CHAPTER 6
FRIENDS REUNITED
Major Jameson, retired, had faced death many times in the pursuit of an illustrious career in Her Britannic Majesty’s Guards. The IRA, various African militias, Serb gunmen, Afghan guerrillas and the United States Air Force had made determined attempts to kill him from time to time. During his time in The Commission, supernatural entities had tried to do things to him that made dying positively restful, but he had never been as gut-wrenchingly terrified by a daemon before.
“For pity’s sake slow down, you blood-crazed lunatic,” he said.
The car phone rang with an irritating beep-beep. Jameson considered ignoring it but duty won out, forcing him to trip the switch.
“Jameson, can you hear me?” asked a precise, prissy voice that was immediately identifiable.
Bloody Randolph! That was all he needed to make the day complete.
“Yes,” he said.
“Oh, right . . .” said Randolph.
“Bloody Hell, watch for that lorry, you mad sucker,” said Jameson.
“Letting Karla drive?” Randolph asked.
Whatever else he said was drowned out by horns. Karla forced Jameson’s Jaguar across four lanes of traffic and through a red light.
“Karla, could you pull over for a moment?” asked Jameson calmly, displaying admirable control.
He hung off the seat belt. Four huge, computer-controlled disk brakes slammed the big sports car to a halt. The driver of a white transit van right behind them failed to match the maneuver. It spun into a bollard with a screech of tortured rubber and a great clang. The van’s left wing lost the unequal contest with cast iron cemented into concrete.
“Okay, Randolph, I can talk now,” said Jameson.
“We have a situation,” said Randolph.
“Another one?” asked Jameson.
“The Wiccas are in hysterics here. All the trips have blown,” said Randolph.
“You mad bitch, you could have killed me!” White van man appeared at Karla’s open window.
“What’s up?” asked Jameson.
“You silly cow, think you’re something special because you drive a poncy Jag. I’ve a good mind to haul you out of there and give you a good slapping,” said white van man.
Jameson glanced up from the phone. A huge, shaven-headed lout, with “*h*a*t*e*” tattooed on his knuckles, jabbed aggressively at Karla. His forefinger poked her arm.
“Really?” asked Karla, her mouth opening wide in a grin.
She threw open her door, and there was a thud as white van man absorbed the impact. Jameson winced, thinking of the delicate, multilayered paintwork that was the pride of Jaguar’s body shop. He made a grab for her, but she lithely avoided him, slipping from the car.
“We picked up the trace of an active insertion zone somewhere in your area. We think that it’s similar to the previous intrusions. The trace was followed by a pulse of magical radiation across the whole of East London. It’s a Three.”
A Code One insertion was a leak of information, and a Two involved the transfer of energy. A Three meant that something physical had penetrated the walls of the cozy little backwater of the multiverse inhabited by mankind. Something from outside. That was freakin’ serious mojo.
The smack of flesh on flesh followed by a loud scream sounded outside the car.
“Do you have an analysis?” asked Jameson, pushing the phone more securely into his ear to drown out the noise.
“Yes.”
“Might I have the summary?” Jameson asked.
“Just finding it.”
The tap of a computer keyboard sounded over the phone.
“The source is unknown, object unknown, exact location unknown,” said Randolph, succinctly.
“Great!” said Jameson. “I am glad to see that our understanding of the situation is unprejudiced by actual facts.”
White van man’s bullet-shaped head appeared through the open driver’s window. He appeared to be crying.
“God’s sake, make her stop,” white van man pleaded. He disappeared abruptly, dragged away like a cork out of a bottle.
“What do you expect me to do about it?” asked Jameson.
“I don’t know. Can’t you round up the usual suspects, or something?” asked Randolph, coldly. “You’re the field team, field something.”
Another scream sounded outside.
“I’ve got to go. I’ve got a situation here, as well,” said Jameson.
“I can hear,” said Randolph, dryly. “Karla, I suppose. You really should keep her on a tighter lead.”
“Yah, that’d work,” said Jameson, clicking off the phone.
He got out of his motor to assess the damage, and cursed. Karla had white van man across the bonnet, holding him down by the throat with one hand. She was poised over him, fangs extruded. She revelled in his fear. Slowly, ever so slowly, she lowered her head towards his neck. White van man had stopped struggling. She focused on the blood running down his face. Scalp cuts bleed so ridiculously freely. It would be difficult to restrain her once she started to feed.
“Karla,” Jameson said, softly, reaching towards her.
