He laughs. ‘That was when I thought that stupid woman was going to be of some use.’ He tilts my head up towards Dahlia who can barely stand up. She’s clutching onto a post box and staring at us wide eyed. ‘Unfortunately, she’s as much of a waste of space as you are.’
I take advantage of the moment and drop to my knees, bringing Medici down with me and forcing him onto his back. A second later, I pinion his torso with my legs and snarl, ‘Not quite so much a waste of space now, am I?’
I don’t have a lot of time. For all my fine words, there’s no denying that Medici is far stronger than I am. The only way I can win this is by surprising him. Before he can free himself, I feint with my right hand and with my left I pull out Arbuckle’s gun from the back of my waistband. I squeeze the trigger as Dahlia flings herself at me. The shot goes wide.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ I yell. ‘He’s going to kill you! I’m trying to help!’
Her knees wobble and she collapses in a heap. Her face is white and she stares helplessly at me. I curse; she really is loyal to Medici.
He starts to laugh again as he gets to his feet. He throws his arms out. ‘You see? Everyone loves me.’
I shoot again but I’ve missed my chance. In a blur of movement, Medici launches at me, grabbing my wrist and forcing me to drop the weapon. In fluid movement he picks it up and presses the barrel against my forehead. ‘Such a shame,’ he coos.
I grit my teeth. ‘Do it.’
Medici shrugs. ‘Alright.’
I squeeze my eyes shut. There’s a deafening crack as the gun goes off again. There’s no pain, however – other than the continued throb in my cheek. Oblivion doesn’t come either. I open my eyes again. Medici grins and waves the gun over to the side and I track it with my gaze. Shit in a hell basket. Dahlia is lying flat on her stomach with her head twisted to the side. Her eyes are wide and unseeing.
‘You know,’ Medici comments, ‘most vampires can escape gun shots easily enough. You fledglings, though…’ He shakes his head. ‘You’re just not fast enough.’
‘Why?’ I gasp. ‘Why kill her?’
His eyes narrow. ‘She failed me.’ He reaches into his jacket pocket and takes out a handkerchief, methodically wiping the gun down. Then he takes my hand and places my index finger against the trigger. I try to pull it so I can shoot him but his grip is too strong. ‘I was going to kill you too,’ he says. ‘I really was. But now I think it’ll be more fun to see you try to wriggle your way out when the rest of your New Order buddies think you murdered her in cold blood.’ His lips curl into a nasty smile. ‘I need some light-hearted relief.’ He throws the gun to the side. I look at it helplessly; it’s too far away for me to reach.
‘If you let me go, you know I’ll come after you again!’ I shout, trying to goad him into making another mistake. It’s all I have left.
‘And I’ll beat you again,’ he says. ‘Because I will always be stronger than you.’
‘They won’t believe I killed her!’ I say desperately. ‘I’m not a murderer.’
‘You and I both know that’s not true.’
I stare into his eyes. For a brief moment it strikes me that Medici understands me better than anyone else in the world.
He laughs again, his eyes focusing on something in the distance. ‘It seems I’m not the only person who’s after your blood, Ms Blackman. I’d like to stick around but I have things to do. I’ll leave you to him.’
Medici moves so fast that I barely have time to gape after him. Then I slowly turn round to see who else has shown up. It’s worse than I imagined: it’s the black witch from the Black Market. And he’s not alone.
‘You really are a popular lady,’ he crows, holding Connor’s helpless body in front of him. ‘I’m glad now that I was patient when I saw you again at the market. It’s much more fun this way. First I grab your snivelling little friend running out in panic, then I watch you getting your face smashed in by another bloodguzzler.’
The puddles reflect the silver moonlight, giving off an eerie light that adds to the dangerous atmosphere. I step towards the witch. ‘Let him go,’ I call out in a clear and steady voice.
His grip on Connor’s throat tightens. ‘I don’t think I will, Ms Blackman.’
‘He’s got nothing to do with you.’
