New Order

by Helen Harper

  ‘You don’t understand. It wasn’t an Agathos daemon.’

  My throat constricts. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’

  He raises up his head and looks me in the eye. ‘It was a Kakos daemon.’

  Sodding hell.

  Chapter Six: Paying for it

  Look up Kakos daemon in Spreitzer’s Almanac of The Triber World, and you’ll find a definition of what it means to be evil. Stories of daemons date back to the Hellenistic period and Alexander the Great. Just as black and white magic are said to be two sides of the same coin, so are Agathos and Kakos daemons. It is widely accepted that Agathos daemons are generally ‘good’; Kakos daemons, meanwhile, are an entirely different story. Unfortunately for the rest of us, they’re at the very top of the food chain.

  They don’t often show themselves to other tribers. I’ve heard that this is because they consider the rest of the world not worth bothering with. Whatever their reasons are, it’s a good thing. Being in the same room as a Kakos daemon is enough to drive someone entirely and irrevocably insane. And that’s assuming the daemons don’t eat your heart out first. Apparently hearts are a delicacy. At least vampires sip arterial blood because they need it to survive; Kakos daemons munch on body parts just for the hell of it.

  I’ve never come close to one. I can confidently state that even my grandfather, who has an encyclopaedic knowledge of the triber world and has had more dealings with its different denizens than almost any other human, has never met a Kakos daemon face to face. And now Stephen Templeton, wanker extraordinaire, is telling me he’s involved with one. I don’t think he’s lying, but also I don’t think it’s true. It has to be some idiot posing as Kakos. God help whoever it is when the real daemons finally catch up with him. I desperately want to call Michael and ask him what he thinks. Of course that’s completely out of the question.

  Whoever has taken backstabbing Dahlia obviously has their reasons. There’s been no ransom demand and, while it’s true that missing persons are more likely to be rescued safe and sound if they’re discovered within the first twenty-four to forty-eight hours, she’s already been gone for several days. Perhaps I’d have more of a sense of urgency if that wasn’t the case. Regardless, I’ll look for her – and not just because of Arzo. Before I left, Stephen Templeton thrust a wad of money in my direction and begged me to continue investigating. I don’t trust him an inch ‒ let’s face it, even his own wife can’t trust him not to place his safety over hers. But the money will solve my immediate problems. I have to push away my distaste at being employed by someone who harmed a man I genuinely respect. Fortunately, for the moment, our needs converge.

  The streets are quieter now so I make good time getting back to the police station where the feather mugger is being held. There’s no parking nearby and, tempted as I am to pull up wherever I can and damn the consequences, I’m wary of getting into more trouble. I end up leaving the car a long distance away before trudging back to the station.

  The desk sergeant is a different guy. When I tell him I’m here to make a statement about the McGuire Street mugging, his face blanches. He picks up a phone and mutters something into it, then asks me to wait. It’s barely twenty seconds before a plain-clothed officer appears and directs me into an interview room.

  ‘You made a citizen’s arrest of the suspect, along with Lord Montserrat, is that correct?’

  I nod, carefully describing all the events and everything the kid said. The officer transcribes it all. His manner is distant and unfriendly but I don’t think that’s because of me or my vampire status. There’s something else going on.

  ‘Sign here,’ he instructs.

  I do as he requests, then look up. ‘Is he still here?’

  Deliberately obtuse, the officer asks, ‘Who?’

  I settle back in my chair, cock my head and don’t reply. Eventually the policeman fills the silence. ‘There was an incident.’ His eyes flick nervously to the door. ‘The suspect’s interrogation was scheduled for the following morning when the next duty officer was in. As per protocol, we checked on him every hour.’

  I’m getting an idea where this is heading. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’

  I receive a nod and my stomach sinks. He may have been a little shit but he didn’t deserve to die.

  ‘What happened?’ I keep my voice soft and unthreatening but I can feel my pulse starting to pick up.

  ‘We’re awaiting the results of the post-mortem.’

  No doubt they’ll be putting a rush job on it. It never looks good when someone dies suddenly in police custody. I’m not in the mood to wait any length of time, though.