He touched her cheek and gently pulled her head round towards him. She looked at him expressionlessly, metallic green eyes glittering against white skin framed by jet black hair. He stroked her cheek, and her fangs retracted. She tilted her head sideways, rubbing against his hand. White van man took the opportunity to slide out from under her and scuttle away on his hands and knees. She was monstrous but oh, so beautiful.
“Get in the Jag’s passenger seat, Karla. I’ll clean up here.”
She walked around the motor, moving with the elastic grace of a tigress.
Jameson took a wallet out of his inside pocket and extracted ten twenty-pound notes.
“That will fix the dent in your van,” Jameson said.
“I’ll have the Old Bill on you,” said white van man, finding his voice.
“You won’t tell the police anything,” said Jameson. “In the first place, you would have to admit that you were beaten up and scared shitless by a girly half your size. In the second place, they won’t believe you, and, in the third, our employer would be displeased and might send someone worse than Karla round to dissuade you.”
Actually, The Commision had nothing worse than Karla on the payroll, if you excluded the daemons that made up the Human Resources Department. Jameson patted the man’s cheek before climbing into the driver’s side of the car. Jameson swung round a device like a sat-nav fastened under the dashboard.
“Round up the usual suspects, the man said. I suppose we could always see if any of the usual suspects have been spotted around here.”
Jameson tapped out a series of instructions on the screen. Karla ignored him. When she was bored, she slipped into immobility. Not relaxed like a woman would be, but just stationary, like a machine on standby.
“Well, well, well,” said Jameson. “An old friend of ours has a place nearby. I should have remembered.”
He started the car, U-turning to head back the way they had come.
Rhian dreamed, dreamed of running under cold, clear skies. Her paws pounded across frozen ground. This time she was the prey, and her pursuer was gaining. Rhian pushed harder, but her paws lost traction on the ice, and she skidded. Her hunter was so close that she could smell him. He pulled alongside her, powerful muscles bunching under a thick hide. She bared her teeth at him, refusing to be intimidated.
Steam rolled off her coat, and she lolled her tongue out into the freezing air. She was tiring fast, muscles aching. She made one last attempt to increase her speed. He shoulder-charged her, bowling her over into a snow drift. She struggled to her feet to find him standing over her. He watched her intently while growling gently. She lowered her head in submission and he strutted stiff-legged to her. He gripped the loose skin at the back of her neck with his teeth. Forcing her down onto the cold, hard earth, he mounted her roughly, claiming the mating rights of an alpha male. He had proved his fitness by chasing her down. He howled his conquest to the Moon when he filled her with his seed.
Rhian struggled awake and opened her eyes. It was dark except for the flames. She coughed and gagged as smoke filled her lungs. Her eyes adjusted to the dull, red, flickering illumination. An unpaved lane was lined by low stone and wooden buildings. Some were in darkness, but others burned furiously. A roof fell in with a crash, shooting bright sparks and yellow-orange flames high into the air.
Through the crackle of the flames, she heard the screams of those too old, too weak or too stupid to get out of the burning town. Standing on the back of a chariot, she tapped the bare-tors’od driver on his shoulder. He flicked the reins across the back of the pair of horses, and the chariot started with a jerk. She gripped one of the hooped wooden rails on the vehicle’s open sides. The lane opened out into a small square with a two-story building. Iron-helmeted enemy soldiers formed a defensive semicircle around the portico. They crouched behind long red shields decorated with white lightning symbols.
“Kill them,” Rhian ordered in Welsh.
Battle chariots surged forward, warriors jumping off to strike the enemy with swords and spears. She was Morgana’s instrument, the queen of water and death, the goddess of Moon and shape-shifters. She extended her right arm to the night sky, spreading her fingers so that she could see the full Moon through them. The wolf came to her like a thief in the night.
Rhian came awake with a jerk. She lay naked on her back between crisp, clean sheets in a large four-poster bed. Her shoulders were propped up on lilac-smelling pillows. The spacious bedroom was decorated with heavy cream-flock wallpaper and dark brown pelmets. Portraits and monochrome photographs of people in archaic costumes looked down from the walls. Heavy, dark drapes hung in folds under the pelmets. The room was lit by ornate bronze light-holders that were designed to look like candles weeping molten wax.
Rhian had no idea how long she had been unconscious. It always took her like that when the wolf left. She remembered every moment of the transformation into the beast, but never anything about the change back. It was as if all the energy was sucked from her body and she collapsed into unconsciousness that faded gently into sleep. Here, in this comfortable bed, she might have slept for some time.
She tried to work out whether she was truly awake or in another illusion. The bedroom was like a film set for a costume drama. She imagined Jane Austen sleeping in a room like this. But she was plain old Rhian again, not a pagan queen or a wolf, so this must be real.
