Poison City (15 page)

Bless the water for me.

She smiles.
I think not.

Why?

I only perform blessings for my people.

Oh. How do I become one of your people?

The smile widens.
Why, you must give yourself to me. A sacrifice.

Isn’t all the blood I’m leaking enough?

No. I require . . . a fuller commitment. Do that and you attach yourself to me for the rest of your life, Gideon Tau. You will be mine, and I yours.

A fuller commitment.

I have a horrible feeling I know what that is.

Yemanja floats towards me and strokes my face gently. Her fingers are like little pleasurable electric shocks. I stare into her eyes, eyes as dark as the deepest ocean trench. Filled with the primeval darkness we all crawled from.

Well? What will it be?

Let’s be realistic here. It’s not as if I have much of a choice. It’s either give in and let them kill me, or I take matter into my own hands. There are no other options. I’m outmatched. Whoever is behind this wanted to get information and then kill me, so they sent a team big enough to do that. No messing about.

Yemanja floats backwards, receding into the darkness. I reach out for her, but something’s wrong. My throat is on fire. My chest feels tight. My entire body is in hideous, agonizing pain.

I open my eyes, feel the salt water stinging them. Water laps up my nose.

Then I’m dragged back out of the shallows. Flipped over and lifted up. Staring into the face of the Matchstick Man. It tilts its head to the side.

I sigh. Might as well get it over with.

‘Come on then, you wannabe blood licker.
Nosferatu
was a shit movie. Christopher Lee can’t act. You’re all pathetic. Scared of garlic? Do me a fucking favour.’

Then, just to get my message across, I lift my hand and stick my thumb in its eye, gouging as deep as I can.

The Matchstick Man snarls in pain and fury and drops me to the sand. I manage to keep my feet beneath me. ‘Do your worst, laughing boy.’

The Matchstick Man lashes out. A lunging pain in my neck. A sudden wind on my throat. Cool air caressing muscles that are not meant to be exposed.

Blood bubbles out of my shredded throat, pouring down my chest.

I smile.

And collapse back into the ocean.

The waves pull me out. I’m turned over by the current, staring into the dark nothing of the sea. I taste metal in the water. My blood. It’s cold. Freezing. I can’t see anything. Darkness closes in on my mind. I feel a sudden panic. This is it. I’m dead. But I don’t want to die. I’m pissed off it happened this way. A stupid ambush after a night out drinking. Pissed off I wasn’t prepared. Pissed off at everything, basically.

Your life doesn’t flash before you when you die. You just realize what a complete prick you’ve been. How small a difference you’ve actually made in the world.

Then Yemanja is floating before me. She touches me and the pain winks out. Vanishes. She comes closer, her hands caressing my face. I’m drawn into her eyes. Can’t look away as she leans in and her lips brush mine.

A burst of freezing heat. My body jolts. My skin tingles. Every nerve end on fire. Her tongue darts softly into my mouth, touches mine.

I try to pull closer but then the touch is gone and she’s floating backwards again.

You are mine now, Gideon Tau. And my blessing is yours.

My wand is in my hand. The blackness recedes and once again I’m floating face down in the sea. But I feel refreshed. Like I’ve slept for twenty hours straight. I hesitantly reach up with my free hand and touch my throat. The wound is gone. My arm is healed.

Yemanja has claimed me. She is my goddess now.

I smile and push myself to my feet. I’ve floated far enough out that the ocean comes up to my hips. I start wading back to shore. The Matchstick Man and his Smilers are walking away.

‘Hey!’ I shout. ‘I haven’t finished with you yet!’

They turn. I hear their hisses of fury and the Smilers come for me, loping on all fours.

I raise the wand like a conductor and the seawater obeys my summons. It rises in a wave behind me, a wall of dark, ancient water.

Blessed
water.

Holy water.

I flick my wrist and the water surges past me, parting around my body and engulfing the Smilers in a mini tsunami. Their shrieks of pain and terror echo across the beach as the water coats their skin, gets in their mouths, down their throats.

The Smilers fall to the sand, rolling, howling. Their skin is sloughing off their bodies, dropping away in huge, peeling chunks. Their fluids pool around them, leaking and soaking into the sand.

Their cries grow weaker, turn into mewling whines. Foul smelling smoke wafts into the air.

I peer through it and see the Matchstick Man making a break for it.

I start running, sprinting across the beach. I flick my hand and the water comes with me, a surging wave that keeps pace to either side.

The Matchstick Man glances over its shoulder, sees me coming. It trips, falls to its knees.

I stop and let the water carry on. It smashes into the creature, sending it tumbling across the sand. It pushes itself to its knees and just stares at me as its skin slides off its face. All of it just . . . melting away like it was burning beneath a blowtorch.

‘I will see you soon,’ it says, its voice a wet gurgle. ‘The war . . . the war is coming, Mr Tau.’

A final puff of cloying smoke, and the Matchstick Man’s head falls from its neck, hitting the sand and collapsing to sludge.

Chapter 8

New discovery: being stalked and then murdered by a pack of psycho, slit-faced vampires makes a person a bit twitchy and paranoid.

Who’d have figured?

Physically, I feel fine. Great even. But psychologically? Not so good. I can feel those claws ripping skin off my back, gouging out my throat. I keep reliving the utter, body-freezing pain of it.

I died. I felt my presence slip away into the water, the blackness coming to claim me. Not many people come back from that. Which is something, I suppose. A topic for the next dinner party.

I crouch in the shadows of a palm tree, checking both ways to make sure there are no more surprises waiting in store. I keep expecting another attack. I’m checking faces, eyes, worried that the late-night revellers are just waiting for me to step out of cover.

