New Order

by Helen Harper

  ‘It makes a difference watching them on a big screen.’

  ‘It sure does.’

  I carefully bait my hook. ‘My boss, he hates going to the cinema. Doesn’t like people munching popcorn around him. He loves those martial arts films though.’ I paste on a look of frustration. ‘I was at home just now, chilling, when he called, wanting me to get him a movie. I don’t get much time off these days. I’m always running around doing his bidding. Lord Medici is kind of demanding.’

  The driver nods in agreement. ‘I’ve heard that about him.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I lower my voice. ‘Just between you and me, he can get pretty angry when he doesn’t get what he wants.’ I gesture towards my quickly healing forehead. The driver gapes at me in the mirror and I catch a flash of good, old-fashioned male protectiveness. ‘Right now he wants to see Sea of Blood. I have no idea how I’m going to manage that at this time of night. I thought there might be a few shops still open in Soho.’

  ‘Man,’ he says in sympathy, ‘that film’s not even been released yet.’

  I pretend surprise then start reeling him in. ‘It’s not? I am so screwed. I hope…’ I drop to a whisper, ‘I hope he’s not going to get too mad.’

  Ray stays quiet for a minute. I do my best to look scared.

  ‘There are other places,’ he says finally. ‘Sometimes you can get DVDs before you’re supposed to.’

  ‘Pirated? That’s against the law though.’

  ‘Bloodguzzlers can get away with a lot.’ There’s just the faintest trace of rancour in his voice.

  I switch tactics before he focuses on the inequality. ‘I guess there’s a market for those sorts of films with humans too. I wouldn’t know where to start looking for that kind of place though. And it’s not like I know much about the internet and can just illegally download the film.’

  Ray watches me in the mirror. I look down at my hands and twist them in my lap. He sighs and presses a button on his radio. ‘Where’d you get those black market DVDs from, Stace?’

  ‘Aren’t you working right now? I thought you had a customer.’

  ‘Come on…’

  ‘Only because it’s you.’ She rattles off a Soho address.

  ‘Thank you,’ I gasp. ‘Thank you so much! You might have just saved my life.’

  ‘You didn’t hear it from me, right?’

  I nod vigorously. ‘My lips are sealed.’ I press them tightly together which is a good thing because stops me smiling.

  * * *

  The taxi driver drops me off in front of the aforementioned address. I tip him generously and he wishes me luck. I wait until he’s disappeared then turn, ignoring the shifty man outside holding a dirty bag and thrusting the latest rom-com under my nose. I pull back my shoulders and stalk through the door. I barely make it two steps before I’m stopped.

  ‘What do you want?’

  I narrow my eyes and hiss, displaying my fangs. The bouncer is underwhelmed. ‘Get lost. We don’t like your kind here.’

  ‘I’m looking for Cheung.’

  ‘He ain’t here.’ His eyes move up and to the left. He’s lying. I feel a flip of exultation that I’ve found my target so easily.

  ‘Where is he then?’

  The bouncer moves his face close to mine. ‘Fuck off, girlie.’

  I sense someone at my back and stiffen. Half-turning, I register a daemon, orange eyes gleaming at me from the rough skin of his face. ‘Since when did bloodguzzlers wear cute little dresses?’

  Before I can stop myself, I glance down at the Laura Ashley outfit my grandfather donated. It probably does look kind of stupid with my leather jacket. I flick back my hair and widen my eyes. ‘What?’ I purr. ‘You don’t like frills?’

  The daemon snorts at my attempt to flirt and flashes the bouncer a wad of cash before passing through. The bouncer moves forward, stepping deliberately on my foot. He’s a heavy bastard.

  ‘I won’t say it again. Get your arse out of here.’ He releases his shoe.

  I hold up my palms. ‘My mistake.’

  ‘Damn right,’ he growls.

  I leave the building. I can already hear him laughing to a buddy about how he just scared off a bloodguzzler. The grubby DVD seller glances at me, then digs into his bag. ‘Twilight?’ he asks. ‘I’ve got the whole series.’

