High Stakes (21 page)

‘Do you have some paper?’ I ask.

He shakes his head and starts undoing his top button. ‘No. I’d like you to sign here.’ He points to his jugular.

‘You’re kidding, right?’

He winks at me. ‘I’ll never wash that spot again.’

Incredulous, I stretch up to scribble my signature onto his skin. He’s quite tall and it’s awkward to make it legible. In fact, my scrawl looks like a child has ham-fistedly attacked him with a felt-tip. I suppose it’s a good thing he can’t actually see it.

‘Thanks!’ He beams at me and moves towards the train door as the next station approaches. ‘Would you like to meet up for a drink some time?’

I stare at him. ‘Probably not a good idea,’ I say finally.

‘You’re right. I’m not sure my company would be too keen if they knew they had a vampette working for them. Nice to meet you anyway, Bo.’ The doors open and he exits. I watch him go, my mouth open. That’s the first time a human has recognised me and I’m not sure I like it.

I hitch up my socks, glad that these aren’t the ones with the holes in the toes. Nevertheless, a few passengers look at my feet, then away, then back again, as if they’re not quite sure what they’re seeing. I suppose it isn’t every day you travel to work with a shoe-less, Z-list vampire celebrity. I ignore the stares and prepare myself. There are two more stops and only eight minutes to go. It’s time to work out how in hell I’m going to get to number twenty-three without getting baked.

I grab my phone from my pocket, thinking I could call Rogu3 and see if he can pull up a sun-free route for me, but there’s no signal and I don’t have time to wait for one. I know that most umbrellas will block out a three-quarters of ultra-violet light from the sun so that could be an answer. Unfortunately, everyone on the train is apparently prepared for a beautiful sunny day and I can’t see a soul with a brolly. A man towards the far end has a flat cap on but it would only cast a shadow over half my face. Hardly appropriate.

I’m well aware how ridiculous my situation is. I’m preparing to risk my own life for someone who may be a bloody serial killer. It’s not going to help a soul if Medici slaughters him, though. What I need – what everyone needs – is to see him carted away in handcuffs. There’s no place for vigilantes in the current climate. As long as I keep telling myself that, I may start to believe it.

I’m still out of ideas when the train arrives at my station. I know some shops line the road outside and they may have awnings I can duck under. It’s a slim shot, but I have to try. I position myself at the doors, ready to spring out. The second they start to open, I force my way through and run again.

Obviously I entered the station without an Oyster card and now I don’t have time to make explanations or to queue up and pay my way. Given how rich the vampires supposedly are, it won’t look good if I jump over the turnstiles and do a runner but there’s not really a choice between having a corpse on my hands or a bit more bad PR. I bounce over the barrier and don’t look back when a guard shouts.

It’s less than fifty steps to the station entrance and I can already see the sunshine. I rush forward, halting at the edge of the shadows where sunshine meets safety and gaze out, frustrated. I’m right about the shops but only one has an awning and it’s some distance away. I’ll never make it.

I howl. This can’t be where the race ends. I cast around in desperation. There’s a row of parked cars across the pavement – maybe I could slide under them. It’d be slow going though and they only continue halfway up the street. After that, I’m screwed.

There are some free newspapers in a display to my right. I could unfold one and hold it over me but if one inch of my skin catches the sun, the newspaper would go up in flames faster than I would. I clench my teeth. There has to be something.

A woman pushing a buggy is coming in my direction. The buggy has a handy sun shade covering her sleeping baby. I’m petite – but not the size of a child. Just then, the pram’s wheels clunk as they hit something. I look down: a drain with a manhole cover. It’s about the most distasteful thing I can imagine but it might work.

‘I’m calling the police!’ a grim voice calls from behind. ‘You didn’t pay!’

I waste no more time. I crouch down and curve my fingers under the rim of the metal cover. With one swift movement I flip it up, already aware of the blisters appearing on my hands and the back of my neck from the sun. The stench of burning hair reaches my nostrils. I jump down and land in stinking water. Then I roll out of the way of the shaft of sunlight that’s still beaming down on me.

My body feels like it’s seizing up. My skin is searing hot but my insides are frozen and nausea roils in my stomach. I was in the open air for barely two seconds and I feel like I’m dying. If I thought it’d do any good, I’d duck down into the water but not only is it dark brown and reeking of sewage, it’s also unpleasantly warm. I’ll get no relief from that quarter. I grit my teeth, doing what I can to ignore the pain then I start running again.

