Iron & Velvet (Kate Kane, Paranormal Investigator #1)

by Alexis Hall

I really wished I had Archer’s whiteboard. I bet there’s an app for that. iMurder or something. And I’d thrown away my empty bottles.

  “Okay, if we put those three events on the timeline, as well as the attacks, then we get a very different picture. At first it looked like someone was going for you personally, but that makes no sense if you take the plumber into account. If the killer knows where you sleep, there’s no point killing randoms at your club. Besides, we know that doesn’t count, because it was Maeve.”

  “Can we assemble all the suspects in the room?” asked Julian excitedly.

  “That’s just the point. We don’t have any suspects—unless you count the two-thousand-year-old vampire who could paste us over the walls—but, the thing is, we don’t need any. If we ignore Maeve and include the health violations, then all these attacks have two things in common.”

  “Is one of those things ick?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wow, I was joking.”

  “No, you’re dead right. And it’s not just ick, it’s backed-up pipes, vermin infestations, and people being torn apart by rats. I’m afraid we’re looking at a sewer monster.”

  “So what’s the good news?” Julian quirked a brow.

  “Well, the other thing they’ve got in common is that they’re attacks on your power, not on you. What that says to me is that this is someone who doesn’t have very much personal knowledge of you.”

  “You’re forgetting the rosary,” said Julian. “That’s pretty personal.”

  “But it’s from eight hundred years ago. Whoever it is, even if they knew you used to be a secret ninja pudding nun, they clearly don’t know where you live or how you get to work, or they’d just job you in the street. When Maeve went after you, she had enough of a connection to send a tentacle space monster to your home. Where I was trying to shag you.”

  “Hmm, maybe I will hire you again. You’re pretty good at this.” Julian grinned at me.

  “You did notice it’s my job, right?”

  “Yes, but there aren’t that many supernatural detectives in London. So where does this leave us?”

  “With an icky random. It’s not a lot, but it gives me a direction. I’m going back to the Velvet to see if I can get more on where this is coming from.”

  Julian nodded. “While you’re doing that, I’m going to have to talk to the Council. I need to keep them informed, or they’ll get pissy and start barging in on me all the time when I’m trying to have fun.” She looked down at herself. “Can I keep this shirt? Mine’s wrecked.”

  “Are you sure you can bring yourself to wear something without ruffles?”

  “I’ll cope.”

  Ten minutes later, after dressing and kissing me good-bye, she was gone. I texted Ashriel to let him know I was coming, and took the Tube to Piccadilly Circus. I had a pretty strong sense where all this ick was leading, but I wanted to make sure I was absolutely correct before I followed it down the sewers.

  The crime scene had been cleaned up, which I suppose is what happens if you run out in the middle of an investigation to try and stop your vampire girlfriend from freaking out and tearing down Tottenham.

  “We have to stop meeting like this.” Ashriel reeked of lies and seduction, sweetness and ruin. As usual.

  “What, you mean at murder scenes?”

  “Oh, by the way,” he said suddenly. “Alice.”

  “Huh?”

  “The plumber. Her name was Alice. Alice Brown.”

  “Thanks.”

  I went downstairs and poked about in the broken toilet. The really sad thing was that this was not a personal low. The inside of the S-bend was covered in tiny claw marks and scratches, but other than that—and the usual things you find down toilets—there wasn’t much to go on. I’d never been a Girl Guide, and I didn’t know much about animal tracks, but it looked like a metric arseload of rats had burst through the bog and eaten someone.

  Rats just don’t do that.

  And even if they did, you’d expect some of them to get killed in the crush. There should have been little furry corpses all over the place.

  I had another look at Alice’s bones, which Ashriel had put in a box for the coroner. Guess it was going to be a closed casket funeral. I took a few photos.

  Finally, I checked the alley where Andrew had been found. And there it was: the sewer grate. I’d been pretty sure I remembered seeing—and smelling—one nearby.

  Well, fuck.

