New Order (13 page)

I take a deep breath. Arzo vanishes, replaced by the tarmacked road. The protestors are still chanting but there’s no sign of the vampettes. I rock back on my heels and wipe my forehead. This has got to stop. I think about what my grandfather said about a trigger but I can’t see any link between Michael’s office and this rooftop. Regardless, my mental issues are nothing compared to the growing threat of bloodshed from people like those below me. There’s even more of a need for Michael’s ‘bridge’ than I’d realised.

My phone buzzes and I see a text from O’Shea telling me he’s here. Steeling myself, I look back at the street. I spot him almost immediately, strutting arrogantly towards the building. I hope he’s brought enough money.

Good
, I text back.
You need get into the poker game. When you work out which player is called Cheung you can leave.

He raises a hand to his forehead in a salute. I frown; anyone could be watching. There’s a flash of lightning in the distance as if the weather is echoing my thoughts. I keep my attention on O’Shea as he disappears from sight.
I’m half-expecting him to land arse-end on the pavement but a few minutes pass and there’s no sign of him. His sweet talking and flash of cash must have been enough. Either that or his corpse is being dumped out the back.

I jog to the other side of the building and drop down. Bracing my palms against the rough wall, I wait. I can just make out the dim shapes of the seated players inside.

There’s a rustle of movement and the quality of light inside the room alters slightly. The door must be opening. I listen hard. I needn’t have bothered; O’Shea’s loud voice is clearly audible even out here. ‘I love a good game of cards!’ he bawls out.

There’s a muffled response and several shadowy figures rise up. I watch nervously. Fortunately, O’Shea shifts from loudhailer to charm and there’s some shaking of hands. A few good-natured guffaws drift up, making me wonder how much money he actually brought. It must be a fair amount to be treated so cordially.

Eventually the game resumes. There’s a flutter of movement around the table as a new hand is dealt. I count the shapes. With O’Shea and the dealer, there are now ten people. It shouldn’t take the daemon long to work out which one is Cheung. I know at least one of the other players is another daemon so that’s, at most, only seven he has to focus on. I swing back up and massage my toes, then squat on the roof. Above the hum of traffic, I catch a rumble of thunder. A drop of rain lands on my nose, trickling down until it dangles at the end like a small kid’s snot. I rub it away with my cuff. I hope O’Shea is quick.

*               *               *

An hour later, I’m soaked to the skin. Because my leather jacket is on the large side, the rain has sneakily found several avenues to slip down and not an inch of my body is dry. The collar chafes uncomfortably against my neck and I have to blink and rub my eyes repeatedly to clear my vision. Pools of orange light from the lampposts reflect in the puddles far below. Between the rat-a-tat of raindrops on the corrugated iron roof opposite me and the booming thunder overhead, I can’t hear a damn thing. At least the sodding protestors have gone home. Bloody O’Shea is inside, dry and probably sipping a fine malt whisky while I pace impatiently up and down in the rain. There has to be an easier way to identify Cheung.

I’m on my umpteenth circuit of the roof when I hear something below. I cock my head and listen harder. Then I catch it again: voices raised loudly in anger. I sprint back to the window and drop down headfirst.

Everyone is standing up. From what I can see from this side of the sheer curtains, their bodies are tense and ready for a fight. I feel a sinking sensation; I bet that this is all O’Shea’s doing. I’m trying to decide whether I should continue watching or help out when the rain makes up my mind. The roof is slick and wet and my toes start to lose their grip on its edge. It’s only a matter of moments before they slip off entirely and I plunge to the ground. At the same moment, there’s a roar of disapproval from inside the room and the table is flipped over, sending a cascade of chips and cards flying in all directions.

I take a deep breath, raise my fist and punch through the glass. A spider’s web of cracks appears. As my toes finally lose their purchase I punch again, this time with both fists, and fling myself into the broken window, arms outstretched like an Olympic diver. It would have been a more impressive entry if I hadn’t got caught up in the net curtain covering the frame. I’m struggling to free myself when an alarm squeals. Figures rush towards me and there’s the crack of a gun. I yank hard to escape from the fabric and roll, grabbing the nearest person and bringing them crashing down to the floor with me. Then I spring up, manoeuvring my foot so it’s over my hapless captive’s neck, and sweep a death-stare across the room’s occupants.

