by Helen Harper
RED ANGEL
By Helen Harper
Copyright © 2015 Helen Harper
All rights reserved.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE: Saving the Day
CHAPTER TWO: Spiking your Drinks
CHAPTER THREE: Negotiations
CHAPTER FOUR: Shopping for Answers
CHAPTER FIVE: Cause Célèbre
CHAPTER SIX: Tracking and Tracing
CHAPTER SEVEN: The Camera Never Lies
CHAPTER EIGHT: Dodging the Truth
CHAPTER NINE: Breaking and Entering
CHAPTER TEN: Chasing Shadows
CHAPTER ELEVEN: Cars, Cards, Bars and Kisses
CHAPTER TWELVE: Pizza, Salad and Beer
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Justice Will Be Served
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Momentous Decisions
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Going Rogue
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Flashback
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Time Waits for No Man
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: Hospital Beds and Baby Cribs
CHAPTER NINETEEN: Looking into the Abyss
CHAPTER TWENTY: On the Edge
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE – The End
NIGHT SHADE – CHAPTER ONE PREVIEW
About the Author
Other titles by Helen Harper
From High Stakes
The world is full of crazy unsolved mysteries. The humans have them in abundance with things like the Marie Celeste, Lord Lucan and the grassy knoll. The Families have them with the second Lady Stuart and Jack the Ripper. The witches have Moll Dyer and Alex Sanders. Kakos daemons, well, they’re enough of a mystery themselves without any extra help. But the Agathos daemons have Tobias Renfrew. He might just top them all.
It’s said that Renfrew was conceived the night the Titanic went down. His mother, a young Agathos noblewoman, was scandalously travelling alone on the ill-fated ship to make a new life for herself across the Pond. She certainly did that, although given that it’s been suggested it was a highly placed crew member who she was making that new life with, it’s possible that hundreds of other lives were also lost in the process. Renfrew’s alleged father had been on duty the night they hit the iceberg; he was mysteriously absent during the initial collision, however, and reportedly unkempt and dishevelled when he finally did appear – with Toby’s mother in tow. Still, even if it was his negligence that contributed to the disaster, and he went down with the ship himself, he did manage to see his lover safely onto a lifeboat, saving the tiny embryo that was to become Tobias Renfrew in the process.
Devastated by what happened, and with a growing belly, she holed up in a corner of Brooklyn and sent tearful letters back to her family in England. Not long before Tobias was born, her father turned up on her doorstep and dragged her back home. I’m not sure whether he actually had to drag her, though; it can’t have been a lot of fun being single, pregnant and penniless. Unfortunately for her, things didn’t really improve back on home soil. She was hidden away in some godforsaken corner of the country to preserve the family honour. When she finally went into labour, the midwife wasn’t called until it was too late. Little Toby was breech and was eventually cut from his mother’s womb, apparently wide-eyed but entirely silent. She, meanwhile, bled out.
It would be safe to say that the Renfrew family suffered Tobias’s childhood rather than enjoyed it. He was, after all, a bastard son. There were whispered tales of savage beatings and bloodstained dungeons. I suspect the truth is that he was simply ignored. Whatever, by the time he was a teenager, he had been incriminated in a number of local crimes and had run away at least three times from his Spartan boarding school. His one champion was his aunt Molly, who tried her best to do right by him. But she was only a female daemon and the worse Tobias’s behaviour, the more her pleas to help him fell on deaf ears. Eventually the rest of his relatives had had enough. Tobias was thrown out with only five pounds to give him a head start. Molly, in a fit of desperation, gave him her favourite ruby earrings, thinking that he could pawn them. He never did.
He joined the army, signing up just in time to get involved in the civil war in Afghanistan. He rose quickly through the ranks, even though daemons were viewed with as much suspicion in those days as any human who wasn’t white skinned, God-fearing and male. He tripped from conflict to conflict, growing more bloodthirsty with each one until, inexplicably, he bowed out not long before the advent of the Second World War. He got involved in munitions manufacturing instead.
