Red Angel (4 page)

‘This is fine. Who do I make it out to?’

‘Lisa. And Jonesy.’

‘That’s you?’ He nods. I scrawl my signature and pass it back. ‘You ever need some help, Jonesy, you get in touch with me. Alright?’

He looks like he’s about to pass out. ‘Yes, miss! I mean, Red Angel! Ms Blackman!’

‘Bo is fine.’ I clap him on the shoulder. The offer of a favour is the least I can do if he’s going to let me sneak in. Maybe being famous does have its advantages after all but the hero worship feels slightly awkward, so I quickly take my leave, darting down the steps to the train tracks.

‘Bye, Bo!’ he shouts enthusiastically from behind me.

I wave in return and hastily jog away. It doesn’t take long to reach the exit I require. There are no trains running at this hour and I’ve spent enough time studying the network of tunnels so I know exactly which route to take. It helps that I’m finally coming into my own as far as my vampiric skills are concerned. I sprint at breakneck speed, barely breaking a sweat.

When I emerge onto the street, I fill my lungs with fresh air and run the last few yards to the pub. Not wanting to be recognised, I keep my head down as I enter. Fortunately, D’Argneau has had the foresight to sit in the dark corner at the back rather than his usual spot at the bar. I sidle over to him, grab a stool and position it so my back is to the door. It makes it harder to react in the event of danger but at least I can keep my face turned away from the other punters.

Unfortunately D’Argneau has other ideas. He grins at me, holding up his phone and snapping a photo before I can react.

‘Sodding hell! What did you do that for?’

‘It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? People will flock to my door when they hear that the Red Angel is one of my clients.’

I grit my teeth. ‘I’m not your client. I just need a little help.’

‘Same same.’ He waves a hand in the air. ‘Let me do a selfie of the pair of us and I’ll keep this consult free of charge.’

I eye him warily. ‘Where are you going to put the photo?’

‘In my office. It’ll impress new clients.’ He gives me a pleading, hangdog look.

I sigh. ‘Fine.’

In a flash, he’s by my side, holding the phone at arm’s length. After five shots, I push him away. ‘How is business anyway?’

‘Great!’ There’s a smarmy edge to his voice that I choose to ignore. ‘You are looking at the official human legal representative for the Stuart Family. It’s only in name right now, of course. They’ve decided to go all out with the whole pretending to be friendly to humans thing. But I reckon I can persuade them to use me in reality.’

‘Don’t they have plenty of lawyers of their own?’

‘Sure. None of them have my skills though.’ He flips back his tawny hair.

‘Speaking of those skills…’

‘Of course, of course. What can I do for you, Bo? No request is too great.’

‘I need a time bubble.’

D’Argneau visibly deflates. ‘It can’t be done.’

‘You said no request was too great.’

‘I didn’t know that was what you wanted! I thought you were after a media lawyer! Book rights, publicity contracts, that kind of thing.’

‘Time bubble,’ I repeat firmly. ‘That’s what I need.’

‘I have contacts at Penguin. I’m sure they’d be thrilled…’

‘Harry,’ I say warningly.

He rolls his eyes. ‘They’re illegal, Bo. You must know that. The government rushed through legislation after Matheson did his thing.’

I raise my eyebrows. ‘Did his thing? You mean raped and murdered several daemons, vampires, witches and humans?
That
thing?’ I’m starting to remember why I find D’Argneau so annoying.

‘You know what I mean. No one can get hold of time bubbles, not any more. Even those live-forever companies have had to give up theirs. They’ve all gone bust as a result.’

I lean forward. ‘But it’s thanks to me that Matheson was caught. Perhaps they’ll make an exception.’

‘I’m sure they’d love to but they can’t and they won’t.’ He looks at me shrewdly. ‘Fame won’t buy you everything.’

‘You’re sure about this?’

He nods. ‘Positive.’

I shrug. ‘OK.’ I stand up to go.

‘Hey! Wait! How about a drink for old times’ sake?’

‘Sorry, Harry. I’m busy.’

