by Helen Harper
He resets the weapon and points it towards me once more. I get ready to dodge the shot but there’s nothing more than a hollow click. Ha. Now it’s my turn to laugh. The man recovers quickly, throwing the taser aside in favour of attacking me with his fists.
‘Give it up,’ he snarls, spittle flying into my face as he lands a hefty right hook. ‘You can’t win.’
‘On the contrary,’ I tell him, drawing back my head then slamming it forward into the bridge of his nose. ‘I think I already have.’
He staggers backwards, falling against a door which swings open. I move over to finish the job but he’s not done yet. From his sprawled position, he grabs the edge of the door and hurls it in my direction. This time I’m not quick enough and it smashes into my side.
‘Ouch, that hurt.’ I grin broadly. I’m rewarded with the first flicker of fear from my target. I leap forward, pinning him to the ground with my legs. His arms flail upwards, his fists clenched, but I dodge them easily. As delighted goosebumps rise up across my skin, his fear turns to pure terror.
I permit my fangs to grow then curve my head down to take a good long sip. The two men on the floor behind me have managed to get up and each of them grabs one of my arms from behind, hauling me off their buddy. I kick my legs upwards, wrenching my body away. This is becoming like whack-a-mole and, like all overplayed games, it’s starting to lose its appeal.
I jump over the man who’s fallen in the doorway. Lurking in the darkness behind him is a huge industrial floor-polisher. No wonder the floor is so shiny. I pluck the plug from where it’s neatly coiled, pivot and run forward, holding the wire tightly in one hand. While the three men gape at me, I loop it round them and yank.
‘Kimchi!’ There’s another muffled growl. I pat my thigh. ‘Bring him here. Good boy!’
Kimchi’s eyes are large and his tail is wagging as if he’s having the time of his life. He has absolutely no desire to do as I ask. He simply shakes his head as his captive continues valiantly to try to free himself. He’s not going to manage it. Those jaws are pretty damn powerful.
With an exasperated sigh, I circle my three goons one more time to ensure that the wire is tight round them. Then I drag them towards Kimchi and their companion. If the mountain won’t come to Mahomet…
They try to dig in, first with their hands and then their feet, but the cleaners of this place have done far too good a job of the floor. The men slide easily towards where I want them to go.
‘Kimchi,’ I say, in my sternest dog-handler voice, ‘drop.’ His ears prick and he looks at me. ‘You heard me. Drop the nasty man.’
His mouth opens revealing a frankly disgusting mixture of dog saliva and goon blood. I look at the damage he’s caused and raise my eyebrows. I’m not sure there’s a surgeon in the world who’ll be able to repair that.
I pull hard on the large polisher, giving myself more wire to work with. Once I have what I need, I throw it around the blooded mess of a man, attaching him to his three other friends. I think he’s actually relieved; he doesn’t try to struggle or protest, he just watches me with pain-filled eyes.
I secure the four of them together in the centre of the floor, double-checking that my knotting is good enough to keep them in place, and then I fold my arms and admire my handiwork. Four doleful faces stare up at me just as the phone on the doorman’s desk starts to ring. Leaving Kimchi to drool threateningly over my captives, I crane my head round and give the doorman a pointed look. He reluctantly gets up from the floor and slides over, picking up the receiver and listening before holding it out to me.
‘It’s for you.’
I jog over and take it. ‘Shiny office block,’ I say in my best receptionist voice. ‘How may we be of assistance?’
Harry D’Argneau’s voice fills the line, barely audible above the thump of familiar, ear-wrenching music. ‘I should mention that my building has changed its security measures recently. Just in case you were thinking about dropping by.’
‘How kind of you to mention it,’ I drawl.
‘No problem.’
I roll my eyes. ‘One would think that with a large law firm whose clients include an entire bloodguzzling Family, your landlord would be friendlier towards vampires.’
‘I go to the Stuart Family, Bo. They don’t come to me. There are strict stipulations against tribers wandering in unannounced. But I can’t help it if a nasty vampire steals my keys and uses them to gain access.’
‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to set me up.’
‘Bo,’ he chides, ‘we’re friends. I wouldn’t do that.’
Yeah, right. ‘I’m not sure “friends” is an appropriate term to describe our relationship.’
‘Would-be lovers then.’
‘Don’t push your luck.’
He laughs. ‘I have no doubt that you’ll be able to circumnavigate the new system. Besides, I’m trying to expand onto another floor and the landlord is being … difficult. It wouldn’t hurt for him to realise I have friends in high places.’
‘You’re using that word again. I’m your client, not your bestie.’
‘Sorry,’ he says, although he sounds anything but.
I sigh and hang up. I glance back over at the trussed-up goons. ‘Who owns this building?’ I ask.
Nobody answers. I tut and stroll over, grabbing the nose of the nearest one and pulling him up. ‘Politeness costs nothing.’ I twist and he yelps in pain. ‘Now,’ I say, repeating myself, ‘who owns this building?’
‘Barry Moran.’
‘Moron?’
‘Moran.’
I shrug. ‘Daft name.’ I release him and he drops back to the floor with a grunt. I head back to the desk and locate a small black book in a drawer. Barry Moran’s name, address and phone number are listed first. How handy. I dial quickly.
‘This had better be good,’ a gruff voice answers, after several rings. ‘It’s the middle of the fucking night.’
‘Mr Moron, how lovely to talk to you.’
‘Who is this?’
‘Bo. Bo Blackman. You’ve probably heard of me.’ I look up, spotting the CCTV camera in the corner. I walk over and wave at it. I’m betting that Mr Moron is the kind of guy who has a bank of live feeds sent to his own home. The moment he saw the caller ID, he’ll have checked the video. No doubt he’s watching right now. For good measure, I point in the direction of the huddled security team and grin.
There’s a moment of silence. Then he speaks. ‘You’re on my property, Ms Blackman.’
‘That’s true. But I have permission from one of the leaseholders.’ I reach into my pockets and pull out D’Argneau’s keys, jangling them so he can hear. ‘Setting up an anti-vampire security system smacks of racism, Mr Moron.’
‘It’s Moran,’ he snaps. ‘And I’m not racist.’
I drum my fingers against my leg. This is taking more time than it should. ‘Let me guess. Some of your best friends are vampires.’
‘No, they’re not. I’m not racist because bloodguzzlers aren’t a race. You’re not born, you’re made. Now get the hell out of my building.’
‘I will when I’ve done what I need to do. But I wanted to talk to you first. You know, you should look into your security team. They’re not very good at what they do. And I’ve not done anything wrong. They attacked me without provocation. I’m not sure that would go down too well with all my vampire buddies.’ Not that I have any but he doesn’t need to know that.
At least Moron catches on quickly. ‘What do you want?’
‘I want you to call off your dogs. The next batch of idiots you send won’t get off so easily and you’ll end up with a lot of blood on your hands. In return I will stay no longer than…’ I check the clock on the wall ‘…an hour.’
‘Fine.’
‘There’s no need to be so curt,’ I purr. I glance over and check the doorman’s name tag. ‘I also want Joe Timmons to have his choice of shifts. Let him out of the doghouse. If he wants to work days, h
e can. You will not punish him for events outside his control. I won’t like it if I come back and find out differently.’
‘Very well,’ Moron snaps.
That was remarkably easy. ‘You’re not just telling me what I want to hear, are you? You know, it’s incredibly unwise to leave your personal details lying around where anyone can see them. Especially when you live in such a nice neighbourhood as Westminster. Princess Road, isn’t it?’
He sucks in a breath. ‘Timmons will get what he wants.’
I smile. ‘Good.’ I pause then shrug to myself. Whatever. ‘You should probably seriously consider Harry D’Argneau’s application to rent out more space, too,’ I tell him. I don’t really care. ‘Anyway, lovely talking to you.’ I blow the camera a kiss and hang up.
