Soul Trade (20 page)

They passed the iron fence on the other side from the Killigan house, and Pete found a dirt road winding back toward the village. The mist pressed in, keeping them hidden from all eyes, trailing spectral trails of moisture across Pete’s face and hair.

She walked quickly to keep pace with Donovan’s lanky city-dweller stride, praying silently that she wouldn’t be too late to keep Margaret from become just another white-eyed dead girl.

19.

“So, you and my son,” Donovan said, having kept quiet, by Pete’s count, for precisely two and a half minutes. “What’s happening there?”

Pete concentrated on her footsteps, digging the steel toes of her boots into the mud and gravel as hard as she could, pretending they were Donovan’s face. “Why don’t you ask him?”

“Not the sort of conversation you have during the first hour you see your
kid,” Donovan said. “So I’ll ask you instead, gorgeous: Are you two sleeping together, or is it an adorable sort of telly-friendly unresolved sexual tension gambit?”

Pete decided that she could see, after less than an hour with Donovan, why Jack’s mother had chosen to get stoned out of her mind while they were together. “I’ve got a better hideously rude non sequitur for you: After thirty-five
years, you show up now?” she countered. “What prompted you, exactly? Need a kidney?”

Donovan smirked at her. “Not hardly. I’d wager I’m in better shape than a man who spent half his adult life slamming smack into his bloodstream, even if he is my son.”

Pete went quiet at that. She hadn’t been sure how much Donovan knew. He didn’t seem aware of her talent, or the extent of Jack’s, and she was
happy to keep it that way.

“It was the sight,” Pete said. “The heroin helped keep it manageable. He thought it was the only way.”

“Until you came along?” Donovan said. “Love of a good woman and all that rot?”

Pete gave an involuntary snort of mirth. “Not hardly.”

The B road merged with the wider road into the village, and Donovan stopped walking, regarding the shifting mists before them.

“You’re observant, whatever else you are. Been here for a week and you’re right—I do know a little. Not much, but a little.”

“They’re not demons,” Pete said, and Donovan nodded.

“So what are they?” she asked.

He laughed. “If I knew that, I wouldn’t still be in this fucking back of beyond shitehole, would I?”

Pete wrapped her arms around herself. The Black stung her again, that odd strangled
feeling of wild magic directed into an unnatural channel.

“The magic is all wrong,” she said. “It feels like static on a telly, except it’s in my head.”

Donovan’s lip pulled up in a disconcerting imitation of Jack’s grin. There wasn’t any warmth to the expression, though—unlike Jack’s face, looking at Donovan’s was like looking at a great white shark, an apex predator devoid of anything recognizably
human.

“I have a feeling if we find out what’s causing
that
bit of ruckus, we’ll have solved the whole thing, Watson.”

“Not Holmes?” Pete said. She started forward, trusting Donovan at her back. It might be the last mistake she ever made, but she needed to draw him out so he would think things were fine when she hit him with her next verbal punch.

“You seem rather comfortable as the sidekick,”
Donovan said, walking beside her. “Just going by what I see.”

“I do hold Watson’s contempt for roundabout bullshit,” Pete said. “So why don’t you get down to what you really want to say to me, Donovan?”

Jack’s father lifted one dark eyebrow. “Which would be?”

“You’re not here for Crotherton,” Pete said. “You’re here for Jack and the Prospero Society.” She glanced at Donovan over her shoulder,
and the slight hitch in his gait told her she’d been right to voice her suspicions.

“What gave me away?” he asked at last, having the gall to look amused.

“Oh, let’s see,” Pete said, ticking her fingers. “Somebody from Jack’s past, so we’d feel an instant connection to you for good or ill. Showing up with perfect timing to save us from a problem you lot created. Agreeing to help me with only
the most pathetic of token protests.”

Donovan shook his head. Droplets of moisture had collected on the tips of his short hair, and they rolled down his face, giving the impression that even in the chill he was sweating. Or crying. Pete knew better, though. Sociopaths like Donovan Winter never sweated, never felt the prickle of a tear they didn’t manufacture themselves.

“I stand corrected,”
he said. “You are Holmes.”

“Left my violin at home,” Pete agreed. “But I do all right.”

“You got one bit wrong, though,” Donovan said. They walked through the green, which was empty and littered with garbage, crumpled sleeping bags, half-collapsed tents, and empty lager bottles. Pete kept her eyes out for any movement in the fog, but found none.

