by Deanna Chase
D’Argneau’s pen stops. I meet his eyes and we stare at each other. The silence chokes the tiny room.
‘I have nothing to do with this, Ms Blackman.’
I press my lips together.
‘Are you setting me up?’ he asks quietly.
‘I’m the one being framed here, D’Argneau. You hired me to serve the summons on O’Shea.’
‘I hired Dire Straits. I’d never even heard of you.’
I ignore him. ‘And then you suddenly show up in the middle of the night at the same club I decide to have a drink in.’
His face tightens with anger. ‘Let’s get one thing clear, Ms Blackman. I was already at that club when you walked in. I didn’t follow you. You followed me.’
‘Where else was I going to go at that time of night?’
He leans in towards me, his voice lowering. ‘Is that what the little show was out on the street? Were you trying to get hold of my DNA?’
‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ I sound screechy, but I don’t care. ‘I’m the one in handcuffs here! I’m the one about to be charged with murder! And I’m the one who walked away from you after the club!’
His eyes flash. ‘Maybe that’s because you’d already got what you wanted. A few strands of my hair perhaps? Or some saliva?’
I make a face. ‘Ewww! You think I sucked your spit and kept it in my mouth for a later date? Get real, buster.’
‘I don’t care what family connections you’ve got,’ he snarls, ‘you won’t get away with this.’
Nothing is going the way I expect. I try to calm down. ‘D’Argneau, look at me. I’m not getting away with anything. But I’ve not done anything.’
He pushes back his hair and stands up. ‘Whatever game you’ve got going on here, it’s not going to wash.’
‘Wait! D’Argneau!’
He doesn’t stop. Instead he just walks out of the little room, the door banging behind him. My shoulders sink and I stare at the empty chair. Either that was an Oscar-winning performance or the lawyer is telling the truth. I mull over the idea that it was merely a coincidence we bumped into each other. It’s just so incredibly unlikely.
‘Your barrister doesn’t want you,’ states Foxworthy, strolling into the room.
I glare at him. ‘Charge me,’ I growl, ‘or let me go.’
He smirks, making a deliberate show of checking his watch. ‘We’ve got forty-one hours to question you before we need to make that decision, Ms Blackman. There’s no rush.’ He pulls my arm, forcing me to my feet. ‘How about a little break from all this?’ There’s a nasty gleam in his eye, the first real emotion I’ve seen from him. It sends a ripple of uneasiness through me.
‘I can keep going,’ I say. ‘I’ll answer your questions.’
‘Like I said,’ he smiles, ‘there’s plenty of time for that.’
***
I’m led into a cell. There’s already another occupant, an older man with no irises in his eyes and an instantly recognisable tattoo on his cheek. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse.
‘Foxworthy, let me out of these damned restraints!’ I call desperately.
‘You’re here as a result of a double murder. You may have been involved in the slaughter of several of your work colleagues. That makes you a potential serial killer and far too dangerous to be allowed to go unfettered, Ms Blackman.’ The emphasis he puts on my surname is unmistakable. The black witch in the corner straightens, interested.
‘Blackman?’
I back away, warily. ‘Look, honour among thieves, right? We’re both in this cell together.’
‘Any relation to Arbuthnot Blackman?’
I try to feign ignorance. ‘Er, who?’
It doesn’t work. The witch opens his mouth and runs a red tongue over his lips. Then he takes a step towards me. His hands, I notice, are uncuffed.
‘Okay,’ I say, ‘let’s not be hasty here. Yes, I’m related to Arbuthnot Blackman. But I think he’s as much of a bastard as you do.’
The witch takes another step. The cell is tiny and my back is literally against the wall. I glance up at the ceiling and note the camera mounted there. Much good it’s going to do me. Not for the first time, I curse my grandfather.
The witch launches himself at me. Despite my best efforts to protect myself, his fist flies into my face and I see a flash of blinding light and feel an explosion of pain as he breaks my nose. Threads of pain travel outwards across my cheekbones and up through my eyeballs. I lash out instinctively with my foot, catching him in the stomach. He staggers back, groaning, then he’s on me again.