  I snarl at him and stalk off. As soon as I’m out of view, however, I drop my shoulders and relax, then skirt round until I find an alley leading to the back of the building. From the shadows, I spot two guards so I head further back until I’m several streets away. I wait for a group of party-goers to pass, then I grab hold of the nearest window sill and start climbing. I must be getting better because within moments I’m on the roof and looking down. Running lightly across the rooftops, I jump from one roof to the other until I’m back where I need to be. The trip is much easier than the one with Michael because the buildings are packed together more densely. I don’t even work up a light sweat.

  The handiest thing would be a skylight but, sadly, the roof is flat-topped and covered in asphalt. I creep along the edges, peering down. Each wall has three windows. I bloody well hope Cheung is on the top floor ‒ there’s a limit to how much building-dangling I want to do when I’m wearing a dress. I play eeny-meeny-miney-mo then stroll to the left side. I twist round and step backwards, grabbing the edge of the roof. Once I’m secure, I drop again, my fingertips curling round the first window ledge. I raise my head up and glance in. Nothing: the room’s completely dark. An argument starts up on the pavement beneath me. I wait, holding my breath in case the antagonists look up, but they’re too occupied shoving each other. I jump over to the next window.

  Once I’ve exhausted the possibilities on the first side of the building, I clamber back up and explore the second. This time I’m in luck. When I reach the second window and bob my head up, despite the netting covering the glass I make out a group sitting round a table. I dig my toes into the wall to get more comfortable and try to work out what’s going on. The shapes are indistinct. Even if I knew what Cheung looked like, I’ve little hope of figuring out which shape belongs to him. I duck back down and try to listen. The voices are muffled but I think I know what’s going on.

  I flip back to the window on the far side and jump up to the roof again. Sitting down cross-legged, I take out my newly revived phone and call O’Shea.

  ‘Montserrat is going nuts looking for you!’ he yells.

  I hold the phone away from my ear for a moment. ‘He found me,’ I say drily. ‘Thanks for the heads-up about the secret plan to get me out of the mansion.’

  ‘It worked?’

  ‘Yeah, it worked. Some Watson you are, keeping me in the dark like that.’

  ‘Bo, who do you think I find scarier, you or Lord Montserrat?’ He has a point. ‘I think he kind of likes you,’ he adds slyly. ‘Do you kind of like him?’

  ‘Shut up, O’Shea.’ I swear I can hear his grin down the line. ‘I need your help.’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘Get as much cash together as you can and come to Soho.’

  ‘When you say as much cash as I can, how much are we talking about?’

  I have no idea. ‘I dunno. Twenty grand?’

  ‘Twenty thousand pounds? Are you nuts?’ he shrieks.

  I wince. ‘You’ll get it back.’ Maybe.

  ‘I don’t have that kind of money.’

  I don’t think that’s true: I wouldn’t be surprised if the daemon has stacks of the stuff hidden all over the place. ‘Raid a few morgues,’ I suggest. Another thought strikes me. Perhaps that would be a way to find out more about the unfortunate Samuel ‘Slick’ Lewis. I file it away and return to O’Shea. ‘Please?’

  ‘What do I get out of this?’

  I smile. ‘You get the opportunity to double your money, of course.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asks suspiciously. ‘You’re broke.’

  I know I’ve got him. ‘Are you any good at poker?’

  Chapter Eig
ht: Poker Face

  It takes O’Shea a while to pitch up. I’m nervous that the game will finish before he arrives so I’m forced to keep checking what’s going on. My fingertips are throbbing from clinging to inch-thick ledges. I discover that I can make life easier by swinging down headfirst with my toes over the lip of the roof to keep me stable. I’m slightly dizzy when I push myself back up and it makes me feel a little like a bat. I wonder idly if that’s where the old myth about vampires turning into bats comes from. Then I remember some doctor on television stating quite categorically that vampires evolved from someone who was first bitten by a vampire bat.

  I’m getting bored with waiting when I hear loud shouts from the busy street out in front. Alarmed that this is related to Cheung, I sidle over to peek. The sight is troubling: on one side of the pavement, a group of humans are holding up crude placards. Exterminate The Guzzlers. Save Our Innocent Children. Finish Off The Families. God Doesn’t Love Monsters. My stomach drops, not just at the words but also at the hatred reflected in the protestors’ eyes. They seem to be directing their chants at a bar. It has two bouncers, burly humans who watch carefully but keep their faces frozen in emotionless masks.

