by Helen Harper
‘Okay, I guess. My maths teacher is making me take my GCSE exam early.’
‘That’s good.’
‘My parents are making me fucking study all the time.’
‘Don’t swear,’ I say automatically, echoing my words to the mugger from the night before.
He laughs slightly. ‘Maybe you’ve not changed that much after all.’
A ghost of a smile traces across my lips.
‘I got your money, by the way.’
For a moment I’m confused. Then I remember that because of my recruitment into the Montserrat Family, I didn’t have time to pay him for his services. My grandfather must have done as he promised and deposited the money into Rogu3’s bank account. I’m surprised and suffused with unexpected gratitude.
‘Good.’
‘The lawyer seems straight up. He has some dodgy clients but he seems trustworthy. For a lawyer.’
Harry D’Argneau. It seems like a lifetime ago that I asked Rogu3 to check up on him. In a way it is. ‘I’d forgotten all about him, to be honest.’
‘So you’re not calling about him and I guess you’re not calling to ask how my maths is going,’
I bite my lip. ‘No. I need something else. If you don’t want to help though, I understand.’
The silence stretches out again. I wonder if he’s hung up and I’ve not realised when he blurts out suddenly, ‘Confederate.’
‘Word of the week?’
‘Yeah. It means ally or friend.’
‘Oh.’ I know it’s inane but to say anything else is beyond me right now.
‘I’ll have to charge you more. Special rates for bloodgu… I mean, vampires.’
I smile; he’s ever the entrepreneur. ‘Okay. I don’t have any cash of my own right now because the Family takes care of everything.’
‘That sounds like one of those weird cults you get in the middle of nowhere in America.’
He’s not far off the truth. ‘I will get you it as soon as I can.’
‘No problem,’ he tells me, suddenly cheerful. ‘I’ll just charge you interest in the meantime. My rates are very good.’
‘And with all that maths studying you’re doing, I imagine you’re a dab hand at the calculations.’
Rogu3 laughs. It’s a joyous sound. ‘What do you need?’
‘Find out everything you can about a shop called Fingertips and Frolics. It’s on Carnavon Close in Shoreditch.’
‘Magic place?’ he guesses.
‘Yes.’
‘Done. I’ll contact you when I’ve got something. And Bo?’
‘Yes?’
His voice is quiet. ‘I’m glad you called.’
I choke slightly and hang up before I start crying again. Good grief. It must be a vampire hormone thing. At times like this, only one thing is going to work. I pick myself up and head to the large kitchen on the ground floor. Hopefully I’ll be able find some chocolate there.
I’m almost at the bottom of the stairs, lost in thought, when I spot an unkempt man hovering close to the front doors. I squint at him. It’s unusual, although not unheard of, for a human to wander inside without a Montserrat escort but there’s a desperate air, about this guy that gives me pause. It’s not just the shadow of stubble around his jaw or the slightly sour, unwashed smell drifting from his crumpled clothes. It has to be something else. I glance around. No one else is in the vicinity so, curiosity getting the better of me, I walk over to him.
‘Can I help?’
He jumps about a foot backwards in fright. I’m close enough to tell that his heart rate, which was already abnormally fast, has abruptly increased. I’m not sure if he’s about to turn and run out of the door or vomit all over the gleaming marble floor.
‘Are you a vampire?’
I point to my eyes. ‘I have a red dot in my pupils. When you see that, you know you’re talking to a bloodguzzler.’
If he’s surprised by my use of the less than complimentary term, he doesn’t show it. Instead he swallows hard. ‘I’m looking for someone.’
I wait. When he doesn’t say anything else, I sigh, starting to wonder if I’m dealing with a traumatised family member of one of my fellow recruits. My own experiences aside, we’re not meant to have any contact with anyone from our former lives. Worse, it could be a former victim of one of them. As I discovered not too long ago, a number of my fellow vampires are reformed criminals.
‘Who?’ I finally prompt.
‘Gelzman,’ he says. ‘Arzo Gelzman.’
I blink. ‘Arzo?’
