Vowed

by Liz de Jager

  I wonder how often he thinks about who his real parents were and why they gave him up – and if he ever thinks about looking them up.

  Although I grew up with my nan, I can count on one hand the stuff I know about my mum and dad. Sometimes I wake up in the night feeling a hollow ache, wanting to know more about them. It was no longer enough to know that my mum was stubborn and single minded, or that my dad was a normal human employed by the Spook Squad.

  The things I know about them gives me a tiny keyhole view of who they were, but nothing else. I yearn to have an HD widescreen vision of them. I can only imagine that the way I feel might be the way Dante feels about his own parents.

  After finishing a final quick sketch of Melusine I close and drop my sketchpad and scoot underneath the covers again. I find my ear buds and plug myself into my iPod and eventually drift off to the sound of instrumental soundtrack music.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘We need to talk.’

  I eye Kyle dubiously as he watches me down my second coffee. I’ve just come back from a long run and am gearing myself up to do the paperwork for the warehouse job, so I’m not a hundred per cent keen on seeing his scowling face.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘That wallet you took from the guy at the warehouse. His name is Marko Monroe. He runs with the Jericho Gang.’

  I sit down at the dining-room table and drop my head into my hands. ‘See? When you say something like that, as if it should mean something to me, and it doesn’t? This is my confused expression.’

  ‘The Jericho Gang runs drugs from the borders all through the Midlands.’

  ‘Do we know any of them?’

  ‘No. But Aiden’s mate Leo’s dad does. I spoke to Leo earlier.’ Kyle’s fingers dance across the keyboard in front of him. ‘Here, look at this.’

  I push up from my chair with a sigh and go and stand next to my cousin.

  ‘What am I looking at?’

  He points to the map of the UK. ‘Here, all of this belongs to the Jericho crew.’

  I reluctantly have to admit that it’s a huge area. ‘I can’t take them all on by myself,’ I tell him.

  He grimaces. ‘Glad you know that. No, we’re passing this information on to the police directly. We have a few sympathetic ears. Also, Leo’s dad said he’ll speak to some people. He’s seen first hand what Glow does to someone.’ When he sees my curious expression he explains further. ‘A kid died in one of his clubs in Soho last night. He’s pi—. He’s very angry. Apparently Aiden was there and helped.’

  That would explain Aiden not showing up last night. I don’t know Leo very well, having only met him a few times, but he’s a good friend of Aiden’s and they went to some posh private school together. A werewolf and a gangster’s son. Nothing wrong with that picture at all.

  ‘How far are you with figuring out what’s in the Glow?’

  ‘Not far. Jilly is struggling to lock down some of the ingredients. She says she’s never seen anything like it.’

  ‘We don’t want her to marry it, we just need her to figure out what it’s made of. If we know that, we can get the labs to manufacture a way to help the little girl lying in a coma.’

  ‘I know, Kit. Bloody hell, give me some credit. Jesus. You’re getting meaner by the second. Is this how you’re going to be, hanging out with a Spook?’

  ‘Not by choice, Kyle. Remember that. This is not my choice.’

  ‘You didn’t seem to fight it really hard,’ he mutters under his breath.

  ‘What did you want me to do? Tell the Queen of Air and Darkness to shove the job? That she can ask someone else to do it?’ I frown at him. ‘These are little kids that need our help. I reckon I stand a better chance figuring out what’s going on than anyone else she could ask.’

  ‘Yeah, but the Spook.’ He looks unhappy. ‘I mean, he’s not family. An unknown.’

  ‘He’s not a liability,’ I tell him, hating that I’m using words that Jamie enjoys throwing around. ‘I’ve got this.’

  My pocket starts vibrating and I lift my phone to my ear. ‘What?’

  ‘Oh! Hi? This is Diane? From like earlier this morning?’

  I scowl at Kyle and walk away from him, towards the living room.

  ‘Hi, Diane, thanks for calling.’

  ‘Are you okay? You sound angry.’

  ‘My cousin is being a pain,’ I tell her. ‘Thank you for asking.’