She levered herself up to look for her clothes, assuming any had survived the change. Her coat should be in one piece. She recalled dropping it down her back before she morphed. There was a wardrobe near the bed, and she made the logical assumption that where there was a wardrobe, there would be things to wear. She pulled the bedclothes back and swung her bare legs over the side of the bed.
Rhian doubled up, gasping. Jagged pain thrust through her left side like a knife. She remembered the glowing whip scouring the wolf’s flank and examined herself. The damage was not as bad as she had feared. The skin was an angry red but unbroken. She tried to push herself to her feet, but the pain was too much. She sank back onto the bed, concerned that she had internal damage.
“My little Snow White wakes without the traditional kiss,” said a deep voice.
“What?” Rhian spun her head round.
A man leaned against the wall by a dresser. The door had not opened, so he must have been in the room all the time. How could she have not known he was there? She froze in shock. He chuckled, breaking the spell, and she pulled the sheets right up to her neck.
“A little late for modesty, wouldn’t you say, Snow White,?” the man said. “Who do you think cleaned the blood off and put you in your bower? I congratulate you on your healing properties. You were a real mess.”
It was the gunman from the tunnel. She had only seen him briefly while human. It took a little time to join the dots and connect the wolf’s impressions of the gunman to the man she saw now. He was good looking in a smooth sort of way, but he oozed an arrogant self-confidence that she disliked at first sight. Men like this frightened her, but the wolf sized him up and was not unhappy. Rhian suppressed the thought.
“You put me to bed?” she asked.
She regretted instantly the stupidity of the question. Hadn’t he just told her?
“My pleasure,” he said, smirking.
Rhian was close to freaking out. She clenched her fists tight, digging her nails into the skin. The pain made her feel better. Pain was control.
“How did I get here?” she asked. That was a better question.
“I carried you. I’m a philanthropist, always picking up waifs, strays, and fallen women. Like that prime minister they had some little while ago, what was his name?” The man clicked his fingers in irritation. “Gladstone, that was it. He used to tour St. James Park looking for ladies of the night to rehabilitate. Are you a lady of the night, Snow White? Do you need rehabilitating?”
“Stop calling me that,” she said, losing her composure again. “My name’s Rhian.”
“Max.” He bowed, the movement looking polished as if he had done it so often that it had become second nature. It should have looked really pseudo, really contrived and clumsy, but he made the archaic gesture seem sophisticated.
“Where am I?” She asked another good question.
“In my bedroom, and that’s all you need to know.”
A truly dreadful thought occurred to her. “You didn’t carry me naked through the streets of London, did you?”
“Your coat survived your, ah, transformation, so I wrapped you in that. I chatted to you all the way to my car about what a lazy minx you were to want to be carried. How next time you were to wear sensible shoes. I think I was rather convincing,” he said, complacently.
Smug seemed to be his default setting.
Rhian screwed her fists up. He was so annoying that she forgot to be frightened. “Where—is—my—coat?” she asked, articulating the words carefully between gritted teeth.
“It was such a tatty thing that I gave it to a tramp as bedding for his dog.” He beamed at her.
Rhian was speechless. Max walked casually across the room and sat on the bed, folding his arms. Rhian shrank back as far as the sheets would permit. He grinned showing white, even, and completely normal teeth. But the wolf had seen long fangs.
“You bled all over the coat from that wound on your side,” he said. “Your body underwent such impressive accelerated healing while you slept that I decided to leave you in my bed for a while. You look so decorative there, Snow White, that I may decide to keep you.”
He tapped her on the end of her nose, making her blink in surprise.
“That’s an interesting little trinket you have round your neck,” Max said, pointing at the outline of her breasts under the sheet.
The Celtic brooch was cold against her skin. It was always cold no matter how long she wore it.
“Fascinating how it survived your transformation,” he said. “One might almost think it played some role in the magic.”
“No doubt you examined it carefully?” Rhian asked.
“I tried to.” Max held up his hand and gave her a rueful grin. His fingers were marked by burn blisters. “It has one hell of a protection spell.”
Rhian blinked. The pendant had never hurt anyone before, not directly, anyway.
“How am I to go home without clothes?” she asked, changing the subject.
“It’s a puzzler,” he replied.
Rhian took a deep breath. “Could you lend me some things?” she asked, politely, which took a degree of willpower.
Taking a deeper breath, she added, “Please.”
If you were going to charm a man with politeness then you may as well go the whole humiliating hog. Especially when the man in question was an utter sexist pig.
