High Stakes (12 page)

I purse my lips. ‘I know a lawyer who may be able to help you out.’

‘That floppy-haired dude that dreamy Michael Montserrat dislikes so much?’

‘That’s the one,’ I answer shortly.

‘How is the hunky vampire Lord?’

‘Don’t ask me,’ I say.

‘Ha! I knew you were looking sad and depressed when I saw you in the street. Lover’s tiff?’

‘We’re hardly lovers.’ I’m relieved to finally spy some light ahead of us. I pick up speed. Maybe the prospect of escape from this underworld will encourage O’Shea to stop talking.

‘Come on, Bo. Fill me in on all the juicy goss. I need to fulfil my dreams of him vicariously through you.’

‘You’ll need to find another hapless idiot for that. And stop trying to change the subject.’

‘Bo,’ he says, his voice dropping as he senses my evasion. ‘What did you do?’

‘What did
I
do? Says the daemon who’s carrying around a severed ear in his sodding pants,’ I scoff.

‘Tell Uncle Devlin.’

I give in. Perhaps it’ll be cathartic. Leaving out no detail, I explain what happened with both Corinne Matheson and the photo. By the time I’ve finished, the tunnel has widened out. We turn a corner and suddenly there are dim, flickering bulbs lighting our way. Thank goodness.

‘The woman did lie, Bo.’

‘Only because she had to. The police would scarcely bother to ask her any questions if she hadn’t. Not that it makes any difference now. They’ve pulled almost all the manpower from the investigation.’ If I sound bitter, it’s because I am.

‘She’s just one person. With all the Families combined, Lord Michael is protecting 2,500 vampires. He’ll do what he can to minimise any further damage to their reputation. That’s what being a leader is about, making hard decisions.’

I remain stubborn. ‘It doesn’t make it right. What about the photo?’

‘You don’t know what happened. You weren’t there. Why didn’t you ask him about it sensibly instead of throwing it in his face?’

‘I was angry.’ I know it sounds feeble.

‘You’ve had it for three weeks. You could have spoken to him about it on any number of occasions. Why didn’t you? You’re the one who’s been telling me to face up to my problems and be proactive.’

‘That’s because it’s a hell of a lot easier to dole out advice than to take it.’ I rub my forehead. ‘I was afraid of the answer. And,’ I sigh, ‘I didn’t know the context.’

‘And you still don’t,’ O’Shea points out.

‘What about the way he disposed of that Medici bloodguzzler I had a showdown with? The time-honoured tradition of body disposal? What the hell was that all about?’

‘That’s easy. Kakos daemons.’

My mind immediately flies to X. ‘Wh–what?’ I stammer.

‘All the Families do it. Someone dies under suspicious circumstances, you remove the body and blame the Kakos daemons. It averts further bloodshed.’

‘That’s awful!’

‘Why?’ he asks, bemused. ‘It doesn’t make a difference to the Kakos.’

‘If people pin murders and disappearances on them when they haven’t done them, maybe they’re not actually as evil as we all think.’

‘Trust me, mate,’ he drawls, ‘they’re worse.’

I lapse into my own thoughts as we ascend a staircase to the surface. I’m too frightened to consider whether he’s right about Kakos daemons because I’m already torn about X’s supposed cure for vampirism. Unfortunately, I have to admit that O’Shea might be right about Michael. Maybe Michael was only doing what he had to under the circumstances. I’ve broken my own rules and focused on black and white instead of shades of grey.

Then I remember the bandages and bruises on Corinne’s body.

We traipse up to the top of the staircase and arrive at a dusty landing and a set of chained double doors. I reckon I can snap the chains easily enough but O’Shea doesn’t want to leave too many traces of our presence and digs around in his pockets, eventually producing a lock pick. He squeezes his hand through the gap in the doors but his fingers fumble. I tap him on the shoulder and, surprised, he hands me the pick.

‘I am a private investigator, remember?’

‘Who breaks the law from time to time if it suits her,’ O’Shea says. ‘Just like I do. Just like a certain young hacker who enjoys words does. Maybe the standard you’re expecting from Michael Montserrat is unreasonably high.’

I stretch my hands to find the padlock. It takes me less than twenty seconds to click it open and loosen the chain. Kimchi barks several times as if sensing how close he is to fresh air and freedom. I turn to the daemon. ‘Shouldn’t people in positions of power be held to a higher standard? They choose to be there.’

‘It’s not because he’s Lord Montserrat that you want him to be perfect,’ O’Shea says wisely. ‘It’s because you think he might be The One.’