  ‘But you have an idea,’ I probe.

  ‘We’re not releasing…’

  ‘Off the record.’

  He sighs. ‘All I know is there is a hex on the wall of his cell.’

  ‘Black or white?’

  ‘White.’

  ‘Can I see it?’

  He glances at the door again. ‘No.’

  I frown. ‘But…’

  ‘Thank you for your time.’ He stands up. ‘If you remember anything else, I’d appreciate it if you get in touch. Here’s my card.’ He pulls out a small white oblong and scribbles something on the back. ‘My direct line is there.’

  I take the card and flip it over. Instead of a number, he’s hastily drawn an intricate shape on the back. The hex. I look up and smile. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘We always welcome the support of the Families. Please convey our gratitude to Lord Montserrat.’

  I try not to wince. So that’s why he’s being so helpful. Michael brought the mugger in and they’re hoping that Michael will absolve them of any wrongdoing. Unfortunately he’s passing on that message to pretty much the worst person in the world. I’m lucky that news of the first-ever vampire abdication hasn’t yet reached human ears.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve had time to examine the feather he stole?’ I ask casually. ‘Lord Montserrat is keen to understand its significance.’

  The officer swallows. ‘It’s gone,’ he says quietly. ‘It vanished from the evidence locker around the time the suspect died.’

  Curiouser and curiouser. The police aren’t incompetent and they’re well aware of the various triber abilities that might impede real investigations. Unlike vampires, witches aren’t immune from the full weight of human prosecution – a fact that undoubtedly sticks in their magical craws – but after the highly publicised case of Thomas Argyll, a white Romany witch who charmed sprigs of white heather to cause a number of deaths and who also managed to spirit away all the evidence against him from right under the investigating officers’ eyes, the government paid vast amounts of money to ensure all police departments are heavily protected from similar magic invasions. It’s a powerful witch indeed who could break through those enchantments.

  I’m careful not to pass judgment. ‘I see,’ I murmur. ‘And has the suspect’s name been released to the press?’

  ‘Samuel Lewis.’ Then more quietly, ‘He’s also known as Slick. He lived at 5D Easthouse Road.’

  I give the policeman a tiny smile of thanks and leave, shoving my hands into the pockets of my leather jacket. My efforts at looking serious and tough fail me entirely, however, when I see the flashy stretch limousine waiting on the street outside and two vampire goons looming on the pavement. All coherent thought flees and I’m convinced I’m about to be cut down right here on the steps of the sodding police station. I finally register that the colours they’re displaying are Medici Red, not Montserrat Blue. I have no idea whether that makes my situation better or worse. The car door swings soundlessly open and both goons point towards it.

  I glance up and down the street, searching for an escape route. I know it’s a futile gesture. I’m not even two months old yet, in vampiric terms, and only just starting to control my abilities. If I run, these two will mow me down in a heartbeat. I’d rather scratch together some dignity and go out with my head held high than act like terrified prey, so I p
aste on a smile and nod like I was expecting them. Then I get inside.

  It’s Lord Medici himself. I swallow my growing terror when the car door shuts and we glide smoothly down the street. Of course. Even though the vampires won’t get into trouble for ending my short, miserable life, it makes more sense not to taunt the police by doing it in front of their eyes.

  Medici bares his teeth in the semblance of a smile and fixes me with his pale aquamarine eyes. They’re entirely incongruous with his olive skin.

  ‘So,’ he says, drawing out the word, ‘we meet again, Ms Blackman.’

  The fact that he’s using my real name speaks volumes. ‘I would say it’s good to see you, but I’d be lying,’ I tell him, with considerably more courage than I feel.

  He barks out a laugh. ‘There’s no need to be afraid.’ He reaches out and trails a finger down my face. Despite my best intentions, I flinch. The amusement in his eyes grows. ‘I’m not here to hurt you,’ he says. ‘Quite the contrary.’

  ‘Oh?’ I squeak.

  ‘You’ve left the Montserrat Family. I’m here to offer you a position with us instead.’

