Chapter 28 Arabella
Arabella
Gideon: I truly am sorry about showing up for the auditions. I know that you’re sick of me.
But I’m not sorry we’re performing together, even though I know you’re going to use it to torture me.
I enjoy being tortured by you, ma petite déesse.
And I’m also not sorry that we’re now in business together. Welcome to the Sanctus family, my not-so-silent investor.
In the interests of full investor disclosure, I should let you know that as well as stealing from the vault, someone has been leaking information about Sanctus to the Conclave – like a teeny tiny security breach on the night of the Midnight Garden launch party.
I’ve determined the leak to be Paul Badica, and I’ve taken care of him. I thought you’d like to know.
I HURL THE PHONE AT THE WALL. It bounces off and skids across the tiles, the screen shattering. Cleo VII slithers to safety. There’s now a phone-corner-shaped dent in my brand new wall.
He’s not allowed to do this to me.
He’s not allowed to steal my revenge. Mine.
He’s not allowed to use that name, to remind me of that night.
Especially not tonight, of all nights. My Bloodeve.
I sink into my sofa.
I can’t think about Gideon. I can’t think about the man who sired me and how satisfying it was to carve him to pieces.
I have an issue to deal with. A songbird’s corpse sits on my coffee table, the word “MINE” scrawled with its blood by a careless finger.
I found it there when I came downstairs after my daysleep.
A brief message on the Sanctus app referred to another security glitch.
I don’t know how Badica did it, as he would have had to come during the day. He and his wife have a private Thrall, so I’m guessing that’s how. And if that Thrall has staff access to the security system, they could also be stealing from the vault…
All I know is Badica is about to find out what happens when someone tries to terrorise Arabella Lestrange—
My phone beeps. A text from one of my favourite clients in London.
It is done.
A satisfied smile plays across my face. Maybe Gideon hasn’t beaten me after all. Cleo VII coils herself into a ball beside me as I search through the Sanctus directory for a number. It’s answered after three rings. The male voice on the other end sounds cautiously optimistic.
“Who is this?”
“You know who it is, Paul Badica. Or should I call you Cardinal?”
“Arabella.” He pants into the phone. “I wondered when I’d hear from you.
Are you as excited as I am to relive our old times?
When I saw you had found a place in Sanctus, I thought it must be fate.
I’ll introduce you to all my friends. They’re already so excited to meet you.
You’ll be a rich woman with all the business we’ll give you. ”
“I’m already a rich woman.” I pat Cleo VII’s scaly back. “I just wanted you to know that I got your messages.”
“Messages? What messages?” He lowers his voice. “I have to be careful, so my wife doesn’t find out. I’m supposed to be a respectable man now.”
I can’t help the unladylike snort that escapes my mouth. I don’t have to be polite to men like him anymore. “As opposed to when you were a man of the cloth.”
Badica doesn’t catch my sarcasm. He’s speaking in a whisper, his voice strained with desire. “If you want to arrange a meeting next week, then send me a message on Sepulchrr. And send me photographs. You know the sort of thing I like. I’ll pay whatever you ask.”
Out the window, beneath the cool light of the full moon, I see members of the Sanctus security team rush past.
“That’s good to know, Paul, because my price is everything.”
“What?”
“I want everything you have, and I’m not asking. I’ve already taken it. Your accounts are empty. Check them now. You’ll see I’m not lying.”
“Arabella, what is this?” I hear frantic tapping as he searches the app. Paul’s tone changes. “You bitch. What have you done?”
“You made our private business public,” I say.
“And I haven’t forgotten how you terrorised my dancers after we kicked you out of La Petite Mort.
So I made your money mine. Well, I’m not certain it’s all your money, but that’s a conversation for when Gideon’s goons come knocking.
Oh, and since you collect antique erotica, you might be interested in some rather raunchy sketches from my personal collection that I’ve posted on Sepulchrr.
They already have several thousand Digs and Resurrections, and more every minute as people recognise the cardinal at the centre of the scenes.
