by Laura Powell
‘I wanted Glory to be told about her mother before we went on this assignment. I knew it was a mistake. I tried –’ Lucas stopped, hearing the whine in his voice.
The other man drummed his fingers on the wheel. ‘The long and short of it is, Section Seven thinks you’re compromised, and I’m afraid our side is inclined to agree. So you’re coming back to London with me. Tonight.’
The news was not unexpected, and yesterday Lucas would not have particularly cared. Today he seethed at the stupidity of it all: his own, and everyone else’s. ‘What about Glory?’
‘We’ll keep an eye on what she’s up to. But she’s not our priority. Or yours.’ The agent’s tone softened slightly. ‘If I were you, kid, when it comes to the debrief, I’d lay the blame at her door. It’s your best chance of walking away from this mess.’
PART 3
Chapter 18
At the airport, Glory changed her remaining Swiss francs into a mix of US dollars and Cordoban crescents, and used her WICA-funded debit card to buy a ticket to San Jerico. Ever since the introduction of biometric ID, it was a lot harder for witches and other criminal types to travel undetected. But although WICA could track her passport as well as her debit card, Cordoba was infamous for poor immigration controls and illegal border crossings. If things didn’t work out, Glory hoped she’d be able to slip away elsewhere without too much trouble.
She was not able to get on the same flight as Raffi. It would be a twenty-hour journey with two stopovers, one in Paris and one in Rio de Janeiro, and she wouldn’t arrive in Cordoba until eleven in the morning. Although she had thought she wanted to be alone, when she waved Raffi off, she felt a renewed sense of abandonment.
Before boarding, she bought a Cordoban guidebook. She needed to know what she was letting herself in for. And if her brain was stuffed full of facts and figures, maybe there wouldn’t be room to think about anything else.
Dutifully, she read that Cordoba was the smallest sovereign state in South America. Its main economic activities were sugar-growing, gold-mining and shrimp-fishing. Most of the population lived in the lowland coastal area. Its southern border was mountainous. Two-thirds of the country was covered in forest. The climate was tropical. Blah de blah.
The historical background bit didn’t tell her anything she didn’t already know. During the Spanish and Portuguese invasion of South America, it had been the conquistadors’ guns and diseases versus the natives’ witch-priests. When these proved harder to defeat than expected, squads of witch-convicts from the Spanish Inquisition’s cells were shipped over, and promised their freedom if they would use their powers against the ‘savages’. Ever since, witchkind had been better integrated in South America than the rest of the world. Cordoba, though, was unique in that it currently had no Inquisition. Most forms of witchwork were officially illegal, yet formed the basis of a thriving black economy – something the guidebook failed to mention.
Eventually, Glory put the book away and fell into a thin doze. She dreamed of mining for golden shrimp, and fighting conquistadors in the jungle. Of Jenna, leaning over her skull with a drill. ‘It won’t hurt a bit . . .’
San Jerico’s airport was everything Zurich’s was not: noisy, ill-lit and disorderly. There were no inquisitorial guards; just a handful of bored policemen in dirty-looking brown uniforms. After being waved through immigration, Glory made her way to a bus station and found one going to Centro Ciudad. Those Spanish lessons were going to come in handy after all.
She got off the bus in the city centre, a cramped square of broken cobblestones. The cathedral loomed overhead, looking like a crazed wedding cake, with its layers of sooty pink and white marble. It had just stopped raining; puddles winked in the sun. Traffic growled and honked. Glory sniffed the fume-laden air appreciatively.
At the beachfront, the water was a shimmering green, the promenades lined with palms and crammed with ranks of boutiques and bars. Many buildings were in the colonial style, with wrought-iron balconies and low-pitched clay roofs. Their plaster facades were pockmarked and stained, or else gaudy with gilded arcades and brash colours. Although there was plenty of wealth on display in the high-rise apartment blocks, the bronzed tourists and flash cars, much of it was ugly. Glory didn’t mind. I’m going to do all right here, she thought.