  I stare at him, not quite sure I heard him correctly. Is he looking for all-out war between the Families? Poaching other vampires is an absolute no-no.

  ‘I can assure you that I’m not breaking any rules,’ he says, as if he can tell what I’m thinking. ‘You are no longer of Montserrat.’

  The hackles on my spine are fully raised. ‘I didn’t leave because of Montserrat. I left because of me.’

  ‘You want freedom. I can give you that under the protection of my Family. You can live where you want, do what you want. You’ll just do it in the name of Medici, with our full blessing and with the benefit of all our resources.’

  I swallow down rage. This has nothing to do with me: it’s about getting one over on Montserrat. I’ve always known that relations between the Families are never more than icily cordial but Medici is over-stepping the line. There’s no way I’m going to become a pawn in a game of vampire one-upmanship. And there’s definitely no way I’m letting Medici do anything to make Montserrat appear weak.

  ‘That’s a really nice offer,’ I say with saccharine sweetness. I think I’ve overdone it but Medici smiles.

  ‘Excellent.’ He pulls out a one-page contract. ‘Just sign here and you’re safe. You’ll be one of us.’

  I take it from him and scan it. Actually, the terms are generous. Not that it makes any difference. ‘Unfortunately, you’ve approached me,’ I tell him, layering on disappointment. ‘And you’ve done it publicly.’

  His smile vanishes. ‘So?’

  ‘That’s the reason I used for leaving Montserrat. That by approaching me, rather than the other way around, my contract with them was null and void. If I join you in the same way, my lawyer assures me the original legal loophole will be closed. I’ll still be bound to Montserrat.’ D’Argneau had said nothing of the sort. I have no idea whether it’s true or not, but it sounds pretty good.

  Medici’s eyes narrow. ‘Are you hungry, Ms Blackman?’

  ‘Um…’

  ‘How long has it been? At least twenty-four hours, I imagine. It’s difficult when you’re still a fledgling. I remember once, when I was still very new myself, I came across a young girl in a park. She’d fallen over and was bleeding.’ His eyes gleam. ‘Not much, you understand, but then it only takes a drop of rich, salty blood for the scent to overwhelm. She was so young and so pure.’

  I feel sick and wonder whether he killed her outright. He certainly seems to be implying that he did. ‘That’s a nice memory,’ I force out.

  He licks his lips and presses a button on the armrest. ‘William, park the car and come in here.’

  We come to a smooth stop almost immediately and I start to worry about who William is. The passenger door is open and a man – William, I presume – climbs inside.

  ‘I prefer females,’ Medici says emotionlessly. ‘I think it’s because the act of drinking is so closely related to that of sexual intercourse.’ He turns in my direction and I see that his fangs are already in evidence, their brilliant white glaring against his dark skin. ‘William will happily provide that service too. If you so desire.’

  My nausea is growing. Medici nods in William’s direction and he begins to undo his shirt, revealing the skin underneath. I see the throb of his blood and almost forget to breathe. With one swift movement, Medici curves his head towards William’s neck. There’s a hiss of breath. At this point, I’m not sure whether it comes from the hapless human or from me. Medici drinks for a few seconds before pulling away. He dabs delicately at the corner of his mouth with a handkerchief thoughtfully provided by his own victim. I stare at the trickle of blood running down from the two small puncture wounds in William’s neck. Medici gestures towards him.

  ‘He’s all yours.’

  I need to drink. I know I need to drink. But I’d rather be dead than accept this offer. It’s somehow tied to his desire to sign me up to his Family. I think Lord Medici is expecting me to fall ravenously upon his driver with an uncontrollable thirst, but I haven’t really lost control since I was a recruit. I feel a twinge of self-satisfaction that Montserrat is managing to keep some secrets, namely that drinking blood might fulfil my physical needs but I hate doing it. That little titbit was openly discussed among the Montserrat vampires and I had to endure several strangers offering me advice on how to deal with my aversion. The fact that Medici doesn’t know as much as he thinks he does means there’s no leak, or disloyal spy, within the Montserrat camp. Michael himself must have declared to the other Family Heads that I had decamped.

