Christmas Wishes (novella) (8 page)

When the music stopped, the silence was hopelessly profound. Her body became her own again and she felt the old stiffness behind her left knee and the too tight strap of her shoe.

She looked at Dan, still standing where Trevor had put him, but studying her as though he’d never met her before. She looked at Scott – surely he’d noticed something odd just happened – but he only had eyes for Dan, critical eyes.

She shook her head to try to reclaim her scorched senses and when she walked across to the stereo, she thought her legs might give way on her and spill her on the wooden floor.

Dan’s eyes never left her and a flood of self consciousness coursed through her, replacing the earlier feeling of joy with embarrassment. That was too much inspiration for a trial run. She could’ve just walked it through; there was no reason whatsoever to have danced like that, not for Dan, he’d have no idea of the technique he was seeing. Scott might’ve enjoyed it, the freedom and clarity of it, but Scott would’ve been annoyed she didn’t dance like that for him.

“What do you think?” said Scott, but not waiting for her reply. “You’re a good physical match and he does look the part. Of course, you’ll have to do all the work, girlfriend, but assuming he can at least do what he did then, we might be able to pull this off.”

Afterwards, Alex would wonder what she’d said in reply; she was already thinking it might be better to abandon this idea before it took on its own life and required her to reorganise hers.

He felt like he’d been hit by a train.

The shock to his chest was palpable, as though something steel hard and lightning sharp had ripped through him, leaving him open and raw and aching hot with sensation. His jaw dropped, his lids lowered, his breathing was suddenly laboured, and every muscle was tense with anticipation.

And despite the impression that he’d been shoved backwards at a great rate, staggering from the sheer force of the impact, he was standing stock still, statue still, shop window dummy still, just like he’d been told to.

He had no idea what just happened, why it felt like there was fire in his fingertips and his blood was circulating four times faster than normal, why he could hear bells ringing deep inside his head…

Maybe he was sick, this was a stroke or an aneurysm, come on suddenly with no warning and pushing him so far off balance he was electrified. He needed Google to check for the symptoms because maybe that explained his unexpected inability to speak or think clearly.

He had no idea how long Scott had been talking at him, so obviously his hearing was blown as well. It was her hand placed softly on his arm that brought him back, rushing back, and her honey voice saying his name that snatched him into the present again.

He snapped his mouth closed and made some sound, more a grunt than anything intelligible, and she turned away. Shit, she thought he was a Neanderthal and he’d just proven it. He ran a hand through the tangle of his hair and pushed a breath out, turning to look at Scott.

“Can you do that again, caveman?”

“Ah...?”

“Don’t over-think it. You either can or you can’t.”

“I don’t know what I did.”

Scott groaned, “You were perfect. Who’d have guessed, straight out of the box, never been used. You just have to do exactly what you did then and everything will be rainbows.”

‘Rainbows!’ What was this tool talking about? He couldn’t do that again; he wouldn’t live through the intensity of it. How was it she appeared so unaffected?

She was over by the stereo, nonchalantly selecting the next track, her long dark ponytail swinging over her shoulder, cascading across her elegantly slender neck. She had her extraordinary pale amber eyes down on the screen, leaning forward slightly, a delicious arch in her back, one long, well muscled leg in front of the other.

She looked real and natural, made of ordinary flesh and bone, where only a minute ago she’d seemed entirely illusory, like air, like desire given life in the form of an exotically beautiful girl.

He looked at Mitch and Fluke, sitting on the floor over against the mirror. They were both grinning at him like circus clowns. They must have felt it too then, or seen her change form and become something supernatural.

“Dan!”

“Sorry, Scott – what?”

“We’re going to do it again.”

“No, I...”

“Ok, take a minute.”

He glanced at Alex, now discussing something with Scott, a bright smile animating her face. He might as well have been insect repellent for all the impact he had on her. He shook his head to try to clear it and walked across to the boys.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, mate,” said Fluke.

“Did you see it too?” He heard how utterly dazed and insanely stupid he sounded.

“Nope?”

“Mitch?”

“Nah, you’re the one got stung.”

“I don’t know what just happened.”

Mitch laughed, but not unkindly, and jostled Fluke. “You’re in trouble, Dan.”

