Vigilante
Vampire
Book Five of the Bo Blackman series
By
Helen Harper
Copyright© 2015
All Rights Reserved
Helen Harper
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One: Monster
Chapter Two: Shadows of a Former Life
Chapter Three: The Crimson Wave
Chapter Four: Legal Ease
Chapter Five: Legal Action
Chapter Six: Diving for Details
Chapter Seven: Blazing Saddles
Chapter Eight: Sweethearts
Chapter Nine: Chinks in Armour
Chapter Ten: Them’s Fighting Words
Chapter Eleven: Dinner
Chapter Twelve: The Redeemer
Chapter Thirteen: Crime Doesn’t Pay
Chapter Fourteen: Declaration of Truth
Chapter Fifteen: The Audience
Chapter Sixteen: Multi-Tasking
Chapter Seventeen: Premature Ejaculation
Chapter Eighteen: Look For What Isn’t There
Chapter Nineteen: Who’s Bad?
Chapter Twenty: We All Have Our Demons
Chapter Twenty-One: Blood is Thicker Than Water
Chapter Twenty-Two: Revenge is a Dish Best Served Cold
Gifted Thief – Exclusive sneak peek!
About the Author
Other titles by Helen Harper
Chapter One: Monster
I perch myself on the motorbike seat then reach inside my jacket pocket. Pulling out the lurid green lollipop, I carefully unwrap it then give it an experimental lick. Gooseberry. Figures. I shrug to myself and go all in. The tingling on my tongue isn’t entirely unpleasant but it would be nice if they made these in O neg. Perhaps I’ll write a letter to the company.
Across the street, the graveyard is bathed in eerie orange light cascading down from the lampposts. The same light is reflected in the puddles underfoot. It makes it easy to see the cluster of witches, even as they huddle together with their backs to me. Their chanting rises and falls. I could interrupt them now but I’m vaguely curious as to what they’re up to. Or rather, I know what they’re up to; I’m just not sure about why. Raising the dead takes a lot of effort.
A car pointlessly equipped with a modified exhaust roars past. It’s designed purely to draw attention to itself. No doubt it’s been blazing a loud path through the streets of London for some time. I roll my eyes. Boy racer. Even the witches don’t pay it any attention. I crunch down hard on the lollipop, the sour shards melting into nothing in my mouth, and jog after it. The lights up ahead are red so, unless the driver is prepared to ignore every rule of the road, I’ll have a few moments to deal with it. The car comes to a screeching halt but remains on the clutch, cylinders firing. It’s a hell of a noise.
On the off-chance that the occupant is looking in their mirror, I waggle my fingers in a friendly wave but whoever is inside the tinted windows is more concerned with themselves. No one exits in an angry fugue and no one notices when I reach the rear and crouch down to give the shiny exhaust a sharp pull. My skin sears as I touch the metal and there’s the faintest tinge of burning flesh. No matter.
In theory, I should use a wrench to detach the bolts from the engine cylinder but I’ve got vampiric strength. With two sharp tugs, I pull away the exhaust. The edge clatters down to the tarmac, with the remainder now barely clinging to the car’s underside. I step back as the traffic lights switch to green and the car accelerates away. The noise is even louder now but there’s also a satisfying array of sparks.
The car lurches to a halt less than fifty feet away and a white guy with unbecoming dreadlocks stomps out. He glares at the car, then flicks a glance in my direction. I toss the lollipop stick to one side and examine my fingers. The blisters are already starting to heal. I prod one with detached curiosity; there’s a zip of pain across my palm. I shrug and cross the road. Whatever. Time to deal with the witches.
The four of them remain preoccupied with their graveside efforts. Although the hapless driver shouts at me, his garbled rage makes his words indistinct and neither the witches nor I bother to look round. I vault over the iron fence and weave through the graves. Considering how much it’s rained lately and how soggy the earth is, I suppose they’ve done well to reach the coffin this quickly. A hazy purplish smoke is rising up around them and there’s the crackle of magic in the air. The witch nearest me flings back his hood and raises his arms up. There’s the sharp sound of splintering wood ‒ I guess the corpse is finally ready to make an appearance. I glance round and note the ring of salt. At least these guys aren’t completely stupid.