She bought a map and a Spanish phrase book from a tourist shop, and fried fish-balls and iced tea from a pavement vendor. For the first time since getting on the plane, she allowed herself to wonder how Candice would react to her arrival. It wasn’t as if they had ever been close. Candy and her younger sister Skye, raised in the lap of mobster luxury, had always sneered at their younger cousin’s inferior clothes, accent and prospects. Glory had sneered back, dismissing them as a pair of spoilt airheads. She’d last seen Candy in November, just after her cousin had got the fae, and had embarked on the latest in a series of epic benders. Even Charlie, her doting dad, was forced to face the fact she was out of control.
Then there was the new boyfriend – some Yank TV actor Candy had met in rehab. Todd Lawson. How would he react to Glory showing up on his doorstep?
The immediate challenge was finding their villa. Glory peered determinedly at her map and bus timetable. She knew the moment she allowed herself to rest properly she’d be good for nothing, but for now adrenalin was still coursing through her veins. I can do this, she told herself, with a last slug of iced tea. I can do anything. Never look back.
San Jerico’s rich either lived in swanky apartments by the beach, or in villas on the small rise – it was hardly a hill – in the south of the city. However, the second of the two buses that Glory took swung past a sprawl of tin shacks and dilapidated bungalows set along streets of mud. It was a different kind of poverty to the Rockwood Estate, but Glory recognised its surface layer of graffiti, broken bottles, car tyres and splintered boards. The same worn-down faces, the same defiant stares.
The bus soon moved on and up into the posh part of town. Most of the houses were hidden from view in gated compounds. Glory got off at what she hoped was the right point, and followed her map along a series of narrow paths shaded by high walls and dark foliage. Heat lay over her skin like a damp blanket; thunder rumbled overhead. Glory remembered from the guidebook that May to August was the rainy season. By the time she pushed open the rusting gate to Casa de la Armonia, the first fat drops had begun to fall.
The villa was smaller than she’d expected. Its pink plaster walls were flaking and the shutters sagged on their hinges. The garden was a wilderness of lush green weeds. Music thumped inside. It took a long time for the bell to be answered. If Glory had been a casual visitor, she’d probably have given up.
The man who finally came to the door had thinning fair hair and the beginnings of a paunch. Still, you could see he might be handsome, with a bit of effort. ‘Yeah?’
Glory hoisted her bag over her shoulder. ‘I’m here to see Candy. I’m her cousin.’
‘Is that so, sweet-cheeks?’ The man took a swig from his beer bottle and belched noisily.
‘GLORY? Oh, my freakin’ Gawd! Come here, kiddo, let’s have a hug of you!’
Candice was very brown, very thin, very pouty. She had the red Morgan hair, grown nearly to her waist, but it was dyed fluorescent pink. The American accent she’d acquired since their last meeting was even faker.
‘Um, hi.’ Glory was squeezed breathless by Candy’s hug. ‘Sorry for the short notice. I hope you got Troy’s email about me coming to town. And, er, maybe staying for a –’
‘Hey, mi casa es tu casa, cuz!’ Candice’s bangles tinkled and clashed. She was wearing a diaphanous purple kaftan, and very little underneath. She turned to her boyfriend. ‘Right, babe?’
Todd squinted at Glory. ‘You a hag too?’
‘Don’t talk dirty, angel,’ Candice pouted.
But Glory had reached a decision. She wasn’t going to hide herself away any more. If her mother was going to find her, she needed to know what, as well as who, she was. ‘Yeah, I’m a witch,’ s
he said. ‘Is that gonna be a problem?’
In the hallway, a miniature poodle was defecating on the carpet. Todd took another gulp of beer. ‘Au contraire, sweet-cheeks. You’ll make yourself very useful.’
At night, the centre of San Jerico was shaking. Every window and open doorway pulsed with heat and noise; ropes of coloured lights strung between the buildings added to the carnival atmosphere. The rain had been replaced by a warm breeze that smelled of fried fish and spices. Cars cruised up and down, honking horns, blasting music. Girls in towering heels and skimpy dresses tottered along in giggling groups. Packs of men pressed around them, whistled, yelled and moved on.
Glory and Candy got their fair share of attention. Candy was wearing a snakeskin-print playsuit; Glory a strapless red dress borrowed from her cousin. She’d slept for most of the afternoon and was feeling giddy with freedom. When was the last time she’d been out for a night on the tiles? No more pointless essays or spelling tests for me, she thought triumphantly, as Candy led the way to a beachfront bar.