I don’t know his last name but it seems unlikely that there is more than one Montserrat member called Arzo. Although I’m not sure whether he can actually be classified as a genuine member of the Montserrat Family or not. Arzo is Sanguine. He didn’t drink blood for the entire lunar month after his initial turning so he didn’t become a full vampire; technically speaking, he’s still human. As is Peter, the nervy older man who was recruited at the same time as I was. I’m not bloody Sanguine, I’m a freaking fully-fledged vampire. I snarl, making the man back away. He almost trips over his own feet in his haste to get away. Bugger it.
‘Sorry,’ I apologise. ‘I’m having a bad day. That wasn’t directed at you.’
He doesn’t look comforted. I should send him to one of the more senior bloodguzzlers. There are several in the mansion who are tasked with managing human‒vampire relations. I feel guilty for terrifying this man, though, and I want to redeem myself.
I attempt a smile. ‘Arzo’s not here. Perhaps I can pass on a message?’
‘I’m happy to wait.’
The last thing he looks is happy. I try again. ‘He doesn’t actually stay here.’ Without knowing who he is or what’s going on, I don’t want to give away too much information. My private investigator senses are trickling slowly to the fore. I glance down at his shoes and register that they look expensive. Interesting.
‘Where can I find him?’ The man’s desperation is rising.
‘Tell me what you need and give me your contact details,’ I say, ‘and I’ll make sure Arzo gets in touch.’
‘It’s Dahlia,’ he blurts out. I frown. I’ve heard that name before. ‘She’s missing.’
I scan his face. He looks to be in his early forties, around the same age as Arzo. It fits. Arzo told me before that the reason he came knocking on the Montserrat door was because his fiancée – Dahlia‒ had disappeared and his best friend told him he thought she’d been recruited. In truth, they ran off together and wanted Arzo out of the way. It was a heartbreakingly callous thing to do. Anger rises and my fingers bunch into fists.
‘You were his friend,’ I hiss. I take a step towards him. ‘His best friend.’
He pales. ‘You know about that?’
‘How dare you?’ I’m outraged on Arzo’s behalf. ‘How dare you come here? Do you think she’s here too? That she changed her mind and came back to hook up with Arzo? Because,’ I jab a finger in his direction, ‘I can tell you that Arzo is a damn sight more honourable than you. He wouldn’t waste a minute of his day on her again.’
I’m half-expecting him to turn round and run away, a gibbering wreck, but he stands his ground. ‘No,’ he says quietly. ‘I know she’s not here. But I heard Arzo was working as a private investigator and I thought he might help me look for her.’
I stare at him. I didn’t know Arzo very well before the majority of our colleagues at our old firm, Dire Straits, were brutally slaughtered. I still don’t know him very well but I’m fairly certain that if he discovers his old love is missing, he’ll move hell and high water to find her. The trouble is that, whatever the end result, he’ll still lose. Either she’s dead and he’ll be devastated, or she’s alive and he’ll save her and she’ll go back to playing happy families with this bozo. My life might have fallen apart at the seams; it doesn’t mean other people’s have to.
I make a quick decision. ‘Arzo is away on business. He won’t be back for at least a month.’
‘Do y
ou have a phone number for him?’
‘He’s in Antarctica, investigating the effects of twenty-four sunshine on vampire physiology. The place is very remote and there’s no direct communication.’ That’s so ridiculous it sounds almost plausible.
The man frowns. ‘But satellites…’
Damn. ‘It’s cold. The technology doesn’t work very well on the ground.’
Disappointment clouds his face. ‘Alright then. Thank you for your time.’
‘Wait. I’m Arzo’s assistant. I’m tasked to deal with his jobs while he’s away. I worked with him at Dire Straits.’
He peers at me. There’s a sudden flicker of recognition. For once, having my face plastered across London for a few days when I was being treated as a mass murder suspect might come in useful.
‘So,’ I continue briskly, ‘I will help you find Dahlia. When did she go missing?’
‘I don’t know.’
I gaze at him impassively. ‘That’s not very helpful.’
He sighs and runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. I’m pleased to note that the salt is winning; I don’t think Arzo is grey at all. ‘I was away on business,’ he explains. ‘I left last Saturday.’
I’ve lost track of the days. It takes me a moment to work out that today is Friday.