The door opens and the bouncer from downstairs appears. One of the men holds up a hand and the bouncer pauses. Something glints in my peripheral vision and I duck, just in time to avoid a knife flying into my face. It nicks the edge of my ear instead. Now it’s not just water that’s streaming down my face; I’m covered in cuts from the broken glass like the old Chinese punishment of
ling chi
, death by a thousand cuts. I suppose it’s appropriate.

‘She was here earlier,’ someone spits.

I glance over and realise it’s the daemon I tried feebly to flirt with to get in. His eyes are glowing bright orange, warning me of my peril. Would this fall into Michael’s category of ‘danger’? I wonder. It’s too late to ask him for help now though. Vastly outnumbered, I look around the room. O’Shea is in the corner, bleeding from a cut in his cheek. This is hardly the sleek entrance and covert questioning I’d hoped for.

‘Bloodguzzler.’

‘Indeed I am.’ I shake my hair, sending an impressive spray of water around the room. With little to lose, I smile at the occupants. ‘Has anyone got a towel I could borrow?’

‘Who are you?’ A small man steps forward. While the others remain wary and on the verge of sudden – and no doubt brutal – attack, this one is calm. He seems vaguely curious. I reckon I’ve found my mark.

‘As the man said,’ I respond, ‘I’m a bloodguzzler.’

‘She looks familiar,’ I hear someone mutter.

I’m feel like an exhibit in a zoo but as long as they’re not trying to kill me, I suppose that’s a good thing.

‘Which Family?’ Maybe-Cheung asks.

I’m tempted to use Medici’s name again. However one of them has already indicated that he might know who I am, so I tell the truth. Or at least a version of it.

‘Montserrat.’ I note a few shared glances. ‘But I’m not here on official business.’

‘Are you with him?’ He jerks his head at the slumped O’Shea. The daemon does seem to have a knack for getting beaten up.

I hesitate for too long before answering, giving myself away.

‘We don’t like cheaters,’ grinds out one man.

I stare at O’Shea. ‘You tried to cheat at cards? With these guys?’

He lifts himself up unsteadily. Everyone tenses, even the guy under my foot, but no one moves. I suppose they’re waiting for Cheung’s order.

‘I wouldn’t call it cheating exactly,’ O’Shea says.

Maybe-Cheung remains impassive. ‘He was crimping the cards.’

I’m unfamiliar with the term but I can guess what it means. I bow slightly. ‘I apologise for my colleague’s over-zealousness. He will reimburse you for all costs.’ I ignore O’Shea’s pout. ‘We’re not actually here to play cards.’

Maybe-Cheung links his fingers together. ‘That much I am starting to gather.’

‘Boss…’ starts the bouncer from the door.

‘Enough,’ he snaps. ‘Leave us.’

Despite their anger, the others file out of the room. I receive several vicious looks and more than one unspoken promise to blow my head off the next time I’m spotted anywhere near here. O’Shea suffers a painful kick to his shin. He groans slightly but manages not to move. Maybe-Cheung coughs delicately and I remember I’m one footstep away from squashing someone’s larynx. I step back and fold my arms while my victim scrambles to his feet and follows the rest.

‘You have destroyed my room,’ Maybe-Cheung states, keeping his eyes on mine.

I gaze directly at him. ‘It was not my intention.’

‘I have no desire to antagonise the Montserrat Family. I have a long memory.’

For a moment I think he’s threatening me. Then I realise he’s referring not to what he might do in the future but what Montserrat has done in the past. It’s a troubling insight.

‘As I said,’ I reply calmly, ‘I am not here in an official capacity.’

‘Just so.’ He looks away from me and glances at O’Shea. ‘It is a difficult concept for outsiders to understand, but “face” is very important to us. It is akin to losing one’s spirit.’

I understand what he’s getting at and I don’t like it very much. ‘What would it take for you to retain face?’

‘A hand would suffice.’ He picks up a shard of broken glass and examines it thoughtfully. ‘Stealing is often punished thus.’

O’Shea is intelligent enough to stay quiet. ‘That doesn’t work for me,’ I say.

‘I didn’t think it would.’ Maybe-Cheung tosses the glass on the floor. There’s something very odd about our conversation, the polite words and dulcet tones when we are discussing dismemberment.

‘Financial reparations…’ I begin.

He shakes his head, interrupting me. ‘Face,’ he says, enunciating the word carefully, ‘demands more.’