  Words could not express how little I wanted to hunt a killer sewer monster in its home territory. I’d been there before. It’s just messy. And there was no way I was casually popping into a sewer on spec—they’re a huge underground labyrinth, prone to flooding, and full of really nasty diseases.

  Here lies Kate Kane. Died of leptospirosis after swimming in a river of poo. Beloved daughter. Sorely missed.

  So, before I went any further down shit creek, I was going to need some proper safety gear and a clue where I was going. I had gear back at the office. As for the clue . . . it meant paying a visit to one of the somethings that lived under the city. There were a lot of somethings to choose from. There were rumours that Mercy used the sewers to move around, but I was sick of asking for favours from vampires. A few years ago I’d had to deal with this crazy spider goddess who lived under the Northern Line, but I really didn’t want to talk to her again. Then I remembered that Jack had mentioned something nasty down there. Of course there’s always something nasty in the sewers, but a lead was a lead.

  So it was back on the Tube and back to Camden. I armed myself with a box of Krispy Kremes and found Jack and his sister Nancy at their stall. She was slouched sullenly against a wall, playing with her lip piercing, and he was selling a spiky tongue stud to a cybergoth. His eyes lit up when he saw me, but that was probably the donuts.

  “Hi Kate.” He waved cheerfully. “Are those for me?”

  “I can wait.”

  Nancy huffed out a long-suffering sigh and stomped over to the customer.

  “So like,” she said in a tone of deep boredom, “you should totally buy it because it’s like shiny or whatever and we want to have donuts.”

  I passed the box to Jack, who tore it open and dived in.

  “The other day,” I began, “you said there was something nasty in the sewers.”

  “Mmmrmff.” Jack had just stuffed two different donuts into his mouth.

  “Finish chewing first.”

  He swallowed and thought for a moment. “Yes. I did say that.” He grabbed for another donut.

  “Any idea what? Or where?”

  Jack shook his head, which made his fringe fall into his eyes. “Mmmrmff.”

  “Do you know anyone who would?”

  He nodded, and then, when his mouth was empty, said, “Come on, I’ll show you.”

  Leaving the stall with his sister, he took my hand and dragged me off into Camden. Jack didn’t say a lot, which suited me fine. He had, however, consumed a lot of sugar. This led to twitching and pogoing, like he badly needed to go to the loo. We ended up on the Tube to Aldgate.

  Jack spent the journey twirling on the poles, swinging on the handrails, and stealing people’s food until I asked him to sit down. Then he went sulkily into a corner and ate a copy of the Metro. He’d cheered up again by the time we got off and was casually telling me how many plague victims had been buried in the area as he led me round the corner to one of London’s stranded churches. It was an eighteenth-century stone tower with obelisk, next to a 1970s concrete office block, with the Gherkin glittering in the background like a giant glass dildo.

  Jack scurried up to the door, and I followed him inside, a bit dubiously. It was one of those trendy High Church Anglican places: big gold organs, shining stained glass, statues. But pleasantly light and airy with it, like they were saying “God is Great, but he’s also really nice when you get to know him.” I picked up a leaflet about how Jesus was a swell guy who hung out with “excluded members of society” and took a moment to
wonder if that included swarms of rats in human form.

  The church was empty except for an unassuming man in his late fifties sitting in one of the pews. As a general rule, I’m suspicious of unassuming men in their late fifties because they’re usually terrifying supernatural monsters.

  He smiled like my granddad. “Hello.” He was wearing a clerical collar and a tweed jacket.

  “Hey!” Jack’s body dissolved into a writhing pile of rodents that scampered across the church.

  The vicar stood up and stepped into the nave. The floor around his feet seethed with rats.

  You see. Always terrifying supernatural monsters.

  The rats that had been Jack disappeared into the sea of furry bodies.

  “I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess you’re not a real vicar.”

  “Actually,” he said mildly, “I’m a curate. I go by Edmund Carew. But you’re not here to speak to me. You are here to speak to the Multitude.”