The witch laughs. There’s a manic edge to it that sends a ripple of fear through me. I’m not going to be able to reason with him. ‘And Eric Kent had nothing to do with you?’
I shake my head, confused. ‘Who?’
‘You’ve already forgotten?’ he hisses. ‘Your arrogance knows no bounds.’
I bite my lip. ‘The black witch you were threatening,’ I say, remembering the trembling witch who cowered at his feet in front of the Black Market all those nights ago. He can’t mean anyone else.
‘I wasn’t threatening him. He was part of my coven and I was showing him the discipline he required to stay in line. Then you got involved and fucked up everything. Do you realise how weak you made me look?’
‘You involved me,’ I yell. ‘You called me out.’
‘You were supposed to turn tail and walk away. You think you’re so special because you’re the flavour of the moment. The Red Angel,’ he scoffs. ‘The darling of the country. Our bloodguzzling saviour. Well, I’m going to give the public something else to think about.’
There’s a sickening sensation in my stomach as I realise what he’s about to do. Connor’s face turns to mine, his freckles standing out in stark relief against his pale skin, and his blues eyes filled with panic and fear. ‘I’m sorry, Bo,’ he whispers. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’
I stare at the witch. ‘If you do this, I will kill you. I will rip you from limb to limb.’
He cocks his head, a dark tattoo pulsating in his cheek. ‘Bring it on.’ Then he snaps Connor’s throat.
I let out a scream and rush forward. The witch drops Connor’s limp body and raises up his palms and a stream of dark magic flashes towards me. I drop to the ground to avoid it, rolling out of the way and springing back to my feet. I barrel towards the witch, knock into him and slam his body backwards. He lets out a harsh cackle.
I grab a tuft of his hair and pull it before thrusting down as hard as I can, knocking the back of his head against the ground. He grunts in pain but he’s still very much conscious. He jerks his forehead upwards and headbutts me. I fall back, lights dancing in front of my eyes. Another jet of magic launches from his fingertips, this time crashing into my shoulder and causing a searing pain. My arm turns to ice and falls useless and limp by my side. I can feel the cold spell spreading downwards, coursing through my veins. It won’t be long before it reaches my heart.
The look on the witch’s face is one of smug self-satisfaction. ‘You’re not all that good,’ he spits.
He’s right – I’m not. I let Dahlia die, I let Connor die, I let Medici walk away without so much as a limp. But I’m not entirely useless. I drop to my knees.
‘I’m going to end you,’ the witch tells me with a smile.
‘No,’ I say sadly, ‘you’re not.’ I reach down to the discarded gun. In one swift movement, I raise the barrel and fire. There’s no one around this time to spoil my aim.
The force of the recoil sends me flying and I sprawl on my back. I prop myself up on one elbow. The witch is on his knees, his hands clasped to his heart. He seems stupefied. A tiny bubble of blood appears on his lips. ‘You shot me,’ he gasps. ‘That’s so … human.’ His eyes roll back in his head and he collapses.
Barely able to stand up, I half stumble, half crawl over to him and check his pulse. He’s gone. I lurch towards Connor’s body and cup his face in my hands. There aren’t any words. There’s nothing that’s going to make this any better. Connor’s dead.
*
I’m not sure how long I lie there, one arm wrapped over Connor’s chest. Some instinct tells me I should keep him company; I can’t leave him like this. The ice of the witch’s spell has affected my left side, at
tacking my system like a stroke. I don’t care, I just stay there, uselessly clutching Connor as if I can make him return from the grave.
Somehow I’m not surprised when a shadow appears, blocking the moon from my view, and X’s face swims down towards me.
‘What kind of a world do we live in, Bo, where innocent children are slaughtered in the street?’
I don’t answer him. He gently takes my arm and hauls me upwards. I realise Kimchi is by his side, watching me anxiously.
‘Well?’ X enquires. I don’t speak. I don’t even nod. He already knows my answer. ‘You won’t regret it,’ he tells me.