‘I’ve stopped the pills,’ her cousin confided. ‘They, like, totally mess with your head. And I don’t do the whole binge-thing any more. Just a tot of good ol’ Cordoban rum now and then . . . well, a little of what you fancy does you good, right?’
Glory wasn’t so sure. There was a tremor in Candice’s hands, and her eyes never seemed to focus properly. She decided she’d stick with iced tea.
Todd was staying at home, to work on his screenplay. After he’d left his sci-fi TV show (‘Creative differences,’ Candy explained), he’d decided to turn his disillusionment with showbiz and the American Dream into movie material. ‘It’s gonna be very dark, very raw,’ he said. In the meantime, life at the villa was financed by Candy. She complained she was only receiving a pittance from home – Troy had dramatically reduced her allowance after she skipped rehab, and was apparently threatening to cut her off altogether unless she came back to the UK and cleaned up her act.
‘He’s turning into an even bigger grouch than Dad,’ she grumbled. ‘Throwing his weight around like you wouldn’t believe. He might be boss of the coven goons, but he’s not the boss of me.’
‘I s’pose Troy’s feeling the stress,’ Glory said cautiously. ‘It must be a right headache, keeping the business going with Charlie so ill.’
Candy took another swig of her rum and coconut water. Her fake American accent had started to slip, along with her high spirits. ‘Poor old Dad. What a shocker. I cried buckets when I heard the news. That’s why I thought it was better if I didn’t come back and see him. Might set off a relapse, y’know? The counsellor at the centre, she said my family relations were very unhealthy, very pressurised.’
‘D’you think you’ll ever go back to the coven?’
‘No chance. Soon as I do, Mum’ll get her claws in me. She’s still scheming to train me up, and she’s almost as big a slave-driver as Troy. They’re always ganging up on me . . . always nagging. You’re lucky, Glor. Patrick’s so dopey you’ve always been able to do whatever the hell you like.’
Glory had to turn away. Beyond the sands, the sea was black and glistening. It was impossible to think of: a whole ocean between her and home.
But Candy was still complaining. ‘Things would be different if I was some super-celeb witch. Like Granny and Great-Aunt Cora. As it is, my fae’s just enough to be a pain in the arse, without any of the perks. It’s so unfair.’ She flicked back her hair. ‘Though I should’ve known you’d turn harpy too. Aunt Edie was apparently quite the prodigy.’
‘Yeah,’ said Glory gruffly. ‘So they say.’ She hadn’t told her cousin anything about Edie or her own involvement with WICA, only that the Inquisition was breathing down her neck and she needed to get out of London for a while. Luckily, Candy was far too full of her own affairs to ask awkward questions about Glory’s.
‘Well, prodigy or not, if you want to hang with me and Todd, you’re gonna have to pay your own way. And round here, witchwork’s your best chance of making a quick buck.’
‘Good. I want to work.’ She needed the cash, for one thing. But she also wanted to spread the word of who she was and what she could do too. San Jerico was the unofficial capital of the witchkind underworld. If Edie Starling was alive, she might well have contacts here.
‘Aw, look at you. My baby cousin, all grown up!’ Candy reached across and patted Glory’s cheek. ‘I’ll take you to see Rona, then. She’s the gal I work for – at the Carabosse Club. Seriously, Glor, you’ll love it. Best show in town.’
The Carabosse Club was located just off the Plaza de la República. They headed there through a series of dingy backstreets whose walls were scrawled with graffiti. One bore a cartoon of a witch with the traditional pointy hat and crooked staff doing something obscene to a mustachioed man in a suit.
‘That’s Benny Vargas,’ Candy said with a smirk. ‘He’s running for president in the election next month. De Aviles, the guy in charge at the moment, is on trial for stealing money and stuff. But people are scared Vargas is gonna bring back the Inquisition, so it’s not like he’s Mr Popular either.’
Glory saw there were spray-painted slogans in English and Spanish from both sides of the debate. Inquisition Stay Out! was next to Hags Go Home.
‘What’s that?’ She pointed to a white feather that she’d seen painted on several doors and window shutters.