  As he spoke, his voice began to change. It was soft at first, but suddenly I realised I was not hearing one voice, but many, until it became a vast and endless chorus of echoes.

  This was officially outside my comfort zone.

  “Uh, I suppose so.”

  “And what will you give us if we answer your questions?” asked the Multitude.

  He probably wasn’t going to be satisfied with a box of donuts. “What do you want?”

  I braced for your immortal soul or your left eye and your tongue.

  “We want you to help someone.” His sleeve rippled and a stream of rats cascaded down his hand and onto the floor.

  “Anybody in particular?”

  “A woman from this parish. She needs employment and a place to stay.”

  “Uh, I got my last partner killed, and my spare bedroom is tiny.”

  “Those are our terms.”

  “Okay.” I was just glad the deal didn’t include the words inhabit your x or devour your y. And I guess I could use a receptionist. I’ve always wanted a Miss Moneypenny.

  “We will send her to you this evening. As for what you seek, the creature makes its lair beyond the River Fleet.”

  “And this is the thing that’s attacking the Prince of Cups?”

  “That we do not know. It is ancient, but it is not what once it was. It has been a danger in the world below for decades, but only now has found the strength to threaten the surface.”

  I was going to be really pissed off if I went down a sewer and killed the thing, and it turned out to have nothing whatsoever to do with the case.

  “Any chance of a guide?” I asked.

  He returned to the pew and sat down, rats swarming up and into his body, disappearing and reappearing in a way I didn’t like to think about too much. To give him his due, they seemed to be pretty happy with the arrangement. He brought his hands together and rats gathered on his palms. “We will not risk any part of ourselves, and we will not risk those under our protection. Even without the creature, the Fleet is dangerous. It, too, is ancient and not what once it was. Its waters are fickle and rise swiftly.”

  “Uh, thanks. And just to check, you didn’t eat a plumber yesterday?”

  “No.”

  “Cool. Had to ask. You know how it is.”

  I got the fuck out of there.

  Leaving the rats and the Gherkin behind, I got back on the Tube again, and headed to my office. Once I was there, I dug out my sewer kit. Overalls, waist-high waders with tungsten-studded soles that grip but don’t spark, heavy-duty gloves, a hard hat with a miner’s light, gas mask, gas meter, and a bandolier for my knives—the sort of thing they’d lock you up for even thinking about wearing in the street. I was slightly depressed I lived the kind of life where you needed a sewer kit, but the only thing more depressing than having a sewer kit is needing a sewer kit and not having one.

  I stuffed everything into a bag for later and then fired up my computer to see what the press was saying about Tottenham. I checked the BBC news website, navigating down to local. Rioting on West Green Road. Well, there’s a reason it’s a classic. It was that or gas main explosion. I opened up my email, and there was a message from the Archivist of the Order of St. Agrippina.

  Dear Dr. Smith,

  Thank you for your email. Our order has a long history of helping those afflicted by evil spirits, and our records are extensive. Our archives are, of course, based in Rome, and our documents are too fragile to transport or subject to modern digitisation techniques. I have found no references to an Anacletus the Corruptor in our records. However, if you have any further requests please do not hesitate to contact me. I would be more than happy to look into them on your behalf. It is my pleasure and my duty to share the history of our order with all those who seek to learn of it. If you should find yourself in Rome at any point in the future, do not hesitate to make an appointment.

  Respectfully yours,

  Sister Benedict

  Huh.

  With hindsight, it had probably been overly optimistic to expect, “Why yes, one of our nuns was transformed into a killer sex vampire in 1194.” I chalked this one up to experience. Worst-case scenario: I’d made an order of demon hunters think I was an inept vampire spy. But they were in Rome and probably had better things to do than worry about me.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon digging up blueprints of the sewer system while I waited for whoever the Multitude was sending over. Knowing my luck, it would be some kind of adorable scrappy orphan.

  At about half past five, there was a rap on the door, and I looked through the frosted glass to see a silhouette that belonged in a Humphrey Bogart movie.

