Arbuckle eyes him as if he were a snake but when he doesn’t react to her animosity she softens, no doubt disarmed by his brilliant grin. Sociopath or not, the man knows how to schmooze. ‘Call me Hope,’ she mutters.
I start slightly at her first name, although I should have guessed it. Noting my reaction, she turns to me. ‘I’d have been called Tobias if I were a boy. My nanny changed my surname to keep me hidden but I’m proud to have my mother’s name.’ There’s a defiant tilt to her chin as if she’s daring me to disagree.
I watch her as she nods in greeting to O’Shea and shakes hands with Connor. For all that she’s done, I can’t think of her as an evil person. I understand how much the desire for revenge must have burned inside her. Her own secret desires aside, I think she probably did just hire the wrong people. Someone with more honest intentions might have steered her down a different path. She could still have taken her revenge but it wouldn’t have involved the death of innocents, or out-and-out terrorism. Or the severing of ears.
‘So,’ Arbuckle says, looking around, ‘where exactly is my father?’
Merlin lifts his hands in the air with a dramatic flourish. ‘It’s so obvious! I can’t believe no one noticed until now.’ He shakes his head. ‘Honestly!’
Arbuckle draws herself up. ‘It’s not obvious to me.’
Merlin glances at me and winks. ‘Can I keep it? It’ll go nicely with my other piece.’
I fold my arms. ‘No. Bring the damn thing out.’ I narrow my eyes at Arbuckle. ‘You need to give me your gun first.’ I think I have this situation under control but there’s no telling what Arbuckle will do when she discovers the truth.
She frowns at me, obviously unwilling to let go of her weapon. When I harden my gaze, she places the gun on a shelf nearby. She angles her body so that I can’t get to it without going through her first.
Both O’Shea and Connor are frowning at me. It takes O’Shea a moment; his gaze drifts to the painting on Merlin’s wall, then to my face. It’s pretty damn obvious when it hits him because his expression is almost comical with shock. ‘No!’
I nod. ‘Yes.’
Connor kicks him. ‘What?’
‘The painting. Tobias Renfrew is in the fucking painting.’
Arbuckle stiffens. ‘What the hell do you mean?’
Merlin reaches down behind the table and brings up the picture from Renfrew’s mansion. ‘Here,’ he says. ‘Meet your father.’
Even though I already know the truth, I join the others in staring at it. Renfrew’s back is still turned. Unlike the figures in Merlin’s other painting, who stare out as if pleading for someone to help them, Renfrew doesn’t seem to care.
‘He must have done it to himself,’ I murmur. ‘Without Hope and their child, he couldn’t see any point in continuing. He trapped himself inside the picture.’
Merlin purses his lips. ‘It’s a theory,’ he says cheerfully.
‘Daddy?’ Arbuckle whispers in a small, childish voice. I look at her, surprised. Her expression combines disbelief with desperate desire. She can’t believe the little painted figure is him but she doesn’t want to believe it’s not.
‘I don’t get it,’ Connor says. ‘If things were that bad for him, why didn’t he just top himself? It’d be far less painful in the long run.’
‘Maybe he wanted to punish himself,’ I suggest. ‘He’s the one who got involved with Checkers in the first place. Perhaps he thought it was his fault and he deserved to suffer.’
‘And he happened to have that spell hanging around where he could get to it in a hurry?’
I drop my voice. ‘Maybe he had it on him because he was planning to use it on someone else.’
O’Shea nods. ‘You’re right. They changed his clothes, didn’t they? The trustees. They put him into an old tuxedo. The spell could have been in the pocket. Maybe he was going to use it on some other poor devil and changed his mind. And he never got around to disposing of it.’
We all look at Renfrew’s back again. ‘Talk about your chickens coming home to roost,’ Connor says.
‘Shut up!’ Arbuckle shouts. ‘Just shut up! My father was not a bad man!’
‘He was involved in the black market arms trade,’ I point out.
‘Fuck you!’ she spits. ‘What would you know about it?’
I’m tempted to tell her that I also know his daughter has incited terrorist activity. Instead, I keep my mouth shut.
She snaps out her hands, grabbing Merlin by his collar and yanking him forward until his face is inches away from hers. ‘How do we get him out? What do we do?’