“But I haven’t done anything. I just stood there like they told me to.”

“Yeah, you did something.”

Dan turned to Fluke, always the ‘go to’ for tricky things. “What did I do?”

“I think you might have taken the plunge, mate.”

“What are you talking about?”

“She’s the one.”

“What?”

“She’s the one.”

“What one?”

Mitch jumped in, “Some pissed off angel in a nappy shot you in the fat head with a laser beam.”

“Be serious!”

“I am. She just hit you for six, Dan. You’re gone.”

Dan looked at Fluke to verify the emergence of this horror, both hands up as though to ward off the danger, to bounce the dirty truth of it away.

“Yeah,” said Fluke, “Your dog days are over bar how fast she tells you to fuck off and how long you stay depressed about it.”

As my eyes moved over Arthur Roper through the two-way mirror, it occurred to me the saying was true. It really was hard out there for a pimp.

Roper sat on a ratty bed in a ratty room in a ratty brothel in Bangkok, haggling with a bored looking woman for a discount on her services. The woman wore a dirty blonde wig and a white spandex cat suit several sizes too small. Her scarlet lips were pressed to thin lines, as if she’d gotten Roper’s measure and found him a quart short. Who could blame her? If my job required me to wear an outfit that gave me a painful looking camel-toe, I’d be unimpressed by life as well. Not to mention having to touch individuals like Roper. Personally, I’d need a flea bath after touching such a rodent. And touch him I knew I’d have to. Retrieval jobs were never easy. In my experience, no thief ever likes giving up their ill-gotten goods and they always need some encouragement.

Most of the time my jobs were security work, retrievals, sometimes even an exorcism or two. Here, in the Outlands, maybe I’d be called a mercenary. Back home, in The Weald, I was called a Runner. My work brought me into contact with all sorts of scum and Arthur Roper was no exception. Back home, past the tollbooths that guarded the entryway into the hidden world of The Weald, Roper ran a couple of low-budget brothels. Roper wasn’t a nice pimp; I’d seen his handiwork on a couple of women’s faces and it was the kind of hurt that never healed quite right. But now, this predator was my prey, and I was damned good at what I did.

I read the dirty blonde’s lips as they worked around what looked like imaginative profanities, and wished there was sound in the cramped viewing room. The click of a latch sounded behind me and a noxious vapour of cheap perfume filled the room. A thick voice spoke. “I don’t need this trouble. I want him gone.”

Turning my head, I saw Norma, the owner of the brothel leaning against the closed door. Her faced was scrunched as tight as her steel-blue perm and she wore a lemon-yellow velour tracksuit. Like Roper, she was otherkin: a crossbreed of the mystic races. Norma was lucky that she could pass for human, magic and glamour spells didn’t work for long beyond The
Weald. From the uneven shape of her ears and the slope of her nose, I guessed that after mostly human blood, she had some elf and maybe a sprinkling of hobgoblin thrown in.

Roper wasn’t as lucky as Norma. A low-slung baseball cap couldn’t hide his diseased skin, crusty warts and piggy nose. As far as otherkin went, Roper was one ugly bastard.

“He says I owe him money.” Norma’s voice was like dark treacle in my ears; rich and sweet. I didn’t know Norma myself, but she knew my boss, Gideon, and his business well enough to be on the lookout for Roper; she had sent Gideon the tip Roper would be here tonight.

“He asks for too much,” Norma continued. “My debt to him is half what he claims. He would take everything I’ve worked so hard for. He tells me if I don’t pay, he’ll tip off the authorities in Harken City with where I am.”

I heard the hint and made a show of thinking. As well as a pimp, Roper worked for Joseph Daleman, a loan shark nicknamed The Hacksaw. If Roper disappeared, Daleman might come looking. That wouldn’t have been a big deal in itself; trouble was I owed Daleman money and who wanted to remind him of that?

My fingers absently traced the familiar grooves of the carved goat-head at the top of my cane. The brothel was in the Bang Phlat district and I could hear the pulse of the city outside: spluttering tuk-tuk’s, bright laughter of tourists and street vendors calling to them.