He chuckled. “A cute little thing like you, Snow White, dressed in my clothes?” He spread out his arms. “Don’t you think they might be a little large for you?”
Rhian ground her teeth in anger, although he had a point. He must be a good foot taller than her.
“You and I need to have a little chat, Snow White. Tell me what you know.”
“About what?” asked Rhian, genuinely confused.
“The European Union’s monetary policy, what do you think? Tell me what you know about the Sith?” Max snapped at her, making her jump.
His smile had gone.
“Sith?” asked Rhian, baffled. “Aren’t they the bad guys in Star Wars?”
“Star Wars?”
They looked at each other in mutual incomprehension.
“You really don’t know, do you?” he said slowly.
He looked at her intently as if he was trying to see into her head. “What were you doing in that subway?” he asked, changing the subject.
“I was going home from work, if you must know; I’m a barmaid. I don’t have to answer your questions,” Rhian said boldly. He had bounced her into replying without thinking but she was now asserting her rights.
“You’ll answer if you want to leave here alive, Snow White,” he said, his voice as bleak as the Cumberland moors.
“Don’t threaten me,” said Rhian, meeting his eyes, wondering why the wolf was so unnaturally calm. “I’m not frightened of you.”
She remembered Max’s teeth tearing at the elegant woman’s throat. She searched within herself and found a watchful, powerful presence. No, she really wasn’t frightened, as long as the shadow of the wolf was with her.
“You’re a game little thing but you must face reality, Snow White. You are all out of spells, little witch. Oh, you’ve some pretty party tricks—turning into a wolf was particularly good. The wolf-brooch I suppose. Your healing spell is unparalleled, but you’ve absolutely nothing left about your person to make more magic. I established that, personally.”
Rhian blushed, eliciting that infuriating smile again.
“I might be a werewolf,” said Rhian, defiantly.
“You might be but you’re not. You had a professional-grade witch charm on your coat, and you don’t smell anything like a shapeshifter.”
He looked down and stroked her hair. “You’re human through and through, my little Snow White.” He let his gaze run down her body hidden under the blankets. “I checked, remember?”
“I’m not a witch and I don’t know anything,” Rhian said, a little desperately. “Let me go.”
She was human, but was he?
He leaned back watching her, like a cat watches a mouse between its paws. He rose and moved to the dresser so fast that Rhian barely saw him cross the space in between.
“I had a look through the pockets before disposing of your coat,” he said, abruptly. “You had a purse with exactly seven pounds, thirty-five pence in loose change, a door key and a mobile phone. I am afraid the mobile hit the ground too hard.”
He held up shattered plastic.
Rhian bit her lip, trying not to cry. Her work clothes were destroyed. She had lost her coat, and her phone was smashed. She had only seven pounds to last until payday, and she had turned into a wolf again. She lost the unequal struggle and tears rolled down her cheeks. He walked slowly back to the bed and took her chin in his hand, lifting her head so that she could see his face clearly.
“It won’t do, Snow White. Crying won’t help you. Now tell me your name, who you work for, and how you turned up in that subway at just the right time armed with powerful defensive and offensive spells.”
He kept talking to her, stroking her hair and gazing into her eyes. His voice came from further and further away. She was very tired and her head felt so heavy. She could hear her own voice answering him, but she was not sure what she said. Eventually, she slipped back into sleep.
Jameson drove quickly but inconspicuously, the way he had been taught by the Northern Irish Special Branch. The powerful sports car ate the miles, slicing through the heavy London traffic. Karla prodded the control of the digital music system, and the device selected a New Age instrumental. It filled the car with soft acoustic guitars that barely rose above the deep growl of the supercharged four-point-two-liter eight.
After only a few minutes, Jameson turned off into the side roads.
“Our friend retired from the service, so technically she’s a civilian now.”
“Retired?” asked Karla, vaguely.
“Still aren’t entirely tuned into the modern world, are you, Karla? Retiring is when someone leaves the job while still alive. Doesn’t happen so often in our line of work. Of course, no one ever really retires from The Commission. They just go off the payroll.”
Jameson parked the Jag and they climbed out. Karla touched the roof and the locks clicked, the anti-theft switching on with a friendly chirrup and a flash of orange lights. Jameson had never been able to work out how Karla did that. She and the car had some sort of strange affinity. Generally she was uninterested in technology.
Jameson found the right flat and rang the bell. After a few moments, a woman in a long, loose-fitting, flowery dress opened the door. Her face registered shock, and she tried to close it again. Jameson stuck his foot in the gap.
“Gods, it’s you two. What do you want?” the woman asked. “And what the hell is she doing out in daylight?”