He knocks me down hard onto the floor and I narrowly avoid hitting my head on the steel corner of the bed. I roll underneath it. The last thing I need is to come on too strong and do the witch some serious damage. If I do, it’ll no doubt be added to the list of grievances against me. He shakes the bed and it rattles hard against the floor, but fortunately it’s screwed tightly into place. He bends down. I spit out blood and push myself further back but he grabs my ankle to pull me out. I kick against his grip but it’s no use. With my hands behind my back, I can’t fight against him and I’m dragged out, inch by inch. His other hand swoops down and encircles my throat, then he thrusts me up against the wall. He’s not trying to kill me; he’s having far too much fun for that.
I flail against him. I’ve just about had enough of this. My knee jerks upwards, connecting with his groin. He snarls in pain.
‘Having fun?’
The pair of us twist round. Both Foxworthy and Nicholls are standing in the doorway, watching us.
‘Enjoying the show?’ I say, as the witch finally releases his grip. My voice is weak. I put a hand up to my face and it comes away covered in my own blood.
‘There’s someone to see you,’ Foxworthy says, moving aside. For a moment I think he’s addressing the witch, then I realise he’s referring to me. I wonder if my grandfather has been informed.
Foxworthy offers me an old, greying towel. I’m tempted to throw it back in his face but I need something to wipe off the blood. The centre of my face feels as if it’s been smacked with a sledgehammer. I follow him and Nicholls out of the cell and I’m expecting to be led back into the same interview room but, instead, I end up out at the front of the station. Standing there are Montserrat and a very pale Devlin O’Shea.
‘The daemon’s alive,’ says Nicholls cheerfully. ‘And we’ve reviewed the footage from the station. It appears it wasn’t you who threw Charity Weathers under a train.’
I realise that Charity Weathers must be the unfortunate Lucy.
‘However, Ms Blackman, we would like to question you further regarding your role in the Dire Straits massacre. So don’t do anything stupid like leave the country.’
Without looking at Montserrat, I tighten my core muscles and take a deep breath. ‘Actually, you’re no longer in a position to do that,’ I say.
‘Why not?’ Foxcroft enquires coolly.
‘I’m about to be recruited into the Family Montserrat.’
As soon as the words leave my mouth, an ache rises in the centre of my chest. Out of the corner of my eye, I see O’Shea looking shocked and Montserrat smiling with a little dimple displayed in one cheek. He takes my arm and together we walk out into the cool night. I resist the urge to look back and smirk.
Chapter Thirteen: The Car
Montserrat doesn’t say anything until we’re in the back of his extraordinarily large limousine and driving away from the police station. I hope we’re driving very, very far away.
‘I’m glad you’ve decided to help us.’
I pull the towel away from my face. ‘I’m not helping you,’ I snarl. ‘I’m helping me.’
He shrugs elegantly. ‘Regardless.’
I flick a glance at O’Shea, then back to the vampire. ‘Thanks for coming to get me,’ I mutter. ‘And for not killing him.’
Montserrat opens a small compartment to reveal an array of neatly stacked drinks. I point to the whis
ky and he pours me a generous shot.
‘I told you, Ms Blackman,’ he says, handing me the drink, ‘we’re not monsters.’
I take a sip, wincing as it burns down my throat. The monsters part remains to be seen although I wisely refrain from saying so.
After Foxworthy’s interrogation, I decide I hate the moniker Ms Blackman. ‘Call me Bo,’ I tell the vampire.
He smiles. ‘In that case you may call me Michael.’
‘Michael?’
‘Yes. Like Michael Douglas.’
More like Michael Corleone, I think. I dab carefully at my nose. ‘Okay then.’
‘May I check your face?’ he asks politely.
I draw back for a moment and he laughs. ‘I’ve been around too long for your blood to tempt me, Bo. I think I can manage to restrain myself.’
I realise my reaction was stupid and I turn to face him. He cups my face in his hands and frowns. ‘Did the police do this to you?’
