“What did he want with me?” My voice broke.
He squinted and looked at the sky, the giant dark cloud had opened, and it had begun to rain. The concrete was covered in a sheen of water, disturbed only by the dull patter of raindrops. We kept walking as night cloaked the streets. I was thankful for the daemon blood that had clung to my veins because I wasn’t cold. I breathed a sigh of relief that I had escaped Limbo. I wasn’t dead yet. I had Henry, and that was all that mattered.
“When you are Shrouded from the Purebloods, I will tell you everything.” He promised.
4.
I didn’t expect to be nervous to see Beatrix Klein, my old Bleeder buddy. My stomach churned as we walked up the familiar stairs to my old flat, which was above a corner shop. Camden hadn’t changed much. It was dark outside, and people lined up by the Underground club, waiting for some famous band to play.
When we stood outside of the pebbled glass of my old front door, I held the buzzer longer than necessary. I fully expected Trix to be out on the town. She could have moved out long ago for all I knew.
When a woman's head appeared behind the distorted glass, I swallowed the lump in my throat. I was suddenly very conscious of the fact that I wore soaked pyjamas, with matted hair and a medical bracelet from an asylum. I pulled my lips into a smile, but my cheeks strained and twitched with effort. It had been too long since I had held an expression like that.
The deadbolt clicked, and the door swung open. My best friend stood, no less intimidating despite her short stature. Her hair was no longer dyed lavender, but was instead a bright rosy peach colour that could only come from having platinum blonde hair underneath. It was longer than before. Trix had added more tattoos to her right sleeve, which was unfinished the last time I had seen her.
Trix was always emotionless, deadpan. My eyes drank in her every feature; I was unable to help myself. I committed her to my memory. I had missed her. When our gazes met, she inhaled sharply.
“What the fuck are you doing here Taylor?” The Witching put her hands on her hips, as she glanced between Henry and me.
“Did you hear what happened?” I whispered as I tugged self-consciously at a lock of my hair.
“Hear what? That my roommate upped and left in the middle of the night, leaving me without any rent and a room full of sketches of him.” Trix jabbed a tattooed finger in Henry’s direction.
Henry stepped forward and held a hand outstretched for the Trix to take. “Henry Blaire.” He whispered, introducing himself.
Trix didn’t take his hand. “Right.” She muttered and turned on her heel, gliding along the Paisley orange carpet and down the hall into the living room. Henry crooked an eyebrow as I shrugged and followed her.
The flat smelt the same, the lingering stink of dust and artificial jasmine candles. When I entered the living room, I was relieved that not much had changed since I had lived there. The black leather sofa was new, but the folded massage table in the corner and the chalk painted table with Trix’ tattoo machine on it had remained the same. Trix sank into the patchwork armchair and crossed her arms, inviting us to sit with the incline of her head.
“Where the hell were you?” She said, her cheek twitched and that was as much emotion as I going to get from her. Although for Trix, that much expression was akin to her throwing herself at my feet and declaring that she missed me as much as a limb.
I shrugged. “I was in an asylum… or Mental Health Facility, whatever they call it nowadays.”
“Well, I always knew you were nutso. Not that you were, you know, nutso.” She said calmly.
“I met a Pureblood,” I explained. “It wasn’t a fun experience.”
Her hazel eyes widened minutely and she sat forward in the chair. Her hands rested under her chin, intrigued. “Do tell.”
I explained about how Damian had found me, how he had given me his blood. I talked about how I had lost my mind. Henry nodded along as I repeated my story.
“And then I found Henry again. And we need a…” I looked at Henry for confirmation on the word.
“… Shroud.” He finished. “A shrouding spell. Fia told me that you are a Blood Scratcher.”
Trix nodded absently. “Yeah. I’m a Scratcher.”
“Can you do it?” I asked.
Trix sighed and eased herself out of the armchair and gestured for us to follow. We walked to the doorway of my old room, all of the sketches of Henry remained on the walls. The bed was made but the rest of the room was as I had left it, down to the loose-leaf paper on the floor from when Akim had found my journals.
