Vigil: Verity Fassbinder Book 1 (24 page)

I faced the darkness again.
Just go a little way
, I thought.
It’s better than doing nothing
.

One foot moved, then the other; filth squelched under my soles. My dress suddenly felt uncomfortable, its hem constricting,
and my right boot too tight, as if the dagger had somehow swelled. To distract myself I aimed the dull torch beam at the brickwork
around me. It was superbly made, cut from something that might have been Brisbane Tuff: some blocks were buttery-hued, others
a
delicate pink and all of them fitted closely, the mortar still bonded and firm, belying its age. They don’t make drains like
they used to. It wasn’t as if I wanted to set up home there, but I admired the workmanship.

Somewhere ahead of me there was a noise: too big to be a rat or other small sewer-dwelling critter, and if the air had been
bad before, it suddenly got much worse. There was a shifting in the gloom, almost a swarming.

‘Uh, hello?’

Whatever it was didn’t come any closer, but instead began to move away. I took a few steps backwards, wanting to bolt towards
the last of the light and sun, but my determination not to turn my back on what was waiting in the deeper dark won out.

I kept retreating, a fragile moment of hope that it would let me be swelled in my chest . . . then the thing sped forward,
shadows whirling, bits of wet mess and plant matter, newspapers, tin cans, plastic bottles, all orbiting around limbs that
were roughly human-shaped, though with no discernable features.

Then it was on me, surrounding me: I was
in
it and I was cold and the air in my lungs stopped and froze and the atmosphere around me moved slow as molasses. I fought,
throwing punches that seemed to connect, because I heard a grunt and what might have been a curse. The attack lessened, and
for a few seconds I could breathe.

I took those precious beats to fumble at the top of my right boot, to find the knife and
pull
. The Boatman’s dagger came free, heating up in my hand, and I lashed out. The creature made a sound between a bleat and a
roar and dropped me like a hot potato.

I managed to land on my feet and stumbled backwards, trying to stay upright. A hand behind me grabbed at my shoulder and I
began to turn, yelling, then lost my balance and fell. My face hit the water,
then continued down until it smacked against the stone beneath. There was a sudden burst of stars and I sank into a black
sea.

*

‘You are a danger to yourself.’

‘Did you see it?’ I sat up very slowly. My head hurt. I was damp and smelled really,
really
bad. When I coughed, something stagnant erupted. But more than anything, I was really, really cold.

‘You’ve gotta stop doing that wandering-off-on-your-own thing. I can’t keep taking you to hospitals or someone is gonna report
me. Keep scaring an old guy like me and I’m gonna have a heart attack.’ Ziggi’s hand on the small of my back was the only
thing keeping me upright.

I coughed again, and a mix of liquid vile flecked with orange came out. Why was there always carrot? It came up again and
again until there was nothing left, just the thin yellowy nastiness your stomach releases when there’s nothing else to expel:
the digestive equivalent of a white flag.

We were on a patch of grass and hidden from the general thoroughfare by trees. The land dropped away to the left and met the
river, which was making soothing sounds. My head was pounding, my throat was raw and I was fervently wishing to be elsewhere.
On the ground beside me was the knife, gleaming.

‘I can’t leave you alone for five minutes.’

‘It was closer to fifteen,’ I protested. ‘Did you see it? And have you got any gum? Mints? Toothpaste? Anything?’

He handed me a bottle of water so I could rinse and spit, then a crumpled packet of PK gum. I noticed he was staying upwind
and not getting too close. ‘Yeah, I saw it. Or bits of it. It hesitated when you fell and I thought it was gonna come after
me.’

‘Didn’t though, huh?’

‘Nope. You still think it’s Donovan Baker?’

‘I’ve got no reason to think it wasn’t. Why didn’t it take us? Me?’

‘Maybe you taste bad. Or maybe it had something to do with
that
?’ Ziggi pointed towards the Boatman’s blade.

‘It certainly didn’t seem to like it.’ I regarded the dagger with new fondness, then realised that it was shining with dark
blood, tinged green. ‘Did the golem say anything?’

