Vowed (37 page)

Is Dante really Eadric’s son? And if so, why hide him here? Surely he had all the world to hide him in? Why did he choose the UK? Not just that, but where is Dante’s mum? Was she
okay with her son being taken? And even if she’d died, though I really hoped she hadn’t, where was her family? Didn’t they have a say when Dante was taken? Or were they part of
the conspiracy to hide him? And why hide him, anyway? Was it instigated by Eadric or done without his knowledge? Whatever glamour hid Dante, lasting from when he was a baby to adulthood, must have
been cast by someone powerful indeed.

Changelings, as far as my understanding goes, are usually found out as young children because they don’t fit in with the humans who are supposed to care for them. I’ve read Katharine
Briggs’s books and know how badly children were treated in the past when they were suspected of being left by the faeries. The suspect child would be burned with hot pokers or left out and
exposed to the elements. This even happened to normal kids with disabilities and not that long ago either, which makes it sadder still.

‘Dante, do you have someone in your life that you see pretty frequently?’

‘Apart from my parents?’ He shakes his head. ‘Not really. I’ve not seen some of my mates for a few years now. We drifted apart after that night when I saw the SDI guy
take down a monster. They all thought I’d lost it, wouldn’t believe me when I told them. They thought I was drugged out of my mind. Even my girlfriend left me. She didn’t want to
hang out with a crazy boy who her mates thought was weird.’

‘Seriously? That’s awful.’

‘I know, poor me, right? But them shutting me out, if you can call it that, didn’t come as a big surprise. I mean, I wasn’t a nice guy, Kit. I blamed myself for my baby sister
being taken. I was supposed to look after her when we went to the park. And I didn’t so some evil bastard took her, killed her and left her body for a farmer to find. So, yeah, I drank, and
smoked and gave my parents hell. I did martial arts to please my dad and taught those kids because that’s what he wanted. And I enjoyed it, but I wasn’t nice about doing it. The local
cops knew me and would always just happen to find me hanging out with my mates, then pull me aside, giving me warnings. They respected my dad because he was army and good friends with some of them.
I had a whole network of people who cared about me and all I wanted to do was see it burn. Until that night. When I saw the monster.’ He twists in his seat slightly so he can look at me.
‘I knew I had to do something, to stop it. I’d never felt sure of anything like it before. And afterwards, when I tried explaining it to my mates, they thought I’d taken it too
far – that the weed we’d smoked earlier that afternoon had fried my brain.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I shut myself in my room and I researched the HMDSDI. I became obsessed. My grades went through the roof at school and I applied for extra classes to fill the afternoons when I
wasn’t teaching at the dojo. My dad was so happy, and my mum too. It feels awful to admit it but I loved seeing how they came to love me all over again because I’d been such an awful
person to them and myself for so long. They were always proud, so they said, but now I could see it in their faces and in everything they did. And it felt good.’

‘So you went from bad boy to swot? Usually it’s the other way around.’

‘Ha, didn’t think about that.’

‘Is this when you got your tattoo?’

‘It was before. I know I told Diane I was sixteen when I got my tat, but I was younger even. I turned fifteen and couldn’t think of any other way to make me feel like
me.
I
forged my dad’s signature and walked into a tattoo parlour in Bristol and the guy did it in one sitting.’

‘I don’t know what that means,’ I admit.

‘Usually, with elaborate tattoos like mine, you have it done over a few sittings. Three, maybe four. Usually it’s a time thing, but also a pain thing.’

‘And yours was done in one sitting? Did it hurt?’

‘Honestly? I think it did, I assume I did, but mostly I can’t remember. I remember walking in and talking to the guy about my design. I showed him a few pictures of things I liked.
He sat down for a few minutes and sketched something out. It looked amazing, like it was alive. I loved it and handed over the cash. He sat me down, asked me about my pain threshold and I explained
that I did martial arts and my dad taught me pain was all in the mind.’

‘How long did it take?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t remember. Time went weird while I was there. I walked in when it was dark and I left when it was dark.’

‘And it never bothered you? Losing that time?’

‘No. I was just so happy with my new ink. I loved it. I walked around Bristol for hours, feeling high, feeling like me for the first time ever.’

‘What did your parents say when they saw it?’