Water splashes up around my feet and several times I slip on the slime underfoot. The socks are a hindrance so I pull them off, battening down my disgust as my bare skin wades through raw sewage, old rainwater and polluted rubbish. I don’t have time to be prissy. I throw myself forward, praying that my bearings are correct. I can bloody well do this. I force my legs to keep moving until I think I’ve gone far enough.

It’s lighter than I expected down here in the sewers, probably because they are  only just underground, unlike some of the deep tunnels I traversed beside the train lines. I locate another manhole cover that leads to the surface but it’s well out of reach. I hunker down while my skin screams in agony, then use all the power I can garner from my legs to launch myself upwards. I punch a closed fist at the cover and it shoots up several inches before falling back down again. I fall too and land in a sprawled heap in the rank water.

I try again, this time scraping my knuckles forward so that the cover doesn’t fall back into place. It works. I have a little gap to work with so, if I can jump up one more time and squeeze my fingers through, I should be able to haul myself up. But the gap is letting in more sunlight. I know my limitations: I’m not going to have the energy to leap up more than once. I stare at the murky water. This is going to be nasty.

Gingerly, I lie down and roll until I’m covered from head to foot in foul-smelling slime, retching all the while. Then I get back into position.

I swallow hard. I hope there’s no one out for a stroll when I emerge. I look – and smell – like the swamp thing. I can also barely stand. But now this is about more than Terence Miller: it feels like a personal battle between me and Medici. One that I’m determined to win.

I brace myself, bouncing on my toes until I can wait no longer. Then I push off. Only one hand connects and I’m left swinging. Tears leak from the corner of my eyes and I grit my teeth. Muscles straining and fingertips bleeding, I just make it. I shove the cover off and pull my body through. Dripping wet and burning again in the sun’s glare, I twist left into the shade of a large tree. It’s not enough and I glance around in panic. Then I see it; the next house along is number twenty-three. At last.

I gather my last ounce of energy. The sun is so bright, my eyeballs feel like they’re on fire. For all I know they actually are. I squeeze my eyelids shut and run, then I’m on Miller’s porch, finally shaded from the sun and hammering on his door.

It takes an eternity to open. When it does, there’s no mistaking the man standing there. Corinne Matheson did a good job describing her attacker’s features to the police. This guy has a gold tooth and cold eyes and I know I’m looking at the face of the person responsible for all those deaths.

‘Terence Miller,’ I croak. It’s a statement, not a question.

‘What the hell are you?’

‘I’m the creature from the black sodding lagoon and if you don’t invite me in right now, you’re a dead man.’

He takes a step backwards. ‘Bloodguzzler.’

‘That’s right.’

‘I’m not inviting you in.’ He starts to close the door in my face.

‘I know what you’ve done. I know what you are,’ I shout. He pauses. ‘Others are coming. If you don’t let me in right now, I can’t help you. There’s nowhere to hide. Make a choice, Miller. Your freedom or your life. You can only have one.’

He looks at me disdainfully. ‘Piss off, bitch.’

Suddenly there’s a crack and something whizzes past my ear. A blossom of red appears in Miller’s chest. For a moment he stares down at it, as if confused, then he slowly starts to fall forward. His hands flail and pull at my shirt. I watch as the light in his eyes flares and dies. I only just manage to step away before he lands headfirst at my feet. Slowly, I turn round.

Two Medici vampires wearing the tell-tale red of their Family grin at me. The one on the right lowers a gun. ‘You can go in now if you want, Ms Blackman. You look like you could do with a bath.’ They climb into a car, close the doors and ramp up the music. I can’t be sure because of the dull thud in my ears that seems to mute everything around me but it sounds like ‘Bat Out of Hell’.

I stare after them dumbly as they accelerate down the street before I stumble into Miller’s house and head for the kitchen and the large chest freezer in the corner. Flipping up the lid, I clamber inside and close my eyes.

*

When I finally come to, two anxious faces are peering down at me. It takes me a moment to register who they are.

‘Bo, you’re turning blue. What happened? What did that bastard do?’

I blink at Michael. ‘Sun,’ I mumble.

