Soul Trade bl-5

by Caitlin Kittredge

  “It was the sight,” Pete said. “The heroin helped keep it manageable. He thought it was the only way.”

  “Until you came along?” Donovan said. “Love of a good woman and all that rot?”

  Pete gave an involuntary snort of mirth. “Not hardly.”

  The B road merged with the wider road into the village, and Donovan stopped walking, regarding the shifting mists before them.

  “You’re observant, whatever else you are. Been here for a week and you’re right—I do know a little. Not much, but a little.”

  “They’re not demons,” Pete said, and Donovan nodded.

  “So what are they?” she asked.

  He laughed. “If I knew that, I wouldn’t still be in this fucking back of beyond shitehole, would I?”

  Pete wrapped her arms around herself. The Black stung her again, that odd strangled feeling of wild magic directed into an unnatural channel.

  “The magic is all wrong,” she said. “It feels like static on a telly, except it’s in my head.”

  Donovan’s lip pulled up in a disconcerting imitation of Jack’s grin. There wasn’t any warmth to the expression, though—unlike Jack’s face, looking at Donovan’s was like looking at a great white shark, an apex predator devoid of anything recognizably human.

  “I have a feeling if we find out what’s causing that bit of ruckus, we’ll have solved the whole thing, Watson.”

  “Not Holmes?” Pete said. She started forward, trusting Donovan at her back. It might be the last mistake she ever made, but she needed to draw him out so he would think things were fine when she hit him with her next verbal punch.

  “You seem rather comfortable as the sidekick,” Donovan said, walking beside her. “Just going by what I see.”

  “I do hold Watson’s contempt for roundabout bullshit,” Pete said. “So why don’t you get down to what you really want to say to me, Donovan?”

  Jack’s father lifted one dark eyebrow. “Which would be?”

  “You’re not here for Crotherton,” Pete said. “You’re here for Jack and the Prospero Society.” She glanced at Donovan over her shoulder, and the slight hitch in his gait told her she’d been right to voice her suspicions.

  “What gave me away?” he asked at last, having the gall to look amused.

  “Oh, let’s see,” Pete said, ticking her fingers. “Somebody from Jack’s past, so we’d feel an instant connection to you for good or ill. Showing up with perfect timing to save us from a problem you lot created. Agreeing to help me with only the most pathetic of token protests.”

  Donovan shook his head. Droplets of moisture had collected on the tips of his short hair, and they rolled down his face, giving the impression that even in the chill he was sweating. Or crying. Pete knew better, though. Sociopaths like Donovan Winter never sweated, never felt the prickle of a tear they didn’t manufacture themselves.

  “I stand corrected,” he said. “You are Holmes.”

  “Left my violin at home,” Pete agreed. “But I do all right.”

  “You got one bit wrong, though,” Donovan said. They walked through the green, which was empty and littered with garbage, crumpled sleeping bags, half-collapsed tents, and empty lager bottles. Pete kept her eyes out for any movement in the fog, but found none.

  “Oh?” she asked, only half paying attention to Donovan now. Morwenna had better pin a fucking medal on her, or better yet give her a fat stack of cash. Using Jack’s own father had been a master stroke on the Prosperians’ part. Who better to recruit Jack than the man he hated, yet most wanted to please?

  “We didn’t do this,” Donovan said, sweeping his arm over the empty field. “Crotherton really was here of his own free will, looking for that fat fuck Preston Mayflower. What he found, well…” He shrugged. “Who can say? But those things aren’t anything I’ve run across. Not demon, not spell-spawned. It’s like they come from someplace where magic doesn’t work right, and the longer I’m in Overton the worse it gets.”

  “So I guess you won’t be saving us again if we run into more worms,” Pete said.

  Donovan shook his head. “You saved yourself back there, missy. I can’t throw around the flashy shite like you and my boy. The leg-locker is about the extent of it.”

  “So you’re not the Prospero Society’s hard man?” Pete said, feigning disbelief. “Then why send you to talk us in? Haven’t you heard Jack and I are dangerous types?”

  “From half of the hedge-hexers and kitchen witches in the UK,” Donovan said. “But when it comes to human mages, I’m not worried. I’m more of a person to person sort of magic user.”