‘Nothing recognisable, just the screamy bit when you stabbed it.’ He pulled up handfuls of grass like a kid in a sulk. ‘Surely
it couldn’t still be hungry. It ate eight people last night.’

‘Apparently eight isn’t enough. Man, I need a shower. Take me home, please.’ I rubbed at the abrasions on my cheek where I’d
scraped against the brickwork; they’d complement the bruise on my forehead nicely.

‘You’re not getting in my cab like that.’

We negotiated. I found a toilet block with a functioning – albeit cold – shower, but I was so chilled that the water felt
warm. I stood under it for a while, though I wasn’t sure if the smell went away or just morphed into something marginally
less offensive. Afterwards, examining my reflection in the polished metal mirror, I considered how to best explain my latest
stunning facial addition to David.

Wrapped in nothing but a scratchy grey blanket, I shivered and coughed in the back of the taxi, ignoring Ziggi’s ostentatious
sniffing; he’d already made it quite clear I was stinking up his pride and joy. My clothes had been stuffed in a number of
plastic bags and banished to the boot. Intensive cleaning would be required, and even then I wasn’t convinced anything could
be salvaged, not even my poor coat.

By the time David knocked on my door a couple of hours later, I’d showered again – three times – washed my hair until it squeaked,
and loofahed myself so enthusiastically that I showed signs of remaining bright pink permanently. Ointment had been liberally
smeared on the new scratches, but I couldn’t truthfully say I was an attractive proposition.

David lifted a hand to my cheek, but didn’t touch the wounds. ‘Walking into walls again?’ he asked gently.

‘Bricks. Bricks are not my friend.’

‘Do we need to have a talk? Only I feel like you’re keeping something from me.’

‘I guess there’s no time like the unavoidable time.’ I sighed.

‘You’re not a superhero, are you?’ he asked as I led him into the lounge room. At that point, the idea of a life spent wearing
my undies on the outside was sounding distinctly enticing. He eyed the bottle of red I’d opened earlier and watched as I poured
more than the recommended daily dose into very large glasses. I took a sip for courage, then began the tale of a wine made
from tears, just to ease into things.

*

All things considered, he took it remarkably well. He clearly didn’t believe me, but he took it well. He also didn’t break
up with me, which was a major plus. There was something heart-warming about the fact he didn’t run away screaming, but rather
stayed and worked on trying to convince me that I was nuts.

‘Did you hit your head when you fell?’

‘See, this is why I didn’t want to tell you about myself.’

‘Well, it is kind of hard to swallow.’ He was genuinely apologetic. ‘See, if you were a superhero, you could just show me
your superpower as proof. But this stuff? I’m kind of waiting for a camera crew to appear and tell me I’ve been Punk’d.’

I pulled up the right leg of my second-best pair of jeans and showed him the pink scars, those little cuts made by Louise
barely perceptible now. ‘You’ve seen this, yes? Can you think of any native Australian animal that might have done this? Do
not say dropbears.’

‘I’ll grant that’s a pretty impressive injury. Escaped tiger?’

‘It’s called a ’serker. Something from the nasty side, something that doesn’t normally come through on its own, ’cause it’s
not that smart – it has to be summoned. It likes its hamburgers human and
super-fresh.’ I shivered. ‘I went looking for it, although at the time I didn’t know that’s what I was looking for, otherwise
I’d have thought twice about taking the job.’

‘Why
did
you take the job?’

‘That’s another long story for another long day.’

Silence, then, ‘So, you’re what? Magical?’

I shook my head. ‘Nope, no enchantments in my skin. I’m very strong, but not magical. I can perform rituals and some spells
– but so can anyone with enough belief and willing blood – but I’m not inherently . . .
spooky
. Some Weyrd are, and if they combine that power with a spellbook – we call it a
grimoire
– and a bad attitude, well, you’re in a shit-load of trouble.’