“Oh?” she asked, only half paying attention to
Donovan now. Morwenna had better pin a fucking medal on her, or better yet give her a fat stack of cash. Using Jack’s own father had been a master stroke on the Prosperians’ part. Who better to recruit Jack than the man he hated, yet most wanted to please?

“We didn’t do this,” Donovan said, sweeping his arm over the empty field. “Crotherton really was here of his own free will, looking for that
fat fuck Preston Mayflower. What he found, well…” He shrugged. “Who can say? But those things aren’t anything I’ve run across. Not demon, not spell-spawned. It’s like they come from someplace where magic doesn’t work right, and the longer I’m in Overton the worse it gets.”

“So I guess you won’t be saving us again if we run into more worms,” Pete said.

Donovan shook his head. “You saved yourself
back there, missy. I can’t throw around the flashy shite like you and my boy. The leg-locker is about the extent of it.”

“So you’re not the Prospero Society’s hard man?” Pete said, feigning disbelief. “Then why send you to talk us in? Haven’t you heard Jack and I are dangerous types?”

“From half of the hedge-hexers and kitchen witches in the UK,” Donovan said. “But when it comes to human mages,
I’m not worried. I’m more of a person to person sort of magic user.”

When Pete gave him a blank look, he spread his hands. “I’m a mind-bender, dear. I can make you think you love me, or you hate that bloke over there and want to punch him in the teeth.”

“You mindfuck people,” Pete said. “All at once, so much about you makes sense, Donovan.”

“Came in handy with Jack’s mum,” Donovan said. “You
ever try to convince a bipolar pill addict to calm down and give you the knife
without
magical powers of persuasion?”

“I appreciate you slipping that bit about her being a nutter in there,” Pete said. “Make me think you know all about my troubles with Jack and his sight.”

Donovan shot her a glare, the first expression she’d seen of his that Pete judged genuine. “I spent a lot of time dealing
with smooth talkers when I was a cop,” Pete said. “So if there’s a recruitment spiel, get to it. Otherwise, let me find Margaret and you can do whatever it is you came here to do.”

“Started out just getting you to come over to our side,” Donovan said. “Now, it’s finding out what’s going on here for the men upstairs.”

“I hate secret societies, and I hate sorcerers, and I hate deadbeat parents
more than the two of them combined,” Pete said, slowing as they reached the populated area of Overton. “So why the fuck, when I’ve already given the Prometheus Club the finger, would I consent to join Darth Vader and his merry band?”

“Because I’ve looked into you, Pete, and you don’t like to lose,” said Donovan. “And when the Morrigan makes her move on the daylight world, that’s exactly what
the Prometheans will do. They’re a Bic lighter in a hurricane. The Prospero Society is smart enough to realize you don’t beat the Morrigan by ordering her to stop all this nonsense and go back to her room. They know that you have to play dirty.”

He grinned at Pete again, and the shiver it sent up her spine had nothing to do with the chill mist. “I know that about you, too. I know you’ve flat
out made bargains with demons to get your way, Petunia. That’s the sort of dirty pool that plays very well among my colleagues.”

Pete didn’t want to look at him, so she did a quick sweep of the road. It was lined with cars and caravans, and Pete caught a flash of movement from behind a few. The guillible sods who’d come to the tent meeting that morning stumbled forth and glared suspiciously at
Pete and Donovan as they passed, unblinking eyes watching them until Pete finally glared back. “What’re they waiting for? A written invitation to eat our brains?”

“They can’t help it,” Donovan said. “It’s this place. This village. It works on you, makes you think strange things.” He cast a look down at Pete. “You must have noticed it, even only being here overnight. Had any bad dreams?”

Pete
returned his gaze steadily. He was fishing, and it didn’t take a former copper to see through him. “Slept like a baby,” she said. “Besides, prophetic visions are more Jack’s territory.”

“I know you’ll do anything to save him,” Donovan said. “That’s why eventually you’ll say yes to the Prospero Society. To whatever it takes.” His words, calm and soft, still cut, and Pete felt the salvo all the
way down to her bones. She didn’t bother snapping back. Men like Donovan lived for setting you off balance, and she was too sensible to play that game. If he wanted her to get defensive, proclaim her innocence, she wouldn’t. Because she wasn’t. She
had
made a deal with Belial—not just a Named demon but a Prince of Hell, for fuck’s sake—to save Jack from the Morrigan. What she’d resort to next
time, to keep Jack or Lily from the Hag’s darkness, she had no idea.