  When Pete gave him a blank look, he spread his hands. “I’m a mind-bender, dear. I can make you think you love me, or you hate that bloke over there and want to punch him in the teeth.”

  “You mindfuck people,” Pete said. “All at once, so much about you makes sense, Donovan.”

  “Came in handy with Jack’s mum,” Donovan said. “You ever try to convince a bipolar pill addict to calm down and give you the knife without magical powers of persuasion?”

  “I appreciate you slipping that bit about her being a nutter in there,” Pete said. “Make me think you know all about my troubles with Jack and his sight.”

  Donovan shot her a glare, the first expression she’d seen of his that Pete judged genuine. “I spent a lot of time dealing with smooth talkers when I was a cop,” Pete said. “So if there’s a recruitment spiel, get to it. Otherwise, let me find Margaret and you can do whatever it is you came here to do.”

  “Started out just getting you to come over to our side,” Donovan said. “Now, it’s finding out what’s going on here for the men upstairs.”

  “I hate secret societies, and I hate sorcerers, and I hate deadbeat parents more than the two of them combined,” Pete said, slowing as they reached the populated area of Overton. “So why the fuck, when I’ve already given the Prometheus Club the finger, would I consent to join Darth Vader and his merry band?”

  “Because I’ve looked into you, Pete, and you don’t like to lose,” said Donovan. “And when the Morrigan makes her move on the daylight world, that’s exactly what the Prometheans will do. They’re a Bic lighter in a hurricane. The Prospero Society is smart enough to realize you don’t beat the Morrigan by ordering her to stop all this nonsense and go back to her room. They know that you have to play dirty.”

  He grinned at Pete again, and the shiver it sent up her spine had nothing to do with the chill mist. “I know that about you, too. I know you’ve flat out made bargains with demons to get your way, Petunia. That’s the sort of dirty pool that plays very well among my colleagues.”

  Pete didn’t want to look at him, so she did a quick sweep of the road. It was lined with cars and caravans, and Pete caught a flash of movement from behind a few. The guillible sods who’d come to the tent meeting that morning stumbled forth and glared suspiciously at Pete and Donovan as they passed, unblinking eyes watching them until Pete finally glared back. “What’re they waiting for? A written invitation to eat our brains?”

  “They can’t help it,” Donovan said. “It’s this place. This village. It works on you, makes you think strange things.” He cast a look down at Pete. “You must have noticed it, even only being here overnight. Had any bad dreams?”

  Pete returned his gaze steadily. He was fishing, and it didn’t take a former copper to see through him. “Slept like a baby,” she said. “Besides, prophetic visions are more Jack’s territory.”

  “I know you’ll do anything to save him,” Donovan said. “That’s why eventually you’ll say yes to the Prospero Society. To whatever it takes.” His words, calm and soft, still cut, and Pete felt the salvo all the way down to her bones. She didn’t bother snapping back. Men like Donovan lived for setting you off balance, and she was too sensible to play that game. If he wanted her to get defensive, proclaim her innocence, she wouldn’t. Because she wasn’t. She had made a deal with Belial—not just a Named demon but a Prince of Hell,
for fuck’s sake—to save Jack from the Morrigan. What she’d resort to next time, to keep Jack or Lily from the Hag’s darkness, she had no idea.

  But Donovan was right—it would be whatever was necessary.

  “How well does the mindfuck trick really work?” she asked, to turn her thoughts from the dark, raven-filled place where they’d wandered.

  “I can’t keep all these bastards at bay, if that’s what you’re asking,” said Donovan. “But I can misdirect the ones around the brat long enough for a snatch and grab.” He grinned. “Hope those short little legs can move if they have to.”

  “Worry about your hex, not my legs,” Pete said. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you chatting up your son’s woman is poor form?”

  “More than once. Can’t say it ever sank in, though,” Donovan said.

  The Leroys’ semi-detached drifted into view, a wind ruffling the mist and drawing back the curtain. Music still drifted from the open front door, but as they drew closer Pete heard the drone of a record stuck on the last five seconds, over and over. She stepped through the door and saw an old-fashioned turntable in the corner. Beer bottles and spilled food covered every surface, and flies clustered thickly, just as they had in the Killigan house.

