Burn Mark (25 page)

Glory moved smoothly through the crowd, hips and shoulders swinging to the music’s beat. Her eyelids were pasted in smoky black, her lips cartoon red, shiny as her nails. Her cheekbones were highlighted in glitter and her hair teased into a tousled blonde mane. In the dark heat of the club, she didn’t look overdone, but exotic.

Then, unbelievably, Lucas saw a face he knew. They had gone through the main bar and were waiting to get on to the stairs down to the dance floor, when he caught sight of someone in the antique inquisitor’s costume of a scarlet and black cape. Gideon.

Lucas craned to get a better look. Gideon was the last person he’d expect to see in a place like this; what’s more, he was deep in conversation with a bony-faced, heavily tattooed young man in a white tracksuit. They were huddled together in one of the bar’s velvet-lined booths. As if sensing Lucas’s stare, Gideon turned around. Their eyes met, and Lucas backed away in confusion. For a second he had forgotten about the glamour hiding him. But Glory was tugging his arm. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘It’s this way.’

They were making for the Stage Right exit from what had once been the stalls and was now the dance floor. The door had a box of bells built into the lintel, and a burly bouncer in front of its ‘Staff Only’ sign. On stage, acrobats in black leather writhed through hoops. Lucas wouldn’t have been entirely surprised if Charlie Morgan had popped up through a trapdoor in a puff of smoke, like the villain in a pantomime.

He came to a halt. If things went wrong with his own performance, there would be no smoke to hide in, no exit route . . .

Glory touched him on his hand. ‘We’ll be OK,’ she said, warm breath in his ear. ‘They’re greedy murdering scum but we’re better than them. I know you can do this.’

For once, the way she was looking at him was uncomplicated: no mockery or aggression. But for all her bravado, she was nervous, he could tell. Her hand had trembled.

In any case, it was too late to turn back. The bouncer was already muttering into his walkie-talkie. ‘One at a time.’ He pointed a stubby finger at Lucas. ‘Him first.’

Another sentry was waiting in the holding area on the other side of the door, ready to check for the three Ws: witchwork, weapons and wires. He had a small LED device for detecting spy-cameras too. The search was both speedier and more thorough than Nate’s. Lucas had to unbutton his shirt and take off his belt and shoes for inspection. But his glamour remained safe in his watch.

A pair of swing doors took him into a lounge area equipped with CCTV monitors showing the exteriors as well as the inside of the club. Troy Morgan was there, doing something with spreadsheets on a laptop.

In spite of the impressive CV, Lucas had pictured Troy as an older version of Nate. Face to face, however, Troy was intimidating in a way Lucas hadn’t expected. He looked polished, astute.

‘It’s the boy genius,’ he said.

Lucas did the Harry Jukes shrug.
Whatever
. Troy didn’t say anything else, just continued to scrutinise him as if he was a glitch in the spreadsheet, albeit slightly more tedious. The silence lasted until Glory arrived, protesting about the indignity of the stop-and-search. ‘Bleeding hell. If this is how you treat family, I hate to think what you do to your other visitors. Did Harry get a torch shone up his nose?’

‘We’ll save the body cavity search for his departure.’ Lucas hoped that was a joke. Troy glanced at his watch. ‘You might as well go in, Harry. Through there, then second on the left.’

‘What about me?’ Glory demanded.

‘You’re only the escort, princess. Sit down and have a cup of tea with your favourite cousin.’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘I was hoping for something stronger.’

‘Not if you want us to keep our licence. But if you play nicely, I’ll let you have a biscuit too.’

They were still goading each other as he left. Lucas didn’t look back at Glory. It wouldn’t do to appear weak.

He was backstage, among the old dressing rooms. The sounds from the club were faint here, an echo of freedom from a distant world. The first door on the left was ajar, but as Lucas walked down the passageway, whoever was inside pulled it abruptly shut.

Lucas straightened his back, and knocked on the one next to it.

A jovial voice invited him in. ‘Aha,’ said its owner as Lucas entered the room. ‘The Witch-King of Cooper Street.’

