New Order (Bo Blackman Book 2)

by Helen Harper

  He starts to grin at me, then abruptly spots the red in my eyes. He coughs and stammers. ‘S-sorry.’

  ‘That’s alright. It was my fault.’ I hold up my dangling keys with one finger. ‘I hope you’re not hurt.’

  He trembles slightly and turns to face the traffic. The second the cars stop, he dashes off in an effort to put as much distance between me and him as possible. I spin round, my hands – and his wallet – stuffed in my pockets, and move away quickly, hoping he doesn’t notice that his pocket has just been picked. I’m about twenty feet away when I pull out his wallet and flick through it. His company ID card is proudly displayed, along with his grinning photo and the number seventeen. I palm it.

  When I return to the Streets of Fire office, I’m too taken with my own skills to notice the woman ahead handing out flyers and trying to stop pedestrians until it’s too late. She beams at me.

  ‘Hi! I’m Robin Gefen and today I’d like to take five minutes of your time to…’ Her eyes widen when she realizes I’m a vampire. Without warning, she lets out an ear-piercing shriek. I think she’s about to run away but her flight instincts seem to have completely shut down and she freezes.

  I ignore the alarmed looks from other passers-by. ‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ I say softly.

  She stares at me like I’m about to eat her. I’m tempted to stay and plead my case. Perhaps take her out for a coffee and prove that, despite what the press and various protest groups are currently saying, we vampires are really not so bad. Unfortunately I don’t have the time. I sigh and give her a half smile. She doesn’t respond.

  ‘Good luck,’ I tell her. Then I walk on before I draw any more attention to myself. Vampires used to be admired by many humans, they had celebrity status. Now we’re seen as worse than Jack the sodding Ripper by almost everyone.

  I time my entry through the door with that of a group of interns who are just leaving. I walk briskly to the bank of elevators situated away from the main desk, then use Cat Guy’s card to unlock the nearest one. I step in, keeping my face angled away from the security camera, press for the seventeenth floor and wait. I don’t have to hang around for long. It’s one of those ‘blink and you’ll miss it’ lift rides. Clearly no expense has been spared in setting up of Streets of Fire’s flagship office.

  As I venture out onto Cat Guy’s floor, I pause in case there’s an alarm system my research didn’t tell me about. Unless it’s a sneaky silent alarm, however, I’m still in the clear – maybe because some people are hanging around and working. You can’t lock down a building when people are still inside. Maybe there’s something to be said for this working late lark after all.

  Although it delays me, I spend several minutes wandering around searching for Cat Guy’s cubicle. For once my lack of height is an advantage; if I were any taller I’d draw attention from the hangers-on sitting in front of their illuminated screens. The office manager has helpfully provided labels next to each space with the names of the employees and the Streets of Fire logo. When I locate Cat Guy’s, I drop his wallet in the top drawer, alongside what seems to be a lifetime supply of Snickers bars. With any luck, he’ll think he left it here by accident.

  I head back out and look for the cleaners’ closet. As I’d hoped, there’s a cart inside, filled with sprays and disinfecting accoutrements. I search carefully, hoping for a discarded card for the service lift but I’m not that lucky. I pull the cart out, keep it in front of me and move slowly down the corridor. I bend down and wipe the skirting board in a few places to make my slow progress look more natural. As soon as I see a woman pressing the lift button though, I speed up so I can wait with her. She doesn’t even bother to glance in my direction.

  When the lift door pings open, I rudely push my cart in first, getting in her way. I stand as close to the buttons as I can while still leaving the woman enough room. She squeezes in and swipes her card. Before she can press the button for the ground floor, I swoop in and hit twenty. She has more access than Cat Guy and, to her audible annoyance, the lift sets off upwards rather than down. I flash her a smile when the doors re-open, and keep my fingers crossed that she’s more focused on her irritation than the fact that I’m oddly dressed for a cleaner.

  Once the doors close behind me, I twist round and watch the LED numbers carefully. The lift drops to the ground floor. I smile grimly. Unless she mentions my presence to the security team at the entrance, I’m in the clear. Templeton’s guy is on the twenty-fourth floor, just one below the CEO. I’m getting closer.