‘My mum went mental, as you can imagine. She spent a whole afternoon crying. But then she came out and looked at it properly and said she would have been happier with just a I Heart Mum
tattoo. My dad looked at it, gave me a beer and grounded me for a month except for working in the dojo. He made me train non-stop that month, then told me the next time I did something that stupid,
without talking to him first, he’d put me in traction.’

My eyebrows shoot up my forehead. ‘Was he serious?’

‘Possibly. But then he got his tats whilst he was in the army when he wasn’t much older than me, so he had no real room to talk.’

‘Do you miss them?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you think they know how different you really are?’

‘No.’ He laughs. ‘If it was a question of either me or Emily being weird, she’d be the one. She was this tiny fragile-looking thing, but, boy, she had a will of
steel.’ His breath catches. ‘I really miss her so much. I miss the possibility of her. She was clever and sweet, but she was also sarcastic and actually a little bit wicked –
although you’d never guess.’

‘Sounds like my cousin Megan. She looks cute and harmless, you know? No one ever sees how tough she is or spots the grease and dirt under her nails.’

‘And what do you think you look like?’ he teases. ‘All six foot seven of you? All those tattoos and piercings. You scare little children and grannies alike.’

‘Oh funny. I know what I look like, I’m not fishing for compliments or complaints. I think people look at me and they see a girl who’s capable. No one will rush to my aid if I
need help with – I don’t know – changing a tyre or something. Not in the same way they’d help Megan. Even if she can strip a car down around a flat tyre, then build it back
up again, and somehow it’s a better car.’

Dante narrows his dark eyes and looks at me. ‘When I look at you, Kit Blackhart, I see a strong, independent, stubborn young woman who intrigues me. You’re intelligent, funny and,
when you try, you’re actually very charming. You don’t take crap from anyone. You do what you think is best and have this moral compass that makes me feel safe.’ He lifts his
hands in surrender when I scowl at him. ‘No, seriously. I don’t know why. I just know that when you’re with me, we can win. Whatever the challenges.’

‘You’re full of it, Alexander. Get your coat and let’s go see if we can talk to Theodore and Ulrich Pfeiffer.’

He smirks and I look away, ridiculously buoyed by his description of me. I feel none of those things he’d just assigned to me. I also feel flattened by the weight of responsibility on my
shoulders. What if the Pfeiffers are nothing, and not related to the case in any way, what then? What are our chances of finding these kids alive now and why would I even begin to think I could
handle something like this? We should have told Suola no, when she asked us to take this on. Gone to the cops with all our evidence, no matter how tenuous. Detective Shen would have looked into it.
Jamie could have badgered her to take our clues seriously.

‘Hey, are you okay?’

‘Yes, just thinking.’ I give him a smile and I hope it’s a convincing one.

I honestly wish I had my sword with me. I miss the feel of it, but knocking on a stranger’s door with a sword sticking up over your shoulder is frowned on in civil
society. So instead I have to rely on my baton and my boot knife if help is needed. I leave the sword in the boot of Dante’s Lexus.

Dante’s carrying his favourite pair of knuckledusters in his jacket pocket, the ones emblazoned with angelic runes (I still feel itchy about him having them, especially now that he has the
extra whammy of being Fae). He also has a compact taser attached to his belt in a tidy pouch. I worry that he has no bladed weapons, but then he can run up walls and kick an opponent in the head,
so maybe he’s better armed than I am.

The house before us is a Georgian in style with a semicircular driveway. The front garden is neatly kept and presents a facade of well-to-do respectability to the world. I double check the
address Kyle confirmed (our database held no further info on the Pfeiffers) before pressing the doorbell. I’m hesitant to use the gargoyle knocker as it might hide a biting spell and its
teeth look vicious.

Dante stands next to me and we don’t have very long to wait. The door is opened by a woman of indeterminate age who reminds me a lot of my Aunt Jennifer. She resembles one of those
impeccably and effortlessly dressed women who looks as though they are always ready to meet the Queen for high tea.

‘May I help you?’

I try not to squirm under her brief examination. Her eyes are an electric blue and the force of their regard is almost physical. She takes me in with one glance before turning her attention to
Dante, who’s the one that draws her brows together.

