Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Monday night drinks came about when my colleagues, Una and Pierre, decided that Mondays were so dismal, we needed something to douse the start-of-the-week blues, and although I have no intention of telling them about my meetings with Valdemar, I crave some normality.
I’ve worked with Una at the Gazette for five years. She joined the team wanting to be a reporter, had the drive and the nose for it, but her wildly opinionated nature kept her from producing a story we could print. The first piece she submitted for the Gazette was about a local man who had gone missing, but instead of writing an objective piece on the matter, she turned in a full-page article implicating his girlfriend of foul play. Needless to say, her journalist career never took off, but her photography is out of this world, which led to her being hired as a photographer.
Pierre has been with us for a year and is the baby of the team, being both the youngest at twenty-two and also the newest recruit. He’s still finding his feet, a position I remember only too well. He’s nice, a little quiet, but seems to be immune to Una’s pit-bull nature.
The three of us gravitated to one another, though I’m not sure why, as Una can be feisty, so you have to know how to handle her, and Pierre is quite reserved. And me? Well, let’s just say that I’ve never had a queue of friends all lining up to spend time with me. When I was younger, I had Ed, and he had me. We never needed anyone else. And by the time I got older, no one wanted to be friends with the pale twin who carried an air of death around with her. Which is probably the only reason Una warmed to me when she started working at the Gazette , as she’s a total goth chick.
Tonight’s venue is Una’s choice, a newly opened wine bar on Pym Street named Bon Bon. Because of its name, I’d imagined pastel walls and a sweet scent in the air along with a casual atmosphere—not the type of place Una likes to hang out—but I couldn’t have been more wrong. The bar is cloaked in darkness, low-hanging lights casting the tables in a red glow, mauve velvet seat covers, and melancholy-looking staff all giving vibes of dark chocolate truffles rather than pink sugary sweets, which is definitely her preferred environment.
“How did you get lumbered with the college story?” Una asks as she arrives at our table, laden with a pitcher of something looking more like a potion than a drink. Her black hair appears almost blue tonight, the half-up, half-down style bunched into two pigtails on either side of her head conjuring an image of a goth poodle.
Pierre takes the tray from her and hands out the glasses as I play mother and pour the drinks. Music is playing, but it doesn’t seem to have a tune, just a beat and a rhythm. This is not a bar I would have come to if Una hadn’t suggested it. The black walls and crimson lampshades are stifling.
“There was nothing better on offer,” I reply, eyeing the contents of the pitcher with curiosity.
“I would have gladly swapped with you, Evangeline,” Pierre says, his wavy brown hair flopping into his watery eyes. Pierre’s sun-kissed skin and umber hair boast exotic roots, yet his origins change daily depending on what mood he’s in. I’ve heard him tell people he’s of Mexican descent, yet on the same day tell someone else he’s Italian. When I quizzed him about this, he told me that his mother never disclosed the race of his father, so he likes to cover all bases.
He takes a long swig of his drink. “God, what is this?” He glares at Una, his mouth morphing widely like that of a frog as he winces at the glass.
“Just a little pick-me-up cocktail. Sounds like you both need it.” Una grins, her black lipstick looking even darker against her pearly white teeth. Her goth subtype changes regularly and can be anything from nerd goth to faerie goth depending upon her mood. Tonight, I think she’s gone for traditional goth with heavy eyeliner, pale foundation, and a corset top that’s pulling her in and making her appear taller than her five feet two inches.
“I can’t argue with that.” Pierre grips his glass like he’s debating with himself whether he hates the drink or loves it. “I got stuck covering the rat infestation on Arnheim Street.”
“I think I would rather have covered the rats than the college story,” I tell him, and he raises a thick eyebrow at me.
“Really?” he says.
“The college story was a dead end. A parent called in and told us the headteacher had been suspended for the suspected embezzlement of school funds. After a little digging, I found out he hadn’t been suspended at all but had handed his notice in on grounds of ill health. Not really the story of the century,” I explain.
“Still had to be better than rats.” Pierre’s eyes narrow as he sips his drink, the jury still out.
“You two sound like you struck gold, as I’ve spent the day tagging along with Dupin on a sighting of the infamous singer Morella,” Una tells us.
Dupin remains our top reporter, and Captain thinks the sun shines out of his arse. Continually given the best leads, Dupin keeps on shining, whereas the rest of us are left withering in his shadow. Una is our top photographer and would be up there with Dupin in Captain’s estimations if her look didn’t scare the life out of him. Despite her scary appearance and her sharp bite, she can be a softie, but you have to get to know her to see this side of her. It took me a while to see the real Una under the all-black facade.
“Rumour had it Morella was spotted at an elite gym down near the lakeside,” she continues.