The witch is not in the slightest bit fazed. He raises his eyebrows at me. I take three steps back, reach into my pocket and take out the pebble. I stare at it for a moment, then put it away again.
‘Bo,’ O’Shea begins, dismay written all over his face.
‘It’s fine,’ I tell him. ‘It’s absolutely fine. There’s no doubt that Tobias Renfrew was responsible for a lot of criminal acts in his day, regardless of what the good Colonel wants to believe. He’s been imprisoned for them. Maybe he deserves it.’
Arbuckle spins round and punches me on the side of my head. I could have ducked but it seemed fairer to let her have her shot. At least she can think about that when she’s imprisoned. There’s an odd crunching sound: I think my cheekbone has fractured. She certainly packs a wallop.
I shake my head to get rid of the searing pain and meet O’Shea’s eyes. He tightens his lips and gives an almost imperceptible nod. We both know it wasn’t Tobias Renfrew I was talking about.
Merlin claps his hands. He’s probably glad that he wasn’t the one on the receiving end of Arbuckle’s fist. ‘As it happens,’ he beams gleefully, ‘I do have a spell that’s meant to release such captives.’ He holds up his index finger. ‘I can’t guarantee that it will work though.’
I put my hand to my cheek and wince then stare meaningfully at Arbuckle. If she does this, it has to be of her own free will. ‘Not every spell works,’ I say, while O’Shea sucks in a breath. ‘And some of them have very nasty side-effects.’
She looks at me scornfully. ‘You don’t want him to be freed. It’s been well over fifty years! He’ll be an old man. He’s not going to hurt a soul.’ She lifts up her chin and addresses Merlin. ‘Do it.’
‘It tends to work better when someone close to the subject performs the spell,’ he says amiably. He takes a wrapped scroll from his robe and passes it over. ‘Just read the words.’
There’s something sickening about the anticipation in his expression. I bite my bottom lip. I promised Rogu3 I’d punish the person responsible for the attack on him. Arbuckle’s actions have caused a lot of deaths; she deserves to pay for them. Doubt gnaws at me, though. Maybe she doesn’t deserve to pay for them like this. ‘Actually,’ I interject, ‘you shouldn’t do this. The thing is…’
Arbuckle twists round and hits me again. This time I wasn’t expecting it; she connects with my already broken cheekbone and I reel backwards. Both O’Shea and Connor dash over to me while Arbuckle unwraps the scroll. She starts to chant.
‘No!’ I protest. ‘Don’t…’
There’s a flash of light and a strange crack as if of thunder. It’s too late. She’s already gone.
‘Where the hell did she go?’ Connor asks, bewildered.
Merlin, O’Shea and I turn to the painting. There, next to the door of the little farmhouse, is a small uniformed figure. I squeeze my eyes shut.
‘That’s not … but that can’t be … but…’ Connor stammers. Nobody responds. ‘You knew this was going to happen.’ His voice is filled with disbelief.
I open my eyes and stare helplessly at him.
‘Bo, you did that deliberately? How could you?’
I can’t bear to see the pained disappointment in his expression. He looks at O’Shea. ‘You knew too?’
‘Connor…’ O’Shea puts a hand out to touch his shoulder but he pulls back.
‘Is that what we do n
ow?’ he yells. ‘We take revenge on people? What happened to due process?’
‘She did it, Connor. She hired the mercenaries that attacked the Court and Rogu3. She’s responsible for the deaths of the trustees’ children. She would have tried to kill me if I hadn’t brought her here.’
‘That doesn’t make it right!’
As I try to avoid his horror-filled gaze, my phone beeps. Worried that it might be the hospital, I pull it out and read the message. Then I hold it out to Connor. ‘There,’ I say quietly. ‘The three bastards who hid in Venezuela have been released. Charges are going ahead but they’ve been granted bail ‒ even though they’ve already fled once. Harry D’Argneau did his job.’
‘That doesn’t mean that she’d have got off,’ Connor says, wrapping his arms around himself and backing away as if he’s fearful of what we’ll do.
O’Shea tries again. ‘Connor, she knew there might be side effects. She knew…’
Connor whirls away. ‘That’s bullshit and you know it! I thought you’d turned over a new leaf, Dev. I thought things were going to be different.’