‘Mrs Taylor? My name is Dante Alexander and this is my partner, Kit Blackhart. I’m with the SDI.’ Here he shows her the badge, which she takes from him to look at, before
handing it back. ‘We’re looking for someone whom you may know. Ulrich Pfeiffer and his son, Theodore? We have it on good authority that they may be here at present.’

‘Is anything the matter?’ she asks. From inside the house I can hear what sounds like the radio. Over her shoulder the place looks immaculate, like something straight out of
Home
& Garden
or some other magazine celebrating home interiors.

‘I’m afraid we can’t say, Mrs Taylor. We do need to speak with Mr Pfeiffer or his son, though. It’s quite urgent.’

She purses her lips, considering our request. She looks me over again and I stand tall, hoping that my sturdy jeans, thick-soled biker boots and jumper over a black polo neck T-shirt meets with
her approval. I left my biker jacket in the car because I didn’t want to look like the poster child for teen rebellion.

‘Ulrich is in the back,’ she says, beckoning us in. ‘He’s helping my husband do some DIY.’

‘And Theodore?’

She shrugs. ‘You’ll have to ask his father.’

I let Dante walk ahead of me and follow closely behind. There’s no magic here, I decide, as I pass through a small foyer and into a comfortably large sitting room. The furnishings look
well cared for but none of it is new. There are a few pieces, like the painting over the fireplace, that look as if they might have been in the family for a fair few years.

I get a sense of a well-off family living here, enjoying a quiet life, as Mrs Taylor leads us towards the back of the house and the garden. We end up in the utility room, where two men are
working. They stand up when we near.

‘Ulrich, these people are here to talk to you. They say they’re from one of the police departments, but I have to say I’m not sure when the police started working with
children.’

The younger of the two men stands upright at her words. He’s my height but broad across the shoulders and looks like he keeps himself fit. His face is tanned and his eyes are an arresting
golden colour.

‘Ulrich Pfeiffer,’ he says, shaking Dante’s hand after wiping his own on a bit of cloth. ‘And you are?’

Dante introduces us both and Mr Taylor decides the room is too small, ushering us all back into the kitchen area. Ulrich, I notice, seems to be more at home in this room, with its big windows
and expansive garden visible at the back, than the two Taylors are. The place really did look like a show home.

‘Mr Pfeiffer, would it be possible to speak to you privately?’ Dante looks at the two hovering Taylors seriously. ‘The questions are quite personal.’

‘We’ll go to the lounge, Uli,’ Mr Taylor says, nudging his wife. ‘Nadine, come along.’

‘But Uli is a guest in our house, Philip. We can’t just let these children pester him.’

Philip Taylor says something quietly to his wife that shuts her up and I wonder exactly what he said. Ulrich – Uli – Pfeiffer watches us with some interest.

‘Please, I’m very interested in why you’re here.’

‘We are investigating the disappearance of some children. Our research has led us to the Folk and Indie Harvest Festival in Yorkshire. Our information shows that you’ve been working
the festival since it started.’

Mr Pfeiffer nods slowly. ‘Yes . . . but then so have Neville, Stella, and a dozen others.’

Dante keeps his face passive yet interested. ‘Correct. We are also in the process of talking to others about this. Can you tell me where you were two nights ago, between 10 p.m. and 3
a.m.?’

‘Here, I’ve got notes.’ Ulrich gets something from his bag and I move sideways so I can see what he’s doing. Here I’m also out of Dante’s range if Mr Pfeiffer
gets violent and Dante decides to throw a punch. ‘I keep a strict record of my comings and goings. It’s for accountancy purposes. Two nights ago I was in Cricklewood, at the Molly
Malone pub. They were hosting a ceilidh.’

Dante’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. ‘I’m not sure I follow?’

‘Ceilidh is a Celtic word that means . . . party. If you play an instrument, you’re welcome. It’s like being part of a super band. You sit around, talk and play music and, of
course, you have a drink or two.’ He adds the last bit with a cheeky smile.

‘And what time did your ceilidh finish?’

‘It was a lock-in.’ Ulrich Pfeiffer laughs delightedly. ‘I love your country and their quirky ways. I got home after 9 a.m. We all went for breakfast first.’