I can’t stay here all night, though. I force myself to move, jogging across the esplanade and onto the sidewalk bordering the hotels and flats. People swerve to avoid me, staring at me with wide eyes.

I glance down.

Then stumble to a stop.

‘God-fucking-
dammit
!’

A woman squeals in fear and scurries away from the crazy man standing in the street swearing. Screw her. That’s another suit ruined. Ripped to shreds and covered in blood and vampire death-jizz. I need to take out some insurance or something, because this is just getting ridiculous.

I straighten up and force myself to calm down. I need to get home. Need to reassess and decide on my next move. Whatever it is, it’s going to have consequences. Big ones. Kincaid is –
was
 – a friend of the Division. The vampires have long been supporters of the Covenant, and for his subjects to so easily break it and attack a member of Delphic Division is pure insanity. They’re calling down the wrath of the entire SA supernatural police force onto their heads.

I mean, there’s a chance he didn’t know about what went down. But if so, that raises a whole shitload of questions about him not controlling his subjects. But if he
did
know about it, it means he’s involved in Armitage’s death.

I really hope he’s not. I actually looked on him as a bit of a friend.

But . . . another thing to think about. The killer. The big guy from the mountains. If Kincaid
is
involved, does that mean he knows who the man is? Can Kincaid give me a location? The name of the man who killed Cally?

I make it back to the Windemere building without collapsing, vomiting, or killing anyone in a fit of paranoia, stagger through the glass doors and up to my flat. I stumble inside and slam the door, locking everything. Grab a bottle of Glenmorangie from the top of the fridge and gulp some down.

I wince as it hits my stomach, lean on the counter, breathing heavily.

The dog looks up from his chair. ‘Good night?’

‘No.’

‘Christ, you’re not still moping about Armitage, are you? You have to move on. The past is in the past.’

‘It only happened twelve hours ago!’

‘Oh.’ Pause. ‘It feels longer. So what’s bugging you?

‘I was just attacked by a pack of Smilers and a Matchstick Man.’

The dog tilts his head to the side, puzzled. ‘But . . . the Covenant . . .’

‘Yeah. I know. Seems a lot of orisha don’t really hold with the Covenant anymore.’

‘How did you get away from—?’

‘I didn’t.’ Swallow. Wince. ‘It ripped my throat out. I died.’

‘Oh. You look pretty healthy—’

‘Yemanja brought me back. But only after I sacrificed myself to her.’

‘And she killed them?’

‘No. She blessed the ocean water and I used it to destroy them.’

The dog turns back to the TV. ‘There you go then. All’s well that ends well.’

I just stare at him, unsure if he’s being genuine or trying to wind me up.

‘You’re supposed to be my guide,’ I say, deciding to just move on. ‘Have you heard anything about the Covenant no longer holding?’

‘Nope. Not a thing.’ He doesn’t look away from his movie, but half-glances my way when I don’t reply. ‘It’s worrying,’ he adds.

‘Gee, you think?’ It’s a waste of time. Sarcasm is lost on the dog. Or he simply ignores it. Not sure which.

My phone is ruined from the seawater. I head into my room and dig out one of my older models (I’m a serial upgrader). I take the sim card out of the ruined phone and wipe it down, making sure there’s no salt left anywhere. Then I insert it into the older phone, hook it up to my laptop, and restore all my contacts from the backup.

I grab my iPad while it’s doing its thing, log into GHOST, and scroll through the entries for Kincaid’s number. All orisha who have contact with the Division have their details listed. It’s a voluntary thing, so those that give us their numbers are generally friendly. Or at least neutral.

I find his number and dial it on the landline. The phone rings for a long time before it’s finally answered.

‘Talk,’ says a voice.

‘Kincaid,’ I say. ‘Long time no speak. It’s Gideon Tau.’

Silence.

‘Kincaid?’

‘Yeah, sorry. What can I do for you, my man?’

‘I need to see you.’

‘Might not be a good idea.’

Is it my imagination, or is he sounding nervous? Not sure, really. I’ve never talked to a nervous vampire before. He doesn’t sound right, though. I’ll say that.

‘Unavoidable,’ I say. ‘Things have been going down the past couple of days that have got Division worried. Remember our deal?’

As well as helping Kincaid out with that attempted coup, he’s also friendly to us because he’s on probation. He’s allowed freedom as long as he doesn’t try to enslave the government of the country. Again.

‘Yeah, I remember.’

‘Good. We need to meet.’

‘Fine.’

‘You still at that old warehouse in the city?’

‘No. I mean, yeah, but I can’t meet you there. Look, can’t we do this over the phone?’

‘Sorry. This is face to face only. Some of your subjects have been a bit naughty.’

‘Christ, fine. Look, you know the BAT centre?’

I shudder. A cafe/cocktail bar for hipsters and folk music. ‘I know
of
it.’

‘A boat will be waiting for you there.’

‘A boat? I don’t like the ocean, Kincaid.’ I look around guiltily as I say this, hoping Yemanja isn’t somehow able to hear me.

‘That’s the deal, London. I’m taking a risk meeting you. This has to be done on the down-low.’

I chew on my lip for a moment. That doesn’t sound good. ‘Fine. But I need a guarantee of safe passage.’

Silence on the line.

‘Kincaid?’

‘Yeah.’ Another pause. ‘Fine. You have safe passage. But only you. No one else from Division.’

‘Guaranteed? In the name of Ekimmu?’ Ekimmu was a Sumerian vampire, the first of their kind. It’s sort of like swearing on the bible. But a lot more serious.

‘Guaranteed. On the name of Ekimmu.’

‘See you soon.’

I hang up. The dog is watching me with that look on his face.

‘You . . . ah . . . heard all that?’

‘I
heard
it. I don’t
believe
it.’