  ‘Oh right, no worries.’ She laughs nervously. ‘So I’ve been talking to the boys and we’ve decided that we’re going to help you. I’m going to get the scrapbooks my auntie’s got in her flat so you can look at them. I’m telling her it’s for a school thing.’

  ‘Look at you, being a devious person,’ I tease her, the smile showing in my voice. ‘Thanks for that.’

  ‘Chem said to help. He’s really worried about the block, you know? We all are. These are our friends’ little brothers and sisters being taken.’

  A trickle of ice drips down my spine. ‘Diane, are you guys staking out the estate?’

  The brief pause at the other end of the phone tells me all I should know.

  ‘You can’t do that, okay? It’s not safe. Just go to school, go about your business like usual.’

  ‘Yeah? And what about you?’

  ‘This is my job,’ I tell her. ‘It’s in my blood, okay? It’s what I do. Me and my family.’

  ‘And the guy from last night? Is he family?’

  I sigh and close my eyes. ‘No, he’s someone I have to work with on this.’

  She sucks her teeth and I can feel her defiance right through the phone.

  ‘So, did you guys get to speak to the little boy’s brother? The one who almost got taken a few days ago?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s the other reason I called? His mum’s working tonight so they’re going to be alone at home. He said you can come over then.’

  She gives me the boys’ names, and we confirm the time and flat number before hanging up. I stomp into the kitchen and dial Dante as I pour myself another mug of coffee.

  He answers on the second ring. ‘Dante Alexander, how may I help you?’

  ‘Wow,’ I say, impressed. ‘You sound grown up.’

  ‘It’s a ploy,’ he assures me. ‘It happens every time I put on my suit.’

  ‘Sucks to be you.’ I laugh when I hear him draw in a breath at my apparent rudeness. The guy really needed to loosen up a bit. ‘Listen, Diane called and tonight we get to meet the little kid, Adam, who said someone tried to break into his room. His older brother, Colin, will be there too. We’re seeing them at seven. Wear something that doesn’t make you look like a government agent.’

  ‘I like my suit.’

  ‘You are twenty,’ I tell him. ‘You should be wearing shorts and sandals and hideous T-shirts, glorifying surfing off the coast of Hawaii or something.’

  ‘Is this your way of telling me you don’t like me, my clothes or what I do for a living?’

  I sigh. Gods, what a diva! ‘No, it’s my way of telling you to not wear a suit tonight.’

  ‘Do I get to tell you what you should be wearing?’

  Oh my giddy aunt. He’s flirting with me and I can feel my cheeks flame bright red. ‘I’m coming by Monster,’ I cut him off. ‘Jeans and a leather jacket. That’s how I’ll be dressed.’

  ‘Cool. I dig chicks in leather who ride bikes.’

  He can’t see me rolling my eyes but he must sense it because he laughs and he doesn’t have the grace to sound even a little bit embarrassed.

  ‘I’ll see you later, Blackhart.’

  ‘Try not to get too many paper cuts, office boy,’ I advise him, before hanging up. ‘It’s on, Kyle. We’re meeting the little boy who was almost taken the other night.’ I’m talking as I round the corner back into the dining room.

  Kyle nods and hands me back the folder Suola gave me last night.

  ‘Read this again. I’m running a search to see if anything weird went down in the timeframe these kids got taken.
’

  ‘Weird, like how?’

  ‘Anything odd, you know – stuff that happened.’ He grimaces at me. ‘Shut up and study your file and let me do the computer thing.’

  ‘What about the warehouse paperwork?’ I say. ‘Aunt Letty’s going to go mental if I don’t have it back to her soon.’

  ‘She can wait. This is more important.’

  The look he gives me is so much like Uncle Andrew’s that I shut up, grab the file and head off to sit in the living room. Here I sprawl inelegantly on the sofa and flip open the file.

  Five kids. All of them under eight years old. I undo the clips and lay each photo on the ground, grouping their bits of paper beneath them. I pick up the details of the first one that disappeared.

  Roberto Santos. Four years old. Mum and dad were watching TV in the next room when he was taken. Dad went in to check on him when he got up to go make coffee. It was 9 p.m.

