by Laura Powell
The other creeps were the paying kind. Stag parties and businessmen out to celebrate a deal were the worst, and had to be told to keep their hands to themselves. Glory felt more comfortable with the gangsters; coven folk who weren’t dazzled by witchwork and just wanted a pretty girl to serve the drinks.
Although Glory was soon making good tips, she had to give all her wages to Candy. As Glory was staying in her and Todd’s home, it was difficult to object. But the villa wasn’t much of a refuge. The little dogs ran wild, soiling the chipped marble floors wherever they felt like it, and the constant hip-hop shook the plaster from the walls. When Todd wasn’t ‘writing’, he liked to play skittles with beer bottles in the hall. What with the smashing glass, pounding music and yapping dogs, Glory sometimes thought of Wildings’ hushed hallways with regret.
‘I know the real reason you came here,’ Todd announced on the afternoon of her sixth day in Cordoba, when he came upon Glory slumped moodily in the lounge.
She tensed up in spite of herself. ‘I told you. It were the pyros breathing down me neck.’
Todd pushed back his dark glasses with a smirk. ‘You can’t fool me. I’ve seen the way you mope around the place. Staring into space, heaving sighs, leaving your food . . . There’s a boy, isn’t there? Some heartbreaker you’re pining for.’
‘No,’ said Glory, a little too quickly.
The way Todd stood posed in the doorway made it obvious that he was sucking in his gut. ‘Plenty more peces in el mar, sweet-cheeks. Wait and see.’
Glory waited until he’d slouched off, then went to the patio doors. Purple storm clouds were already gathering over the city’s haze of smog. A wine bottle and a couple of cigarette butts bobbed in the swimming pool. She breathed on the glass, traced her fingertip through the mist. You OK?
And though she knew she shouldn’t, she closed her eyes, pressed her palm against the window.
Cold stars. Warm breath. His hands in her hair.
She was out of sorts for the rest of the afternoon. On her way in to work, the streets were as full of light and music and laughter as ever, but she was starting to notice different things. There was a group of beggars congregated on the steps of the cathedral. One of them had been hexed to think there were live insects crawling under his skin; his body was bloody and scabbed from constant scratching. Aunt Angeline had told Glory how to craft something similar. It was one of the black banes, the kind that could only be undone by the witch who inflicted it. She herself had threatened Silas Paterson with one.
There were bloodstains too on the Plaza de la República’s cobblestones, along with broken glass and torn placards. It was the aftermath of a political rally, De Aviles’s supporters versus the opposition, which had ended in a brawl. The number of Hags Out! slogans scrawled on the walls seemed to be increasing. So were the groups of private militiamen. Even the police got out of the way when they swaggered into view.
But once she arrived at the club, the sight of the spiral staircase lifted Glory’s spirits again. Who knew who might come down those glittering crystal steps? That was the best thing about Cordoba, she reminded herself. Anything was possible.
It turned out to be a busy night. Just after ten a party of bankers arrived and specially requested Glory, keeping the tips flowing for the next hour. In the lull that followed, she waited by the bar, leaning against the wall in an attempt to ease the pinch of her high-heeled shoes. Then her eye was caught by a swish of dark red hair. A woman – girl – was descending the crystal staircase. She had a pale heart-shaped face and violet eyes.
The last time Glory had seen those eyes, they had been dull and unblinking; the face a frozen mask. The girl’s movements had been stiff as a wind-up doll’s. But Rose Merle was easing her way gracefully through the crowd towards a group of media types, where she was greeted like an old friend. She was dressed for the office in a tailored cream blouse and black pencil skirt. Her hair had been cut nearly as short as Glory’s. She looked crisp, businesslike.
Was it truly Rose? Or some rent-a-witch, masquerading as her with a glamour? Glory felt giddy with anticipation.
She got hold of Ricki, the designated host for Rose’s table, and persuaded him to let her take his place. He only agreed after she promised him all her tips from the evening. Then before she could think better of it, she sashayed across the room and started taking orders. No fae-tricks were required, just waitressing.
‘Inquisitor’s Elixir for you, miss?’ she asked Rose, who was deep in conversation in fluent Spanish with her neighbour.