The doorman, Joe Timmons, stares at me. ‘I’m sorry you ended up with shitty shifts because of my actions.’ I jerk my head at the bank of lifts. ‘I’m going upstairs now. I won’t be long.’
He nods weakly. I pat his arm and walk off, gesturing to Kimchi to join me.
‘Wait,’ he says.
I half turn. ‘Yes?’
He swallows. ‘Thank you.’
I bestow another smile on him. ‘You’re much nicer than your boss,’ I tell him. ‘It really does pay to be polite – especially to people who have sharper teeth than you.’ And with that I leave him in peace.
The truth is that, if I’d really wanted to, I could have found a way to sneak inside and break into D’Argneau’s office but there’s something far more satisfying about strolling in through the front door. Though I have to admit that using his keys to open the inner entrance doors once I’ve reached his floor does leave less of a mess.
I wander in, taking a free sweet from a crystal bowl on the receptionist’s desk and making a mental note to tell D’Argneau to get in some blue raspberry. I ignore all the other closed doors and head straight for the back where I know D’Argneau’s own office is housed. Kimchi decides to investigate the small galley kitchen. I let him; he deserves it.
In less than a minute, I’m sitting in D’Argneau’s swivel chair, staring irritably at the photos on the wall. He’s always been a glory hound and has never attempted to make a secret of that fact. Seeing my own face beaming at me from a framed photo in pride of place doesn’t sit well with me. Eventually I rip my eyes away. I’m here to do a job after all.
I take a bit of time to open up various drawers and peer inside. Other than an array of legal pads and different coloured pens, there’s not much of interest. After a few minutes rummaging, I stand up and head for the row of filing cabinets instead.
There are three large cabinets dedicated solely to the Stuart Family. Considering it’s been less than six months since he took them on as clients, D’Argneau has done well to have garnered this much information on them. I flick through various reports of dull accounts and outside interests. I also look for any mention of the Montserrat Family, my curiosity about Michael still lingering despite everything that’s occurred between us. There’s not much worth reading but I am fascinated that D’Argneau is so old school and chooses to keep his records in paper form rather than locked into a computer. He does have some inkling of what hackers like Rogu3 are capable of; maybe he thinks his files are more secure like this. I shrug and finally pull out what I’m looking for. Recruitment files.
Unsurprisingly, the folder is very slim. There certainly aren’t any Stuart names here. Each vampire Family makes a big deal out of keeping their recruits’ identities secret. I suspect it’s more from tradition than out of any real need – not to mention that they enjoy being shrouded in mystery because they seem to think that being enigmatic adds to their power. Whatever the reason, there’s no way they’d hand over any such lists to D’Argneau, no matter what else he does for them. When it comes to human law, though, they appear to be less circumspect. There’s a copy of a report they commissioned D’Argneau to write. Unfortunately it confirms all of my suspicions: they wanted to know how far they could push their own recruitment before the human government would act.
D’Argneau has certainly done his due diligence. He estimated that, in terms of longevity, each vampire life is worth 3.4 times that of a human life. With each Family’s numbers previously capped at five hundred, their population is a drop in the ocean when compared to the daemons, the witches or the humans. Using various mathematical formulae, along with what appears to be the greasing of several pairs of hands belonging to members of Parliament, D’Argneau recommended that numbers could be pushed up to eleven thousand per Family before legal action was taken against them. It’ll still mean that the vampires are a tiny percentage of the UK population. I scowl.
Five hundred is a small, manageable number. It means the Families are close-knit and their feelings of loyalty are incredibly strong, even if most of those feelings are engendered as a result of the initial turning process. Everyone has a voice and everyone has a place. To expand the population further – and especially to eleven thousand – would destroy all that. There will be more in-fighting. The need for fresh human blood will grow.
D’Argneau mentions that in his report and suggests that a fund be started to cover any necessary costs. Humans on the poverty line can be encouraged to sell their blood. He’s even built in a potential insurance policy for when accidents happen. When; not if. Further risk analysis includes dissension from the witches and the Agathos daemons. D’Argneau points out that their numbers are far greater, so the Families already have a ready-made counter argument.