  I push the cleaning cart to the end of the corridor, noting thankfully that this floor is empty, then search through the cleaning contents, eventually deciding on glass spray. Singing loudly, I go back towards the lift, pausing every few seconds to spray the fluid on greasy smudges on the glass wall separating the corridor from the offices. When I’m in front of the lift – and directly underneath the security camera – I start spraying more liberally. As soon as the camera’s vision is sufficiently obscured, I drop the spray bottle and twist round.

  My fingers scrabble at the lift doors. I finally create a tiny gap so that I can push them apart. I glance swiftly down before the safety feature kicks in and the doors close automatically again. The lift is nowhere in sight. I take a swift breath to acknowledge the flutter of nerves in my stomach, then jump into the gaping shaft. I lose a few metres in the leap but as soon as I grab hold of the biting steel cable, I know I’m solid. I grin. Rogu3 would be horrified at my low-tech ways of circumventing expensive CCTV systems but as long as they work, I have no issue with going old school. The lift doors slide shut and I’m plunged into darkness. I start hoisting myself upwards, hand after hand. I can’t see a thing so I’ll have to judge the distance as best as I can.

  My biceps are just starting to protest when I think I’m past the doors leading to the twenty-fourth floor. I kick out with one foot to test my theory and hit metal rather than cement. Concentrating carefully, I manoeuvre so that I’m hanging on the cable about a foot above the doors and cross my ankles tightly round the steel rope. Then I twist round until my back is to the doors and throw myself out so I can reach them with my hands. It’s considerably harder forcing them apart now that I’m hanging upside down and can’t see what I’m doing. Every so often, there’s an odd groaning noise which sends me into spasms of fear that the lift is about to start climbing in my direction again. If that happens I will quickly become Vamp à la Squish. Fortunately, I manage to prise the doors apart, loosen my ankles, slide down two feet and somersault out, landing easily on the soft carpet. I smile, bow and wave to an invisible audience while the doors snap shut. Then I turn round and get to work.

  It must take considerable authority for anyone to reach this far up the Streets of Fire building whether they’re the innovations director, like Templeton’s fake daemon, or a lowly cleaner. I think that I’ve been careful to ensure that none of the myriad of cameras have captured my face, so my identity will be hidden – but I bet my proud little backflip is already making headlines. That leaves me with one last resort: I shuffle over, bend my elbow and smash it into the fire alarm. There’s a second of silence before it starts screaming. I pull out the earplugs I bought especially for this occasion and stuff them into my ears. If the security staff didn’t know I was here before, they do now. The lift will be automatically put into lockdown but I’m on the twenty-fourth floor and that’s a long way up if you’re a security guard who spends most of the day sitting staring at screens for the minimum wage. I reckon I’ve got at least fifteen minutes. Not only that, D’Argneau is ready if my exit strategy fails.

  I jog down the corridor, searching for the right office. It’s at the end. Unlike the others, there’s no name on the door: just the title Director of Innovations. I take a deep breath and push it open. There’s no one inside. Relieved, I flick on the lights. Whoever this guy is, he’s obviously valued highly. Not only does he have a much-coveted corner office, his furniture is antique.

  I turn on the co
mputer. It flickers into life and asks for a password. Given that this is a technology company, the likelihood of the nameless executive keeping the password scribbled down nearby is pretty small. I search, though, lifting up the large blotting pad on the desk. There’s nothing there. I pick up a small framed photo of a beaming family and pull out the back. There’s no password there either but it still gives me pause. It’s not a real photo inside –just one of the generic shots used by shops as backing when you buy a picture frame. A trickle of doubt runs down my spine.

  I could call Rogu3 and ask him to help me break into the computer. Unfortunately, I know from my daytime research that Streets of Fire runs off a closed network that’s virtually unhackable. With time, he could probably find a way in but I’m not about to risk him on the Templetons’ behalf. I abandon the spotlessly clean desk top and computer and pull open drawers. When I spot the notepad, I pick it up and hide it in a pocket inside my jacket. Then I keep rooting around. There’s nothing else.