I leave him blustering and dig in my pocket for my phone. My fingers brush my little white pebble, the gift from Dr Love that’s meant to remind me of my humanity, and I feel a twinge of guilt for veering from the straight and narrow legal path. Then I shrug. It’s not like I’m going to hurt anyone. I need a time bubble for the greater good.

I search through my contacts until I find the right one.

‘O’Shea? We need to catch up.’

O’Shea refuses to meet somewhere quiet. He is working, he says, so I’m forced to buy a pair of fake Gucci sunglasses and a Prada scarf to cover my head in order to remain incognito. I don’t mind the disguise part; it’ll be a good test to prove to my grandfather – and everyone else at New Order – that I can still work undercover. The only galling part is that the scarf is emblazoned with the word ‘Prata’. Wearing it, I do indeed feel like a prat.

Still, it seems to work. No one stops me in the street to ask for my autograph and there are no delighted screams to deal with. I even make it through the doors of Magix without being stopped by a security guard. Considering I’ve long been labelled as public enemy number one by the magical wares firm, that’s no mean feat. I don’t blame them for the way they feel. At least they’re more honest than those celebrity stalkers I attract these days.

I spot O’Shea in the section selling love potions. My heart sinks; I really hope he’s not reverted to his old ways. I’d hate to have to ask Foxworthy to arrest him.

‘Since when did this place open so late?’ I offer as an opening gambit, instead of ‘Are you planning to meddle with spells in a manner that will result in several deaths?’

He turns and blinks at me, his orange pupils slitted and focused. ‘We’re not supposed to communicate!’ he hisses.

‘Uh…’

O’Shea tuts loudly and grabs my hand, pressing hard on the fleshy part of my palm and twisting. I yank away. ‘What the hell?’

He freezes. ‘Bo?’

‘Of course it’s bloody Bo, you moron! Who did you think it was?’

‘Never mind.’

‘Devlin…’

‘I thought you were another mystery shopper, alright?’

I’m beyond confused. ‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s the gig I’ve currently got,’ he explains, exasperated. ‘I told you I was working.’

‘As a mystery shopper?’

‘Well, yeah. I fulfil all the criteria: I know about magic and I’m a quarter daemon so if any of the floor staff are racist then I’ll be the first one they’ll show it to … I’m the perfect candidate.’ He leans back with a self-satisfied smile.

‘And you thought I was a mystery shopper too?’

‘Look at you! Dark glasses, strange headscarf. You fit the mould.’

I shake my head. ‘Preposterous.’ Then I frown. ‘Was that some kind of secret mystery shopper handshake you were trying to give me?’

‘Shhhh!’ He darts his head from side to side as if someone is listening in. The reality is that, apart from a few strung-out potion-heads, the shop is empty. It’s the middle of the sodding night. ‘Besides,’ he adds, ‘if I were you I’d be more concerned about starting to sound more and more like your grandfather.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Preposterous? Is that a real word?’

I roll my eyes. ‘You know very well it is. Although,’ I concede, ‘I have been shut away with the old man for the last few days. Perhaps he is rubbing off on me.’

‘Mmm.’ O’Shea doesn’t appear impressed. He picks up a pretty glass vial filled with swirling purple liquid and pockets it.

‘What are you doing?’

He shrugs. ‘They don’t pay me very much. I think I deserve a bonus.’

‘I am not hanging around with a shoplifter,’ I say firmly. ‘Put it back.’

O’Shea looks at me disdainfully. ‘Worried about Magix’s bottom line, are you? I would have thought you’d be happy to see them lose a few quid.’

‘Perhaps, but I’m not a thief. Put the bloody thing back.’

He scowls at me but he returns it to the shelf. He selects another bottle and strolls in the direction of the till. ‘So, what do you want anyway?’

‘That’s it? That’s the greeting I’m going to get? What happened to “hi Bo, how are you?”’

He stops in his tracks, his head slowly turning towards me and his eyebrows shooting up.

‘OK,’ I mumble. ‘I guess I am starting to sound like my grandfather.’

‘At least you admit it. How are things? How’s Connor?’

I frown. That’s an odd question. ‘He’s fine. I’m fine. We’re all fine.’

‘Great.’ He places the bottle in front of the cashier. ‘I couldn’t find any Valentine’s vials.’