O’Shea opens his mouth to answer but it’s too much for Connor. He throws his hands up in the air and pushes past me, shoving the folds of the tent’s exit aside as he leaves.
‘Now that,’ says Merlin, ‘is why I prefer canvas to solid wood.’ He shudders. ‘It’s just so loud when people get annoyed and start slamming doors.’
O’Shea and I look at him with loathing. The daemon turns to me, a pleading expression in his eyes. ‘Go,’ I tell him. ‘Go after him.’ He sprints out in Connor’s wake.
Merlin knits his fingers together. ‘Are you sure I can’t tempt you to sell me this?’ He strokes the edge of the painting with one finger. ‘I’ll give you a good price.’
I pick it up. ‘No.’
‘What are you going to do with it?’
I consider. I should pass it over to Rogu3 but I don’t want to infect him with its negativity. I’ll simply let him know that the matter has been taken care of. ‘I’ll put it back where it belongs,’ I say. At least Tobias and Hope will be at home, as well as together.
Then I grab Arbuckle’s gun, tuck it under my waistband at my back and walk out.
*
I’m at the gates to the Black Market when my phone rings. It’s Michael. Assuming he’s calling to inform me of D’Argneau’s deeds, I answer it. ‘Hey,’ I say. ‘I already know. D’Argneau sent me a text.’
‘What?’ He sounds baffled.
‘Rogu3’s attackers have been released on bail.’
There’s a moment of silence. ‘That’s not why I’m calling.’
Dread taps on my spine. I curl my fingers tightly round the phone. ‘Then what? My grandfather?’ My voice rises to a screech. ‘Is it my grandfather?’
He sighs. ‘I’m outside the hospital. They wouldn’t let me call from your grandfather’s room.’
My mouth works as I try to find the words. ‘What?’ It’s barely audible.
‘He’s taken a turn for the worse.’
‘He’s dying?’ Sharp pain, far worse than anything I’m feeling in my cheek, wrenches at my heart. My knees buckle.
Michael doesn’t answer my question directly. ‘Bo,’ he says softly, ‘he’s slipped into a coma. His prognosis is … not good.’
The night air feels as if it’s closing in around me. I can’t move. I can barely breathe.
‘Bo? Where are you? I’ll come and pick you up.’
‘I’m going to kill her,’ I whisper.
‘Pardon?’
I grit my teeth and raise my voice. ‘I said, I’m going to kill her.’
‘The lab results still aren’t through. You don’t know that it was her.’
But I do know. I’m not sure how, but I can feel it deep inside me: Dahlia poisoned him. Now she’s going to pay.
‘Thank you for telling me,’ I say dully.
‘Bo, wait! Tell me where you are!’
I drop the phone and crunch it under my heel. I hear Michael’s voice for a second, a disembodied sound that’s frantic and pleading. When the phone is finally silent, I stand up. Despite the leaps and bounds our relationship has made, it cuts me to the bone that he won’t trust my instincts. I don’t need him, though; I can do this all on my own.
I stumble forward, not sure where I’m going. To get my bike, I suppose, and drive round to Arzo’s place. With unfocused, unseeing eyes, I veer left and collide with another figure.
‘I’m so sorry! So sorry! So sorry!’
I pull back, giving myself a shake. Unable to speak, I frown at the woman. Her smile is over-bright and her pupils are wide. She’s definitely on something, Ecstasy or coke or whatever. Uncaring, I brush past her.
Then I stop in my tracks. Slowly, I turn round and stare. The woman is wearing high heels and a short dress, hardly the sort of attire that’s appropriate for somewhere as dodgy as the Black Market. If she’s wearing that, she’s asking for trouble. She trips over nothing, her arms stretching out to stop herself from falling. When she straightens back up, she glances over her shoulder. ‘Hey, aren’t you the Red Angel?’
I raise a hand in acknowledgment. She beams. ‘I love vampires! And I love you! You’re so heroic!’ Her smile turns into a pout. ‘I wish I was that brave.’
It’s a struggle but I find my voice. ‘Where are you going?’
She brightens again. ‘To a party! D’ya wanna come?’
‘Do you have friends there?’