“I take it she was a no-show?” I enquire, sampling my drink and grimacing at the burn as the liquid snakes down my throat.
“Oh, she showed up all right, but she was more mozzarella than Morella,” Una laughs.
I snigger and shake my head.
“I don’t get it,” Pierre says, his open mouth suspended as he glances from Una to me.
“She was a cheesy lookalike, and not even a good one. Blonde hair, blue eyes, big tits, but that’s where the similarity ended,” Una explains.
Pierre laughs, sticking a straw into his glass before offering me one.
“Thanks.” Leaning over the table, I pluck the straw from his hand. As I do, the cuff of my jacket skims the edge of my glass, sending it toppling over the table.
“Fuck.” Catching the glass, I avert a major spillage, but my sleeve is soaking.
“I have tissues.” Una stands, fumbling about in her skull-shaped bag before telling me she doesn’t have any after all.
“Don’t worry. I’ll go to the ladies.” I slip off my chair and head towards the washrooms.
I hadn’t thought the lighting could be any worse in this place, but as I near the rear of the bar, the lampshades give off a cardinal hue that makes the room feel like it’s draped in blood. Tables are replaced with booths, their occupants devoured by the depths of black leather upholstery and muted conversations.
The washroom is as opulent as the rest of the bar, with large gilded mirrors and red-and-black cubicles. I don’t waste any time rinsing my sleeve under tepid water and then drying it the best I can under the noisy hand dryer.
Heading back to our table, I pass the booths, and a female voice startles me.
“It’s you.”
I’m stopped in my tracks as Jacinta emerges from a booth, blocking my path.
Fuck.
If our last meeting is anything to go by, this is not a friendly hello.
“Jacinta.” It comes out as a whisper.
“ You don’t need to worry; I will deal with her.”
Valdemar’s words rattle through my head. But whatever he’s done or said—if anything—can’t help me here and now.
“This is the woman who was visiting Valdemar.” She jabs a finger at me as she speaks to the darkened booth. I can’t see who she’s talking to until a long leg emerges from the gloom, pulling a body into the swathe of red.
“Sit down, Jacinta,” a male voice says.
Jacinta suddenly seems like a pussy cat as I’m met with the coldest stare I’ve ever seen. He’s tall and thin, his grey shirt and dark jeans hugging his slender frame. His black hair is closely cropped, making his head appear as if it’s too large for his body, and his full lips do nothing to soften the brutality of his glare. Even against his dark skin, there’s no mistaking the raven tattooed on the back of his left hand.
“And you are?” His face doesn’t flinch as the words leave his mouth with an undertone that’s used to getting answers whether people want to give them or not.
“No one you know.”
My dad always said my cockiness would get me into trouble one day, and I’m wondering if today is that day as the Raven Hand narrows his eyes, sizing me up before laughing in my face.
Following his instructions, Jacinta has disappeared back into the depths of the booth, so now it’s just me and the Raven Hand.
“There’s more than one way for me to find out your name, lady,” he says.
“How about you tell me yours first?” I goad.
He licks his lips, a glint in his eye, and for a moment, I wonder if I have a death wish.
He quirks his eyebrow. “You don’t know who I am?”
From all the research I’ve done, I know he’s Jupiter Prospero, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of thinking he’s infamous enough to be a household name.
“I’ve no idea who you are,” I lie.
“I find that hard to believe, seeing as you’re visiting Valdemar Montresor. Unless you don’t talk to him during your visits. Is that it, lady? Do you have your mouth full when you go see him?”
His eyebrow arches, and my stomach coils. I’ve heard rumours of corrupt prison guards who, for a price, can arrange for special visits in private rooms, but I hadn’t considered that maybe it’s what Jacinta’s visits were for. Do the Raven Hands share such things?
“What do you want?” I finally ask.
“I want to know why you’re seeing Valdemar.”
“If he hasn’t told you, then it isn’t my place to do so.”
“Fuck, lady, you’re trying my patience.” His words feel like they hit my cheek, and I fight the urge to wipe them off. “I don’t see what the problem is. Any friend of Valdemar’s is a friend of mine.” He opens his arms wide as if wanting a hug.
“Then I’m sure if you ask him, he’ll tell you who I am and why I’m visiting him.” I’m not sure why my allegiance is to Valdemar, but it’s clear he’s not shared our arrangement with the rest of his flock, including his number two—and once they find out who I am, they may see me as a threat. “You’ll have to ask him. Now, if you please.” Easing past him, I catch an earthy scent with a hint of spice.
I march back to my table, my heart racing and my fists clenched.
Why hasn’t Valdemar shared our arrangement with his closest adviser? And if having Jacinta on my case isn’t bad enough, I now have Jupiter Prospero to contend with.