A fleeting of look of horror crosses his face and he reaches down, putting his hands under my back.

‘Don’t!’ He ignores me, scooping me up as if I weigh nothing. ‘I smell bad,’ I say pitifully.

‘Shhh,’ he replies, ‘it’s alright.’

I squint up at Foxworthy whose expression is grim. ‘Sorry. I contaminated your crime scene again.’

He looks at me and then into the freezer. ‘We still have to find the bodies.’

My stomach lurches. ‘I wasn’t … no, I couldn’t have been … are they…?’

He shakes his head. ‘Just peas and fish fingers, I think.’

I breathe again. Thank goodness. ‘They got to Miller. Medici’s people. They shot him before I could do anything.’

‘We figured,’ Michael says.

Foxworthy nods. ‘At least we know they didn’t shoot an innocent person. He’s definitely the man who attacked Corinne Matheson. Did he say anything?’

Michael growls. ‘This is not the time for questions.’

‘No. Nothing useful,’ I tell the inspector.

‘I’m taking her home,’ Michael says.

I try to protest but my efforts are feeble. I can hardly raise my head, let alone form a coherent sentence. I give up, resting against his broad chest. I sense him looking at Foxworthy over my head and nodding. Then he gently carries me out.

There are people everywhere. I recognise Ursus and he gives me a tiny smile before he covers me from head to toe in a solar blanket. I hear voices and sirens and even through the material, the sun still feels like it’s scorching my skin. A car door opens and I’m bundled inside. The air-conditioning is a blessing beyond words. I pull the blanket off and glance around.

‘This is your car,’ I say.

‘Yes.’ Michael’s tone is short and I wonder why he’s so pissed off.

‘Sorry,’ I repeat. ‘I’m covered in shit.’ Literally.

‘Go to sleep, Bo. It’ll help you heal.’

‘Medici won. Again.’

‘Sleep,’ he tells me again.

When the car glides to a stop and the door opens, I wake with a start. I realise with relief that he’s brought me back to New Order – and to my own flat. He carefully arranges the blanket over me and picks me up again.

‘I bet Drechlin’s loving this,’ I mutter.

‘Hush, Bo.’

Michael takes me upstairs into my own home. It’s not until we’re in the small bathroom that he finally puts me down. He pulls back the shower curtain and turns on the water. ‘Clothes off,’ he says.

Alarmed, I shake my head. ‘No. I’ll do it. You go.’

‘I’m not trying to get into your pants, Bo. This is what friends do for friends.’

I’m in too much pain to argue. He raises my arms, peels off my t-shirt and unclips my bra. Embarrassed, I cross my arms over my breasts although they’re covered in so much gunk, they’re hardly visible. Michael pays no attention, moving down and unbuttoning my jeans. He helps me take them off, his fingers gentle. When he hooks his fingers round my knickers, I finally stop him. ‘I’ll do these.’

He nods and turns his back to afford me some privacy. But he starts taking off his own clothes too.

‘Michael…’

‘I told you to be quiet.’ His voice is low. ‘One of these days, you’re going to do what I tell you to.’

‘Never,’ I whisper.

Wearing only a pair of boxers, he turns around and helps me get into the shower. I try not to stare at his broad, tanned chest and the angel wings tattooed across it. Then a wave of dizziness hits me and the lust uncoiling inside me dissipates. Michael picks up a sponge, squeezes on some shower gel and carefully wipes my skin. I should be embarrassed: I’m covered in sewage, completely naked and with the man I recently rejected. Whether it’s a result of the pain or the events of the morning – or simply Michael himself – I don’t feel at all self-conscious.

When I try to wash myself he stops me, so eventually I give up and let him clean away the dirt and the hurt and the shame. He takes particular care over the blisters and raw, red skin. I hiss in pain a couple of times and he pauses, checking that I’m alright before he continues. Finally he lathers up shampoo and washes my hair.

When we’re done, he steps out of the shower and grabs a towel. He pats me down where my skin is undamaged then wraps me in it.

‘Connor’s waiting.’

I start to shake my head but he presses his finger against my lips. ‘No argument. You need to drink and then you can sleep. When you wake up, you’ll feel a lot better.’ He brushes away a tendril of wet hair from my face. ‘I shouldn’t have let you go running after Miller. It was too dangerous.’