  I examine the wastepaper basket. There’s an empty jar of Marmite and a single ball of crumpled paper. I smooth it out. There’s nothing on it. I’m about to add it to the notepad in my pocket when I feel a slight vibration. As I watch, inked letters start to appear. My mouth goes dry as, one by one, they become visible. The innovations director must be a witch – and a damned powerful one at that. No wonder he was able to fool Templeton into thinking he was a daemon.

  T.I.M.E.’.S.U.P.

  I drop the paper and extricate myself from under the desk. In my haste, I bang my head and screw up my face in pain. When I open my eyes I see the shoes. I stand up very, very slowly, my eyes travelling upwards. When I see his face, I freeze.

  The Kakos daemon in front of me cocks his head and leans down. ‘And who might you be?’ he mouths.

  Chapter Eleven: X

  I pull out my earplugs and back up until I feel the window pressing against my spine. The fire alarm continues to shriek; it’s almost appropriate. I’m not dead yet though. No one’s ever escaped a confrontation with a Kakos daemon but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to try.

  If I grab the fake photo frame perhaps I can fling it at his face and blind him for long enough to make my escape.

  He quirks an eyebrow. ‘It won’t work.’ Can he read my mind? ‘I have faster reflexes than a vampire could ever hope for,’ he continues mildly. ‘I’ll dodge and you’ll be dead.’ He folds his arms and rocks back slightly on his heels, as if he’s waiting for me to come up with another plan. There’s an unnatural stillness about him, as if he’s barely breathing. His skin ripples with tattoos, not dissimilar to those of a Maori. His tattoos appear and vanish every few seconds, however, twisting their shapes and reforming in different patterns.

  I consider smashing the pane of glass behind me with my elbows. It’s a long way down and it’s unlikely that I’d make it to the ground; the sides of the building are glass and steel and there’s nothing to aid my descent. But a tiny chance is still a chance.

  ‘The glass is reinforced. You won’t manage it.’

  Sweet Jesus. Stephen Templeton’s face flashes into my mind. I can’t believe I’m going to be dead because of him. The daemon’s black eyes narrow fractionally but it’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking. I take a deep breath and close my eyes, filling my thoughts with the Stars Wars theme that Cat Guy was humming out on the street. It’s the first thing that comes to mind. I allow the tune to take over my thoughts. Then I run.

  Unbelievably, I make it round the open door. My speed is such that I’m forced to vault off the far wall of the corridor so I can continue without losing ground. I won’t have time to get into the lift but perhaps the fire escape…

  I slam into a hot, hard body and fall backwards. The daemon is standing in front of me, a vaguely perplexed expression on his dark face. All down one side, where my body collided with his, I feel the painful pricks of pins and needles. Slowly, I get to my feet and look into his glittering eyes. I bow my head. Make it quick, I think. Please, make it quick.

  There’s a sudden vibration in my pocket. Half a beat later, my phone starts to ring.

  ‘You should get that.’ His voice is deep and mellifluous. Surely such a creature of death and destruction should speak in a grating, harsh tone, not like Louis Armstrong singing ‘What a Wonderful World’.

  Trembling, I dig out the phone and answer it.

  ‘Sorry,’ Rogu3 says. ‘It shouldn’t have taken me this long to get back in touch but you wouldn’t believe the set-up these guys have. I’ve had to track the signal across half of Europe! It bounces off at least twelve satellites. Triber companies don’t normally know that much about tech but these guys…’ He whistles.

  ‘Uh, this isn’t a very good time.’ I do everything I can to keep my thoughts away from Rogu3’s identity. I’m glad I never took the time to find out his real name.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘You’re about to sink your fangs into someone’s neck, aren’t you? Feed on their blood.’

  I sneak a look at the Kakos daemon’s face. He seems amused, if that’s possible. ‘No,’ I squeak. ‘That’s definitely not what I’m about to do.’

  ‘You know I’ve picked this week’s word based on you,’ Rogu3 adds.

  ‘Oh?’ I say, trying to sound disinterested and wishing he’d get off the phone.

  ‘Yeah. Ketsuekigata. It’s Japanese.’

  ‘Defining personality through your blood type,’ the daemon informs me.