“You kept everything,” I whispered. Trix shrugged. A surge of affection ripped through my body and I wrapped my arms around her and held on tightly. Her energy had been full of anger, but the edges softened as her hands relaxed on my back. It felt strange, having a clue into her thoughts and feelings. Especially because she guarded them so well.
“Akim is dead,” Trix said.
I took a sharp breath unable to comprehend her words. “What happened?” I asked.
“Joking. He got a job in IT.” Her full lips crooked to one side.
I pulled away and slapped her shoulder playfully. She winced and rubbed the spot but couldn’t stop herself as loud giggles wracked her frame. My mouth gaped in shock as my friend dissolved into laughter, and her shoulders shook. Trix wasn’t that sort of woman, she didn’t laugh. She wiped an invisible tear from her cheek and shook her head.
“Oh, Taylor. You’re brilliant.” She giggled.
Even with the addition of the Pure blood in my system, I was still human, and I still needed sleep. Henry insisted that I could sleep after I had been Shrouded and not before.
“Damian wants you,” Henry said simply. “He is not in the business of being denied what he wants.”
Trix prepared the massage table, her inks and Clingfilm. Henry sat by my side on the sofa and his long fingers traced idle patterns on the inside of my thigh. My skin was covered in gooseflesh but I just wanted a warm bed and a good night’s kip.
Trix tilted her head and gestured to the black massage table laid out in the centre of the living room. I had seen the setup thousands of times before when I had lived in the Camden flat, but I had never been on the receiving end of a Dark Magic tattoo.
Henry crossed his legs and opened the book that he had found in the bookcase in the hallway. I was nervous. Henry was an empath so I knew he felt it too.
Trix opened her plastic portfolio and turned it around for my viewing. I had a look at the basic flash designs as she spoke.
“This tattoo will hurt a lot more than a regular tattoo.” She explained, taking a fresh needle out of a sterile packet. “It’s going to be done with daemon blood.”
“Can I pick the design?” I asked in a small voice.
Trix chuckled lowly. “Why? You think I’m going to tattoo a dick on your neck or something?”
I shrugged.
“It’s a circle, but I have to do a spell at the same time.” She said.
I rubbed the back of my neck self-consciously, “Okay. I’m ready.”
As I took off my pyjama top, Trix's eyes settled on the sharp lines of my rib bones. Madness did that to a body. I wasn’t wearing a bra because I didn’t have much to look at. Trix had seen it all before anyway.
“Can you go get Taylor a glass of orange juice?” Trix called over to Henry. He stood up and left the room silently, without question.
Trix took out her tattoo gun, which had a brass steampunk design. It was a stylish piece of kit. She started to load up the sterile needle and my eyes darted to the little plastic pots of black ink. Each pot was secured to the Clingfilm with a blob of Vaseline.
The living room smelt like disinfectant. I turned my head towards Trix and gave her my best impression of a ‘Really, I’m fine’ smile.
“You trust that daemon?” Trix whispered as she lowered her head so that her mouth was level with my ear. My eyes flicked to the living room door, knowing that Henry coul
d probably hear us. I nodded silently and allowed a real smile to curl at the edges of my lips.
Henry walked back into the room with his sleeves rolled up. His expression was cold as he stood in the doorway and surveyed both of us silently. He held a glass tumbler of orange juice in one hand and another full of an amber coloured liquid. Henry placed it carefully on the side table next to the inks.
“Is Sophia allowed to drink? You said it was going to hurt.” Henry asked.
“If she’s not wasted, it’s fine,” Trix said as she slipped on a new pair of latex gloves. Trix turned back to Henry, and her lip curled as if she was chewing on her words. “I need some daemon blood for the Shrouding,” Trix said with a sigh.
“Okay.” Henry nodded, his head inclined to the flesh hypodermic needle on the side. Trix had put it there earlier and it was meant for that very purpose. Trix and Henry were both dominant personalities but in different ways. I rubbed the exposed flesh of my shoulders. Trix’s emotions hung in the air like a delicate perfume. She was impatient and a little angry.