She smiles politely. ‘We only stock those in February, sir. If you’d like to make a special request…’

‘No, no,’ O’Shea says airily. ‘That’s fine.’

She starts wrapping up the bottle. ‘Would you like a bag to go with that?’

‘Yes, please.’

She bends down, pulling one out from underneath a shelf. O’Shea nudges me. ‘What?’ I ask, baffled.

His nose wrinkles in irritation. He hands over some money for the potion then starts to walk out. ‘Did you see that?’ he says. ‘It’ll be going straight into my report.’

‘Um, see what?’

‘Her attitude! It was patently rude.’

I stare at him. ‘No, it wasn’t.’

‘Her tone of voice, the way she rolled her eyes…’

‘O’Shea, she was perfectly nice. You’re taking this way too seriously.’

‘It’s my job.’

‘One you’re prepared to lose by stealing?’

I receive a disgusted look in return. ‘What do you want, Bo? Clearly, I’m very busy.’ He licks his lips. ‘Is it Michael? Is he feeling lonely?’

I punch him on the arm. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I need some help getting hold of a time bubble.’

There’s a moment of silence. Then, in a strange tone of voice, O’Shea says, ‘But Bo, surely you know that all the time bubbles are kept under lock and key and away from dangerous serial killers and the like. The fact that you’re asking me to help you obtain one means you must want me to steal it. And here was me thinking you weren’t a thief.’

Er… ‘It’s completely different. I just want to borrow it.’

‘Really,’ he says flatly.

‘Really!’

‘Well, in that case…’ O’Shea drawls with an exaggerated wink. ‘Let’s do it! This will be fun!’ He chucks the Magix bag and potion into a nearby bin. ‘Thank goodness! I couldn’t cope with much more shopping.’

For some reason I have a sinking feeling deep in the pit of my stomach.

*

The gates to the Black Market are – black. Gazing up at them, I barely repress a shudder. The collection of suspicious characters loitering in front doesn’t help.

‘Are you sure this is the best place?’ I ask O’Shea doubtfully.

‘It’s the
only
place,’ he replies firmly. ‘All the time bubble orbs we know of have been appropriated by the army. If we want to find out where they are, we need information – the sort of information that can only be bought and paid for here.’ He glances at me. ‘You’re not trying to tell me that badass Bo, aka the Red Angel, has never been to the Black Market?’

I shrug uncomfortably. ‘You forget that until recently I was human. Even the most experienced PIs from Dire Straits avoided this place. It’s not exactly safe for non-tribers.’

‘Pshaw!’ he says, snorting. ‘All propaganda.’

At that moment, one of the shadier-looking black witches grabs another by the throat and forces him to kneel. He slides out a long curved blade from under his coat and holds it against his hapless victim’s cheek, pressing into the skin at the exact centre of the black magic tattoo that is pulsating there.

I start forward but O’Shea moves quickly, his hand encircling my arm. ‘It’s only safe if you don’t get involved, of course.’

A drop of blood squeezes out from the blade’s edge while the crouching witch whimpers. I desperately want to stop whatever is going on but I know it’s neither my place to interfere, nor the time to make a spectacle of myself. Unfortunately, the dodgy witch holding the knife has already spotted me.

‘Well, well, well,’ he drawls. Rather than being stereotypically East End, his accent is smooth, with a sort of upper-class, nasal quality. Somehow that makes him scarier. ‘The Red Angel herself is darkening our door. Do you know that she’s a Blackman, boys?’

Every single one of them, even the witch on the ground, turns to look at me. I don’t think that logical reasoning is going to be my ally in this particular situation. I’m going to have to use the ‘gift’ that X gave me instead.

In an exaggerated move, I adjust the collar on my leather jacket and swagger over. ‘If you have a problem with my family,’ I say with a smile that I pray is more dangerous than girlish, ‘then be upfront about it. We can sort it out right now. I’ll be more than happy to oblige.’ I ignore O’Shea’s sudden indrawn breath. ‘I’m still a bit sore from a little brawl I had the other night but I think I can rise to a challenge. Perhaps you saw it? I believe it was broadcast live on television.’ I turn casually to O’Shea who is virtually cowering. ‘Is that right, Devlin?’