Jameson pushed the door fully open.
“Hello, Frankie, long time no see, can we come in?” he asked, entering before Frankie could reply.
When Karla tried to follow, the knocker glowed with a golden light that forced her back. Brass eyelids slid apart, revealing green eyes with vertical cat-like pupils.
“Daemon,” the knocker hissed, opening its brass mouth to force the word out.
“Frankie,” Jameson said, pleasantly.
The woman stood for a moment, indecision flitting across her face. Taking hold of Karla’s wrist, she led her through the door. The knocker went back to sleep and all three walked into the lounge. Jameson made himself at home on the leather chair.
“I will reset the exclusion spell as soon as she leaves,” said Frankie, taking a seat on the sofa.
Karla stood on the edge of the room. A fly circled lazily across the room. Her eyes moved to track it like a Patriot missile’s search radar.
“If we really wanted to get in then I doubt you could stop us,” Jameson said, gently. “You of all people know what we can do.”
Frankie pushed her glasses back up her nose.
“I remember that gesture,” Jameson said, smiling. “It’s got to be a habit. You’re looking well, Frankie.”
He was not just being polite; she really did look well. In her last months at the office she had become thin and strained, fading gently away like a Victorian heiress with consumption. Since her retirement she had filled out, becoming the pleasantly plump Frankie that he recalled.
She shrugged. “I get by. Is that why you came, to see how I was?”
“No,” he replied. “But seeing you again is a pleasure.”
“Careful, Jameson,” Frankie said, glancing at Karla. “I wouldn’t want to make her jealous.”
Jameson looked at Karla, really looked at her. She returned his look, parting her lips. He remembered when they had first left him alone with her in the cell. She bared her teeth and claws, terrifying him. “I feel your fear,” she said, backing away in confusion. “I don’t like it.” She had curled up in a foetal ball on the floor, unable to cope with emotions foreign to her nature.
He remembered her on the roof of his building, calmly waiting for the rising Sun. She had worked out that they would kill her when the experiment terminated, so she decided to suicide. He carried her back into his flat before the ultraviolet could burn out her eyes. She was so light, no heavier than a human. That was the night he decided The Commission would have to go through him to get to her. It was not like he was happy with his life. There were worse ways to die than keeping faith with a comrade.
“She doesn’t quite think like us,” Jameson said. “She tends to react to actions rather than words.”
“I shall resist the urge to throw myself into your arms, then,” said Frankie, sarcastically.
“Probably best,” said Jameson politely, not wanting to get into old history, but Frankie would not leave it alone.
Frankie said, “I’ve given up charity work.”
“Yes, I recall Pete left you,” said Jameson nastily, the jibe slipping out before he could intercept it.
Frankie tried to mask her feelings, but Jameson saw the hurt in her eyes and was ashamed. She did not deserve a crack like that. Even if she did, a gentleman would not have made it.
“I’m sorry, Frankie,” Jameson said. “That remark was not cricket.”
“No,” Frankie said. “But it’s true enough.”
“Pete was a civilian. You know how rarely they can cope with our world,” Jameson said.
“I suppose that I thought my love would overcome all obstacles. It’s a common enough female delusion,” said Frankie. “How are Mary and your kids?”
“Well enough as far as I know,” Jameson replied. “I get a card at Christmas.”
He shrugged. “You know how it is?”
“Yes,” Frankie replied. “I know how it is. You dodged my question. Karla’s a sucker. Ultraviolet breaks down her cellular structure in seconds. How is it that she’s out in daylight without being fried?”
“N-acetyl-5-methoxytryptamine,” Jameson replied with the air of someone who had done something clever.
“What?” Frankie asked.
“Melatonin, a photosensitive chemical controlling circadian rhythms and with powerful antioxidant properties.”
“I know what melatonin is,” Frankie said between gritted teeth. “But what has that got to do with . . .”
She paused and looked at Karla with utter horror.
“Oh gods, sunburn tablets, you’ve been feeding her sunburn tablets.”
“Rather clever, don’t you think?” Jameson asked smugly.
“Clever, you bloody fool,” Frankie replied. “You’ve just handed suckers the key to daylight.”
“Daemons don’t do technology. You know that?” Jameson said, scornfully. “And Karla is hardly likely to chat about it. Besides, melatonin doesn’t give total protection to suckers any more than, well, people. She is weakened by daylight and would be ill advised to try sunbathing.”
Frankie looked thoughtful. “But it shouldn’t work. It’s not just a matter of a photo-chemical reaction. Something else in sunlight damages daemons like Karla.”