  ‘Thank you but no,’ I say with enough conviction to surprise myself.

  There’s a flash of rage in Medici’s eyes, although he masks it quickly enough. ‘So be it. Expect consequences.’

  I think this is going to be the moment when I meet my Maker but he snaps his fingers and the door next to me opens. I look at him, then out at the pavement and the promise of freedom.

  ‘You may go,’ Medici says, dismissing me. ‘You can tell your Lord Montserrat that it won’t work. The humans won’t fall for it.’

  For a moment I’m frozen, wondering what on earth he’s talking about and whether this is some elaborate trick.

  ‘Unless you’d like to change your mind,’ Medici adds blandly.

  I almost trip over in my haste to get out. The door slams shut after me, although there’s no sign of Medici’s goons. William escapes from the other side and, without a glance in my direction, gets back into the driver’s seat. The engine starts and the car speeds off, leaving me staring after it. My stomach growls and I shush it loudly.

  ‘Soon,’ I tell it. ‘I promise.’ My list of urgent things to attend to is growing.

  * * *

  I walk back slowly towards the police station and my car. It’s just my bad luck that Medici drove in the opposite direction to where I parked ‒ now I have even further to travel. I could run but I can’t seem to muster up the energy. I still want to head to Fingertips and Frolics and check it out for myself. It’s not that I don’t trust O’Shea but until I get my phone charged, I have no means of contacting Rogu3 and getting any other leads on where the shopkeeper might be. I estimate that I only have a couple of hours until the sun rises. I have to prioritise.

  I debate as I walk, then finally make a decision. There’s a reason why airlines tell you to fit the oxygen mask over your own face before you attend to anyone else. I’ll do no good if I pass out from lack of sustenance. Fledgling vampires are a bit like babies: they need to drink often. Medici’s driver reminded me of how hungry I was while Medici himself underestimated how long it was since I last downed some blood. It’s been more than a day. If I drink now, I can go without tomorrow.

  Connor, the willing human victim I drank from last, mentioned there were bars where vampettes hung out in the hope of being selected as snacks. I’d heard of these bars before and I think I went inside one or two in
my former life. I don’t understand why some humans want to be food but at least I know that the vampettes are doing it voluntarily. I need to find one of these clubs.

  Rather than walk in front of the police station, I take a shortcut and skirt through some quiet side streets. As soon as I reach the car, I head for Soho. It seems the likeliest area. Yet again, I’m forced to park some distance away. Perhaps I should use Templeton’s money to buy myself an old motorbike ‒ it’d certainly make life a lot easier.

  My head is beginning to pound and I feel over-tired. The thought of squashing into a loud, crowded bar doesn’t appeal. I need to get this over and done with as soon as I can.

  I achieve my goal faster than I expected. I’m barely past the first of the sex shops when someone steps out in front of me. ‘Vampire,’ she purrs.

  I glance up and down. It’s a woman, probably in her mid-thirties but trying to look younger. She’s wearing too much make-up and too few clothes.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, ‘but I’m not looking for sex. Besides, I swing the other way.’

  She stretches out her neck and licks her lips. I can see faint bruises on her skin where her pulse is. Oh.

  ‘I taste good.’ She winks at me.

  I don’t know how to react. Beth was a prostitute for many years and, while we’ve never really spoken about it, I’d never judge her for it. Live and let live. As I discovered when I worked at Dire Straits, if you treat people fairly, they can be very helpful. I got some good tips in the past from working girls; they spend a lot of time on the streets and they see more than people think. I paid them for their help, of course, and tried not to dwell on the immorality of their lifestyle.

  ‘It’s your first time, innit?’

  My thoughts must be plastered all over my face.

  ‘Look, love. You can go into a club and have one of those daft vampettes. I’ll get other business. I do alright. But I’m here now, I’m clean – and you don’t have to buy me a drink first.’

  It’s wrong, a voice screams inside me. This is so wrong.

  She smiles at me, her face softening. ‘You’re not taking advantage, love. Five minutes for some blood is a damn sight easier than lying on my back with my legs in the air.’