  Rachel Mitchell. Five years old. Rachel was taken from her home two days before her sixth birthday. Both her parents were at home. No sign of an intruder.

  Joanie Powell. Seven. Parents woke up to a noise at 3 a.m. and found Joanie gone. No sign of an intruder except for an open window. Their flat was on the sixth floor.

  Christopher Singh. Aged six. His mum got up to wake him up for school but when she walked into the room it was in a mess and there was no sign of Christopher.

  Jerome King. The oldest at almost eight, taken a week before his birthday. His dad heard a commotion in his room and ran in to find his son’s window open and no sign of Jerome. They were on the fourth floor of the building.

  The police reports are succinct and brief. No sign of forced entry into any of the flats and the CCTV stayed suspiciously blank. Kyle has shown me how easy it is to mess with CCTV footage, so I don’t trust the CCTV. I also know that creatures from the Otherwhere knock the cameras out, so they hardly ever show up on any film, unless they want to be seen. No human could do this, so it was definitely Otherwhere related. I will need to check with the other players in town, the Infernal (demons and angels to us average folk) and the Suckers, our very special slang for vampires. There are other creatures too, but those are the major players.

  I check on the children’s birthday dates compared to when they were taken.

  Roberto and Rachel were taken two years ago. Roberto just before 1 May; Rachel disappeared on 19 July. The next disappearance was Joanie on the night of 30 July.

  Then there’s a gap and it starts again this year. End of January with Christopher Singh and then just before Easter is Jerome King.

  The dates are interesting as they are all just before a major pagan holiday.

  Roberto’s before May Day or Beltane. Then Rachel at Midsummer. Then Joanie just before Lammas, which is Harvest time.

  The gap is interesting and I wonder why he didn’t continue last year. Next is Christopher Singh at the end of January, skipping Midwinter but in time for one of the equinoxes in February. The final one to be taken is Jerome King, at Easter or Ostara.

  So perhaps he skipped May Day, Midsummer and Lammas this year, because he already had the children somewhere . . . returning to take someone at Halloween, or Samhain, as it’s called by most pagans I’ve met.

  I rummage around the living room and come up with a ratty book on the wheel of the pagan year and check out the dates. So our guy’s now missed out on Halloween too . . . which has definitely thrown a spanner in the works because the next holiday is Yule, around Christmas time. If he’s collecting children for pagan festivals, his timings are out.

  No. I write down the names and dates and realize he’s missed two months from the calendar – September (Mabon, the autumn equinox) and now Halloween or Samhain. I sit back in my seat and wonder if he’ll next appear in December.

  But why? Why the staggered way of taking the kids?

  If he was planning to do a ritual then it would make sense that he’d take them all in one year. Not stagger them and miss out some significant dates entirely.

  I stand up and pace around the living room. It makes no sense at all. The days have to mean something or rather, the times of year they were taken, surely? They aren’t even the opposites of the eight points that the calendar forms. Argh, it is frustrating.

  I check my watch and pick up my phone. It’s time to make a call.

  ‘Professor Thorpe, please. It’s Kit Blackhart.’

  I pull up outside a smart house near the British Museum. The streets here are lined with trees shedding autumnal leaves on impressive imported German cars. My bike immediately looks more disreputable, like a thug at a white-tie affair, and I grin as I feel all the security cameras twitch my way. Tucking my helmet under my arm, I walk up to the green door with its plain knocker.

  I rap it once and it opens almost immediately. A young student stands there, I forget his name, but he’s Professor Thorpe’s assistant and he recognizes me from my previous visits.

  ‘Your colleague is here already,’ he says to me as he shows me in to the entrance hall. I glance around, enjoying the academic ambiance. It is still a little bit dusty, with the bust of some Greek philosopher looking on disapprovingly and a coat-rack laden with coats and umbrellas in the corner.

  ‘Is he?’ I ask in surprise, wondering how Dante got here so fast. I rang him after I made the appointment to meet Professor Thorpe.