‘No, thank you. I think I’ll have an orange juice –’
Rose turned around and started. A flash of recognition crossed her face, to be replaced with uncertainty.
‘Hello again,’ said Glory brightly. ‘Rose, ain’t it?’
‘Oh . . . hello . . . have we met?’ Her voice was cut-glass confident, not the slow, slurred speech that had followed Glory into her dreams. Glory’s eyes flicked down to Rose’s right hand, where the pearly skin was red and raised. One of the symptoms of Rose’s condition was that she had lost all feeling in her body, and she’d scarred her hand by putting it into boiling water. If this was a glamour, then Glory had to approve of the attention to detail.
But the girl had definitely recognised her, and that was a good sign.
‘It were back in England,’ said Glory. ‘I came to talk to your mum.’
Rose lowered her voice, smoothing her hair nervously. ‘Back home when I was . . . ill?’
Glory didn’t answer. To prove her identity, Rose needed to remember for herself. Only a handful of people knew about their encounter in Lord Merle’s mansion. Lady Merle’s murderous ambush of her husband and Silas Paterson had been hushed up in the press. Just like Rose’s brain injury – the result of a fall from a horse, according to official reports.
Rose’s eyes filled with tears. ‘It was, wasn’t it? And Mummy was cross with you,’ she whispered. ‘Because it was the night – the night –’
‘Go on.’
‘It was the night of the party.’ Rose looked down at her scarred hand. ‘The night of the fire. And . . . everything else.’
Her face had become more as Glory remembered it: blank and glazed. ‘You shouldn’t have been there,’ she said slowly. ‘That’s why Mummy was angry. I remember now. I – I used to forget everything, you see.’
‘When you was ill?’
‘Yes. Afterwards, most of my memories came back. Especially the ones I wish I could lose.’ Rose gave a small strangled gasp. Her face was white and stricken. ‘Why is this happening? Why?’
Glory wondered if she’d gone too far. One of Rose’s neighbours had turned around. ‘Te molesta esta muchacha?’ he asked, with a suspicious glance at Glory.
Rose blinked. At once, it was as if her outburst had never been. ‘Estoy bien, gracias,’ she told the man. Her face and voice were bright. She turned back to Glory. ‘On second thoughts, hold the orange juice. I’ll have one of those Coven Dazzlers, please.’
Time for a strategic retreat. Obediently, Glory wrote down the order and made the rest of her rounds. She didn’t make another attempt at contact until she saw Rose head in the direction of the ladies’ toilets, and intercepted her by the door.
‘Look, I don’t want to cause upset or nothing. I just wanted –’
‘It’s the strangest thing,’ Rose interrupted, ‘but I feel like I know you already. I mean, I realise we’ve met before.’ She put her head on one side. ‘But there’s more to it than that, don’t you think? Something between us.’
This was encouraging. ‘Sure. So . . . d’you think we could talk? There’s some stuff I need to ask, about when you was ill and such . . .’ She trailed off. Rose had that closed, vacant look on her face again. But then the girl gave a little shake, and smiled.
‘Yes. Yes, it would be good to talk. How about tomorrow morning at nine? We could meet in the Café Grande.’ She leaned in confidingly. ‘They serve the best hot chocolate in Cordoba, you
know.’
The Café Grande did not live up to its name. Its gilt basketwork chairs and cloudy mirrors had seen better days. Rain drummed against the windows, drowning out the old ladies mumbling over their coffee. The hot chocolate, though, was as good as Rose had promised, and rich with unfamiliar spices.
Glory had got to the café early to gather her thoughts, even though her shift had ended at 5 a.m. and she’d had very little sleep. She didn’t know what to make of Rose, or what to expect from this second interview. But it wasn’t surprising that Rose was a little odd, considering everything she’d been through.
And here she came now. Even in the pouring rain, heads turned as she hurried across the cobblestones and into the café.
‘Ugh, this rain! Relentless!’ she exclaimed. Droplets flew as she shook out her shining hair. ‘Really, we might as well be in Wales.’