‘No. There was a black witch. He recognised my name.’
‘Ah, I see.’
Does he indeed? I try to sniff and end up wincing with pain. He takes the towel and is about to wipe my face with it when he grimaces and tosses it away. He pulls out a handkerchief from his top pocket and carefully wipes away the worst of the blood. I try not to stare. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anyone other than my grandfather use a linen handkerchief before.
His touch is surprisingly gentle. It’s making me feel a little uncomfortable so I focus on O’Shea as a distraction. ‘Are you alright?’ I ask him.
He nods. ‘They’ve treated me well.’
Well, he would say that given his captor is sitting right next to him. O’Shea’s next words belie that thought, however. ‘Perhaps, Michael, when you’re done cleaning up her face, you can touch up mine.’ He pouts and, despite myself, I start to giggle.
‘I take it you two didn’t share the water bed then,’ Montserrat says.
‘I’m sure it’s still available.’ I look at them from under my lashes and grin.
Montserrat rolls his eyes but O’Shea returns my smile.
‘How’s Arzo?’ I ask.
The vampire tuts. ‘You need to stop talking. I can’t get all this blood off when you keep moving. And Arzo’s fine.’ He grimaces. ‘At least as fine as a paraplegic can be.’
‘Why can’t his vampire blood heal that?’
‘I told you to be quiet,’ he says, wetting a corner of the handkerchief with his tongue and brushing it across my mouth. ‘Arzo is Sanguine. His blood helps him to heal more quickly but it won’t work miracles.’
I open my mouth to ask another question, but Montserrat scowls at me and I subside into silence.
‘Let me guess,’ he says drily, ‘you want to know more about the Sanguine?’
I blink in acknowledgement, while his fingers trace the tender flesh around my nose.
‘It’s an odd phenomenon. The Sanguine aren’t exactly secret but we don’t go around broadcasting their existence. To be fair, there have never been enough of them to warrant making a big deal out of it. Most people who come to us to be recruited want to be vampires. I’m not going to tell you Arzo’s story, that’s up to him. Suffice it to say, the path to becoming Sanguine isn’t easy. It’s only fair that you know that.’
‘How many of these Sanguine are there?’ asks O’Shea.
Montserrat doesn’t answer immediately. I narrow my eyes and his hands leave my face. ‘You’ll probably need to get that set before you turn, or you may be stuck with a crooked nose.’
Right now I don’t give a damn about my nose. ‘How many?’ I say, repeating the daemon’s question.
‘As I said, most people want to be vampire.’
‘Montserrat…’
‘I told you to call me Michael.’ He rubs his chin with his thumb. ‘There are three,’ he says finally. His voice is quiet.
I swallow. ‘Three? You mean in London?’
‘No, Bo. In the world.’
For a moment, kaleidoscopic pinpricks of light dance in front of my eyes. I squeeze them shut. ‘Why so few?’ I ask. ‘I mean, I get that most people don’t want to be Sanguine. But…’
‘There are others,’ he answers, ‘who wish to take the Sanguine path. And in the 1940s, there were experiments to create more. But to become Sanguine you have to resist the pull of blood. You have to avoid drinking. The temptation is high.’
I open my eyes and look at him. He meets my gaze.
‘As I told you in the hospital, it’s considered a show of strength to last as long as possible before tasting blood. It’s not been proven but it’s believed that the longer you last, the more powerful a vampire you eventually become.’
‘How long did you last?’
‘Twenty-two days. Most, however, don’t make it beyond day three.’
Jesus. I’d understood from Arzo it was going to be difficult. I hadn’t reckoned on it being virtually impossible.
‘We need you, Bo. We need someone to infiltrate the new recruits and find out what is going on. I understand how much I’m asking of you, though. You can still change your mind.’
I think about the events of the last two days. It would be smart to walk away from all this and hide under a stone somewhere until everything blows over. I have no idea how far I can trust Montserrat, even though I sense that everything he’s told me so far is the truth.