“Whatever,” Jameson said, shrugging.
“Now I come to think about it, ultraviolet is the least of their problems with the Sun. Our UV guns only weaken them, not kill. It’s the spiritual dimension in sunlight that really matters,” Frankie said, warming to her theme.
Her brow furrowed. “Oh!”
“What?” Jameson asked. A smug, knowing smile hovered on Frankie’s lips. Jameson knew that smile. It was her “I know something you don’t and I’m not going to enlighten you” smile. It had always irritated the hell out of him.
“Never mind, you didn’t come here to reminisce about old times, Jameson. What do you want with me? I am not coming back. I work for myself now, casting harmless spells to help people.”
“You may be harmless, Frankie, but something else around here is bloody dangerous. What do you know about it?” Jameson asked.
“Nothing,” Frankie replied, shrugging.
“Come off it,” Jameson said, raising his voice threateningly. “People disappearing, bodies turning up without a mark on them to show how they died, not to mention bursts of magical energy. Don’t tell me that you haven’t noticed? I can always take you back to the office for a little chat if you won’t talk to me here.”
“All I know is what I read in the papers,” Frankie said. “Although it’s true that magic seems to be getting easier in East London.”
“Like strange energy was leaking into the world?” Jameson said.
Frankie nodded.
“Some of those bodies you mentioned were drained of blood.” She looked at Karla meaningfully.
The fly made the terminal mistake of wobbling past Karla in uncertain flight. She casually plucked it from the air, holding it delicately between her thumb and forefinger. The fly waggled its legs and wings.
“I remember you,” Karla said to Frankie. “You were the witch who enchanted me. I can smell the magic in you.”
She opened her mouth to show long fangs. She made no overtly hostile move, but Frankie looked away first. Karla lowered her head and studied the fly intently as if she had never seen one before.
“I’m sorry, Jameson,” Frankie said. “I wish I had never bound her to you.”
“Don’t knock yourself out, Frankie. I volunteered for the experiment. It’s not like anyone was the love of my life or anything. I was never much use at the relationship thing, as you may recall.”
He grinned to show there were no hard feelings. Jameson had long ago retreated into a world of control, placing adamantine barriers between his inner self and the outside world. He attracted women easily and lost them just as easily when they realized that he would never let them in.
He sighed. “I did one too many tours in the army.”
His mind drifted back to Iraq. The American A10 flew down the line of British Scimitars spraying thirty millimeter shells. Cavalry men bailed out, to be chopped down with shrapnel. Screams sounded from a burning tank. The sweet smell of roasting human flesh contrasted with the acrid taste of burning fuel and plastic.
“Snap out of it, Jameson,” Frankie said, abruptly. “Are you still getting flashbacks about that burning pig in Belfast? I will never know why you will not take the CB treatment.”
Jameson was jolted back to find Karla staring at him with uncharacteristic anxiety. She could feel his moods. A “pig” was an obsolete lightly armoured wheeled carrier that the government had insisted the army use in Northern Ireland. Heavy tracked vehicles with decent armor were deemed too aggressive and bad PR. Pigs were horribly vulnerable to fertilizer bombs.
He forced himself to smile before changing the subject. “You could not know that the love geas you placed on Karla would be reciprocal, binding me to her as much as her to me. Besides, you were just obeying orders when you cast the spell.”
“Only obeying orders, now there’s a phrase that echoes hollowly down the ages. I think I got tired of obeying orders,” said Frankie.
She looked Jameson in the face. “I hated you at the time and I wanted you to suffer. Goddess help me, but I am not sure that did not leak into the spell.”
“We’ll never know, as The Commission have never repeated the experiment.”
Frankie did not reply.
“Frankie?” Jameson asked.
“There were two more attempts. I did the magic both times,” she said.
“I never knew that. Why was it kept so quiet?”
“Because they were bloody disasters, with the emphasis on bloody!” Frankie burst out. “That’s what sent me over the edge, the cause of my breakdown. The connection between you and Karla is unique, and we have no idea why.”
Karla squashed the fly.
“Snow White, wake for me, Snow White.”
Something touched Rhian’s lips, and she opened her eyes with a jerk. Max stood over her with that irritatingly superior smile.
“This time you got your kiss,” he said.
“What happened?” she asked.
“I entranced you, Snow White, just like the Sith did in the subway, but this time you didn’t have your protective herbs.”
“What did I tell you when I was under?” asked Rhian, with apprehension.
“Everything, little witch, you spilled all your secrets.”
She relaxed. He still thought she was a witch, so he had learnt nothing of any importance. Maybe he did not know the right questions to ask.
