by Helen Harper
I can feel the policeman’s eyes on my back as I turn. He definitely doesn’t trust me. The small room is almost identical to the one I was in with Michael when we handed over Samuel Lewis, aka Slick, the feather mugger. I wondering if there are particular guidelines for the premises, like McDonald’s, and the government is aiming for reassuring conformity. There’s a rack of shiny leaflets on one side of the wall, filled with recruitment pleas for special constables and tips on how to avoid being burgled. On the other side, there’s the desk sergeant’s spot and to the left of that a keypad-locked door leading into the station itself. As I stare at the door, something tugs at my memory and I frown.
The door opens and a kindly face appears. The wires in my brain connect and my insides turn to ice.
‘Ms Blackman? I’m Sergeant Raval.’
I know instinctively that this isn’t Dahlia’s Simon. He’s too old and too damned nice. At this point in time, however, I don’t care. I stand up and shake his hand. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve made a mistake.’
He looks confused but I don’t have time for niceties. I spin round and walk straight back out again. I remember now where I saw Frolic’s henchman from Hyde Park: he was in the police station when we brought in Samuel Lewis. He was leaving while we were scuffling around with Lewis and the helpful officer. He’d come out from the secure door then saw us and made an abrupt return inside‒ meaning he works for the police too. I dig through my memory, trying to remember everything from that night and think of the scrawled hex the other copper showed me during my second visit. He also told me where Samuel Lewis lives. Or rather lived.
I pat my jacket, making sure the original files are still there. It’s barely eleven o’clock; I’ve got bags of time before dawn and Easthouse Road is only a couple of miles away. I look back at the police station, feeling a trickle of guilt that I’m not putting more effort into Dahlia’s case. I can’t help thinking she’s probably safe and sound, and wrapped up between the legs of Inspector Simon Beauvoit rather than in danger. Besides, the faster I can sort out this mess with Frolic, the better.
I glance up and down the street to check I’m safe. There’s no one close. I swallow hard, wondering if I’m getting paranoid. The trouble is that I don’t think I am.
* * *
I make it to Easthouse Road in record time. Parking Ursus’s bike, I pocket the keys, sprint up to the fifth floor and hammer on the door. From within, I hear a baby’s cry. A tired looking girl barely out of her teens opens the door and stares out. Her hair is limp and there are dark circles under her eyes.
‘You woke my baby! Who the hell are you? Who the fuck…’ She pales and takes a step back as she registers that I’m a vampire.
‘I need to talk you about Samuel,’ I say urgently. For a moment she looks confused. ‘Slick!’ I amend. ‘Slick! I need to talk to you about Slick!’
‘He’s dead.’ Her voice is flat.
‘I know. Please, hear me out.’ The baby continues to wail. ‘Are you his wife?’
‘What if I am?’
‘Did he talk to you about what he was doing the night he died?’
‘No.’ She starts to close the door.
‘Wait! Please. Did he say anything at all? Were there any clues about what he was doing?’
‘He was on a job, alright?’
‘What kind of job?’
‘Look, he wasn’t an angel. I know that. Just go away,’ she mutters.
I shake my head. ‘I can’t do that.’ I take a deep breath and try to slow down. ‘What’s your name?’ She stares at me. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. I can’t even come in.’ I wave my hand at the threshold as if to prove it. ‘But I think I know who killed him.’
Her eyes are despondent. ‘What does it matter? He’s dead. Knowing who did it isn’t going to bring him back.’
‘No,’ I say softly. ‘But it might stop them from hurting anyone else.’
‘Suzanne,’ she says, ‘my name is Suzanne. Slick liked to call me Suze.’ Her eyes well up. ‘He wasn’t all that bad. He was a good father. He looked after us. He was just trying to make some extra money, that’s all.’
A knot of sympathy rises in my chest. ‘How?’
‘There was a woman. He was supposed to go after her and take some feather from her. He wouldn’t have hurt her. He wouldn’t have done that.’ Her hands tense by her sides. ‘It was just a shitty feather,’ she says quietly.