I muster up enough energy to reach inside my pocket and squeeze the stone hard. I feel the pain of unshed tears build in my chest then I take it out and let it drop. It clatters to the ground and bounces a few times before resting next to the witch’s head. I don’t turn my head to look at it, I simply allow X to help me stumble away. I don’t even look back when I hear the squeal of tyres and another car pulls up. A door opens and Michael yells out my name. It’s all far too late.
At least Connor will be taken of.
EPILOGUE
The three men are sitting at a small table in the corner. The stools are too small for them and they have to hunch over to pick up their drinks. The sight might be comical but I’m not smiling.
I watch them in the mirror. They’re so busy congratulating themselves that they don’t notice me. Idiots. I might be wearing a baseball cap and dark glasses but it’s a weak disguise. They really should be paying more attention.
I sip my Coke and wait.
When they eventually stagger to their feet and leave, their table is a mess of empty glasses and crisp packets. I drain my drink and leave as well. It’s late enough for the street outside to be empty. Not that I particularly care; this is happening whether there are witnesses or not.
I walk behind them, listening to their boisterous chatter.
‘The money must be somewhere. We need to be patient.’
‘Yeah. I’m looking forward to a few daemon billions.’
I tap the nearest one on the back and his head turns. I grab his hair and sink my teeth into his throat. Blood spatters out as I rupture his jugular. He collapses.
The other two come at me from both sides. I leap up and somersault, landing away from them. The first one trips over his buddy’s body; the second one recovers more quickly, spinning round to come at me again.
I adjust my cuffs and two spring-loaded daggers burst out. It takes one swipe to slit his throat. Then I step over to the last one. It’s the chatty one who spilled the beans in the first place. I take off my cap and shake out my hair, carefully remove my glasses and place them in my pocket. He blinks up at me.
‘It’s you.’
I gaze down at him. ‘Hi there.’
‘You don’t want to do this. You didn’t want to hurt us before. Why now?’
I regard him, cocking my head to one side as if I’m taking his question seriously. Eventually I shrug. ‘I changed my mind.’ I bend down and do what needs to be done.
It doesn’t take long.
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Turn over the page to read the first chapter of Night Shade, a new contemporary fantasy series.
NIGHT SHADE – CHAPTER ONE PREVIEW
You have to have a dream so you can get up in the morning.
Billy Wilder
There’s a famous Chinese curse that states, ‘May you live in interesting times.’
I didn’t understand it when I was younger; back then, I was all about living for the moment, attacking each second as if it were my last and sucking the marrow out of life, as Robin Williams’ character in Dead Poets Society would say. But then, as I experienced more of life, more of other people, more of the world, more of simply ‘being’, that is when I truly understood.
The Holocaust was ‘interesting times’. I also have no doubt that those brave soldiers, going over the edge and into the horror of no man’s land in World War One, didn’t pause to think that they were lucky because their lives were not dulled by the tedium of slippers, cigars and armchairs filled with lazy, fat, purring cats. I’d also be surprised if there were any Americans who thought on September 11th 2001, ‘Well, if only my life was more exciting.’
My true epiphany, when I really worked out how utterly cool boredom can be, was when I was around fifteen years old and had the opportunity to watch paint dry. People pay vast amounts of money to achieve that kind of meditative experience in India, Nepal and Thailand. I achieved this feat without even leaving my bedroom.
My parents had allowed me to choose my own paint. Instead of the baby pink that I’d grown up with, I was finally being given the freedom to design my room the way I wanted. And I wanted black. Black to match my heart, my adolescent angst and my need to be different. Of course, it didn’t occur to me at the time that I was playing into the biggest teenage cliché in the book but, hey, I was happy so it didn’t matter.
It took me the better part of the morning to cover every section of the room carefully and leave no streaks. Black, as it turns out, is a particularly tricky colour to get right.
Anyway, once I was done with the final difficult-to-reach, corner, I sat cross-legged on the floor and began to watch. The first hour was the hardest. It was incredibly tempting to reach forward and touch the paint to see how dry it was. I managed to resist the urge; I also didn’t want to start shifting around uncomfortably – I was on a mission that didn’t involve what my legs felt like or how quickly I could achieve pins and needles. I wanted to watch paint dry.
