I'm home, the rest of the journey having passed in a blur. The flat looks perfectly normal, although I switch on all the lights to help dispel my mental shadows. There's no Bellmouth, which comes as a comfort because it means the danger really is over.
The phone calls begin as soon as I remember to switch my mobile back on, because everyone in the family hears Bellmouth when he bays a warning. Rupert too, and even a few of his bodyguard, the ones who have been there since Blackmarsh decided that Rupert was One Of Us and have seen and accepted all the associated weirdness.
Paul and I take only a few steps before Mark stops us and sends one of his companions to get a car. I am embarrassed at how pathetically grateful I am not to having to walk. It's only a short trip, no more than a couple of minutes. Goldhawk territory looks no different to the streets we have been driving through. That has to be intentional. It's sensible to blend in. Mark points out the pack tags spray-painted onto walls along with other random graffiti, marking the territory boundaries, which is helpful. Rather than being shown straight to the Alpha, I'm given the chance to shower and patch up my injuries. Mark has someone find me a change of clothes. Goldhawk hospitality is getting a five star rati
It is both reassuring and disconcerting to return to the normality of rehearsal and performance. I even find David's casual
There's dead silence in the wake of my question. After a long moment, Russel clears his throat in surprise, but it's Christy who finds her voice first. “Perhaps you should give us a better idea of what you have in mind?” I marshal my thoughts. My request had been an impulse, but it does make sense. “Back… where
I find the best way for me to cope with stress is to do what I can, rather than dwelling on what I cannot. In my case, what I can do is to find out more about Mr Cavendish. I have rather an unfair advantage when it comes to investigating people. Your average member of the public, when they want to learn more about the CEO of a little-known company, is limited in their sources to the company website, Companies House and maybe Wikipedia, if the company has a high enough profile. I have MI5 on speed dial.I don’t call the emergency number. MI5 is there to protect the country, the Queen, and by extension the future King. It is not there to act as my personal assistant. However I have been assigned a dedicated contact within the organisation. After forcing myself to go to bed and at least attempt to sleep, I wait until she will be in the office and call her.The reputation of Blackmarsh is such that, in a few select but important places, you don&r
I stand motionless as I try to persuade myself of what I just heard. A vampire, a senior vampire, a very senior vampire, owes me a favour. For having got lucky when jumping into a fight that hadn’t been mine. Not only that but, from the sounds of it, I have immunity from his… family? Faction? His people, until I claim that favour. Perhaps I should never cash in. That sort of immunity sounds useful.The nondescript woman is waiting, holding out her hand with a chunky signet ring nestled in her palm. “He sends you this token, to present at the Club as your identification.”I draw on my training and give a polite dip of my head. “Please convey my acknowledgement to Aloysius Cavendish and inform him that I appreciate his honourable conduct. You may place the token here.” I point to the cleanest-looking patch of ground I can see, and step back. The woman- the vampire, I suppose- crouches to place the ring where I indicated, and
How I get through that evening’s performance, and the next day, I don’t know. I’m playing on autopilot. I can say without boasting that I’m good enough that only another good musician would notice, but I’m failing myself and everyone else who has helped me to get to where I am by giving less than my best. Roberto has decided I have a mild bug of some sort, and is letting it slide, but I’ll have to pull myself together soon or that excuse won’t cover it any more. What I need is more information, something to help explain what I experienced. I still haven’t heard back from my contact at MI5, and my own research has uncovered nothing new. To cap it all, it’s the polo match. The excitement of plotting to make David look bad has completely lost its shine. If it wouldn’t feel as if I’d be letting Holly and Francesca down, and Rupert, I’d probably not go through with it. My enthusiasm is somewhat reawakened by David’s behaviour on the coach. There is more than one coach, it
There isn’t a nearby coffee-shop where I grew up. There isn’t a nearby anything, unless you count trees. The Shining River Pack house is actually a cluster of housing, storage buildings and workshops. The nearest town is twenty miles away, and it doesn’t have a coffee shop. It has a gas station with a coffee vending machine, and the coffee was never worth the journey. Here in London, there seems to be a coffee shop, cafe or takeaway every twenty yards. I choose Al Cappuccino because it’s on one of the coupons I picked up at the Freshers’ Fair, and I only go in because I can get a pastry and a coffee for a pound if I use the coupon, but the cafe next door charges five pounds for a sandwich. A pastry and a coffee is not a good lunch, but beggars can’t be choosers and my first pay-cheque went on text books for college. My injuries are almost healed, the last of them nearly gone, but the ones still left are at the itchy stage. Just one more stress on top of mystery vampi
I drop into the Al Cappuccino coffee shop on a whim, before rehearsal the day after the polo match. Holly was asking me about a third date as we were travelling back in the coach, and I need to get my head on straight before I see him again. I’ve promised myself to give him a proper chance over three dates. That means not starting the third date already convinced that I need to tell him it’s not working. The coffee shop is crowded, almost every table full. It’s comforting, in its own way. I am alone in the crowd, cushioned by the mass of humanity. I manage to grab a free spot by slotting myself in just as a couple are leaving. It’s a small, square table attached to the wall with barely enough room for two chairs. I’ve just got settled with my long black- no syrups or milk, just plain caffeinated goodness- when I spot another patron searching the tables. My eye is drawn to him instantly, although I couldn’t tell you exactly why, other than the way he looks out of plac