I meet his eyes then pass back the lock pick, without letting him see how much his comment has affected me. ‘It’s barely gone nine. The Agathos court is open for another hour yet. Shall we go? I can call Matt and get him to pick Kimchi up.’

O’Shea doesn’t break eye contact but he speaks so quietly that he is almost inaudible. ‘Sure.’

*

The Agathos court is rather more complicated than the human version because it combines lawmaking, policing and justice. Nevertheless, many of its structures and operations resemble those of the human court since that was the only way that the Agathos were given permission to run their own system back in the eighteenth century. They do eschew human opening hours, preferring to work late into the night, but their barristers and judges still wear those ridiculous white wigs. Until you’ve seen a fully blown daemon with orange eyes, olive skin and tightly curled white horsehair falling to its shoulders, you haven’t lived.

D’Argneau meets us at the entrance, suited and booted as per usual. ‘Bo!’ he exclaims. ‘How fabulous to see you again.’ As he reaches over to peck me on the cheek, I note that his accent has suddenly become considerably more posh.

‘Hi, Harry.’ I introduce him to O’Shea, who surprises me by suddenly going all shy.

D’Argneau looks him over. ‘So you’re the one.’

O’Shea’s chin lifts sharply. ‘The one what?’

‘The one who’s caused so many problems for the Families. You know, you’re lucky they’ve not taken action against you. They’d be well within their rights.’

‘It wasn’t really his fault,’ I say. For all of O’Shea’s bluster and my previous words to him on the subject, I know that deep down he feels the repercussions of his virility enhancement spell far more than anyone realises.

D’Argneau waves a hand in the air. ‘Regardless, it’s good you’ve decided to hand yourself in. I can probably bring the charges down to a minor misdemeanour. That is,’ he adds, speculatively, ‘if it’s your first offence.’

O’Shea glances away. I check that no one is near us and lower my voice. ‘Actually, we’d like to make a deal.’

D’Argneau raises his eyebrows. ‘We?’

‘It’s just possible that O’Shea has proof of Toby Renfrew’s continued existence.’

The lawyer’s mouth drops open. He stares first at me then at O’Shea. It doesn’t take long for a calculating and greedy expression to appear in his eyes. I can almost see the wheels turning in his brain. Being at the centre of the first real clue about the infamous daemon’s fate is a lawyer’s dream. It’ll open up all sorts of triber doors.

‘What sort of proof are we talking about?’

I’m getting nervous about still being out in the open. It would be suicide for the daemons to attack inside the court complex but out here is a different matter. With the tracking spell in play, it won’t take them long to work out where we are. Of course we want them to find us but it would be better if we were tucked away and surrounded by the might of the law-abiding Agathos world first.

‘Let’s go inside,’ I say firmly.

O’Shea shifts from foot to foot. ‘We don’t have to. Maybe if I just throw the ear away…’

D’Argneau’s expression is a mixture of disgust and delight. ‘Ear?’

I hear the screech of car tyres and turn to see a sedan with tinted windows bearing down on us. ‘Get him inside now,’ I say through gritted teeth.

O’Shea turns, spotting the car. His skin pales, changing to a sallow colour.

‘Run!’ I hiss.

They don’t need any further prompting. D’Argneau and the daemon take off up the marble steps towards the glass doors that lead into the court. I brace myself, facing the oncoming vehicle. I ignore the hammer of my heart and paste on a grim ‘don’t fuck with me’ expression.

The driver flicks his headlights to full beam so I’m nearly blinded then accelerates. The wheels clunk as the car veers onto the pavement on a direct collision course with me. I hold my ground, waiting until the very last second to make my move. In the moment before the car reaches me I leap up, somersaulting over the vehicle and pulling out my phone. I execute a near-perfect landing and snap a photo of the number plate as the car speeds away.

I look around. Sadly, no one is around to notice my agile cat-like gymnastics. Vaguely irritated, I head inside after O’Shea and D’Argneau.

Chapter Ten: Another Brick In The Wall

The woman at the front desk eyes our motley group warily. She has heavy-set features with bushy brows which add to the disapproval emanating in our direction. No wonder O’Shea wasn’t keen to hand himself in.

‘Yes?’

‘Good evening, Meg darling. You’re looking particularly gorgeous today.’

If anything, D’Argneau’s oily obsequiousness riles the glowering Meg even further. ‘What do you want, Harold?’ she sneers.