It’s got to be a money thing, I decide, as the remaining three witches edge closer and peer down. If they were raising a body to do their dirty deeds for them, they wouldn’t bother with the salt. It creates almost as effective a barrier as any expensive spell and the corpse would be unable to pass across it. That means they just want to talk to it. The trouble with the dead is that unless their spirits remain tethered in ghost form, they don’t usually make much sense. I lean back on my heels and wait. The reek of rot and decay is already strong.
The chanting grows, reaching a crescendo just as I catch a glimpse of the corpse itself between the witches. A woman. Her flesh is falling away from her skull in strips and there’s definite ooze. She’s been dead for at least a couple of months.
‘Who is my father?’ demands the first witch.
I raise my eyebrows. Not money then. I’ve stumbled across a coven with daddy issues.
The dead woman moans. Her lips part and her jaw works as if she’s trying to speak. I peer closer. Her tongue has all but rotted away. Even if a spark of intelligence remained, she wouldn’t be able to talk. Oh well.
‘Who is my father?’ he asks again, his voice rising.
I sigh. All four of them snap round, finally realising that they’re not alone. They gape at me while I fold my arms. ‘You’re obviously not going to get an answer,’ I inform them.
One of the witches breaks away, advancing towards me. From underneath his hood, I can make out his pulsating tattoo. It’s throbbing with the same ire that’s reflected in his eyes.
‘I like the matching outfits,’ I drawl. ‘Are hooded cloaks a prerequisite for midnight grave incantations? If so, I’m afraid I’m rather under-prepared.’ I unzip my jacket and take it off, dropping it to the side.
He snarls, lifting up one pale white hand. He murmurs to himself, clearly preparing to shoot out a vicious spell in my direction. It’s a wasted effort; he’s already spent far too much of his energy on the necromantic magic. I dodge the stream of light with ease. Then I smile.
‘Just for that,’ I say, ‘I’m going to make you hurt.’
I whirl round, leaping into the air and lashing out with my foot. I connect with his chest and he staggers backwards. I thrust out with the base of my hand and slam it into his nose. There’s a satisfying crack and he collapses to his knees, blood everywhere.
A second witch approaches. She’s smarter than her buddy. Rather than attempting a feeble spell, she draws out a sharp curved blade that glints against the orange light. The other two rush me from opposite sides, lunging for my arms. I duck and roll backwards and they collide with each other. The witch with the blade ignores their pained cries and continues to advance.
‘I know you,’ she hisses.
I lift up a shoulder in a show of studied nonchalance. ‘I’m famous.’
‘Am I supposed to be impressed?’
‘I’ll give you my autograph when we’re done.’
Her lip curls. A half beat later, the knife leaves her hand and flies towards me. It’s no throwing dagger and it’s certainly not aerodynam
ic. She has just enough magic juice inside her to murmur a few words to help it on its way. I spin as quickly as I can. Rather than embedding itself in my stomach, it hits my side.
I frown and twist back to face her. ‘I think you nicked a kidney.’ I glance down. The hilt is made of bone, carved with a pretty inlay. I brush it with the tip of my index finger. ‘Human? That’s pretty icky.’
She flings herself at me with an ear-piercing scream. Hampered by the blade which remains in my side, I allow her to body slam me. We both fall to the ground. Her hands flail, her nails scraping into my exposed skin. I lift my head up and thrust my forehead into hers. Dazed, she falls back and I push her off me then get to my feet. I take out a cable tie from inside my jacket and loop it round her wrists.
The two who smacked into each other are back on their feet. They look from me to their friend and back again then they share a single mutual glance before turning and fleeing. I don’t think so.