  “This whole place is rotten,” Pete murmured, and jumped when she realized Donovan was just behind her.

  “Top to bottom,” he agreed. “So where’s your little friend?”

  “Not sure,” Pete said. Please don’t be dead, Margaret. “Carrie?” she called softly, not wanting to risk waking anyone who might be less than friendly. She’d been chased by enough creepy crawlers for one day.

  A snore emanated from the sofa. Mr. Dumbershall lay on the cushions, half on and half off. Vomit crusted his face, and the smell of ale was thicker than air. Pete pressed a hand against her nose to avoid retching. She needn’t have worried, though, because Donovan gagged, staggering back.

  “Fuck me, is he dead?”

  “No,” Pete said. She forgot that not everyone, mage or no, regarded dead bodies as ditchwater dull. Donovan’s wobbly expression did give her a tiny thrill of superiority, though—if he tossed his guts like a first-year rookie, she’d be delighted.

  Dumbershall shifted in his sleep and groaned, eyelids twitching. “Just drunk,” she told Donovan. Pete wouldn’t blame any of them for turning to drink, or worse, when they saw what was happening to their children.

  “Suburban bacchanal,” said Donovan, surveying the ruins of the gathering, the stained carpet, the mildewed wallpaper. “How sadly typical.”

  “I’m sure you’re used to a better class of bacchanal,” said Pete. “So sorry to disappoint.” The stairs were narrow, and she kept her foot near the wall to avoid creaks or snaps that would alert anyone conscious to their entry.

  “Never was really a Dionysian,” said Donovan. “Did attend an orgy once, in Blackpool, and met these twins who…”

  Pete held up her hand at a small exhalation of air very near her ear, over the squalling music from downstairs. “Did you hear that?”

  At the crest of the stairs was a narrow closet, probably a dumbwaiter at one point, now closed off with a cheap folding door. Pete pushed it aside, and found Margaret and Carrie crouched on the floor, half-covered by hanging duvets and linens. Carrie gave a small cry, but Margaret just rocketed forward and grabbed Pete around the waist. “Get me the fuck out of here,” she mumbled into Pete’s shirt.

  Pete nodded, gesturing for Carrie. “Donovan, help her up,” she said.

  “Gladly,” he said, extending a hand and a smile to Carrie. She took his hand and climbed shakily to her feet.

  Pete almost thought they’d gotten away, when she saw a shadow at the foot of the stairs, soon joined by a second, standing and waiting, perfectly immobile. In the sitting room, the record player screeched, needle skidding across the vinyl. Next to Pete, Margaret jumped, clinging to her even harder.

  “Donovan,” Pete whispered. He came to her shoulder, Carrie clinging to him like a burr.

  “Yeah, I see ’em,” he said. He moved around Pete and called down the stairs. “Hello, gents. No need to get upset. Why don’t we all just gather ’round and have a drink and a laugh.” His voice was slow and soothing, far from the scratchy rasp Pete had gotten used to. She felt gentle waves of power roll over her, and a sense of well-being stole into her mind. Beside her, Margaret whimpered and shivered.

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Magic, luv,” Pete said, as Donovan jerked his head at them. She started down the stairs with Margaret and Carrie. “Don’t worry about it,” Pete said. “We’re getting out of here.”

  When she pulled abreast of Donovan, he touched her on the shoulder. “I think they’ll be in dreamland for a few minutes more,” he said. “But let’s not hang around to find out, yeah?”

  The men, including Mr. Leroy and Mr. Dumbershall, stared into the distance, nodding their heads and smiling as if listening to music only they could hear. Pete herself felt wonderful—of course they’d make it back to the graveyard. Of course things would be all right. Donovan was here, and he had everything taken care of. She couldn’t believe, in that moment, that she’d ever doubted him. He was Jack’s blood, after all, and she trusted Jack implicitly.

  The feeling of bliss and the lightness in her head lasted precisely until the end of the Leroys’ walk. Outside, a crowd had gathered, villagers and travelers, including the hippies who’d been asking questions and the big brute who Bridget had chased off.

  Everything came crashing down, and a wave of nausea rolled over Pete. Margaret made a small, strangled sound. Carrie gasped and stopped short.

  Pete looked back at Donovan, whose face went slack. “Shit,” he said softly.