  “It’s open.”

  A femme fatale walked into my office. Even the slightly shabby trench coat couldn’t hide the fact that this woman was gorgeous. Like a Greek goddess stepped down from a plinth. Waist-length wavy, black hair, eyes only one shade lighter, packing lashes that ought to have been illegal, full lips, high cheekbones, and bronze Mediterranean skin.

  “Miss Kane, I presume,” she said in a smoky Marlene Dietrich voice.

  “Uh . . . yeah.” Maybe I’d fallen asleep at my desk again.

  “The Multitude sent me. I am Elise.”

  “And you’re here for a job?”

  “Yes. I require employment.”

  “Have you considered, for example, modelling?”

  “I find it tiresome to be looked at.”

  I hastily averted my eyes. “Oh, right. Sorry.”

  “Are you homosexual, Miss Kane?” she asked.

  I blinked. “Wow, you make it sound so clinical.”

  “I apologise. I was simply requesting clarification.”

  “Am I making it that obvious?”

  “Yes, Miss Kane.”

  “Is that going to be a problem?”

  “No, Miss Kane.”

  “You can call me Kate, you know,” I said.

  “Thank you, Miss Kane.”

  I’ve known some loopy dames in my time, but this one took the biscuit. And I was supposed to be employing her. God knew what I was going to do with her. Maybe I could use her as an umbrella stand.

  “So,” I tried, “what was your last job?”

  “I reflected the desires of my creator.”

  O-kaaaaay.

  “And, er, how long were you doing that?”

  “Approximately six months.”

  There was a pause that could only be called awkward.

  “Why the change of career?” I asked carefully.

  “My creator attempted to have me destroyed.”

  “Destroyed?” I asked, even more carefully.

  “Yes, Miss Kane. He put me in the boot of a car and sent it to a wrecking yard.”

  Bummer. That meant at least one them was a raging psychopath. For her sake, I hoped it was her. For my sake, I hoped it was him.

  “Uh . . .” I tried to think of something comforting to say and came up completely blank. “Why did he do that?”

  “He did not
find me satisfactory.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “My creator fashioned me to be his ideal companion. I embodied his desires and his secret passions and, consequently, I saw him as he saw himself. This, he could not abide.”

  “So he tried to kill you? Wasn’t that a bit of an overreaction?”

  “I cannot be certain, but my limited observations suggest that people believe they have the right to destroy that which they have created.”

  I tried to think of something comforting to say. Again. And came up completely blank. Again. “Who was this fucker?”

  “His name was Russell.”

  “First or last?”

  “I do not know, Miss Kane.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes, Miss Kane. He told me little about himself, and I was not permitted to leave his house until he attempted to destroy me.”

  “Okay, but if you ever see him again, tell me so I can kick his head in.”

  “As you wish.”

  I didn’t know what else to say, and, in the absence of an immediate head-kicking opportunity, I changed the subject with subtlety and grace. “So, do you have any transferable skills?”

  “I appear to be impervious to physical harm. I have no need to eat, sleep, or breathe, and I can bring a man to orgasm within thirty seconds.”

  There was another pause. Also awkward.

  “Can you type?” I asked, finally.

  “I suspect that I could learn, Miss Kane.”

  I gave up. “You’re hired.”

  “There is also the matter of lodging.”

  She was still standing by my desk, hands folded neatly in front of her. I realised she literally hadn’t moved since she’d come in. Her head was at the same angle, her fingers in the same position. Once I’d noticed, it started to creep me out a little bit.

  “You can crash in my spare room until you get your own place,” I told her. “I warn you, I drink, smoke, and wander around in my underwear. You should feel free to do the same. Uh, I mean, not the underwear thing. Not unless you really want to. Look. Just make yourself at home, okay?”

  “What will my responsibilities be?”

  “Answer phones, make coffee, do the stuff I don’t want to do like reports, record-keeping, filing, and tax returns. Oh, and I need you to drive me to Farringdon in the middle of the night so I can go down a sewer.”