‘Lots and lots and lots.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Ellie.’ She frowns. ‘Actually, it’s not. It’s Fiona. But they call me Ellie.’ She winks at me. ‘It’s short for El Cebo.’
‘That’s Spanish for bait,’ I say sadly.
Fiona seems surprised. ‘Is it?’
‘It is. Thanks for the invite. I love parties.’
‘The more the merrier!’
‘Great,’ I tell her. I still don’t smile though. ‘That’s great.’
CHAPTER TWENTY: On the Edge
The ‘party’ is more an illegal underground rave than cocktails and canapés. It’s located in an old warehouse not too far away from the market. The building has seen better days: old posters advertising forgotten bands hang bedraggled from the exterior walls; the windows are either grubby or smashed in. It’s a far cry from the night club where Bergman met his end.
There are about twenty people outside waiting to get in. Fiona, unsurprisingly, walks right up to the front. ‘Hey yay,’ she calls out.
I catch her arm before she stumbles again. Both bouncers give me dark, unimpressed looks. ‘I’m with her,’ I tell them.
‘No, you’re not. I know who you are. There’s no way you’re with her.’
I mull this over then shrug and lean over, standing on my tiptoes so I can get closer to their box-shaped skulls. ‘If you know who I am,’ I murmur, ‘then you’ll know that it’s a really bad idea to piss me off. To borrow a line, you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.’
They look at each other doubtfully.
‘Oh, come on, boys,’ I purr. ‘If I can take out a Kakos daemon, do you really think that you two will cause me any bother?’
The burlier one to my left looks over my head to the next person in the queue. ‘Do you have an invitation?’ he asks.
I grimace unpleasantly and walk in behind Fiona. That was too sodding easy.
Inside is rammed. I’m taken aback by the number of people writhing around. Strobe lights arc over their heads and there’s the distinct aroma of stale pot in the air. At least the music, if that’s what it can be called, doesn’t appear to be any louder inside than it is outside. Realising that Fiona is already heading off to the far side, I dash after her, squeezing between the dancers. None of them registers my presence; they’re more concerned with what’s tripping inside in their heads than who’s tripping over their feet.
The one good thing about all of this is that Fiona doesn’t appear quit
e as drugged up as the woman who died in the alley. I guess the guys who were manipulating Bergman haven’t tired of her yet. Whatever’s in her system isn’t lethal, not tonight anyway. She swings her hips in time to the beat and raises her hands above her head, swaying alongside a hundred others. It’s only when she reaches a small set of stairs leading up to a low balcony that she drops her arms.
Another bouncer guards the staircase. He lets her past, then returns to his original position. I watch her wobble up then I stand in front of him and give him a wave. He frowns at me, confused, as if he’s sure he’s seen me somewhere before but he can’t place where. I grin and put my hands on his shoulders. He’s a bit of brute and it’s not particularly comfortable for someone of my height but it’s going to be less comfortable for him. The moment his eyes widen as he finally realises who I am, I knee him in the groin. He doubles over and I smash down onto his solar plexus. He collapses. I dust off my palms and wander up the stairs.
It’s only been a few seconds but Fiona is already wrapped around a vampire. He’s wearing the red of the Medici Family and, although I don’t recognise him, I’m tempted to leave him to the consequences. It wouldn’t be fair on her, though. An alert went out after what happened with Bergman but with Medici’s position out in the cold, it’s possible his guzzlers didn’t receive it.
I lift up the corners of my mouth in the semblance of a smile as the two human guys from the alleyway – the ones responsible for Bergman Stuart’s death – turn to me and gape. The nearest one recovers the fastest, throwing his glass in my direction. I dodge it easily. Waste of a good drink.
‘We meet again,’ I say.
They leap to their feet. Tweedledum reaches inside his suit jacket and takes out a stake. The Medici vampire pulls his fangs away from Fiona, sending a spray of her blood across the table. ‘What the hell are you doing with one of those?’ he asks.
Everyone ignores him. Tweedledee lunges for me. I grab his arm and pull it behind his back, spinning him just in time for Tweedledum’s stake to end up lodged in his shoulder. He screams. Several members of the dancing crowd below hear him and scream back in delight, assuming it’s all part of the fun. I snatch his collar and fling him against the nearest wall. He slumps down in an ungainly heap. One down.