  ‘He’s waiting for you through here. Can I get you anything?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

  Dante stands up when we walk into the small waiting room. With the three of us the small room, a box room really, feels overcrowded. Add in the bookcase and the assistant’s desk, where he now sits tapping at his keyboard, and the room is positively, breathlessly, small.

  Dante smiles at me.

  ‘You look fresh,’ he says by way of greeting.

  ‘Thanks.’ I feel rubbish and suspect I look it. ‘Nice tie.’

  We sit down next to one another and I fiddle with my bike keys after stowing my helmet beneath my chair.

  ‘You going to talk me through this before we go in?’ Dante asks me, keeping his voice low.

  ‘Not much to say really – the dates the kids were taken peripherally look as if they line up with the pagan wheel of the year. There are eight festivals: four major festivals and four slightly less major, but all still important. Whoever is taking the kids seems to be doing it in a very haphazard way. Three between May Day, Midsummer and Lammas, or the first Harvest festival. Those were the first, last year. This year we’ve got two, Christopher in February and Jerome in March. So Spring and Easter.’

  Dante’s kept up with my hurried explanation and I’m impressed. He purses his lips and I notice he’s missed a bit when he shaved this morning. I lift my eyes to his, distracted. I am so tired. And he smells so nice. ‘Are you thinking witches took them?’

  ‘No.’ I sigh and try to wake up. ‘And don’t ask me about Satanists either. They are far rarer than popular media would have you believe.’

  ‘Then what?’

  I shrug. ‘That’s why we’re here, talking to Professor Thorpe.’

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘She is an expert in ancient pagan practices and a well-known historian and anthropologist.’

  ‘And you know her because . . . ?’

  ‘She helped me get rid of a particularly nasty household Roman spirit in St Albans.’ At his blank look I explain briefly. ‘The god decided that since his shrine was disturbed by some gardeners working on a new development, the owners of the new house should pay him all kinds of respect. He terrorized them, killed their cat, broke stuff in the house. It was petty, dumb stuff.’

  ‘It sounds like you should have called a priest,’ Dante says. ‘But of course that would have been silly because you handled it. Obviously.’

  I sneer at him in an impressive display of insolence that would have Aiden nodding in approval. Just then Professor Thorpe pulls open her door to call us in. She is dressed elegantly in an abstract
tunic, leggings and knee-high boots.

  ‘Kit, darling girl. Come inside. And who is this?’ She presses a cool cheek against mine in a brief hug.

  Imelda Thorpe is one of my favourite people in the world. Eccentric, intelligent and unorthodox, she always makes time for any of us when we need help. I think Jamie may have dated her at some stage, I can’t be sure but something has given me that impression.

  I introduce Dante by his name only (she has a scholar’s issues with any government agencies) and she smiles at him before inviting us into her office.

  Her office is considerably larger than the waiting room. Her walnut desk sits in front of a wide window overlooking a small private park. The office is lined with books, floor to ceiling, crammed higgledy-piggledy onto the shelves. They vie for space with knick-knacks she’s picked up from all around the world on various visits to far-flung places. I don’t look directly at the weird little owls that were given to her by an archaeologist in San Salvador. They give me the creeps, with their staring eyes and permanently startled expressions. I know – it’s weird – don’t ask me why, they just do. Owls and rats just freak me out. They are my kryptonite.

  I sit in my usual chair, the one to the right and Dante takes the other visitor’s seat.

  Imelda hovers near us, her various bangles jingling as she clasps her hands to her chest. The way she’s standing I’m worried she’s going to start singing but, no, she just looks insanely happy.

  ‘Kit. Is he the one?’

  ‘The one what?’ I ask her, wondering what she is on about.

  ‘You know, the boy. From the Otherwhere. The prince?’

  I look at her in surprise and then at Dante, who manages not to look too worried at being referred to as if he wasn’t present.

  A jolt of electricity travels through me when I realize what she’s asking. I think about the dream I’ve had of the ruined palace and of Thorn’s unexpected appearance, the brief conversation we had, about his hand touching me, pushing me out of harm’s way. A yearning I’m not ready to face opens inside me and I turn my attention firmly aside. I can’t control the tremble in my voice and ignore the concerned expression on Dante’s face when I speak.