  There have always been factions against the various triber groups and, because of their need to drink human blood to survive, the vampires have recently come under fire more than the others. I’ve never seen such open vitriol before, though. The damage Nicky’s brainwashed posse did a few months ago is immense. I shift position as a human couple walk up, arm in arm. Both have the tell-tale scarves of vampettes around their necks. I watch the unfolding scene in horror as the chanting gets louder. One of the protestors steps out from the group and spits at the vampettes. The potential for this to end in catastrophe is huge.

  A wave of vertigo rolls through me and I’m forced to pull back. When I peer back down to the now blood-soaked street, I realise there’s a body lying there. Alarmed, I grip the sides of the roof, ready to jump down and do what I can. Then the body moves. Arzo gazes up at me with pain-filled eyes, mouthing something. He’s telling me no. Horror consumes me; I’m stuck up here and I can’t get down and he’s going to die and…

  I take a deep breath. Arzo vanishes, replaced by the tarmacked road. The protestors are still chanting but there’s no sign of the vampettes. I rock back on my heels and wipe my forehead. This has got to stop. I think about what my grandfather said about a trigger but I can’t see any link between Michael’s office and this rooftop. Regardless, my mental issues are nothing compared to the growing threat of bloodshed from people like those below me. There’s even more of a need for Michael’s ‘bridge’ than I’d realised.

  My phone buzzes and I see a text from O’Shea telling me he’s here. Steeling myself, I look back at the street. I spot him almost immediately, strutting arrogantly towards the building. I hope he’s brought enough money.

  Good, I text back. You need get into the poker game. When you work out which player is called Cheung you can leave.

  He raises a hand to his forehead in a salute. I frown; anyone could be watching. There’s a flash of lightning in the distance as if the weather is echoing my thoughts. I keep my attention on O’Shea as he disappears from sight. I’m half-expecting him to land arse-end on the pavement but a few minutes pass and there’s no sign of him. His sweet talking and flash of cash must have been enough. Either that or his corpse is being dumped out the back.

  I jog to the other side of the building and drop down. Bracing my palms against the rough wall, I wait. I can just make out the dim shapes of the seated players inside.

  There’s a rustle of movement and the quality of light inside the room alters slightly. The door must be opening. I listen hard. I needn’t have bothered; O’Shea’s loud voice is clearly audible even out here. ‘I love a good game of cards!’ he bawls out.

  There’s a muffled response and several shadowy figures rise up. I watch nervously. Fortunately, O’Shea shifts from loudhailer to charm and there’s some shaking of hands. A few good-natured guffaws drift up, making me wonder how much money he actually brought. It must be a fair amount to be treated so cordially.

  Eventually the game resumes. There’s a flutter of movement around the table as a new hand is dealt. I count the shapes. With O’Shea and the dealer, there are now ten people. It shouldn’t take the daemon long to work out which one is Cheung. I know at least one of the other players is another daemon so that’s, at most, only seven he has to focus on. I swing back up and massage my toes, then squat on the roof. Above the hum of traffic, I catch a rumble of thunder. A drop of rain lands on my nose, trickling down until it dangles at the end like a small kid’s snot. I rub it away with my cuff. I hope O’Shea is quick.

  * * *

  An hour later, I’m soaked to the skin. Because my leather jacket is on the large side, the rain has sneakily found several avenues to slip down and not an inch of my body is dry. The collar chafes uncomfortably against my neck and I have to blink and rub my eyes repeatedly to clear my vision. Pools of orange light from the lampposts reflect in the puddles far below. Between the rat-a-tat of raindrops on the corrugated iron roof opposite me and the booming thunder overhead, I can’t hear a damn thing. At least the sodding protestors have gone home. Bloody O’Shea is inside, dry and probably sipping a fine malt whisky while I pace impatiently up and down in the rain. There has to be an easier way to identify Cheung.

  I’m on my umpteenth circuit of the roof when I hear something below. I cock my head and listen harder. Then I catch it again: voices raised loudly in anger. I sprint back to the window and drop down headfirst.

