Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
Objectively speaking – and romantically focused werewolves aside – Preternatural beings were fascinating to watch when they were angry.
Veins bulged on the foreheads and necks of trolls; dryads and nymphs both flushed bright green.
Furious magic often sparked at the tips of witches’ forefingers, and vampires turned so pale that you’d be forgiven for thinking they were on the verge of passing out.
‘It’s completely unacceptable,’ Chester Longchamps declared, his skin as white as parchment. ‘This is Coldstream. There must be a usable bellarmine jug somewhere!’
‘You’re certain that there are no vampires who have a spare?’ Mallory asked. After all, if the Clouded Map would help prevent future vampiric deaths they ought to be queueing up at Longchamps’ door to hand over any number of jugs.
‘If any of them do then they are selfish bastards who are refusing to give them to me.’ He paced up and down the length of his drawing room, his sharp heels scuffing the floor.
‘They don’t get it. They’re too complacent and they don’t think that they’re in danger.
That’s the trouble with longevity, you start to think that real death is something that happens to other creatures even when you’re faced with the prospect yourself. ’
Mallory sat on the long leather sofa, hoping that it would encourage Longchamps to stop pacing. ‘This creature,’ she said, ‘the one that’s killing vampires.’
He sent her a fearful look. ‘What of it?’
‘It truly terrifies you.’ She gazed at him. ‘Is it a threat to other Coldstream residents?’
‘Are you worried about your own longevity, Ms Nash?’
Her expression cooled. ‘I won’t deign to answer that.’
Chester Longchamps grimaced. ‘I apologise. That was uncouth.’ He sighed. ‘No, the only risk is to vampires. The creature is contained in an area that is safely away from anyone who doesn’t possess a thirst for blood, pale skin and an inability to appear in mirrors.’
‘Ah.’ That made sense. ‘It’s somewhere in the Understream, then.’
He stared at her. ‘How do you know about the Understream?’ A flicker of rage passed across his face. ‘Who told you?’
‘I broker favours and secrets,’ Mallory said patiently. ‘Of course I know about the Understream.’ The network of tunnels that sprawled beneath the city of Coldstream was a well-kept secret but she was good at her job and she’d known about it for years.
He wasn’t mollified. ‘Have you ever visited?’
‘I know what would happen if I tried to enter the Understream without permission.’ She tried to lighten the tone. ‘Written permission in triplicate, rubber stamped and notarised by a solicitor.’
Her attempt at weak humour fell flat. ‘You’d be lucky to escape with your life,’ Chester said darkly.
This time Mallory responded seriously. ‘I’m aware.’
The dangerous flash of white fangs showed that she hadn’t appeased him.
Mallory knew that vampires took the Understream seriously but she hadn’t appreciated quite how seriously.
For the first time, she felt she was on shaky ground; Longchamps could easily swing into sudden violence despite their blood contract and him needing her services.
‘Its existence is supposed to be a fucking secret.’ There was an ugly twist to his mouth.
‘It is a secret,’ she soothed. ‘Few people in Coldstream know about it.’
‘It had better fucking remain that way.’
‘You should know by now that I can be trusted.’
A muscle jerked in his cheek but then he relaxed slightly. ‘Fine.’ He paused for a long moment. ‘Although I can’t help wondering what other secrets are rattling around in that head of yours.’
This time, Mallory thought it would be prudent to stay quiet. Longchamps watched her for another moment or two then heaved in a breath and changed the subject. ‘Regardless,’ he said, ‘I cannot find anyone who can give me a bellarmine jug, even on loan. You will have to find one.’
‘I told you that I’ve already tried every witchery store I can think of, and I don’t have any contacts who…’
Instantly his face filled with rage again. ‘You will find me a bellarmine jug so I can take possession of the Clouded Map,’ he spat. ‘Or there will be consequences. Terrible consequences. You are supposed to be good at this, Ms Nash. That’s why I hired you.’
Temperamental bastard. Mallory drew herself up. ‘I am good at this. As per the terms of our contract, I will do my best to find a jug. However—’
He didn’t allow her to finish her sentence. ‘You’d better find one.’ Chester Longchamps turned his back and made it very clear that their meeting was over.