Whether it was from ill-gotten gains during his time fighting around the world, or from black-market sales in the weapons’ trade, by the time the 1950s rolled around, Tobias Renfrew had enough money to buy his ancestral home. He did to his relatives what they’d done to him: tossed them out with a barely civil farewell. Molly was long dead, killed during the Blitz and, despite his wealth, Tobias was still completely alone.
Instead of warmongering, he filled his days with politics. He schmoozed all the right people and feathered all the right pockets. His coffers grew and his sticky fingers dabbled in all manner of pots. And he did it all while wearing Molly’s ruby earrings. If anyone ever teased him for such a girlish affectation, there is no record of it. He was not the kind of man you wanted to insult. Indeed, it was said that if he ever came across another daemon wearing similar jewellery, even if it was for reasons of flattery via imitation, he ripped it from their flesh no matter who they were.
At one point, Tobias seemed to take on a veneer of respectability. He started withdrawing from his more dodgy – as well as lucrative – dealings. My grandfather met him briefly during this time; unsurprisingly he dismissed him as a ‘rough amongst diamonds’. It’s been whispered Tobias was on course to become the first daemon Prime Minister. But that was before one cold night in January 1963.
Tobias flung open the doors of his mansion to all and sundry. He didn’t invite only politicians: there were film stars, powerful witches and the five Family Heads – apparently one of whom was the reigning Lord Gully. Champagne flowed, opium abounded and everyone had a merry old time. Despite his history, Tobias was a congenial host. His family had taught him how to hobnob with the rich and he’d taught himself how to mix with everyone else. Prior to a breathtakingly expensive fireworks’ display, he gave a speech. There’s an old recording of it somewhere that has been pored over by historians and conspiracy theorists for years. He made reference to ‘hidden wealth’ and ‘mysterious saboteurs’. Then, just as he invited the entire gathering to raise their glasses and toast their own health, there was a flash of light and he disappeared.
His guests were amused, believing it to be some kind of clever trick – until someone went searching and discovered several body parts in an upstairs bathroom, along with copious amounts of blood. They came from at least five different corpses: one human, two witches, one vampire and one Agathos daemon. Tobias Renfrew was never seen again.
In the absence of any other suspects, he was indicted for murder. His surviving family members, all of whom had fallen on hard times, demanded that his wealth and properties revert to them. As a suspected, albeit not confirmed, murderer, the state and the increasingly powerful Agathos court wanted to confiscate everything for themselves. Tobias’s will, meanwhile, left everything to a defunct children’s charity. However, a very clever lawyer argued that in the absence of a body, his death could not be confirmed.
No traces of him were left behind. Because he was an Agathos daemon, Tobias’s disappearance couldn’t be explained away by him being turned into a vampire. The public nature of his departure also suggests that he wasn’t attacked by a Kakos daemon. (There are, of course, those who suspect that in a fit of Sleeping Beauty-esque jealousy at not being invited to the lavish party, a Kakos was involved but there are always conspiracy theorists.) The
witches were equally discounted, as invisibility spells are nigh on impossible to maintain. Furthermore, to add to the mystery, to this day not even the more talkative ghosts will discuss it.
So, to all legal intents and purposes Tobias Renfrew is still alive. Nobody gets his money: not the descendants of his fickle family, nor the charity, nor the government. Every so often another legal challenge is made and, thanks to the intricacies of daemon law and the bitter greed of the parties involved, it always fails. It doesn’t help that each interested party advertises large rewards for information regarding Tobias’s whereabouts. They’re each determined to get the jump on the other.
If he is still alive, Tobias would be well over a hundred years old – not unheard of for a daemon but not all that likely either. His wealth continues to grow and estate managers continue to be hired. The Agathos community, by some strange unspoken agreement, never wear rubies in their ears. Whether it’s out of deference or fear I don’t know, but it’s one of those weird foibles people have that continues to linger.