‘Who asked him to do it?’
‘I dunno. Slick said it was someone with a stupid name. I can’t remember. I’m not sure he even told me.’
‘Frolic?’ I scan her face, searching it for the truth. ‘Was it Frolic?’
‘If you know then why did you ask?’
‘I’m sorry.’ I reach out to touch her, then remember that she’s still behind the threshold of her home and I can’t. ‘I’m sorry,’ I repeat. ‘I had to be sure.’
She shrugs. ‘Whatever.’
The door closes and I’m left in the corridor. A pain shoots through my stomach and I bend double. Samuel Lewis, Slick, whatever he was called, wasn’t an innocent. But he’s still dead because of me. Frolic gave that woman a green feather like mine as an IOU for obtaining the recipe for Magix’s glamour spell. Then Frolic paid Slick to steal the feather so she wouldn’t have to pay the woman. Considering what she theoretically owes me for these files, she could have promised anything as payment. A bit of money thrown in Slick’s direction would have been easy in comparison. Frolic probably didn’t plan to have him killed but when he ended up in custody it would have been the easy choice. Especially when she already had an insider to do the job. Who needs a spell to magic away a vital piece of evidence or to draw a hex on the wall of a cell when you have your own policeman on the inside prepared to do it for you? And now that I have the files Frolic wants, she’ll be sending someone after me.
I straighten my shoulders. She can send whoever she damn well wants. I’ll be ready.
* * *
Unfortunately for me the attack comes sooner rather than later. I speed out of Easthouse, intent on getting back to the Montserrat mansion to retrieve the feather before I contact Frolic. I zip through the darkened streets, paying little attention to anything other than the late night traffic and the bundle of papers stuffed away in my jacket. That’s probably why I don’t notice the wire stretching across the road a few blocks away from Hyde Park until it’s almost too late. It’s only thanks to the owl hooting in a nearby tree, and my automatic glance towards it, that I spot the glint of steel. My reactions overtake coherent thought and I leap upwards in the split second before the wire cuts through my body and I end up in two halves, sprawled across the road. The bike spins away, crashing into a parked car, while I land several feet away in an ungainly heap.
As I stagger to my feet, something sharp skims by, cutting the side of my face before embedding itself into a tree. I leap backwards, using the tree to block any more attacks, and examine the object. It’s a bloody shuriken, stuck fast into the bark, its lethal spiky edges still on display round one side. I shiver. This doesn’t look good.
There’s another whirring sound and I just manage to pull my exposed fingers away before they’re sliced by another spinning weapon. I can’t get a visual on my assailant; at this point all I can think is that it’s a sodding ninja warrior - though as we are not on the streets of seventeenth-century Tokyo, that’s an unlikely conclusion.
Not knowing who I’m up against puts me at a disadvantage. I look at the tree then I leap, grabbing a low branch. I swing up, doing everything I can to keep the thickest part of the trunk between me and my assailant. I may be a vampire but I’m still a fledgling; I heal quickly but I remain vulnerable. The wrong shot and it’ll be curtains.
I scoot up as far as I can and peek out from the branches. There’s a dark figure about thirty metres away. It’s unlikely that Frolic will send a human after me – she’ll pay someone more skilled at triber action. I wonder whether their intention is to maim or to kill.
When another shuriken flies past my exposed face, I get my answer.
I twist round to the other side of the tree. I get lucky and a passing car with headlights on full beam swings across the road and highlights my attacker. Clad in black and with most of their face covered, they are indeed wearing what appears to be traditional ninja garb. I’m fairly certain it’s nothing more than an ill-fitting costume, however, as I can just make out the edge of a tattoo on their right cheek where the dark material is slightly loose. I suck in a breath. Another damn black witch. The fact that I’m a Blackman is probably a bonus for them.