“Oh yeah? Give me an example of something?” she asked, defiantly.
“You’ve used black magic to kill, little witch, your lover, no less.”
Rhian’s mind froze. He thought she had killed James. Her guilt would have answered for her if he phrased the question too vaguely. He grinned at her with an expression that said “got you!” There was a long silence, then Rhian laughed. His triumphant expression slipped, which only made her laugh the more.
“I killed my lover?” Her shoulders shook helplessly.
Max looked at her thunderously. “Did I say something funny?”
“God, stop, my side hurts,” she said, laughing all the harder.
The anger faded from his face to be replaced by a rueful look.
“Snow White, I am so glad I decided to keep you,” he said. “You are just full of surprises.”
He raised his voice slightly. “Sefrina, bring the case in.”
A tall, slender woman cat-walked into the room in high heels and a pencil skirt. Blonde hair piled on top of her head in a careless style that must have taken an inordinate amount of time and money to achieve. She casually swung a large suitcase in one hand and tossed it in the direction of the bed, where it hit the floor with a heavy thump. She propped herself on Max’s shoulder and studied Rhian with startling blue eyes.
“So, darling, this is your new pet. She doesn’t look like much,” Sefrina said in a Swiss finishing-school accent.
“I certainly don’t look like an advert for a West End escort agency,” said Rhian, taking an instant dislike to the woman.
She particularly disliked the way Sefrina covered Max like a measles rash. The emotion made her angry. Why should she care if Max liked some upper-class tart draped all over him? It was not as if she even liked the man, assuming he was a man. Rhian decided that the wolf must feel threatened by a rival alpha female. That would explain why she felt jealous; it was caused by emotional leakage from the wolf.
Sefrina smiled, parting blood-red lips wide to show long canine teeth.
Oh God, it’s another one, Rhian thought.
“I don’t think I like your new pet, Max. Maybe I should teach her some manners,” Sefrina said.
She moved a step towards the bed but Max grabbed her wrist, his hand moving faster than a striking cobra.
“Leave her alone, Sefrina,” said Max.
Sefrina hissed at him, showing her teeth.
Max’s voice hardened and he jerked hard on the woman’s wrist. “I mean it, Sefrina. She belongs to me. Or do I have to teach you some manners?”
Sefrina tested her strength against Max’s grip. Rhian thought she intended to challenge him, but Sefrina suddenly relaxed. “Of course not, Max,” she said, smiling sweetly, as if the incident had never happened.
He let go of her wrist and she stalked out, shooting one last venomous glance at Rhian. I have not, Rhian thought, made a friend there. Not that she cared overmuch.
“What’s in the case?” asked Rhian.
“Clothes,” Max replied, succinctly. “Clothes suitable for a small girly.”
The odious man seemed to work hard at being offensive.
“I prefer the word petite,” Rhian said.
Max laughed. “Get dressed and I’ll drive you home.”
Rhian didn’t move, although she was relieved to hear that she was not going to have to fight her way out.
“Aren’t you going to get out of bed and take a look in the case?” Max asked.
“When you leave the room,” replied Rhian. “Or have you forgotten that I’ve nothing on?”
“How could I, Snow White?” replied Max. “It just never occurred to me that you’d still be bashful after all that has passed between us. However, if you insist.”
He bowed to her, turned, and walked out.
“My name’s Rhian,” she said to his back. He closed the door without answering or even looking back.
She carefully levered herself out of bed. The pain her side was down to a mild ache. The wolf healed her so very quickly. The cuts she made on her arms disappeared in days without leaving scars.
Her first action was to see if she could lock the door, but the key had been removed. She hurried over to the case and lifted it. It took two attempts for her to get it up on the bed. It was heavy. That bitch Sefrina must be stronger than she looked.
Rhian unclipped the catches. They flipped open easily with sharp clicks. The tie belts were more problematical, as the case was stuffed tight. In the end, she sat on top of it to get the tension off the belts. That lousy man could have opened the case for her and spared her the embarrassment of perching naked like a monkey on a branch.
She gasped when she saw the contents. They were the sort of clothes that she had only read about in magazines. Reverently she removed a folded tan coat that was beautifully cut and lined, the tag proudly declaring it to be a product of Givenchy of Paris. She burrowed deeper into the bowels of the suitcase like a kid checking out her Christmas stocking. She unfolded a black minidress by Proenza Schouler of New York and held it against her body. She draped it over her hips. It fitted perfectly.