Chapter 22

Charlie Morgan and Lucas shook hands. Somehow he managed not to wince at the strength of the man’s grip. The small shrewd eyes crinkled appreciatively, as if they were sharing a joke.

‘Charlie,’ he said. ‘And these are my brothers, Frank and Vince.’

Lucas had resolved not to think of this as an interrogation, but as a job interview. It helped that the office was as impersonal as a boardroom, the table empty except for a couple of water glasses and a notepad. No windows. In scale and turnover, the Wednesday Coven was the equivalent of a big corporate company. And here he was before the Members of the Board. Charlie, the Chief Executive Officer. Frank, the Financial Director. Vince . . . Director of Operations.

Frank was balding and bespectacled. He leaned forward to examine Lucas, hands clasped as if in prayer. ‘Interesting,’ he said.

‘So you’re the joker who thinks a glamour belongs in a gossip mag,’ growled Vince.

Their father the hit-man had been known as Ginger Fred, and both Frank and Charlie’s hair had a reddish tint, but Vince’s was darker, his colouring more like Troy’s. His face showed the remains of craggy good looks in spite of the broken nose. Lucas tried not to think about his record. Grievous Bodily Harm. Assault and Battery. Wounding with Intent.

‘Now, now,’ said Charlie. ‘Harry didn’t pull that stunt on his own. Dear old Auntie A will have put him up to it.’

Frank pursed his prissy lips. ‘Angeline always did have a theatrical streak. She’s like her sisters in that respect.’

‘But without the talent,’ said Vince.

‘Talent,’ Charlie agreed. ‘Exactly. Witchwork doesn’t grow on trees – and nor do diamonds and movie stars. You’re a talented boy, Harry. Question is, are you a stupid one?’

Lucas thought that Harry probably was. He tried the shrug again.

Charlie’s tone was still tolerant. ‘D’you take an interest in current affairs, for example? Read the papers? Watch the news?’

‘Four witch-lynchings in the past seven days, one of them fatal,’ said Frank in his light, precise voice.

‘It’s not just the usual yobbos,’ Charlie continued. ‘The God-botherers are getting in on the act. That witch beaten up in Bradford? It happened right outside a mosque. The Bible-bashing brigade are even worse – choirboys turned vigilantes. Those prickers at the Inquisition don’t even have to lift a finger.’

‘A bit of bashing sounds good to me,’ Vince growled. ‘We could all do without the plagues of boils and whistle-winds. If I get my hands on the hagbitch responsible, I’ll set light to their balefire myself.’

Lucas was surprised. It sounded as if the recent spate of witchcrimes weren’t connected to the Wednesday Coven, or the Goodwin trial, after all. Of course, the Morgans could be bluffing. Or else they didn’t like to admit that their own witches were out of control.

‘I, erm, didn’t mean to cause trouble.’ He shifted on his chair. ‘Angeline and the rest of the coven have been good to me. Getting those diamonds was my way of paying them back.’

‘Oh, you’ll always pay,’ said Vince. ‘One way . . . or another.’

Lucas felt a trickle of fear slide down his back.

Charlie, meanwhile, was nodding benignly. ‘I’m sure Cooper Street considers you quite a catch. My informant tells me you’re not even on the pyros’ watch-list.’

‘I shouldn’t think so. No. There haven’t been any witches in the family, except an aunt on my dad’s side – back in Victorian times. I heard Gran mention it once.’

‘Ah yes . . . your sorrowing relations. Your sister’s filed a missing person report, you know. But I’m sorry to say she doesn’t seem particularly anxious to find you.’

The Wednesday Coven’s investigations had been as thorough as WICA had suspected. They must have spies everywhere. ‘Emma will be glad to see the back of me.’

‘I don’t blame her.’ Charlie flipped through his notepad. ‘Suspensions, expulsions, brawls . . . a little dealing here, an assault there . . .’

Frank tutted. ‘“A born troublemaker and a bad influence”, according to my source.’

‘Who’s that, then?’

‘Daniel Law. Your friend Richard’s father. One of our associates had a chat with him after parents’ evening.’

This was exactly the sort of attempt to catch Lucas out that Zoey had prepared him for. ‘That ponce Rich is no mate of mine. And I thought his dad lived in Australia, anyway.’