‘When did you get back?’
‘Wednesday evening. Our house had been turned over. There’s furniture upside down, photos smashed. There’s even a broken window.’ A flicker of pride crosses his face. ‘Dahlia fought hard.’
‘And this could have happened any time between Saturday and Wednesday?’
He shakes his head. ‘I spoke to her on Sunday night on the phone. She sounded fine. I rang again on Tuesday but there was no answer.’
‘Have you contacted the police?’
‘They came round and asked me some questions and dusted for fingerprints. But they’ve not found anything. I don’t think they’re even trying.’
I grimace like I’m taking him seriously. ‘And is there anyone who would want to hurt her‒ or you? Anyone you’ve upset who might be looking for revenge?’ Other than Arzo, you smug, two-faced, treacherous bastard.
‘No.’
I find that difficult to believe. ‘I need the details of every business transaction you’ve done over the last six months.’
‘I’m an accountant. I work for Ross and Ross. It’s one of the largest firms in London. I deal with dozens of clients!’
‘You’d better start on the list as soon as you leave here, then. And I’ll need details of all the friends and family members you’ve spoken to in that time frame as well.’ When he doesn’t answer, I raise an eyebrow. ‘You do want to find her, right?’
He nods vigorously.
‘Well, then. Do you have a phone?’
He pulls one out of his pocket. I take it from him and jab in my own number, give myself a missed call, then pass it back.
‘Where’s your house?’
He gives me an address in an affluent part of London. Accountancy must pay well.
‘Invite me.’
‘Huh?’
‘Invite me to enter.’
He looks panicked. ‘You’re invited to come into my house.’
‘Great.’ I keep my tone even. ‘I’ll get started right away. I’ll call you tomorrow about those details I asked for. And don’t come here again. It’s…’ I search for a reason to keep him away. ‘It’s getting close to Halloween and everyone’s a bit on edge.’ I run my tongue very obviously round my teeth for good measure. It must work because he shudders visibly and glances nervously around the foyer.
‘Okay.’ He jerks his head in agreement.
‘What’s your name?’ I ask, realising I still don’t know it.
‘Stephen. Stephen Templeton.’
‘I’m Bo.’
He sticks his hand out for me to shake. I eye it for a moment, then look up.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m really hungry right now so I can’t.’ He whips his hand back. I almost smile. ‘You’d better go now,’ I tell him.
* * *
Once I’m sure that Stephen Templeton has gone, I continue to the kitchen in even more desperate need of chocolate. I find a huge bar of cooking chocolate inside a cupboard and make a mental note to tell Ursus that he should get in some proper stuff. I might not need ‘real’ food in order to survive physically in my new life as a vampire, but nobody eats chocolate for that reason anyway. Ideas should be clear, blood should be freely given and iron-rich – and chocolate should damn well be thick and creamy. Still, in a pinch this will do. I snap off a large corner and cram it into my mouth.
‘There you are!’
I turn round, my mouth full, and see Nell. Unable to speak, I give her a little wave.
‘Your friend is here.’
Using my teeth to break the chocolate into more manageable chunks, I look at her questioningly. She takes the bar of chocolate from me, sensibly eating only a small piece.
‘The Sanguine one. Arzo?’
My eyes widen in alarm. The chocolate goes down the wrong way and I start choking and coughing. Nell thumps me hard on the back – another person who still isn’t fully aware of her new vampire strength – and the remaining chocolate comes flying out of my mouth. It spatters against the pristine floor and cupboards in an unpleasant facsimile of a Jackson Pollock painting.
‘Where is he?’ I spit out, once I regain control of all my faculties.
‘In the foyer,’ she answers. ‘I think he only just arrived.’
Chapter Four: Trauma
I try not to run through the corridors. It seems inconceivable that Arzo missed his ex-friend leaving the doors of the Montserrat mansion. It’s equally inconceivable that he’ll blithely accept my meddling in his affairs. I don’t want to lose his respect and I definitely don’t want to lose his friendship.
I slow down as I approach him. He’s facing away from me but, despite being trapped in a wheelchair, his large muscular body is unmistakable. Even before I knew he was Sanguine, I was vaguely aware that there was something triber about him. He’s friendly and charming but he also possesses an air of dangerous implacability. For a while I even wondered if there was a touch of Kakos daemon in his lineage, as impossible as that sounds.