He doesn’t miss a beat as he leans over her desk. ‘We want to see the duty officer.’

‘She’s busy.’

‘Darling, everyone is busy. Just tell her I’m here with a client who she won’t want to miss.’

Meg flicks me a suspicious glance; surely she doesn’t think
I’m
the client? I’m not even a sodding daemon. Despite his nervousness, O’Shea manages a choked guffaw. Still, Meg does as she’s asked and clicks a button, mumbling into the intercom.

‘She has a few minutes. I take it you can find your own way there?’

‘Of course.’ D’Argneau nods to us and we follow him through the building.

I’ve been here many times. It was often necessary to show up to various court cases or liaise with different officers when I was working at Dire Straits. I’ve never had cause to speak to the duty officer, though: that privilege is generally reserved for the criminals themselves.

I have a worrying suspicion that I know who is on duty tonight, however. ‘You know this officer we’re going to see?’ I ask.

D’Argneau taps his temple. ‘Darling, I have the schedules of every officer who works here ingrained into my skull. I am good at my job.’ He throws me a look. ‘You wouldn’t have called me otherwise.’

‘Good or not, don’t bloody well call me darling,’ I say.

‘You can call me darling,’ O’Shea interjects.

D’Argneau looks repelled but I’m relieved to see that O’Shea is regaining his sense of humour.

‘What’s her name?’

‘Nisha Patel.’

I wince. Her reputation precedes her. I hope this isn’t going to turn out to be a huge mistake.

We wander down numerous corridors, most of which are still busy. Hunkered down on the floor outside one closed door is a young daemon with a miserable face. He reminds me of Rogu3, and I’m tempted to reach down and give him a hug. Then I notice the gang tattoo on his knuckles and change my mind. As we walk past another office, a couple are arguing loudly. I peer inside, registering a daemon woman and a human man. They seem to be fighting over the custody of their child – not because they both want him but because neither of them do. I shiver. I’d forgotten how depressing some people can be.

Eventually we stop outside a large office near the far end of the building. Typical bureaucracy, I decide, putting the person who needs to be at the forefront of the action as far away from it as possible. D’Argneau knocks on the door and it opens almost immediately to reveal a small Indian woman, peering over horn-rimmed spectacles. I’m gratified to see that she’s not much taller than I am. Perhaps we’ll form a certain kinsmanship – short women of the world unite!

She doesn’t even look at me; all her attention is on D’Argneau. ‘Ambulance chasing again, are we?’

‘Nisha, Nisha. I’m beyond such things. This is far more important than your average walk-in. You’re going to be glad you were on duty tonight,’ he promises.

‘I doubt that,’ she says. ‘I’m missing my brother’s wedding.’

D’Argneau’s face falls. ‘Oh. Sorry. You must be close.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. The man is an idiot. But the food is something not to be missed.’ She turns to O’Shea. ‘Devlin O’Shea? You’re the one who created that stupid enhancement spell, aren’t you?’ She doesn’t wait for him to answer but just looks over at me. ‘And Bo Blackman. The only person in history to escape the self-imposed slavery of newly fledged vampires.’

‘That’s some party trick,’ I say. ‘Or were you checking us out on the security cameras as we came here?’

She allows herself a tiny grin. ‘No, I’ve read about you both. I’ve got an eidetic memory. Most of the time it’s useful. Unless you’re trying to pretend you don’t recognise the ex-boyfriend who dumped you for the school bimbo back when you were fifteen.’

I try not to laugh, deciding I like Nisha Patel rather a lot. She’s smart, quick-witted and very pretty. No wonder her reputation sucks.

‘So,’ she continues, ‘I suppose you’d better come in.’

The office is cosy, with large leather-bound legal books on one side and a scratched mahogany desk in the middle. It’s not without its homely touches; I admire the brightly coloured painting on one wall. It looks like expensive modern art. Nisha catches my gaze and smirks. ‘My five-year-old nephew’s handiwork.’

‘Really?’

Her smile widens. ‘I guess you’ll never know.’

We take our seats then Nisha leans forward, knitting her fingers together. ‘So I’m guessing, Mr O’Shea, that you are here to admit yourself into our custody.’

He swallows. ‘Not exactly.’

D’Argneau shushes him. ‘Let me do the talking. Devlin here has something in his possession that you’ll want to see. It pertains to Tobias Renfrew.’ He crosses his legs nonchalantly and waits for Nisha’s reaction. If he’s expecting fireworks, he’s sadly disappointed.