Kakos daemons like X are an unknown quantity. At least D’Argneau encourages caution in that area, suggesting that the Families stop blaming Kakos daemons for unsanctioned kills. Provoking them in that manner would not be intelligent, not when the vampires are potentially seeking to grow their own strength.
I flick through to the back of the report. There’s an appendix on the state of the human protestors. D’Argneau notes, as I have, that they have been quiet recently, and concludes that the most vociferous anti-vampire voices have realised they’re fighting a losing battle. His reasoning is sketchy; I can’t help wondering if it’s because he thinks the Families themselves are responsible. A year ago I’d have said no way. But then a year ago, I’d have said the Families would never look to recruit in such large numbers.
The only truly helpful information is a list of around three hundred names, apparently of the protestors who’ve mysteriously disappeared. I hadn’t realised there were so many of them. I scan down it, my heart in my mouth. I’ve hurt a lot of humans and tribers recently but I can honestly say that each one deserved it. To kill off someone just because they are exercising their right to free speech is a completely different matter. I don’t want to believe it. I’ve made the mistake in the past of jumping to conclusions. These days I can’t afford to do that and I’m much more circumspect and diligent before I make up my mind – but I can’t escape the gnawing worry.
Using my phone, I take a photo of each page and carefully return the report to where I found it. I wrap my arms around myself. I understand that Medici is forcing the Families’ hands in terms of recruitment but surely their combined might could help them to find an alternative route? I can’t believe this is the only way out.
I’m going to have to confront Michael. The other Family heads look up to him. If I can change Michael Montserrat’s mind about expanding his numbers, then I can change the others’ minds too. I tighten my jaw. And until I have absolute proof that he and the others have something to do with the protestors’ disappearances, I’ll keep quiet, no matter how hard it might be. I owe him that, if nothing else.
Chapter Six: Diving for Details
I’m halfway down the corridor, looking for Kimchi, when I feel a change in the atmosphere. I’m no longer completely alone. I wrinkle my nose. X is checking up on me a hell of a lot lately. I wonder if it’s because he’s pissed off that I’m focusing a lot of my efforts on Medici rather than cleaning up the streets of petty criminals.
He can go and screw himself, I decide.
I round the corner, finally spotting him in the reception area. Kimchi is on his back, presenting his smooth belly to X like a true submissive.
‘What are you doing here?’
X throws out his arms in an expansive gesture. ‘I thought I’d see how you were getting on.’
‘As we’ve already discussed, I’m not your pet.’ I eye Kimchi as if he’s a traitor. ‘Neither is my dog.’
‘Bo, you’re far too sensitive. I just wanted to make sure that you weren’t going to waste this opportunity.’
I narrow my eyes. I may be working for X right now but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s a Kakos daemon and I can’t trust him. He could end my life with one crook of his pinky, after all. Admittedly, that might be a good reason to stay on his good side but I’m not sure I care that much any more. Life is cheap. Even mine. ‘What opportunity?’
He shakes his head and tuts. ‘Your little human lawyer has a lot of tribers on his books. And a lot of humans who partake in, shall we say, less than savoury activities.’
I just stare at him. He rolls his eyes. ‘Do I have to spell it out? You work for me. Your role is to put a halt to the criminal activity that’s happening on the streets of London. Here’s your chance to get a long list of many of the perps instigating those activities.’
‘I understood what you meant,’ I sniff. ‘I can’t do that though.’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘Why ever not?’
‘The files are private. I can’t break that privilege. It wouldn’t be proper.’
X laughs, the sound echoing down the empty corridor. His amusement rankles but he’s right. Damn him. ‘Maybe I was wrong. Maybe you’re not the best choice for a vigilante.’
I tilt up my chin. ‘You can always find someone else.’ Other than the fact that I’ll need to move home yet again, it doesn’t bother me. I don’t need X. Without his intervention, I’ll be freer to focus on the witches. The thought is incredibly satisfying. I fold my arms and smile.
