to speak up if you want me to hear you.’
O’Shea doesn’t bother responding. I heave him onto my back in a piggyback and force his uncuffed hand up to his throat so he can continue to press on the wound. His weight drives my knees and shoulders downwards, but I do my best to ignore it and stagger to the door and on to the landing. I haul both myself and him down the stairs, this time thumping loudly with every step.
We’re barely at the bottom when my watch beeps, indicating I should at this point be entering the property to find him, not leaving the property with him. And certainly not with him half dead. Those last seven minutes felt more like a bloody hour.
I nudge open the front door with my toe and edge out. The vacant one-eyed doll stares at me as I shuffle back through the garden with O’Shea’s heavy body. I can feel his warm, sticky blood seeping underneath the collar of my jacket and connecting with my skin and I try to speed up. He can’t have long.
Stepping over the garden fence is like scaling Mount Everest. I try to ignore that I’m about to collapse and instead run calculations in my head. Forty seconds to get him to the car. Another minute to get back to the crossroads. Praise the heavens that I don’t already have to reverse and lose even more time. Then I can take the A road past Silverstein to Manorbridge hospital. Five minutes. Tops. I’ll register him under a false name in case he was telling the truth about the dead part. It won’t stop someone from finding him, but it’ll stall them until I can speak to Tam and get a permanent guard stationed.
I try to reach into my p
ocket for my keys but his leg is in the way, so I’m forced to squeeze my fingers around to grasp them. Yeah. I should have left them in the freaking ignition. I was stupid not to trust my instincts.
Gasping for breath, I lurch round to the passenger side and open the door. I throw in O’Shea’s blood-soaked body, noting with satisfaction that he’s still conscious and pressing tightly on his neck wound. I slam the door shut before dashing round to my seat and starting the car.
I move up the gears, accelerating down the empty street. Come on, come on. I turn left towards Manorbridge, then abruptly slam on the brakes as sirens scream their way into my consciousness. Part of me can’t quite believe it. The emergency responder must have taken my half-baked, half-garbled and half-finished phone call seriously, sending ambulances in both directions. Relief floods through me and I glance behind to welcome the cavalry.
Except it’s not an ambulance. I stare at the vehicle bearing down on us while O’Shea moans at my side. The familiar stripes of an armed response unit wink at me tauntingly as the tyres screech and it wheels round into Wiltshore Avenue. Trying to ignore the tremor in my hands, I very deliberately start the car moving again, away from the sirens.
I run over the phone call in my mind. I’m sure I said nothing more than the address and that I needed an ambulance. There was no reason to send goons with guns to check it out. And how in the hell had they arrived so quickly? I only hung up on the responder a few minutes ago; response times are never that fast. If I’d waited to enter the house until I was supposed to, O’Shea would have lost so much blood he’d probably be dead and I would be the sole witness to the crime. Or the prime suspect. I grip the steering wheel and swerve right.
‘What in the hell have you gotten me into?’ I say aloud to O’Shea, not expecting an answer.
His spooky orange eyes swivel in my direction and he opens his mouth.
‘Don’t speak,’ I tell him curtly. ‘Conserve your energy. You can give me answers later.’ I’m damned if I’ll let him croak on me before I find out exactly what is going on.
I press down on the accelerator, speeding up again, and make a snap decision. I don’t know who this guy is and why the police – and someone else much more violent – are so interested in him, but my interest is piqued. The hospital is now out. There’s only one place nearby where I can get him some proper medical help and avoid the suddenly undesirable eye of the law. I’d rather choke on my own tongue than go there but I’m out of other options. Shit in a hell basket.
Dire Straits is available now: http://bitly.com/1CZb2v5
Acknowledgments
There is a whole host of people who deserve considerable thanks for their contributions. Clarissa Yeo for her fabulous artwork; Karen Holmes, Catherine Cousins and Helen at 2QT for their superlative editing; as well as Sue Spilsbury, Katherine Sopp, Elaine Wicks, Kelly Charles, Yvanca Wensing, Barbara Hall, Ann-Marie n Sandro Conti-Canalaro, Kris Kosche and Emily Price who took time to comment on the first draft. Gavin Golden at Il.lustr.us Media also deserves special mention for vastly improving my website. Swing by to www.helenharper.co.uk to check it out!
About the Author
After teaching English literature in the UK, Japan and Malaysia, Helen Harper left behind the world of education following the worldwide success of her Blood Destiny series of books. She is a professional member of the Alliance of Independent Authors and writes full time although she still fits in creative writing workshops with schools along with volunteering to teach reading to a group of young Myanmar refugees. That’s not to mention the procession of stray cats which seem to find their way to her door!
Helen has always been a book lover, devouring science fiction and fantasy tales when she was a child growing up in Scotland.
Helen currently lives in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia with far too many cats – not to mention the dragons, fairies, demons, wizards and vampires that seem to keep appearing from nowhere.
Other titles by Helen Harper
The Blood Destiny series
- Bloodfire
- Bloodmagic
- Bloodrage
- Bloodlust
- Blood Politics
Also
Corrigan Fire
Corrigan Magic (scheduled for release in April 2015)
The Olympiana series
- Eros
- Olympiana
The Bo Blackman series
- Dire Straits
- New Order
- High Stakes
- Red Angel (scheduled for release in June 2015)