Maybe-Cheung lifts one hand and strikes me across my cheek. There’s little force behind the action and it’s not particularly painful. I doubt even my old human form would have felt much more than a sting. He raises his eyebrows as if waiting for something. I open my mouth and scream very, very loudly.

‘There is no terror in your voice, Ms Montserrat.’

I swallow. ‘Actually, to be honest, it’s Blackman now.’

If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it. I scream again, then add in a moan at the end for good effect. To help move things along, I bend down and pick up the glass shard he’d been fingering. I use it to slash a line along my forearm and watch as blood drips down, pooling on the floor next to my feet. He smiles. It’s not very pleasant.

‘Are you Cheung?’ I ask, as the blood continues to fall in a steady stream.

He nods almost imperceptibly. ‘Why are you really here, Ms Blackman?’

‘It’s about your accountant.’ I’m starting to feel dizzy. I turn my arm so it’s facing upwards. Connor’s willing donation from earlier is a big help; the wound starts to heal almost immediately. I scan Cheung’s face. A look of fleeting puzzlement crosses his eyes. Damn.

‘Which one?’ he asks.

‘Look, Jack, you know very well which one. Stop prevaricating.’

His eyes narrow. ‘Eugene.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘My name is Eugene.’

I blink. ‘Not Jack?’

‘No.’

‘Is Jack your son?’

‘Ms Blackman, I grow tired…’

I look at O’Shea who is watching the proceedings carefully. The only sign of tension in his face is a furrow on his forehead that trails down from his hairline. It looks as if he’s been sliced in half.

‘Didn’t I tell you what would happen if you made another mistake?’ I snap, stalking over to him.

He catches on. ‘Ms Blackman, I only did what you told me to. You know I would never deliberately screw up. I admire you too much to…’

I slam a fist into his solar plexus. He collapses to the ground. ‘Sucking up doesn’t compensate for fucking up,’ I tell his prone figure.

I pat down his body and retrieve an inch-thick bundle of money, along with three playing cards which I hastily return to their hiding spot. Turning back, I throw the money in Cheung’s direction.

‘Again,’ I say formally, ‘I apologise.’

He watches me with hooded eyes as I pick up O’Shea’s body and sling his arm round my shoulder. His feet drag on the floor as we lumber out. I wait for Cheung to change his mind about letting us off so easily, but our exit is unimpeded. We are, however, watched by several pairs of eyes. I pause several times to appear as if I’m struggling with O’Shea’s weight – and the pain from Cheung’s ‘beating’. My act seems to be good enough and, before long, we are outside with the rain thrumming down.

‘You do realise,’ O’Shea groans, ‘that you can kill me by hitting me there?’

‘I didn’t hit you that hard,’ I mutter. ‘How could you be so stupid as to cheat at cards?’

‘It was raining. I wanted to hurry things along in case you were getting wet.’

‘Right,’ I snort.

‘You gave him all my money. That was my rainy-day fund.’

‘And guess what?’ I say. ‘It’s still bloody well raining.’

I drag him along. A car slows down. The window is wound down and a head pops out. ‘Hey! Do you guys need any help?’

‘No thanks!’ I call out sunnily.

‘Are you sure? Because you look like you do.’

I turn my head to the driver. He obviously clocks that I’m a vampire because he blanches, mutters something and drives off.

O’Shea barely blinks. ‘Who’s the accountant? Is it that guy with the funny coloured hair? And the weird French name? The one Montserrat doesn’t like?’

I stop and stare at him. ‘Do you mean D’Argneau? How do you know about him?’

‘Lord Montserrat asked me to follow him around a few days last month and see what he was up to.’

I frown as another trickle of water runs down my spine. ‘That guy’s a lawyer,’ I reply, shortly. ‘Not an accountant.’

‘Hey! Don’t shoot the messenger!’

I let O’Shea go and he collapses onto the pavement. He scowls up at me.

‘What is it with you running around doing Michael Montserrat’s bidding all the time?’ I ask.

‘Darling, have you seen those muscles?’

I roll my eyes. He sticks a hand up in the air and waves it around. ‘Help me up.’

I watch him for a moment then give in and pull him to his feet.

‘D’Argneau has nothing to do with this.’ I consider O’Shea speculatively. He could be a worthy sounding board for my issues with Arzo’s former friend. ‘How good are you keeping secrets?’

He scratches his head. ‘I’ll be honest, Bo, it’s not really my forte.’