  “Took the word out of my mouth,” Pete said.

  Donovan’s breathing was shallow, and he backed up a step, nearly knocking into Pete. “I can’t do this many,” he murmured. “You and I could run for it, but Mumsy and the brat are deadweight.”

  He looked Pete in the eye. “A Prospero would leave them.”

  “Thank fuck for all of us I’m not a coward like you, then,” Pete growled. “Now grab hold of your balls and do what you can.”

  Donovan, hands shaking, drew himself up. Pete felt the Black wriggle around them, as if the skin of the world were a living thing, and the crowd parted, just enough for them to get through single file.

  “Move your arse,” Donovan said through clenched teeth. “This ain’t lasting long.”

  “You first,” Pete told Margaret, pushing the girl ahead of her. Margaret swiveled back, hesitating.

  “Miss Carrie?”

  “I’ll be right behind you,” Carrie whispered. Donovan shoved past her and followed Margaret, hustling her by the arm. Pete decided that when they were somewhere without this strange, staring horde of hostile villagers, she was going to give him a good smack. Or possibly a kiss, if he actually managed to keep the crowd from rioting before they reached the graveyard.

  The mob had grown exponentially even as they stood in the Leroys’ yard, hundreds upon hundreds of vacant-eyed people staring as one at Pete, Donovan, and Margaret. Carrie brought up the rear, shuddering every time she brushed arms with someone in the crowd.

  Pete could see the rear of the mass of people, the stragglers wandering down the road toward them as if they’d woken from a dream and were still disoriented, when she heard a low exhalation of breath behind her and the big brute who’d nearly disrupted the gathering turned and fixed his gaze on Carrie Leroy.

  “Run,” Pete said, but it was already too late. She watched as the brute grabbed Carrie and dragged her down to the ground. The people around him moaned quietly, and then they too turned, staring down at her, lips parted and crimson, dehydrated tongues flicking between their teeth.

  Carrie Leroy only got out one scream, as Pete watched, her stomach tumbling into infinity. One scream, as the brute clamped down on her throat and the blood welled up, red and thick and steaming against the cool ai
r.

  Pete started back, out of reflex, into the moaning horde, who closed on Carrie with a speed belied by their stupor. Cloth ripped, and with it flesh; teeth flashed and chins became stained with blood. Pete found herself against a wall of warm, moving, heaving bodies, each of them fighting to draw closer to Carrie, where she lay on the ground, thrashing and croaking out the last breaths of her life. No matter how Pete hit at them, how many she threw aside, there was another body in front of her, and she felt hands rake through her hair and teeth snap against her fingers.

  “Miss Caldecott!” Margaret grabbed her by the arms and hauled her backward, her strength greater than what Pete would have expected from a skinny teenage girl.

  “No!” Pete screamed, and she was shocked at how loudly her voice resonated off the houses around them. “I can’t just leave her there!”

  Margaret’s face was streaked with grime and tears, but she tugged harder at Pete. “Nothing to do for her now,” she said, barely audible through her sobs. “Please, Pete. Please just come.”

  Pete saw that their avenue was rapidly closing, and she turned and followed Margaret. Because the girl was right—there was nothing else she could do.

  Donovan stopped a dozen yards ahead and gestured at them wildly. “The fuck you doing? Trying to fight off a mob with your bare hands? Get to running!”

  Behind them, the bulk of the crowd still clustered around Carrie’s body, but the outliers had focused their attention on Pete and were moving after her. Pete grabbed tightly to Margaret’s hand. “Don’t look behind you,” she said. “Don’t look anywhere but straight ahead, and don’t stop running until I tell you.”

  Margaret was fast, and she didn’t have a problem keeping pace with Pete and Donovan. Pete ran until she felt like her lungs would explode, but her distance and stride were definitely easier since she’d kicked fags. Maybe all that nonsense in zombie movies had something to it. If only she could solve this problem by putting a few bullets in the skulls of the undead and calling it a job well done.

  The graveyard was uphill from the village, and Donovan started to flag before they’d gotten halfway. The villagers, on the other hand, had only gained speed, and they were moaning and crying now, their voices echoing off the surrounding hills, creating a drone of hunger and pain that was all Pete could hear besides her own thudding heart.