My friend, the artist Berthe Morisot, had a real knack for capturing the realities of life in Montmartre. ”
“I never did anything to your dancers that they weren’t begging for, you crazy bitch,” he yells. “You can’t do this to me!”
“I already did.”
“Just wait a second.” His tone switches to pleading. In the background, I hear knocking. “It doesn’t have to go down like this. We can work something out—”
“The way you waited before you opened your mouth about me at Sanctus and defaced my property?” I sneer.
“I don’t think so. You may have known me on my back when my job required me to be sweet and demure, but don’t for one second underestimate me.
” The knocking becomes louder, more insistent.
“And you shouldn’t have underestimated Gideon Blake.
You may have heard rumours about the kind of man he was before he opened Sanctus.
Those rumours are true, and you broke his rules.
I suspect that’s the Sanctus security team.
I hear they’re all members of the Vega family. ”
“But I didn’t—”
I hear the splintering of Norwegian larch and harsh voices shouting. Paul Badica sobs into the phone.
“That will be them now. Goodbye, Paul.”
I hang up. A few moments later, the security team return past my windows, dragging a man in silver handcuffs. Paul Badica’s bloody face is visible beneath a shaft of moonlight.
I cross my legs, sipping my glass of blood and enjoying the show. Paul won’t be defacing my property or stealing from Sanctus ever again. Gideon may be a scoundrel, but he has some sense of justice.
And Paul Badica’s wealth has nicely refilled my coffers after buying this house. I may even do a good thing and drop a sizable chunk into the Sanctus construction account, since that’s probably where most of the funds came from.
Not because I care about Gideon. At all. But because I like living here, and I want to see it succeed.
As soon as I’ve pushed Gideon out and taken Sanctus for myself, I can get started on my ideas to improve this place.
I take another sip of blood. This is a decent vintage I opened for the occasion – a WWI British Soldier from the Sanctus cellar, full-bodied and earthy, like the mud of the trenches – but it would be even better fresh.
It’s been a long time since I’ve tasted fresh blood directly from the source.
I lived on it after La Petite Mort was destroyed, when I had no money and no other options.
And so, when I made a new fortune, I decided that I’d never again return to dragging victims from the street like a beast, supping my fill of drunks and addicts, tasting the sour notes of their vices in their blood.
Humans – consenting humans – on tap is very tempting.
It’s my Bloodeve. Maybe I deserve a treat.
My fingers hover over the Sanctus app and its list of Thralled staff members available for feedings. Sinead’s name is at the top of the list, with 82 5-star ratings. “Oozes sophistication with notes of lime, fresh pear and honeysuckle leading towards a succulent finish,” one review says.
Mmmm. Sounds divine.
But no, I don’t want to spend my Bloodeve sucking on the neck of a woman who dislikes me.
I scroll down and see Danny O’Hare’s name, with a 2.4-star rating. I’m about to click on his reviews when my doorbell rings.
Annoyance sours the blood on my tongue. I’m not expecting visitors.
I prefer to be alone on my Bloodeve. The only time I ever broke that rule was the night Gideon took me out on Sarah Bernhardt’s hot air balloon, and I won’t have a repeat of how that turned out.
No one in the Nevermore Coven would be able to breach Sanctus gates without me being alerted, so it must be someone on the estate.
I glance down at the Sanctus app, thinking I must have clicked on a Thrall order by accident. But no.
Who could be at my house? Is it the security team coming to tell me they’ve kicked out Paul?
Or another ex-client, here to make a nuisance of himself?
My gaze falls back to the dead bird on the table. The back of my neck prickles.
As my finger swipes through my phone, searching for the security feed, a movement out the window catches my eye. Something rustles in the bushes. A dark shape passes along the edge of my garden.
I gasp as the shape moves beneath a shaft of moonlight and I glimpse its form.
A wolf.
A giant wolf with a piece of jewellery dangling from its ear – a distinctive gold hoop with a cupcake on it.