Glory waited as the waiter bustled up to take Rose’s order. Once they were alone, she cleared her throat. ‘Thanks for meeting me. I’m sorry I brought up all that stuff in the club. I was just surprised to see you. The last time . . . well. You was in a pretty bad way.’
‘Ghastly,’ Rose agreed, taking a sip of chocolate.
‘I’m real sorry about what happened to your mum.’
‘Poor Mummy was a very unhappy woman, I’m afraid. I hope she’s at peace.’
Rose spoke as if her mother had been dead for years, instead of months. But, thought Glory, posh people weren’t supposed to be good at showing emotion. She nodded sympathetically.
‘Lady Merle told me what happened. About the surgery what you had to block the fae, and how it went wrong.’
‘It was a virus, the doctors think.’
‘A virus?’
‘Inflammation of the brain. It set in after we got home. Then, just as suddenly, I sort of . . . well, snapped out of it.’ She shrugged, then frowned. ‘Why were you there that night, anyway?’
Glory gave a very brief rundown of the Paterson affair. She wasn’t sure how much Rose knew of her mother’s and stepfather’s involvement. But in fact, Rose did not seem particularly interested. ‘Mm. It all sounds very exciting. I’m afraid I haven’t really kept up with things at home. Out of sight, out of mind, and all that.’
‘Your mum said the operation worked at first. What about now?’ Glory asked. ‘Has your fae come back, along with your memory and feelings and such?’
‘God no,’ Rose said with a laugh. She lifted up her hair, and displayed the white skin of her neck. There was a faded mark there, pale lilac. ‘That’s where my Devil’s Kiss appeared. I’m clean.’
Glory would have been sceptical if it wasn’t for the photograph of the original mark that she’d seen back at Wildings, in Rose’s student file. She raised her eyebrows. ‘Clean? Does that mean I’m dirty?’
‘Not at all,’ Rose answered coolly. ‘Being a witch is probably very useful for some people. I’m sure you’re extremely talented at it. It was just wrong for me.’
‘Wrong like how?’
‘Like . . . a darkness.’ She paused. ‘A darkness inside me.’ She rubbed her arms and shivered. Then she leaned forward, fixed Glory with her wide violet eyes. ‘Eating me up. It’s not wrong, is it, to want to be free? To be my own self again?’
‘’Course not,’ said Glory soothingly, though she felt uncomfortable and confused.
‘Good.’ Rose sat back slowly. Her voice had steadied. ‘At the clinic, they made very sure it was what I wanted. That’s one of the few things I remember. I did a final piece of witchwork before the operation, and it was such a relief to know I’d never have to do it again.’
‘What kind of witchwork?’
‘Oh, something small and silly. I knew I’d never miss it. Mummy always said the fae had ruined her life. In the end, the pressure got too much for her and – well, you know. What if I’d turned out the same?’ Rose was back to her brisk best. ‘Even after everything that’s happened, it all came right in the end. I mean, here I am, free to live my own life, just as Mummy always wanted.’
Glory was finding it increasingly hard to keep up with these abrupt changes of manner. ‘OK. Why Cordoba?’
‘Well, there’s nothing for me back in England, is there? I thought I’d take an early gap year, have a bit of an adventure. My boyfriend helped get me a job at Benito Vargas’s HQ. Only admin stuff, really, but it’s still interesting.’
‘But Vargas wants to bring back the Inquisition –’
Rose made an impatient gesture. ‘And why’s that so terrible? Liberal permissiveness is fine in theory, but it comes at a high price. Corruption, crime, social breakdown . . . Here,’ she said, taking a brightly coloured leaflet out of her bag. ‘Just read the Senator’s mission statement, and you’ll see. Our candidate is a man of real integrity. He wants to restore the rule of law in order to protect basic human rights – for witches and non-witches alike.’
Glory looked at the English language leaflet, and an airbrushed photograph of the Great Man. The slogan read, Join in Security, Share in Prosperity. Catchy.
‘I guess he don’t know you’re an ex-harpy yourself.’
‘Well, no. That might lead to awkward questions.’ Rose frowned. ‘I hope you’re not going to make an issue of this.’