With this in mind, I go for a full-frontal attack. ‘When were you planning to tell me about the new Family?’
For the first time, he appears nonplussed. ‘What?’
‘The new Family,’ I repeat. ‘The ones who wanted O’Shea’s spell.’
He is obviously baffled. ‘There is no new Family. What are you talking about?’
I tell him about Lucy – or rather Charity Weathers – and what she told me before her life ended so abruptly. He leans back in his seat, his face shuttered as he absorbs the information.
‘I assumed it was a few malcontents. I mean, it’s serious. We’ve never had a situation like this before and I wouldn’t be involving you if it wasn’t something that required fresh eyes and a different way of thinking. But a new Family? There’s not been a new Family since Mary Queen of Scots was executed.’
‘The Stuarts?’
He nods.
‘Let’s say someone did want to start a new Family,’ I say. ‘How would they fit in with the current set up?’
‘It simply wouldn’t work.’ His dark eyes are troubled.
‘Why not?’
‘It’s difficult for outsiders to understand, but there’s a considerable amount of rivalry between the Familes. The ties and alliances shift depending on the issue at hand. However, because there are five of us, it works.’
‘Explain.’
He frowns. ‘It’ll be easier to give you an example. The last time we all met, it was because the government wanted to send in monitors. There’s growing unease amongst the humans about the way we keep the Families’ actions and motives secret. The Head of the Stuarts and I wanted to agree. Openness will provide better understanding. The population will be less wary of us and we’ll open more trade doors as a result.’
‘But the others disagreed?’
‘Medici and Bancroft. They argued that how we conduct ourselves is none of the humans’ business. They were also concerned that it would create problems between the Families themselves. With everything above board and openly advertised, we’d each have a better gauge of the state of the other Families and, if we so chose, be in a position to undermine each other.’
I imagine that ‘undermine’ in the vampire world means a bit more than merely giving out a few playground taunts. Although I agree with Montserrat’s position, I can see that there are potential problems.
‘And Gully?’
‘They listened to both sides and ultimately went with the Medicis and the Bancrofts.’
I nod my head thoughtfully. ‘Without an odd number of Families, disagreements will rarely be solved.�
��
‘Indeed.’
‘Except,’ I add, trying to glean as much information as I can from him, ‘why should I care? If there’s a new Family and it means you’re all at loggerheads, what does it matter to humans?’
‘The power afforded by being vampire is heady. And the power granted to the Families as a result of their combined strength is almost incomprehensible. It’s the reason we cap our own numbers at five hundred.’ He takes my hand and gently squeezes. An odd tingle runs up my arm. ‘Imagine a new Family with no allegiances and no desire to follow any of the rules that have been in place for hundreds of years.’
‘Vampires could over-run daemons,’ whispers O’Shea, realisation dawning.
‘And humans,’ says Montserrat grimly. ‘And without checks in place to prevent unwarranted attacks…’
‘The results could be catastrophic,’ I finish. I ponder the very real danger this new Family might pose. ‘But what if it’s not like that? What if these vampires just want a new Family and will abide by the laws you already have?’
‘Then why are they being so secretive? Why not be open about creating a new Family? Breaking the ties of loyalty that already exist in each Family is proof that they won’t toe the line.’
I’m tempted to point out that perhaps he should be doing more to encourage that loyalty and to stop errant Family members from leaving but I reckon he’s probably worked that out by now.
‘They’ve already shown that they’re remarkably keen to kill people,’ muses O’Shea, rubbing at the remains of the wound on his neck.
‘Why would this new Family want your spell?’ I ask him.
‘I have no idea. Maybe they’re kind of horny?’
‘It has to be to do with the passivity side effects. Maybe it’s how they’re getting so many previously loyal vampires to join them.’ I glance at Montserrat. ‘How many do you know who are involved?’
‘I’ll give you the files later, if you decide to join us that is. But there have been at least half a dozen confirmed deaths and several more disappearances in Montserrat. The other Families have given similar numbers, although they may be lying.’