I crouch down and pick up two smooth pebbles, hefting them in my hands. I take aim and let the first one launch; it glides through the air with perfect precision, striking the first witch on the back of the head. He crashes to the ground while the other keeps going. Not wasting another second, I throw the other pebble. Unfortunately this time my aim is slightly off and it hits his ear. It must have done more damage than I realised, however, because he veers off course, smacking into a gravestone and flipping over it with a groan. He doesn’t get back up.
The reanimated corpse has emerged entirely from the hole in the ground. She stands on the edge, wavering and scowling. A single maggot crawls out of her eye. We stare at each other for a moment. Hello. Her jaw moves, as if she’s trying to remember how to speak. When no words come out, she lifts her shoulders in a slow, stuttering facsimile of a shrug. She remains standing for one more long moment then turns her back and drops down into the open grave. I sidle over and peer down as she slides back into the broken wooden box, closing her eyes and falling still. At least someone around here knows their place.
I bind the wrists of the remaining three witches and drag them into the salt circle, arranging them around their own handiwork. I keep an eye on the half-destroyed coffin but there’s not even a flicker of movement. All that work, I think, for such a short-lived and pointless spell.
The witch who wanted the information groans and glares. ‘We weren’t doing anything wrong.’
I tut. He obviously thinks I was born yesterday. ‘It’s against the law to bring the dead back to life.’
He spits. ‘I only wanted to know who that whore had slept with.’
‘You’re planning a family get-together?’
He snarls. ‘I’m dying. If I can find my real father then I have the chance of a transplant. You’ve just sentenced me to death.’
‘Aw.’ I jut my bottom lip. ‘That’s a crying shame.’ I nod to myself. ‘Still, it’s useful information.’
‘Why?’
I shrug. ‘I’m hungry and I don’t fancy tainted blood.’
His mouth drops open as I take hold of his nearest companion, pulling up her body so I can reach her neck with ease. I let my fangs lengthen then run my tongue across their sharp tips. A moment later, I sink them into her jugular and drink. Witch blood isn’t the tastiest; the magic tends to give it an overly sweet edge, which isn’t pleasant. It’ll do though.
Once I’m done, I let her drop back down again. She moans pitifully. I take out my camera and snap a picture of all four of them, sending it off with a quick text. The police can take care of the rest. I stand over her for a moment, frowning. There’s something I’m forgetting. Then I click my fingers as I remember.
‘I promised you my autograph,’ I tell her. ‘I do apologise.’ With one swift yank, I pull the knife out of my side. Sticky blood leaks out, making my skin itch. I ignore it and bend down, grabbing hold of her arm. I carve an initial into the soft flesh of her forearm. It’s a bit wonky but it’s unmistakably the letter B. Tears leak out of her eyes. I add another B right next to it then lean back to admire my handiwork. Not too shabby.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ the witch shouts as I pick up my jacket, turn round and start walking back to my bike. ‘Don’t you have a heart?’
I climb back over the fence, albeit rather more slowly this time. ‘Nope.’
The souped-up car is still in the middle of the road. There’s no longer any sign of the driver. Either he vanished when he saw what was happening in the graveyard or the daemon leaning against the shadowed wall has eaten his heart.
‘Was that really necessary?’ X asks.
I cock my head. ‘They were breaking the law. I thought you wanted me to clean up the streets.’
He pushes himself off the wall and steps into the light. He’s not using any kind of disguise and the dark tattoos covering his face are writhing like snakes. ‘So far tonight, there have been three rapes, nineteen burglaries and one attempted murder. And yet you’re bothering yourself with a group of petty black witches.’
Guilt swirls up in my gut. I slam it back down again. ‘I can’t help everyone. And you know as well as I do that necromancy of that level requires human sacrifice. They killed someone for that little chat.’
He quirks an eyebrow. ‘They killed an elderly man on his death bed who had only hours left. Who did you actually help tonight?’
‘A dead woman who deserves to rest in peace.’
X’s black eyes watch me. ‘This vendetta isn’t healthy, Bo. You shouldn’t be concerning yourself solely with the witches.’