‘It’s the sign for some old witch-woman. La Bruja Blanca. She’s kind of a local legend – like a lucky mascot, I guess.’
Candy moved on to more practical matters, explaining that she worked at the club five nights a week. All the waiters and waitresses at the Carabosse were witchkind, serving up an array of fae-tricks along with the drinks. Because of the high volume of foreign visitors, they had to be English-speaking. ‘The pay’s crap,’ she said. ‘It’s the tips you work for.’
The club was in the vaults of the former Inquisition. Although the Inquisition had been kicked out of Cordoba in the 1960s, Glory looked up at the building’s frowning, fortress-like walls with a reflexive shiver. The only sign of the club’s presence was the letter C, lit up like a crescent moon above the basement door. A long queue was waiting outside.
Candy got them in through the staff entrance, though Glory would have preferred to take the main staircase down to the club – it was an extravagant spiral affair, every step inlaid with crystals. Bling, in fact, was everywhere. The vault’s stone walls and floor had been overlaid with black marble, and tall mirrors threw back sequins of light from the giant silver glitterballs that hung from the arched ceiling. Purple velvet booths were dotted around the cavernous central space; behind a curtain of crystal beads, a row of cells had been converted into private party rooms.
The patrons were as varied in age and nationality as the revellers in the streets, but richer and sleeker. Candy had told Glory that the place was popular with politicians, celebrities and businessmen alike. Apparently two A-list Hollywood stars had visited last week.
Candy went to find the manager, leaving her cousin to wait by the bar. A colourful range of bottles shone from its mirrored shelves. Glory pretended to study the drinks menu – house specials included ‘Inquisitor’s Elixir’ and ‘The Hecate Headbanger’ – while sizing up the staff. They were young and attractive and mostly female, wearing a uniform of silver cocktail dresses with slits up to the thigh. The men were in tight black trousers and shirts open to their waist.
Each table was allocated its own host or hostess. The fae they performed was small-scale but flashy. One girl was using a low-grade glamour to change the colour of her skin every time she went behind the bar, turning from orange to indigo, red to green. A waiter lit all six candles on a candelabra by rubbing a match between his hands. Some were mere conjuring tricks of the kind outlawed in most countries because of their resemblance to witchwork. Across the room, an older woman was pulling coins out of somebody’s ear. No fae there, Glory thought contemptuously, just sleight of hand.
She didn’t
have as much time for people-watching as she would have liked before Candy beckoned her into the back office. The Carabosse’s manager, Rona, was a tiny Native American woman with a long black plait hanging down the back of her pinstriped trouser suit. She looked Glory up and down appraisingly.
‘How old?’
‘Fifteen.’
The manager gave a bark of laughter. ‘No. You are eighteen when anyone ask. But if you start this young, you are hot stuff, yes?’
‘Yeah.’
Rona raised her strong black brows. ‘Then show.’
Glory didn’t need telling twice. She knew she would need an appropriately dazzling demo of her prowess, and as soon as she’d entered the office she’d looked round for materials she could use. Coolly, she selected a paper napkin from the bin, a bit of fern from a plant pot, a drawing pin, a newspaper and a can of air freshener.
Fascinations were always impressive. For this one, Glory decided she’d craft a rose. She pictured it in her head and let the fae suffuse the image until it was hyper-real, hyper-bright. A fascination needed to mimic the principal attributes of the object you were trying to create. Working quickly, fae tingling at her fingertips, she separated the white napkin into tissue-thin layers that she twisted into a rough blossom shape. She already had the rose’s approximate colour and form, now she gave it a squirt of air freshener. It was a pine, not floral, fragrance, but she didn’t think it would matter. The fern was a token of the natural world, while she fastened the drawing pin to the tissue paper to signify the rose’s thorns. Attention to detail – that’s what Auntie Angel always said made the difference between passable witchwork and perfection. Finally, Glory covered her creation in a piece of newspaper, which she gave to Rona to unwrap. A fascination could only be brought to life by another person’s eyes.
The manager’s face gave nothing away as she undid the bundle. Candice craned forward to watch. A single white rose was lying on the paper. Rona touched its thorny stem and sniffed the petals.