CHAPTER ONE: Saving the Day
I stare glumly at my reflection in the mirror. While I imagine the make-up girl has done the best she can as far as television is concerned, in real life my skin itches and my pores feel clogged and heavy. I suppose I should be happy that the huge spot on my chin has been masterfully concealed under several layers of foundation, powder and skin-toned gloop.
At least the midnight-blue trouser suit I’m wearing is well tailored. In fact, open as it is to reveal flashes of cleavage which surely can’t be appropriate for breakfast television, it’s even sexy. My old Montserrat buddies will no doubt be less than impressed to see me sporting their house colours but this isn’t about pleasing them or me: it’s about continuing to improve human‒vampire relations. And anyway, it’s my own bloody fault for getting caught on camera in an apparent act of heroism when the Agathos court was attacked last month.
‘Well, well, well,’ drawls a smooth voice next to me. ‘The Red Angel herself.’
I glance over as a man sits in the chair beside me. He looks vaguely familiar, with a chiselled jaw and a tan which is so perfect it can only be fake.
‘Marcus Lanscombe,’ he says, holding out a hand.
I take it, muttering, ‘Bo Blackman.’
He holds on to my hand for a fraction too long. ‘It’s a pleasure. Although,’ he says as he frowns into his own mirror at some invisible blemish, ‘it’s really quite uncivilised to be here so early in the morning. Not that I imagine five a.m. is difficult for you, of course.’
I try to appear ambivalent. ‘Well, I am a young vampire. Being awake at this time comes with the territory.’
‘Indeed, indeed.’ His eyes drift down to my chest and linger there. ‘How on earth are you going to get home, though? Sunrise is less than an hour away and we won’t be finished until well after that.’
‘I have my ways,’ I say stiffly. I stand up, getting one of my suit buttons caught in the fabric of the chair as I do so I’m forced to yank awkwardly at my arm to free myself. Lanscombe looks on, amused. ‘Excuse me.’
I stride out into the corridor. Various harried-looking people trot past me in different directions. Few of them notice me; those who do flash perfunctory smiles in my direction and continue on their way. I’m more used to being given a wide berth by humans. This lot don’t seem to care that I’m higher up in the food chain than them and theoretically a danger to their lives. The world of television is clearly as far removed from the rest of society as the world of bloodguzzlers.
I walk along until I find an emergency exit at the far end. Although there’s a ripped sign on it stating that it’s to be kept closed at all times, it’s been propped ajar by an old shoe. I push it open so that I can squeeze out and get some fresh air. There’s already someone out there puffing on a cigarette. I move as far away from him as I can and dig out my phone.
It’s answered within three rings. ‘Good morning, Bo,’ says my grandfather, sounding as if he’s been awake for hours. ‘You do realise how rude it is to call at such an ungodly hour, don’t you?’
‘It’s almost dawn. Besides, it couldn’t wait.’
‘Let me guess. You don’t think you should be on television and you want me to find a way to get you out of there.’
‘Doing this is a stupid idea! I shouldn’t be here.’
‘We’ve spoken about it. Several times. It’s for the good of the firm. Not only the firm, in fact; it’s for the good of mankind.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Since when did you become best mates with hyperbole? All this is going to do is keep the spotlight on me. We should be focused on the Families and all their vampires. I’m not the one who needs better PR, they are.’
‘Which is why you’re the one who’s there and who is going to provide it. As distasteful as the media are, we need them. You have to take one for the team.’
I scowl to myself. ‘People know who you are,’ I point out. ‘You should be doing this.’
‘My dear, the public need to see the softer, more feminine side of the bloodguzzlers. I’m human. And you’re the heroine – you’re the one they want.’
I scratch my nose, realising too late that I’ve probably messed up the caked make-up. ‘I should have just spoken to one of the tabloids. It would have made far more sense.’
‘We have more control this way. As long as you fool the watching public into thinking you’re a charming young lady, we’re onto a winner.’
‘You don’t think I’m normally a charming young lady?’ I ask sardonically.
‘Well,’ he answers with a sniff, ‘you’re certainly young.’