I glare at him. I don’t like the witches and I’m not psychic like X. I can’t read people’s minds and dart all over London whenever a crime is taking place. If I had known where the more serious offences were occurring, I’d have gone there.
He folds his arms. ‘I am not a wizard. I know your thoughts because you are in front of me. I don’t know what is going on in every corner of the city. You’re the investigator. Investigate crimes.’
I mirror his stance. ‘I just did.’
Something glitters in his eyes. ‘Go for a week without approaching any witches,’ he says.
‘I’m already your dog, X. There’s no need to shorten the leash.’
‘And I’m not your enemy, Bo,’ he replies softly. For a brief second his pupils flare and I wonder whether he’s lying. It’s not as if I’m likely to call him out on it, though.
I blow out air through my cheeks. ‘Fine,’ I sigh. ‘I’ll stay away from the witches.’ I hook one leg over the bike and start the engine. ‘Was there anything else? Because those crimes aren’t going to stop themselves, you know.’
He tosses me a ball of paper. I catch it with one hand and smooth it out. There’s an address on it, somewhere in the East End. ‘What’s this?’
‘A stray thought I caught earlier today. Something’s going down there tonight and I thought you would be the ideal person to check it out.’
I glance at my watch. ‘I have things to do and it’s already after one.’ X doesn’t speak. He simply regards me with silent intent. I wrinkle my nose. ‘There’s no need to be so intimidating.’
He doesn’t even blink. ‘I didn’t say anything.’
‘You didn’t have to,’ I mutter.
He flicks a look at my side. ‘Doesn’t that hurt?’ I don’t answer. X licks his lips slowly. ‘You like the pain,’ he says.
I meet his eyes. I’m not ashamed. ‘It keeps my mind sharp.’
I wait for him to answer but his face is an inscrutable mask. What are you thinking, X? You know my thoughts. What are yours?
‘Check the address out, Bo,’ he repeats. ‘Medici will keep for another hour or two.’
I can’t keep anything a damned secret. ‘Yeah, yeah.’ I rev the engine and take off, accelerating into the inky blackness of the night.
***
The address that X has sent me to is in a decidedly seedy part of town. The damp air has given way to a steady drizzle and I can already feel irritating drips of c
old rain dribbling down my neck and under my collar. I pull the bike up outside and eye the flashing neon sign with disgust. ‘Girls. Girls. Girls.’ How wonderful.
I watch the entrance for several minutes. It’s not exactly a hive of activity; in fact, if it weren’t for one man edging nervously up with the club in his sights, I’d think the place was closed. As it is, when he catches sight of me, he abruptly changes his mind and hurries past instead. I nibble on my bottom lip and make a decision. Forewarned is forearmed, after all.
Jogging after him, I jump in front and effectively bar his path. His shoulders droop and his cheeks are still stained with the flush of embarrassment.
‘What’s your problem?’ I ask.
‘N-nothing,’ he stammers.
My eyes drift downwards. No wedding ring and no tan line where a ring should be so it’s not adultery that he’s ashamed of. ‘Tell me about the club.’
‘What club?’
I give him a look filled with exasperation. He shuffles his feet and attempts to sidestep away from me. He’s not getting away that easily. I reach out and draw the tip of my finger along his rough cheek. He flinches. ‘Come on,’ I coo. ‘You know which club I mean.’
He backs up just as a car with headlights on full beam sweeps past us. Both our faces are momentarily illuminated. The man cowers. I smile nastily.
‘You’re the Red Angel.’
I move in even closer until I’m crowding him and invading his space. Even with the scent of rain all around us, I can still smell the bitter tang of his sweat. ‘You don’t have to be afraid of me.’
‘I’m not afraid!’
I part my lips, permitting the tips of my fangs to protrude ever so slightly. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows. ‘Good,’ I purr. ‘Tell me about the club. Is it a floor show?’
He nods with such vigour that I start to wonder how his head remains attached to his neck. ‘Yes. Yes. There’s a floor show!’
I lean my head to one side and drop my eyes, fixing them on his neck. He starts to tremble. ‘Are there private rooms?’