‘And magic wands are—’

‘Handy. Places to store your power, a tool to amplify it when you send a bolt out into the world. Again, not inherently spooky.’

His look of disbelief didn’t shift. I ran fingers through my hair, hard across my scalp.
Maybe I should break something?
I opened my mouth to try a new tack, but realised I didn’t actually know what that tack might be. A thudding at the front
door saved me from saying something stupid, but my gratitude was tempered by the knowledge that thudding never bodes well.

A body was sprawled on the patio, bleeding quietly into the prickles of the welcome mat. The siren had lost one wing – it
was completely gone, leaving only a bloody stump – and the other was still clinging on, but only by a few tenacious tendons.
Her clothes were ragged, as if many hands had been trying to tear them off, her face was a pulpy mess and she was bleeding
from a lot of cuts. Yelling for David to get towels, I scanned the street and the garden quickly, trying to see if anyone
was lurking, then dragged her into the front room before going back and locking and bolting the door.

I wedged a cushion under her head, then tried to wipe away some of the red. The wetness made my palm tingle – not an acidic
burn, just a kind of fizzing. I didn’t recognise her, but I could make an educated guess.

‘Raidne?’ I asked, without much hope of an answer, but her eyes opened. Her lips parted and she coughed up scarlet, trying
to speak.

‘What’s that? Sorry, I couldn’t—’

‘The baby,’ she gasped. ‘Got . . . to get . . . baby.’

‘Calliope? Where is she? Have you been looking after her?’

‘Ligeia. Teles. We took turns . . .’ She coughed again and the sound almost drowned out David’s shocked cursing as he covered
the injured woman with the towels. I held her head, gently moving my fingers across the base of her skull, and was rewarded
by a congealing cross-shaped void. Raidne hacked and barked and shuddered, dying noisily.

I slid her lids closed over staring eyes.

Silence reigned for a while. Another death, and I was no closer to an answer or a baby. But I did have a new name, which was
something.
Ligeia
. Taking a deep breath, I looked at David and couldn’t resist saying, ‘Superpowery enough for you?’

I dialled McIntyre, really not looking forward to telling her who was in my front room and what state she was in.

*

While I dealt with the cops, David retreated to the kitchen, taking refuge in cooking dinner, guessing quite correctly that
if the task were left up to me, said dinner would take the form of a second bottle of wine. He was muttering to himself, obviously
trying to rationalise what he’d seen and heard, and it was sounding very much like the last straw meeting the camel’s back.
So maybe he wasn’t going to hang around. After the meat-wagon took Raidne away, I made my decision.

‘David, we need to talk.’

‘That’s never a good start to any conversation.’ He gazed at me reproachfully as he stirred the spaghetti bolognaise he’d
whipped up. It struck me as nothing short of a miracle as I hadn’t even realised I had the right ingredients in my woefully
stocked larder. ‘And don’t you think we’ve had a peculiar enough chat for one evening? I’m prepared to admit you were right
and I’ll never question your knowledge of strange shit again.’

‘Appealing though that is . . . Look, I know I went to all the trouble of opening up to you in the interests of an honest
relationship, but—’

‘Are you trying to break up with me?’ he asked calmly.

‘It’s just – you know – I don’t—’ Painful experience had taught me that once you got to the babbling stage you’d already lost.

‘Are you trying to break up with me
badly
?’ He laughed, retrieving two bowls from the cupboard.

I slapped at his shoulder. ‘David, what I do can be
dangerous
– Exhibit A just got carted off to the morgue: Exhibit A, who had
wings
and
claws
, and
many
ways to defend herself. What are you going to do when the monsters come calling? Write code at them?’

‘I don’t write code – well, not all the time.’

‘My point is: I don’t want anything to happen to you. I don’t want
that
to happen to you.’

‘V, I’m afraid I’m going to have to reject your break-up. It’s too incompetent to take seriously.’ He put his arms around
me and nuzzled my neck. ‘Besides, being single is too much hard work. Everyone’s got baggage – although I will admit that
yours is a bit more exceptional than most.’