I sigh in exasperation, stuffing the phone away again as I gaze out at the rooftops. I could leave now and run away. I’d be leaving Breakfast UK in the lurch but they’re probably used to it. I’m sure guests do it all the time.
‘You’ll be fine.’
I look over at the smoker. He’s smiling at me reassuringly.
‘Yeah.’
‘I mean it.’ He sounds earnest. ‘A lot of people get scared when they’re about to go live on air. Once the cameras start rolling, you’ll feel much better.’
‘I’ve faced down a pair of psychotic serial killers,’ I tell him. ‘I’m not scared of being on television. I just don’t want to do it, that’s all.’
He chuckles. ‘Sure.’ He leans towards me. ‘I’ll give you a tip. Keep your hands folded neatly in your lap instead of waving them around. You’ll look much more confident that way.’ He stubs out his cigarette and walks back inside.
I watch him go, open-mouthed. I’m confident enough. I exhale loudly and straighten my shoulders. I’ll show him; Bo Blackman isn’t afraid of anything.
Stalking back into the make-up room to get my face patched up, I’m in time to see Marcus Lanscombe make a grab for the breast of a fresh-faced girl holding a powder puff. She jerks away.
‘Come on,’ he leers. ‘What are you? Frigid? Don’t you know who I am?’
I suddenly realise where I’ve seen him before. He’s the head of a new online bank which is apparently doing a brisk trade in offering loans and mortgages to people who can’t afford them. There have also been rumours in the press of drug-taking and sex parties. I step in front of the girl and bare my fangs.
‘Oh, I see.’ Lanscombe raises his eyebrows. ‘You’re after a threesome. I’ve never had a vampire before. Promise to bite me and I’m all yours.’
I eye him up and down, assessing where I can hit him to do the most damage. I think about slamming the base of my hand into his nose. Unfortunately, the idea that such a move will force someone’s nasal bone into their brain and kill them is nothing more than a myth. But it would still hurt a lot.
Despite my constant moaning about the way that many humans are terrified of vampires, Lanscombe’s lack of fear is riling me. The man thinks he’s sodding untouchable. Combine good looks, power and money and you’ll often find darkness. I cock my head and let my gaze drift to his ju
gular. Then I lick my lips. There’s the slightest flicker of uncertainty in his expression.
‘I could end this for you right now,’ I say, dropping my voice to a low purr.
His body goes rigid. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’
Telling myself that I’m here to make vampires look less like rabid, bloodthirsty monsters and more like friendly keepers of the peace, I reach into my pocket. I curl my fingers round the cool smooth pebble from Doctor Love that sits there to remind me of my humanity. Maybe I could knee Lanscombe in the groin.
‘We’re ready for you, Ms Blackman!’ trills a guy from behind me.
Lanscombe rushes towards him for safety, making sure his body doesn’t brush against mine. ‘Keep that … thing away from me,’ he snarls.
I smile. It’s a shame that the make-up girl in the corner now appears more afraid of me than of him, though.
*
I’m led out to the main studio area. When you see it on the screen, it looks like a vast, comfortable living room, with huge sofas and a designer coffee table. The reality is very different: it’s like a barn composed of dark walls and complicated technical equipment with a tiny colourful couch oasis in the centre.
The incident with Lanscombe may have diverted my attention for a few minutes but now I’m focused wholly on what’s about to happen. As I sit down opposite Joyce and Jim, the beaming hosts whose heads are bent towards one of the producers, I realise my hands are trembling. I clutch at the fabric of my trousers in panic. A bright light swings in my direction, half blinding me, and I blink rapidly. Someone gesticulates at me from behind the cameras and their gaping lenses. Someone else starts counting down from the end of the ad break. I manage to adjust my vision in time to register that it’s the smoker. He mimes clasping his hands together. In sudden understanding, I knit my fingers together in my lap. My heart thuds painfully against my ribcage as the intro music kicks in. Oh God. Give me an army of vicious tribers out to destroy me any day over this.