‘This is why you shouldn’t deal with vampires,’ Boris told her. ‘They’re mercurial, dangerous and given to ripping out your throat at a moment’s notice.’
‘My throat is fine, thank you very much,’ Mallory said, despite still feeling disturbed by her meeting with Longchamps. She’d dealt with scary clients before and she knew how to hold her own, but there had been a brief moment when she’d genuinely feared he would attack her.
She shivered. All she had to do was try her hardest to find a bellarmine jug and she’d have completed her side of the bargain. She’d performed plenty of difficult favours in the past and she wouldn’t let a piece of damned earthenware thwart her. ‘It will be fine,’ she said aloud.
Boris shot her a dubious glance. ‘Are you trying to persuade me or yourself?’
She ignored him. ‘We can’t get hold of a jug from a store but we’re hardly out of options. Who else do we have from the witches who owes a favour?’
The spriggan pursed his lips. ‘There’s Alan North. He has a finger in lots of pies and he owes you two full favours.’
Mallory nodded. ‘True. I heard some reliable whispers that his coven is considering putting in a rival bid for the tram network, which will certainly put the proverbial cat among the pigeons. But I doubt he has a bellarmine jug. He’s new power, his family weren’t original Coldstream settlers, he’s not connected to the Council and he has several ancestors who were squibs.
I doubt he has anything like a real bellarmine jug in his possession – but find out, just in case. ’
‘Freda Vargas, then?’ Boris suggested. ‘Her lineage is longer – she might have inherited a jug.’
Mallory nibbled her bottom lip. ‘Try her. And I’ll speak to Salty Miller. The druids wouldn’t typically have a use for one but there’s a chance that he might have one lying around. He’s that sort of person.’
‘His slate is clean,’ Boris reminded her. ‘His contract was fulfilled on both sides last year.’
‘That’s okay. I reckon he’d be amenable to opening a new one, especially if it’ll benefit him in the future.’
‘You’ll need to line your stomach before you go,’ he warned.
Mallory pulled a face. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I’ve not forgotten what he’s like.’
‘Last time your hangover lasted four days.’
She shuddered at the memory ‘Unfortunately, I haven’t forgotten that either.’
Mallory didn’t usually venture out during a full-moon event.
When she’d first moved to Coldstream and been far braver and more foolish, she’d wandered the streets during a full moon and ended up cornered by two young werewolves in full rampage mode.
They’d trapped her down an alleyway and taken great delight in nipping her several times.
Although they’d only caused a few bruises and had quickly grown bored with her, it had been a terrifying experience for a young human woman with little Preternatural understanding.
Although she’d been born in the English countryside, Mallory had moved to the city of Glasgow with her parents in her teens.
As a sixteen year old in a large unfamiliar city, she had quickly learned how to hold her own and she had been used to dealing with raucous partygoers, but werewolves with huge paws, sharp teeth and moon-invoked bloodlust were a different matter.
It had been a sobering night that she’d vowed never to repeat.
She was a very different person now, and Salty Miller was leaving for New Orleans at the weekend. If she didn’t speak to him immediately it could be months before she saw him again. She was fortunate he’d managed to find any time for her at all.
She was carrying two vials of wolfsbane, one in each pocket, and was wearing plain dark clothing that was very different to her usual attire.
Black would help camouflage her as she traversed the moonlit streets, and the tight-fitting leggings and top would make it easier if she needed to run.
She’d tied her bouncy brown curls back and shoved them beneath a black cap.
Under other circumstances, she’d have passed for a cat burglar or a ninja but all she really wanted to do was pass unnoticed.
She’d agreed to meet Salty at a druid bar on Hirsel Street.
It wasn’t a particularly friendly place unless you had blue tattoos, and its patrons would be even more on edge than usual given the time of the month, but there’d been no point trying to persuade him to meet elsewhere.
If she wanted to talk to him, she had to agree to his terms.
At least Hirsel Street was less than a half a mile from her flat on Crackendon Square, and even allowing for packs of howling werewolves it was little more than a ten-minute walk.
Slipping out at dusk also helped; although some werewolves would already be roaming the streets, it was early enough to avoid them.
As long as she wasn’t too late leaving Hirsel Street to return home everything would be fine. She hoped.