When you pause and take in the world around you (and I mean really take it in) it’s amazing what you notice. I had always assumed that the walls of my little space were perfectly flat but they had a personality of their own. There was a slight groove in the corner where the door occasionally banged and scraped whenever I was in a bad mood, and there was a veritable atlas of bumps, notches and scrapes that even the thick black paint couldn’t hide. There was a particularly fascinating dark area that was shaped like my English teacher’s head. You’d imagine that you couldn’t spot a dark spot on black paint but it just goes to show that nothing can ever be truly covered up. There’s a lesson in that somewhere. Anyway, I focused on that splodge for at least forty minutes. For weeks afterwards, I felt like I was being watched. As a result, my English homework was extraordinarily well done for a long time afterwards.
At some point, my mother called up the stairs that lunch was ready. I ignored her. If I went off to eat, something might happen whilst I was gone. The patch that was lying in a gleam of sunlight might dry whilst I was away – and that simply would not do.
In that one day, despite the hungry belly, the pins and needles and the ever-watchful gaze of Mrs Humphreys’ splodge, I learned that boredom can be fun. That you can always find beauty in the details, no matter how small. And that sometimes we need to take a break and appreciate the world.
Excitement is a matter of opinion.
* * *
I start every day the same. I have my routine off pat and if Mrs Humphreys could see me now, she’d be impressed – well, she would be with the routine part. When I finally realised what was happening and what I had to do to avoid sliding into a spiral of never-ending despair, I decided to be strict with myself. It was the only way I could avoid staying up till goodness knows when watching dodgy late-night television and reading pointless articles on the internet before collapsing into a coma. Then I’d stay in bed until after three – if I managed to extricate myself from my duvet at all. That way lies madness; I know what I’m like if I don’t keep a handle on my life.
My alarm goes off at 6.24am. I allow myself to hit the snooze button once so when it rings for a second ti
me, it’s bang on half past six. The Chairman doesn’t enjoy my extra doze, even though he should be used to it by now. The moment the first alarm peals into the dark silence of my bedroom, he hops up next to my pillow and stares down at me, occasionally pawing at my face. I’m often tempted to forego the clock and see what he does next but habit is something I must maintain.
I brush my teeth, shower, get dressed and put on make-up. I know that it’s ridiculous to spend time and money on mascara and foundation when almost no one sees me but they help me to feel normal. Normal is important.
I feed the Chairman, who by this time is biting my toes to get me to move faster, then I eat my own breakfast. It’s usually fruit, or maybe a bowl of muesli if I’m feeling unusually hungry. I watch my diet. Junk food is something else I’ve trained myself to avoid; that was easier than I expected. I drink chamomile tea (no, it doesn’t make me any calmer, but I have to try) and check the news and my email. By eight o’clock I’ve started work.
I enjoy the mundanity of my existence. There are no surprises. I can take the time to appreciate subtleties, such as how one day my boss, Jerry, will sign off his email with Warm Regards which gives me an odd fuzzy feeling, despite its formality. The next day he might simply use Regards, and then I wonder if the new baby kept him up the previous night and he’s feeling grouchy. When he’s in a particularly genial mood, he uses Cheers. And today, because he’s asking for more than my contract generally allows, he’s used High Five From Down Low. I wrinkle my nose. I generally don’t enjoy cheese. Still, the task is vaguely interesting – sorting out bugs on a website a different contractor created – so I get down to it. By mid-morning, when the doorbell rings and the familiar terror attacks me, I’ve made considerable inroads.
When I say familiar terror, it really is that. Anyone who’s ever felt frightened will recognise the symptoms: the hairs on my arms stand up and my heart starts to quicken. I push back from the desk, gripping the arms of my ergonomically designed (and vastly overpriced) chair. My breaths are already fast and shallow so I peel one hand away from the armrest and place it above my belly button, reminding myself to exhale.