“I’m not sure this will work.” The Witching admitted with no emotion in her voice. “Using weak daemon blood to Shroud against a Pureblood… I don’t know.”
Henry’s face was impassive. “It’ll work.”
“How can you be so sure?” I asked, lifting my head so that I could look at him properly. His fists were clenched by his side, and his jaw was taut. Henry was ready to bolt. It was as if everything in his body screamed for him get up and run. He took a deep breath and forced his luscious lips into an easy smile.
“Because I used to be a Pureblood.” He whispered as he tightened his belt around his arm like a junkie and took a quart of his blood from the crook of his elbow. The movements were slick with practised ease.
Melanie started screaming inside my mind.
WHAT?
My heart stopped. “Used to?” I watched the needle fill with crimson liquid. I had trouble sorting through all the screaming voices in my head. I wanted to run. I wanted to beat my fists against his chest and cry.
He didn’t trust me. And I had to admit, Henry Blaire was excellent at keeping secrets. My heart broke a little more. Tears burned behind my eyes but I looked down and refused to allow them to fall.
Henry ignored my unasked questions and handed the full needle back to my Beatrix Klein.
Trix's mouth had popped open to form a little ‘O’ as she watched our drama unfold.
“Finish the Shrouding tattoo, please.” His tone said that the matter was closed, and that he didn’t want to talk about it. I tilted my head down into the hole at the forefront of the massage chair, unable to stop my heartbeat from filling my ears.
I knew nothing about Henry. Nothing. All I had was a mark on my wrist and a few stolen moments. I didn’t know the little things about him. I didn’t know his history.
I had thought that I did. Henry Blaire had told me that Lillian had lured him into an alleyway and almost killed him back in the nineteen thirties. Was that a lie?
Had it been the other way around? Was any part of his story true?
I took a deep calming breath as Trix’s needle met the skin at the top of my spine. I bit my lip hard as her gloved hand rested on my shoulder. She rubbing my skin as if to comfort me.
“Don’t tense,” She advised. “It will only hurt more if you do.”
I nodded but did not raise my head from the hole in the table. Tears beaded in my eyes, but they had nothing to do with the sharp sting of the tattoo gun. The pain was a cat scratch that wouldn’t abate. Tears fell lazily from my eyes. Determined not to sob or make a sound, I clenched my fists, as my whole body tensed. It took all conscious effort to relax when I remembered Trix’s advice.
I had been marked by a man that I didn’t know very well at all. A man that had no problem spinning lies.
Trix hummed the tune of ‘Hey Jude’ as she worked, it was a nervous habit that she would never admit to. I looked down at her feet, at where they peeked through under the table as she worked on the Shroud. The ink's sting relaxed for a few seconds and the incessant buzzing stopped; Trix swore under her breath.
“What is it?” Henry asked.
“Black blood.” She answered quickly, shocked. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Someone dark has broken her.”
“Fix it.” He demanded and I daren’t look up. Conveniently, they had both forgotten that although my head was in the hole of a massage chair, I could still hear them.
Trix’s stool squeaked as she stood up; her footsteps trailed into the hallway and the door slammed when she re-entered the room. I looked up but wished that I hadn’t when I saw that her lips were turned down in concern.
"What’s wrong?” I asked, but my voice broke. I was exhausted and wanted it to be over.
“Lie back down. We’ll be done in a second.” Trix said, her voice was a warm balm; I slunk back down and closed my eyes. I felt her warm but callused fingers trail over my spine and Henry’s hands quickly joined hers. Their combined touches were calming but I quickly realised that they were holding me down.
I started to thrash. I tried to buck them off, but Henry’s grip was like iron fetters. Robust and cold. I turned my head to the side and stared at him, silently pleading. His face was set, determined, but his eyes looked harrowed. He was breaking.
Trix began to chant in a strange language; it was a mixture of German and something else. Her voice doubled as if multiple people joined her. I tried not to move but the pain ripped from the new tattoo on the nape of my neck and began to burn down my spine. As it hit nerve after nerve, I found myself unable to control each twitch. My eyes rolled back into my head and my tongue felt like it had grown three times in size.