  Everyone is standing up. From what I can see from this side of the sheer curtains, their bodies are tense and ready for a fight. I feel a sinking sensation; I bet that this is all O’Shea’s doing. I’m trying to decide whether I should continue watching or help out when the rain makes up my mind. The roof is slick and wet and my toes start to lose their grip on its edge. It’s only a matter of moments before they slip off entirely and I plunge to the ground. At the same moment, there’s a roar of disapproval from inside the room and the table is flipped over, sending a cascade of chips and cards flying in all directions.

  I take a deep breath, raise my fist and punch through the glass. A spider’s web of cracks appears. As my toes finally lose their purchase I punch again, this time with both fists, and fling myself into the broken window, arms outstretched like an Olympic diver. It would have been a more impressive entry if I hadn’t got caught up in the net curtain covering the frame. I’m struggling to free myself when an alarm squeals. Figures rush towards me and there’s the crack of a gun. I yank hard to escape from the fabric and roll, grabbing the nearest person and bringing them crashing down to the floor with me. Then I spring up, manoeuvring my foot so it’s over my hapless captive’s neck, and sweep a death-stare across the room’s occupants.

  The door opens and the bouncer from downstairs appears. One of the men holds up a hand and the bouncer pauses. Something glints in my peripheral vision and I duck, just in time to avoid a knife flying into my face. It nicks the edge of my ear instead. Now it’s not just water that’s streaming down my face; I’m covered in cuts from the broken glass like the old Chinese punishment of ling chi, death by a thousand cuts. I suppose it’s appropriate.

  ‘She was here earlier,’ someone spits.

  I glance over and realise it’s the daemon I tried feebly to flirt with to get in. His eyes are glowing bright orange, warning me of my peril. Would this fall into Michael’s category of ‘danger’? I wonder. It’s too late to ask him for help now though. Vastly outnumbered, I look around the room. O’Shea is in the corner, bleeding from a cut in his cheek. This is hardly the sleek entrance and covert questioning I’d hoped for.

  ‘Bloodguzzler.’

  ‘Indeed I am.’ I shake my hair, sending an impressive spray of water around the room. With little to lose, I smile at the occupants. ‘Has anyone got a towel I could borrow?’

  ‘Who a
re you?’ A small man steps forward. While the others remain wary and on the verge of sudden – and no doubt brutal – attack, this one is calm. He seems vaguely curious. I reckon I’ve found my mark.

  ‘As the man said,’ I respond, ‘I’m a bloodguzzler.’

  ‘She looks familiar,’ I hear someone mutter.

  I’m feel like an exhibit in a zoo but as long as they’re not trying to kill me, I suppose that’s a good thing.

  ‘Which Family?’ Maybe-Cheung asks.

  I’m tempted to use Medici’s name again. However one of them has already indicated that he might know who I am, so I tell the truth. Or at least a version of it.

  ‘Montserrat.’ I note a few shared glances. ‘But I’m not here on official business.’

  ‘Are you with him?’ He jerks his head at the slumped O’Shea. The daemon does seem to have a knack for getting beaten up.

  I hesitate for too long before answering, giving myself away.

  ‘We don’t like cheaters,’ grinds out one man.

  I stare at O’Shea. ‘You tried to cheat at cards? With these guys?’

  He lifts himself up unsteadily. Everyone tenses, even the guy under my foot, but no one moves. I suppose they’re waiting for Cheung’s order.

  ‘I wouldn’t call it cheating exactly,’ O’Shea says.

  Maybe-Cheung remains impassive. ‘He was crimping the cards.’

  I’m unfamiliar with the term but I can guess what it means. I bow slightly. ‘I apologise for my colleague’s over-zealousness. He will reimburse you for all costs.’ I ignore O’Shea’s pout. ‘We’re not actually here to play cards.’

  Maybe-Cheung links his fingers together. ‘That much I am starting to gather.’

  ‘Boss…’ starts the bouncer from the door.

  ‘Enough,’ he snaps. ‘Leave us.’

  Despite their anger, the others file out of the room. I receive several vicious looks and more than one unspoken promise to blow my head off the next time I’m spotted anywhere near here. O’Shea suffers a painful kick to his shin. He groans slightly but manages not to move. Maybe-Cheung coughs delicately and I remember I’m one footstep away from squashing someone’s larynx. I step back and fold my arms while my victim scrambles to his feet and follows the rest.