He coughs. ‘Yeah. Yes. It was on TV.’

The black witch regards me for a moment. ‘I thought you’d be taller.’

‘Oh,’ I purr, ‘size really isn’t everything.’ My eyes travel down the witch’s body, resting for longer than would be deemed polite on his groin. ‘Although…’ I add thoughtfully. I look back up and smile.

I’d never normally taunt a black witch, even though I’m more confident than I used to be in my vampire skin, but the opportunity to slide into the market unnoticed has already gone. Besides, sometimes you have to fight fire with fire. As long as my reputation precedes me, I might get away with it.

One of the bolder witches snarls and steps forward. ‘I’m betting she’s not as tough as she makes out. An itty-bitty thing like her? I’ll take you on, Blackman.’

Damn. I try to look vaguely amused and beckon to him. The leader watches while his henchman, filled with braggadocio, makes a show of taking off his jacket. He holds out his palm and another witch drops a set of brass knuckle into it. Sliding it onto his fist, he bares his teeth at me. I return the favour – at least my fangs are better than his. Despite my own display of bravado, the knot of tension in my stomach tightens. Unless I dispatch this idiot quickly, it’s going to be apparent very quickly that I’m not as tough as X pretended.

The witch swipes at me. Although there’s a lot of force behind his punch, my reflexes are faster and I duck easily. His mouth twists and he tries again. Once more I escape. It occurs to me that there’s a better way out of this than trying to lay the witch out. It’ll be humiliating for him but it’ll mean neither of us get hurt and, irritating as it is, I’ll get to keep my Red Angel reputation.

I stay on my toes and wait for him to make another move. He jabs at my stomach with the brass knuckles. I duck again but this time, instead of waiting for the next punch, I dive forward and through the gap between his legs, finishing with a forward roll. I leap to my feet and twist round. It takes him a moment or two to recover from his confusion and spin to face me.

‘I was really good at gymnastics when I was in primary school,’ I comment.

He balls up his fists, feinting right but kicking with his left leg. I vault upwards, somersaulting and landing behind him. I tap him on the shoulder and, when he looks back at me, I wiggle my fingers in a little wave.

‘Stop playing, bitch, and fight!’

I grin. He rushes me so I sidestep, my feet dancing in a vague approximation of a Bavarian two-step. No prizes for guessing who made me learn formal dancing. The witch is enraged even further but his companions, who are keeping well away from us, chuckle slightly. It doesn’t help his mood. His hand twitches, jerking towards his back pocket where, no doubt, he’s concealed a more lethal weapon. I spring up from the balls of my feet and grab the top of the street lamp above him. I swing in the air and then drop down onto the witch’s shoulders as if he’s giving me a piggy-back.

He roars angrily, twisting first one way then another in a bid to shake me off. I cling on tightly with my legs, dropping my hands to cover his eyes. Blinded, his movements become even more frantic. He stumbles forward, his head down. Unfortunately for him, his crown crashes into the wall that encircles the market. He collapses to the ground, groaning, while I free myself and dust off my jeans. I didn’t intend for that to happen.

The leader, still holding his knife to his captive’s face, raises his eyebrows and looks mildly impressed. ‘I suppose what they say about you is true. I did wonder whether the fight with the Kakos daemon was staged, you know.’

I try not to react. ‘If you like, I can try again with a different witch,’ I say. ‘In case you’re still not sure.’ I cross my fingers tightly, praying that the fallen witch’s embarrassment is enough for the others to leave me alone.

‘I’m sure that won’t be necessary.’ He holds out his free hand for me to shake.

I eye it for a moment. He’s still a black witch and I’m still a Blackman. ‘If you don’t mind,’ I say, ‘I won’t shake hands with you. You never know what spell traces might be clinging to your skin.’

From the flash in his eyes, I know I was right. He withdraws his hand. ‘I hope we have not offended you with this silly confrontation.’

‘I am feeling a little – irked.’ I smile unpleasantly. ‘Why don’t you appease me and let him go?’ I gesture at the terrified witch at his feet.

‘This is nothing to do with you. He deserves to be punished.’