I didn’t know how long I drifted, but the black around the edges of my vision eventually cleared. My head throbbed as if I had the world’s biggest hangover. My stomach roiled. The skin on my back was tight and painful. I sat up and resisted the urge to rub my new tattoo.
“It’s done,” Trix said. She let out a wet cough, and I saw blood on the crease of her lips.
“Are you okay?” I wondered. “Why are you coughing up blood?” I had never seen her do that before.
“It’s a Witching thing.” She shrugged. “I’ll be right as rain in the morning.” Trix leant over and gave another wet cough. The living room door clicked shut, and I hadn’t noticed that Henry had left and come back with two more tumblers of whisky. My hands reached for the alcohol and I knocked it back quickly. It didn’t help with the vertigo, but the burning liquor offered a familiar blanket of comfort.
I excused myself and walked with shaky legs from the living room and into my old bedroom. I didn’t turn back to look at Henry, I couldn’t. I needed sleep. I needed to be alone.
Before he could follow me, I slammed the door to my old bedroom shut. The hundreds of pictures of Henry Blaire stared down at me. Some were drawn in charcoal, some in pencil and some in my blood.
The phantom wound, where I used to push the pencil through my palm, ached and I rubbed my thumb over it subconsciously.
Not allowing myself to think about Henry’s lies, the Purebloods and the death of all the people in the asylum, I flopped on the bed and drifted into sleep.
5.
I slept for twelve hours, a record for me. I blinked awake as if my 'on' switch had been flipped, the clock on the bedside table bathed the room in a harsh red light. Pulling the covers over my head, I closed my eyes and tried to organise my thoughts. I was thankful for the dreamless sleep.
My bedroom door was closed, and if Henry had come to check on me during the night, I couldn’t see any signs of it. Pulling off my pyjamas, I walked over to my chest of drawers. I was surprised to see that Trix had kept most of my clothes. They were still folded, although they smelt of dust. My fitted leather biker jacket which had hung on the back of my bedroom door was noticeably missing. I couldn’t help but laugh and shake my head to myself. Trix had told me that if I ever died, she was goin
g to have that jacket. I guessed my disappearing act had granted her permission.
Pulling on a pair of skinny black jeans and a tank top, I coerced my hair into a ponytail and made my way to the kitchen. My legs stumbled like a baby fawn as if they could not form a connection with my brain. I leant against the wall, to catch my breath, the throbbing tight skin of my tattoo pulsated. The black ink circle seemed like a living thing, it was a different magic from the butterfly Sigil on the crook of my wrist. I could taste the magic in the back of my mouth. I caught a glimpse of the tattoo in the mirror in the hall. It was a black colour you couldn’t get from a human-made ink.
Trix and Henry were already up, whispering in hushed tones as they sat at the kitchen island. I cleared my throat, and both of them straightened, startled. Trix flushed as if she had been caught doing something wrong. Henry’s expression was impassive. I couldn’t get a single emotion from him. The energy motes in the air told me nothing.
“Why are you still here?” I spat, as I walked to the fridge. I cocked my hip and eyed up the bare shelves. I noticed a half bottle of wine in the door, and I plucked it out and popped the cork with ease. I turned around and crooked my eyebrow as if daring one of them to say anything.
Henry cleared his throat and stood up. He shot a quick glance at Trix. “Maybe we should have this discussion in private?” He suggested calmly.
“What? Do you have something else that you’ve been hiding?” I laughed hysterically. “Maybe you have a secret wife. Maybe that’s why you fucked me and ran the first time.”
Henry clenched his fists and unfurled them slowly. It was such a small action, but I could tell he was trying desperately to stay calm. For once I didn’t want to take his pain away, I didn’t want to make him feel better. I wanted him to fucking ache.
Trix sighed heavily and slung her messenger bag over her shoulders. She chanced one look at both of us and walked out, she slammed the front door behind her without a word.
The Human Herders (Daemons of London - Book 2) Page 4