I have little defence against magic. I can dodge what is thrown my way but that’s about it. What I need now is to be on the offensive. That thought solidifies when there’s a sudden crackling sound from underneath me and I realise that the tree is on fire. Cursing, I somersault backwards, landing on my feet. There’s scant other cover so, keeping my head down, I run towards the car into which the bike smashed. I start to unscrew the cap on the fuel tank as quickly as I can. Two can play the fire game. My fingers fumble and I hear footsteps getting closer. I grit my teeth and try harder.
‘Little Blackman,’ a voice coos. ‘I only want the files. Give them to me and you can go.’
I roll my eyes. Yeah, right. I finish unscrewing the cap and toss it into the witch’s path. He throws another shuriken in the direction of the cap and it explodes in a hail of sparks. Great. Spelled ninja weapons. I keep my focus and unzip the top of my jacket to make sure the folder with the original papers inside is still secure. Then I grab the roll of Montserrat documents and shove them into the open fuel tank. The reek of petrol when I withdraw them tells me I’ve been successful. I turn round and eye the burning tree. If I sprint it’ll take me about two seconds to get back to it. I get ready.
‘Little Blackman,’ the voice calls out again.
I don’t wait for him to finish. Instead I run, head down and body low. I’m a fingertip’s length from the flames when something slams into my chest and brings me down. Despite the force of the throw, the blades don’t penetrate my jacket but I can feel the heat spread as the flames lick against the leather. I close my eyes and let my body go limp. Then I hope for the best.
The footsteps get nearer. I’m still clutching the roll of papers in my right hand but I make sure my grip is loose so I appear unconscious. Michael taught me well.
‘Vampires are not so tough after all,’ sneers my attacker.
There’s a blast of pain in my chest as he kicks me. I gasp and allow my body to jolt to the side with the assault. When I hear the crackle and hiss of burning paper, I know I’ve hit pay dirt. I curl my fingers round the now-flaming roll and thrust it upwards, jumping to my feet at the same time. The burning brand slams into the witch’s face. He screeches, blinded by the flames, and I grab his body and throw him headfirst into the tree. Loose paper and burning branches fly in several directions.
I pat furiously at the burning leather on my chest; thankfully the flames go out then I turn to grab the witch. Unfortunately it’s too late and I cover my nose with my cuff as the stench of roasting flesh fills the air. The witch writhes and yells for a few seconds before falling silent and still. Sickened, I back away.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper. ‘You didn’t give me any choice.’
As I turn to run before anyone else shows up, my eye catches one sheet from the Montserrat roll. Only the edge is on fire so I stamp it out, then examine it. It’s a photo – which is probably why it didn’t burst into flames as fast as the other papers. There are five people in the frame: three of them appear to be Chinese and are very, very dead. Their clothing is old, probably 1950s, and I’m fairly certain that the one nearest to the camera has had his head severed from his body. There are two vampires to the side. The photo is black and white so it’s impossible to tell what Family colours they’re wearing. It doesn’t matter though; I don’t need colour to tell me who they are. The one on the right with the frown is Medici, while the one of the left with the well-tailored suit, easy smile and dimpled cheek is Michael Montserrat.
I can’t tear my eyes away from his happy grin. He’s standing next to three dead humans and he’s laughing. I think about Cheung’s fear when I told him I was originally Montserrat. Now I’m starting to understand why he was afraid.
* * *
I pull myself together and hurry back to the Montserrat mansion. It’s the last place on earth I want to be right now but I need to get my feather. I keep pulling out the half-burnt photo and staring at it. It’s just a photo, I don’t know anything about the context, but the chill down my spine won’t go away. I know that Michael is scary – he wouldn’t be the bloody Head of the Family if he weren’t – but taking pleasure in murder is an entirely different proposition.
Until I speak to Michael, I have no way of knowing what happened. The photo suggests that he slaughtered three people. Maybe they were Triads, maybe they weren’t; either way, I still don’t know the full story. And am I really in a position to judge after what I just did? I think about the carnage I left behind. I snuffed out a black witch’s life. I’m responsible for someone’s death. Yes, it was self-defence and, yes, I took no pleasure from it, but I still did it.