I swallow and walk up to him. He wheels round towards me. There’s an odd look in his eyes that I try – and fail – to decipher.
‘Bo,’ he says, ‘how are you?’
I stare at him mutely. For an opening salvo, this seems rather benign.
His brow furrows slightly. ‘Why don’t we head out towards the garden for some air? The sun is almost down.’
I find my voice. ‘Okay.’ It comes out as little more than a squeak and the crease in Arzo’s forehead deepens. ‘Did you just get here?’ I ask.
‘Pretty much.’
‘Are you here to see Michael? I mean, Lord Montserrat?’
He flicks me a glance. ‘No. Actually I’m here to see you.’
Shit. Shit. I lick my lips. ‘Oh.’
We head slowly through the house, passing an odd vampire or two. As we go through the atrium, I wince at the weak rays of sunlight still floating down from the sky. I know they can’t hurt me here but I still feel prickles of discomfort on my skin. Arzo’s silence isn’t helping much either.
When we reach the doors that lead out to the garden, I look anxiously at him. Is he going to demand that I go outside? It’s still not dusk and the remaining rays of the sun will be enough to scorch my weak-arse, fledgling vampire skin. Perhaps that’s his plan. I straighten my shoulders in preparation but he merely leans backs in his chair and gazes out for a moment. Then he turns and fixes me with a steely stare.
‘This isn’t working very well for you, is it?’
I meet his gaze and tell myself to get a grip. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Jeez, Bo, look at you! You’re pale and shaking. I know you probably only just woke up but have you drunk anything yet?’
&n
bsp; I finally register that this has nothing to do with Stephen Templeton.
He reaches up and grabs my hands. ‘You have to drink blood. Every day.’
‘I know.’
‘So why the hell don’t you?’
Suddenly I feel like a five year old being told off for not eating my vegetables.
He continues. ‘Lord Montserrat tells me you’re acting aggressive. That you take every opportunity to argue with him or the other senior members of the Family.’ His eyes harden. ‘Ursus tells me that your sullen manner is rubbing off on the others. This is hard for them too, you know. Just because your recruitment was unusual doesn’t mean you’re the only one who’s finding it hard to adjust.’
‘I’m not responsible for what the other fledglings do!’ I protest, as something snaps inside me. ‘And I don’t argue all the time.’
‘You’re arguing now,’ he points out calmly. ‘This isn’t you. You’re normally the thoughtful, nice one. Instead you have every Montserrat vampire in the vicinity tiptoeing on eggshells around you.’ He shakes his head. ‘I gave you money and a phone because I thought you might use them sensibly. Now I find out you’re using them to find a cure that doesn’t exist.’
‘Just because you’ve not heard of a cure doesn’t mean it’s not out there. Besides, what did you think I was going to do with the money? Buy myself a new pair of shoes? Did you think I’d use the phone to call up my old colleagues and tell them what a great life I’ve got as a prisoner in the Montserrat house? Oh wait,’ I say, my voice rising, ‘I can’t do that because most of them were slaughtered two months ago.’
Arzo squeezes my hands. ‘Have you heard of PTSD?’
I blink. ‘Post-traumatic stress disorder? I don’t have that.’
‘How are you sleeping?’
‘Fine.’ He gazes at me speculatively and I bristle. ‘I don’t want to be a damn vampire, alright? That’s all.’
‘We have doctors,’ he begins.
‘Goddamnit! Do I look traumatised to you? I said it already – I’m fine.’
‘No, Bo. You’re not fine.’
I glare at him malevolently and slam open the door to the garden without checking first to see whether dusk has fallen. I stalk out, taking several long steps. My skin warms but the sun has already sunk too far to do any real damage. I don’t have PTSD. I may have snapped at Michael a few times the previous night but we still joked around a bit. I’ve been friendly with Beth and Nell. I even managed to smile at Arzo’s very own sodding nemesis. I’m not ill, I just don’t want to be a freak of nature. That’s all. There’s nothing more sinister to it.