‘My lips are sealed. But wouldn’t your boss want to know about Cambion? I’d have thought that something to limit the number of witches in the world would be right up his street. For example –’
Glory stopped. Rose was staring into middle distance, her teeth biting so hard into her lower lip that it was beaded with blood.
‘Hello? Rose? Er, are you OK?’
Rose blinked. ‘Sorry.’ She massaged her forehead. ‘I have these . . . blackouts sometimes. It’s like being ill again, almost.’
‘’S’OK,’ Glory said awkwardly. ‘You’ve had a hard time. It’s probably delayed shock and such.’
‘I’m sure you’re right. Yes. Quite right.’ She dabbed her mouth delicately with a napkin. The polished smile had returned. ‘I really should get going. I’m supposed to be meeting my boyfriend, and he gets so grumpy when I’m late . . . Tell you what, there’s a party this evening, a fundraiser, at Senator Vargas’s place. Why don’t you come along? I’ll put your name on the list, and we can settle down to a proper talk.’
Tonight was Glory’s night off. ‘Um, OK. If you’re sure it won’t be a problem.’
‘Do you have a phone?’
Glory had recently invested in a prepaid mobile. Numbers were exchanged.
‘It’s a date!’ Rose swooped in for an air-kiss, and then she was gone.
Chapter 21
Glory’s curiosity had been piqued. There remained something a bit cold, a bit disconnected, about Rose. Perhaps it was a coping strategy, a cover for the trauma she’d gone through and could still be glimpsed in those flashes of emotional panic. Perhaps it was a side effect of losing her fae.
Then there was her work for the politician Vargas. Glory distrusted politicians on principle, and she was sure Vargas was just as shifty and greedy as the lot back home. Even so, she wasn’t going to turn down the chance to freeload at his fundraiser.
The party was at the Senator’s mansion, which was about five miles outside San Jerico. Rose had arranged to pick Glory up just after six. She arrived in a chauffeur-driven limo, from which she emerged in a cloud of perfume, wearing an emerald silk cocktail dress. Glory smoothed down her own outfit self-consciously. She’d nicked the least tarty dress from Candice’s wardrobe, a polka dot halter-neck affair, but next to Rose, she felt underdressed.
‘Here,’ said Rose, presenting her with a security pass. It had Glory’s photograph – by the look of it, it had been taken off the Carabosse website – but the name was Lorraine Stevens. ‘The security at these events is always nightmare. Luckily for you, I’ve been helping with the invites. If anyone asks, you’re a student journalist. Lorraine works on a local paper in London.’
‘What if someone recognises me from the club?’
‘Vargas supporters don’t visit the Carabosse.’
‘You did.’
‘Ah, but I’m the exception.’
Towering walls lined with CCTV cameras enclosed the drive to Vargas’s mansion. They had to pass through three checkpoints. At each, a soldier with a sub-machine gun peered into the limo. At the last one they had to get out of the car to be patted down, and the details on their passes were radioed ahead for checking at control.
Glory was feeling increasingly uneasy. She recognised the soldier’s blood-red uniforms as belonging to the Red Knight Militia, the most thuggish of Cordoba’s private security firms. Rose’s next words didn’t make her feel any better.
‘All the staff in the house are ex-Inquisition. And all visitors, except close family, are bridled before they enter the living-quarters. With head-cages.’
‘What? All of ’em?’
Rose nodded. ‘Anyone over the age of twelve. It’s because of Senator Vargas’s little boy, Esteban. He’s an only child and the mother’s dead. There have been threats – witch-threats. Esteban’s going to boarding school in England next year, when he turns seven. But for now he’s a virtual prisoner.’
‘That’s . . . terrible.’
‘It’s what happens, when the state can’t protect its own citizens. Vargas’s child isn’t the only one to be locked up this way. People are frightened.’
A section of wall swung open and the car turned off the road into a compound. The sweeping lawns were glaringly green, the house that crowned them glaringly white. A crowd of people were milling about. Smoke hovered over a huge barbecue pit on the far side of the building as young women in micro-minis sashayed back and forth with trays of drinks and canapés. On a bandstand in front of the ornamental pool, a folk band was going all out with a marimba, shakers and drums.