  Rogu3’s voice is cheerful. ‘It means…’

  ‘I know what it means,’ I interrupt. I need to get rid of him before my thoughts betray him.

  ‘Well, there’s no need to be snarky,’ he huffs. ‘I suppose you want to know where that camera’s transmitting to?’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘You know, Bo, I’m the one who’s supposed to be a hormonal teenager with an attitude problem, not you.’

  ‘You’ll be paid for your services,’ I tell him. If the daemon thinks he’s nothing more than an employee, he might leave Rogu3 alone.

  Rogu3 snorts. ‘Eventually. Anyway, the signal’s going to that company Magix. The same one that was trying to drive the shop out of business.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ He sounds stiff. Better that he’s annoyed at me rather than a corpse at the hands of a homicidal daemon.

  ‘Goodbye.’ I hang up. The phone dangles uselessly in my hand. I could try to call or text someone for help but there’s no point. I’ll be dead before they even walk out of their door.

  ‘I won’t go near the kid. And I’ve not decided if I’ll kill you yet.’

  Death might be the preferable option. Sometimes Kakos daemons turn their victims insane until they become babbling versions of their former selves. I met one once and it wasn’t pretty.

  ‘Just kill me,’ I mutter. I’ve had enough of a taste of insanity from the PTSD hallucinations to know that anything’s better than going crazy. ‘Eat my heart and feast on my entrails.’ At least I won’t end up in the cold, hard ground.

  My phone rings again. Without looking at the display, I lift it to my ear. ‘Rogu3, you need to stop…’

  ‘Who the hell is Rogu3?’ Michael growls. Sodding hell. Why does everyone suddenly want to get in touch?

  ‘No one you know.’ I can’t disguise the fear in my voice.

  ‘Bo?’ He’s alarmed. ‘What’s wrong?’

  I watch the daemon, who watches me. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You slept with the daemon.’

  For a moment I’m utterly thrown. Then I realise he’s referring to O’Shea. ‘Uh, yes. No. I stayed on his sofa.’ O’Shea’s gay. Michael knows that.

  ‘I thought you’d stay at your grandfather’s.’

  ‘I had things to do.’ Please, please go away.

  ‘You’re still looking for the cure.’ His voice is flat.

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Are you in town?’ he demands. />
  For now. My corpse will probably be cremated in the ̓burbs. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Come to my apartment when you’re done. You can spend the day there.’ There’s a pause as if he’s expecting me to argue. ‘It makes sense. I can drive you to the mansion to meet Doctor Love. Arzo will be there as well. He wants to discuss the plans for the new agency.’

  The tattoos on the daemon’s face are mesmerising. ‘Okay.’ There’s a palpable lack of enthusiasm in my voice.

  ‘Bo, promise me you’ll come.’

  ‘I can’t,’ I whisper. Then I hang up.

  Almost immediately the phone starts ringing again. I drop and stamp on it, crushing it. Even a vampire of Michael’s strength and experience is no match for a Kakos daemon.

  Ignoring the fact that I’m shaking, I step forward. ‘He has nothing to do with this. I’m here on my own.’

  ‘I think the vampire Heads have enough problems right now,’ the daemon says. He copies my movement and comes closer until we’re barely an inch apart. ‘They’re close to becoming as feared and hated as my own kin.’

  I rediscover the last vestiges of my spirit. ‘Vampires don’t destroy every person they come across,’ I snap.

  ‘And yet,’ the daemon says with velvety softness, ‘you’re desperate not to be one.’ A smile plays round his lips. ‘There is a cure, no matter what others tell you.’

  He’s playing with me like a cat plays with its prey, letting it escape time and time again before finally getting bored and killing it. ‘I’m not lying,’ he says, amicably.

  Much good a cure is going to do me now. I shiver while he licks his lips as if in anticipation.

  ‘So,’ he continues, ‘you’re here because of the accountant.’

  I feel a flash of guilt that quickly dissipates. The daemon already has Dahlia Templeton; I’m not giving away anything he doesn’t already know.

  ‘Actually,’ he says, ‘I don’t have her. I’ve never met her.’