She pulled more clothes out of the case until she was surrounded by elite labels like a model backstage at a fashion show. She found blouses and skirts from Marni of Milan, a little black dress from Nina Ricci of Paris, shoes and boots by Jimmy Choo, and even a rather daring catsuit from the young Scottish designer Christopher Kane. At the bottom was a makeup set and Ricci perfume.
“Ready?” Max’s voice carried through the door.
“No, go away,” she yelled back.
After some deliberation she chose to wear Armani denim jeans with a minidress. She spent some time at the dressing table, putting a face on, dabbing some perfume on her wrists and neck as a final touch. She draped the Givenchy coat around her shoulders and examined herself in the mirror. Turning the collar up set off her short dark hair. Perfect! That bitch Sefrina wanted to play games, did she?
A heavy hand knocked on the bedroom door. “What are you doing in there?” Max asked.
She carefully closed the case and extended the handle. She stopped at the door, took a deep breath, and carefully pasted an expression on her face that she hoped indicated detached disdain. Only then did she open the door and parade out. A moment of instability on the high heels of her boots only slightly spoiled her entrance.
Sefrina lounged in a chair reading Elle magazine. Rhian watched the woman carefully out of the corner of her eyes. She noted Sefrina’s lips tighten when she realised how well Rhian looked.
A hand clap caught Rhian’s attention.
“Very nice, you chose her clothes well, Sefrina. Snow White, give us a twirl,” Max said.
She had actually started to turn when she remembered that she was not going to do anything he suggested.
“You mentioned taking me home?” she asked, sticking her nose in the air.
“And so I shall. I am glad that you went to some trouble over your appearance before you came out with me. You scrub up rather well.”
The arrogant so-and-so actually thought that she cared what he thought of her looks. Rhian opened her mouth to issue a denial but closed it again without speaking. He would choose to misinterpret anything she said.
“I get to keep the other clothes?” Rhian asked.
She hated giving up some of her independence but was unwilling to abandon a cornucopia of fashion that she could never have afforded.
He grinned broadly. “You may as well. They wouldn’t fit Sefrina here.”
“Thank you,” she made herself say.
Max approached her, holding a silk scarf in both hands. “Let’s get your blindfold on and we can go.”
She blocked him with a hand. “Why would you want to blindfold me?” she asked.
“I can think of all sorts of interesting possibilities,” he replied. “But in this case it is simply that I don’t want you to know where I live. Fair enough?”
She nodded and allowed him to knot the scarf around her eyes. He gripped her firmly by the elbow and steered her out of the room. A cold wind on her face and the slamming of a door indicated that they were outside. He led her twenty paces or so then let go. She heard the electronic click of a car unlocking. He put his hand on top of her head, like the cops do on TV shows, and put her into a seat.
The car engine was quiet, but Rhian was pushed down into the seat as it accelerated away.
“May I ask you a question?”
“Why not?”
“In the subway . . .” Her voice trailed off. She was unsure how to proceed.
“Yes.”
“You had fangs. You bit that woman in the neck, and Sefrina has fangs, and you both seem inhumanly strong and quick . . .” Her voice trailed off again. “You interrogated me but you’ve told me nothing about yourself.”
“That’s right,” he agreed.
She waited for him to explain, but he said nothing. God, he was irritating.
“Who are you—or should that be what are you?”
He chuckled. “You really are a delightful paradox, Snow White. You turn up at a critical moment armed with high-level witchcraft and yet you seem to know nothing about the nature of the world. I shall look forward to our further meetings.”
“Are you a vampire, one of the living dead?” she asked.
This time he laughed out loud.
“You’ve been watching too many old films,” he said.
She was not sure what she felt about that and was silent for the rest of the journey.
The car stopped.
“Here we are.”
She lifted off the blindfold. It was still night, but the streetlights showed her that they were outside Frankie’s flat.
He put a hand on her knee and leaned across. “Do I get a goodnight kiss?”
“No,” she replied, removing the hand.
“I am devastated,” he said, not looking it. “I have something for you.”
He handed her a phone. “A replacement for the one you lost helping me out. I’ve put in my number.”
“Thank you,” she said, nonplussed. She examined it briefly before putting it in her pocket. It had a touch screen and looked expensive.
She pulled the heavy case out and walked up the path without looking back until she heard the car drive off. She caught site of the rear end of a large executive saloon car as it disappeared around a bend. Rhian let herself into the flat and almost bumped into Frankie, who shot out of the lounge.
“Where the hell have you been?” Frankie said, which was not quite the greeting Rhian had anticipated.
“Sorry I’m late,” Rhian said.
“Late? You’ve been gone two days,” said Frankie, snapping on the corridor light. “And where did you get a Givenchy coat?”