But Donovan was right—it would be whatever was necessary.

“How well does the mindfuck trick really work?” she asked, to turn her thoughts from the dark, raven-filled place where they’d wandered.

“I can’t keep all these bastards at bay, if that’s what you’re asking,” said Donovan. “But I can misdirect the ones around the brat
long enough for a snatch and grab.” He grinned. “Hope those short little legs can move if they have to.”

“Worry about your hex, not my legs,” Pete said. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you chatting up your son’s woman is poor form?”

“More than once. Can’t say it ever sank in, though,” Donovan said.

The Leroys’ semi-detached drifted into view, a wind ruffling the mist and drawing back the curtain.
Music still drifted from the open front door, but as they drew closer Pete heard the drone of a record stuck on the last five seconds, over and over. She stepped through the door and saw an old-fashioned turntable in the corner. Beer bottles and spilled food covered every surface, and flies clustered thickly, just as they had in the Killigan house.

“This whole place is rotten,” Pete murmured,
and jumped when she realized Donovan was just behind her.

“Top to bottom,” he agreed. “So where’s your little friend?”

“Not sure,” Pete said.
Please don’t be dead, Margaret.
“Carrie?” she called softly, not wanting to risk waking anyone who might be less than friendly. She’d been chased by enough creepy crawlers for one day.

A snore emanated from the sofa. Mr. Dumbershall lay on the cushions,
half on and half off. Vomit crusted his face, and the smell of ale was thicker than air. Pete pressed a hand against her nose to avoid retching. She needn’t have worried, though, because Donovan gagged, staggering back.

“Fuck me, is he dead?”

“No,” Pete said. She forgot that not everyone, mage or no, regarded dead bodies as ditchwater dull. Donovan’s wobbly expression did give her a tiny thrill
of superiority, though—if he tossed his guts like a first-year rookie, she’d be delighted.

Dumbershall shifted in his sleep and groaned, eyelids twitching. “Just drunk,” she told Donovan. Pete wouldn’t blame any of them for turning to drink, or worse, when they saw what was happening to their children.

“Suburban bacchanal,” said Donovan, surveying the ruins of the gathering, the stained carpet,
the mildewed wallpaper. “How sadly typical.”

“I’m sure you’re used to a better class of bacchanal,” said Pete. “So sorry to disappoint.” The stairs were narrow, and she kept her foot near the wall to avoid creaks or snaps that would alert anyone conscious to their entry.

“Never was really a Dionysian,” said Donovan. “Did attend an orgy once, in Blackpool, and met these twins who…”

Pete held
up her hand at a small exhalation of air very near her ear, over the squalling music from downstairs. “Did you hear that?”

At the crest of the stairs was a narrow closet, probably a dumbwaiter at one point, now closed off with a cheap folding door. Pete pushed it aside, and found Margaret and Carrie crouched on the floor, half-covered by hanging duvets and linens. Carrie gave a small cry, but
Margaret just rocketed forward and grabbed Pete around the waist. “Get me the fuck out of here,” she mumbled into Pete’s shirt.

Pete nodded, gesturing for Carrie. “Donovan, help her up,” she said.

“Gladly,” he said, extending a hand and a smile to Carrie. She took his hand and climbed shakily to her feet.

Pete almost thought they’d gotten away, when she saw a shadow at the foot of the stairs,
soon joined by a second, standing and waiting, perfectly immobile. In the sitting room, the record player screeched, needle skidding across the vinyl. Next to Pete, Margaret jumped, clinging to her even harder.

“Donovan,” Pete whispered. He came to her shoulder, Carrie clinging to him like a burr.

“Yeah, I see ’em,” he said. He moved around Pete and called down the stairs. “Hello, gents. No
need to get upset. Why don’t we all just gather ’round and have a drink and a laugh.” His voice was slow and soothing, far from the scratchy rasp Pete had gotten used to. She felt gentle waves of power roll over her, and a sense of well-being stole into her mind. Beside her, Margaret whimpered and shivered.

“What’s he doing?”

“Magic, luv,” Pete said, as Donovan jerked his head at them. She started
down the stairs with Margaret and Carrie. “Don’t worry about it,” Pete said. “We’re getting out of here.”