I run my hands through my hair in frustration. I can’t think of things in terms of black and white. There are always a million shades in between unless, of course, you’re talking about magic.
I freeze in my tracks. Frolic works with white witches. Her shop only catered to white witches. Why would she hire a black witch to do her dirty work? It doesn’t make any sense. Black and white witches don’t mix and they never have.
My heart rate increases. The adrenaline that coursed through my system during the fight kicks back into action. I need to see that corpse. Damning myself for a fool, I sprint back in the direction I came from. As soon as I get near, I shimmy up a lamppost and spring to a low rooftop then slow my steps and run in a half crouch. When I spot the van, I know I’m too late. I snarl quietly and get closer. Three figures, also dressed ninja-style, are beside the flaming tree. Two grab hold of the dead witch’s corpse, one at the feet and the other at the head, while the third raises his hands and starts to mutter, chanting a spell to extinguish the still-flickering flames. I sneak towards them. I have scant seconds left.
When I’m as close as I dare, I get down on my belly and peer over the edge of the roof. The corpse carriers struggle to maintain their grip on their companion’s body and open the van’s back doors at the same time. One of them says something while the other nods, and together they lower the body to the ground. The witch’s body flops lifelessly, the head lolling in my direction. In the dying embers of the fire, I see that the material covering the witch’s face has burnt away. His skin is blackened and charred but there’s no mistaking the evidence. He has two tattoos, one on his right cheek and one on his left. He’s not a black witch or a white witch. He’s both.
Chapter Seventeen: Life and Death
I drum my fingers impatiently on the desk. ‘I know it feels like it’s the middle of the night, O’Shea, but it’s almost morning. And this is important. You dabble in magic. What do you know about the differences between black and white?’
‘You’re kidding me, right, Bo? Everyone knows what the differences are.’
‘Humour me,’ I say grimly, staring at the charred and useless pages from Frolic’s files. Not only did my leather jacket have a gaping hole where the witch’s burning shuriken hit me, but the flames had effectively destroyed the only leverage I had.
He sighs. ‘Black witches deal in black magic. Voodoo, necromancy, maleficium, that kind of thing. Modern blacks descend directly from the Knights Templar. It’s thanks to the Catholic church’s hatred of their actions that black magic practitioners were accused of Satanism and hunted down for years.’
‘And white witches?’
‘Scrying, alchemy, communing with spirits. White witches can trace their lineage back to shamans in prehistoric times. They argu
e that their magic is more pure because they have a longer history.’
‘You’re not a witch. You made spells.’
‘Anyone can create a spell. It’s simple chemistry half the time. The witches’ powers go beyond mere tokens and potions though.’
‘The enhancement spell. Was it black or white?’
‘Bo, why are dredging this all up again? I’m steering clear of magic. Lord Montserrat would have my head if I tried anything again.’
I think of the decapitated corpse in the photo then firmly push the image away. ‘Was it both?’
‘Eh?’
‘Were you using both white and black magic?’
‘That’s impossible. My spell was white.’
‘Why?’
‘It was a form of alchemy. I’ve never tried black magic spells, there’s no money in them unless you have enough power to match a witch. Although…’
‘No,’ I say impatiently, ‘why is it impossible?’
‘It just is. It’s like oil and water. You can try to mix the two but it simply won’t work.’
‘What would happen if someone did?’
‘Bo, what is this about?’
‘Please, Devlin, just answer the question.’
He’s quiet for a moment. ‘You only call me that when you’re worried.’
I blink. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Devlin. You only call me Devlin when there’s bad shit around.’
I tighten my fingers round the phone. ‘Devlin, what would happen if someone tried to mix black and white magic?’
‘Probably nothing. They would nullify each other. Cancel each other out. I’m sure people have tried in the past.’
‘What would happen if someone found a way to use both together without that happening?’
‘Then the power they’d have would be unstoppable.’ He sighs. ‘But Bo, it can’t be done.’
I swallow hard. ‘What if a black witch and a white witch had children?’