“I could discourage him.” I shifted my feet to take the weight off my lame right leg. “For an extra fee, of course.” While Gideon had rules about how to conduct business, I had never had a problem with making some extra money on the side.

“Of course.” Norma stood alongside me and I swallowed as her perfume engulfed me like a poisonous gas. “What’d he do?” she asked in her slow voice. “To get the attention of Blackgoat Watch?”

“Client business.” I tried to discreetly block my nose. Roper’s crime was stealing a satchel from someone with enough wealth to fund my trip out of The Weald. The satchel contained things of sentimental value, and the client was happy to pay whatever it took for its return.

“I heard you like to be called Chopper now days,” Norma said.

My smile melted and my fingers clutched for the charm that usually sat around my neck before I remembered it was broken. I bit back a curse. I’d heard the nickname too and wished I knew who had started it. I’d been assisting at an exorcism a month ago, and it had ended very, very badly. I mean, behead just one client and suddenly everyone’s a comedian.

Sensing my mood, Norma changed the subject. “But tell me, how fares life in Harken? I hear tales of more violence than usual.”

The hair on the back of my neck prickled. I narrowed my eyes at her and Norma’s aura flickered in the dim light. A flame of orange blinked around her head; it tasted like a bitter pepper on my tongue. She was an anxious woman, hiding secrets.

Throwing her an easy smile, I flashed my dimples. I reminded myself she was a valuable snitch and to be nice. There weren’t many citizens of The Weald living in the Outlands, where the modern world beckoned with conveniences like electricity, phones and emails.

“How long have you been here now?” I narrowed my eyes again. “Eight years?”

Norma’s aura flushed forest green as she prepared to lie. I blinked a few times, clearing my vision. I didn’t need to know much more about Norma. I’d gotten what I’d come for.

“Maybe more like five.” She raised a hand to smooth her hair. “Had me a little pie shop in Applecross. Got into some trouble with the law, so I moved here. I blend in easy enough, which is a blessing.”

I didn’t ask her to elaborate. Her story was common enough. The Outlands were a common hiding place for criminals from The Weald. “Business as usual in Harken,” I said. I watched as Roper tried to turn on the charm, a sickly sweet smile on his face, and continued. “I heard the Council of Ten are trying to pass a bill to legalise steam technology again.”

“That old chestnut.” Norma shook her head. “The old families will never allow it.” There was a pause, then she asked, “Did you hear about the Regulator who did all that killing in a beserker rage? Rumours say he fled to the Outlands.”

“You sure hear well, for someone hiding out,” I said absently. Roper was now trying to convince his woman of his prowess. Maybe he thought she should pay him. The woman didn’t look convinced. I hoped she was going to kick him in the balls and save me the trouble. Norma didn’t answer me, so I just shrugged. “I read something about it in the street press. Don’t know much else. Regulators have nothing to do with me.”

“Nephilim.” Norma spat on the floor. “Filthy beasts.”

Silently agreeing with her and wondering why she would spit on her own floor, I watched as Roper started fumbling with his zipper. “I’ll need some privacy.”

Norma moved away, velour thighs making a swishing sound. “Try not to get blood on the carpet. I have to pay the cleaners extra for that.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“And those side tables weren’t cheap. If you’ve got to break something, use the lamp.”

“Fine.”

With a humphing sound and more rustling of cheap fabric, Norma left me alone, the door clicking shut behind her.

I smoothed back my hair, admiring my new clothes in the reflection of the two-way mirror before me. I had managed to squeeze in some shopping and Bangkok was perfect for my tight budget. The spoils included a pencil skirt with a sexy leg slit and a white blouse with a sweetheart neckline. I tried not to notice the straining buttons on the blouse, or the fact the skirt was a little snug. I was broad-hipped and busty, but had always managed to keep a respectable weight with a diet of gin and cigarillos. I knew my size, and there was no way I was going up. A small voice reminded me I was a stress eater and that the last month had not been kind. I told the voice to shut up and sucked in my stomach, adjusting my work-belt. It was made of leather and loaded with pockets that housed the various tools of my trade, complete with a throwing knife sheathed discreetly at the crook of back. A second throwing knife sat in a slim sheath inside my bra. I viewed knives the way I did shoes: a girl could never have too many.