And so it went on, back and forth with the questions and probing. It was the perfect demonstration of how the brothers worked as a unit: Charlie taking the lead, charming and bullying by turn; Frank supplying facts, figures and queries in support; Vince, exuding menace from the corner.

It was a test, but also a game – a game that Lucas was determined to win. He was nervous and fidgety, but if anything, the heightened risk sharpened his wits.

At last, the interview drew to an end. Charlie’s pager beeped. He glanced at it and frowned.

‘It’s from Kez,’ he said.

‘Trouble?’ Vince asked.

‘Could be . . .’ He sucked his teeth. ‘This is a bad time for our kind of business, Harry. Nobody wants to get in the middle of a witch-hunt.’

‘I can still be useful, can’t I? My abilities –’

Charlie smiled humourlessly. ‘You don’t read the papers. I guess you don’t follow the financial markets either. So let me tell you about toxic assets. They’re resources that start off highly prized, then suddenly lose their value. They become a liability instead. And when an asset goes bad, it gets dumped. You understand?’

Lucas gave an uncertain nod.

‘Hmph. Keep your head down and your hands clean. Then maybe we’ll see what kind of an asset you and your “abilities” really are.’

Charlie showed him to the door, and watched Lucas walk to the end of the passageway. The door to the room next door, which had been pulled shut on Lucas’s arrival, was now open. Glancing in as he passed, Lucas saw a bare table with an empty glass. There was nobody there.

To his surprise, Glory was alone in the lounge. When she saw him, she got up so suddenly her tea spilled. ‘All right?’ she said anxiously.

‘Fine. Where’s Troy?’

‘He had to take a phone call. Kez – his mum – rushed in just a moment ago, through the same door you did. They went off together.’

‘OK. If they come back, tell them I went to see if I dropped my lighter.’

‘What lighter? You don’t smoke. What’re you doing? Wait. It’s not –’

Lucas poked his head round the door he had just come through and looked down the passage. It was empty. Charlie had rejoined his brothers in the interview room. Nothing could be heard from inside. Lucas slipped into the room to its left, and picked up the glass.

As he’d suspected, it was a match for one of the tumblers on the table next door. A Wednesday Coven witch, presumably Kezia Morgan, had been listening in. She would have been spying on the colour of the thoughts and feelings behind his words.

Treating the meeting like an ordinary job interview had been a good strategy. He had used it to neutralise his emotions. Maybe that had been enough to conceal his contempt for the Morgan brothers and what they represented. He couldn’t be sure, though. As for the other feelings that Kezia might have seen – anxiety, hostility, self-satisfaction . . . Well, they were only to be expected, given the circumstances. Or so he hoped. This was not the time to worry about it. Kezia and Troy had clearly been called away on some emergency, but they might return at any moment.

Lucas had heard that using someone else’s witchwork was nearly impossible without their consent. Now he saw why. The tumbler vibrated at the touch of his fae, not welcoming it, but resisting. He ran a finger inside his ear, then began to circle the glass rim. It was even harder than working through iron. His head was shot through with pain and filled with a noise like fingernails scraping on a blackboard. Fighting past the distortion, he could just make out a few words here and there. None of them were coloured.

The first speaker seemed to be Frank. ‘. . . meeting . . . tomorrow night?’ he asked.

‘. . . The Radley . . . nine . . .’ answered Charlie’s voice. ‘. . . just the two of us . . .’

‘So . . . you don’t . . . why . . .’

‘. . . could be . . . trial . . . Stearne’s prosecution . . . sounded bad . . .’

Lucas’s eardrum felt like it was being scraped out with shards of glass. He couldn’t have held out for much longer, even if the situation had been less hazardous. Ears ringing, he put the tumbler down and hurried back to Glory.

Troy Morgan returned moments later. He looked round the room, and at the two of them, with obvious suspicion.

‘Where’s Kez?’ Glory asked.

‘Her brother’s been arrested,’ he said tersely. ‘On a train out of Newcastle – suspicion of witchcrime.’

‘God. I hope everything’s OK.’