Vigil: Verity Fassbinder Book 1
Read Vigil: Verity Fassbinder Book 1 Online
Authors: Angela Slatter
Tags: #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Mystery, #Supernatural, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Crime, #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Fantasy, #Paranormal & Urban, #Crime Fiction
First published in Great Britain in 2016 by
Jo Fletcher Books
an imprint of Quercus Editions Ltd.
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
An Hachette UK Company
Copyright © 2016 Angela Slatter
Map copyright © 2016 Howell Illustration
The moral right of Angela Slatter to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Ebook ISBN 978 1 78429 405 2
Print ISBN 978 1 78429 402 1
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
You can find this and many other great books at:
www.quercusbooks.co.uk
Sourdough and Other Stories
The Girl with No Hands and Other Tales
Midnight and Moonshine
The Bitterwood Bible and Other Recountings
Black-Winged Angels
The Female Factory
(with Lisa L. Hannett)
Of Sorrow and Such
A Feast of Sorrows: Stories
To my David, whose heart is constant, even when he steals my food.
The city is not the city.
Though I do live in Brisneyland and have used it as the backdrop for
Vigil
, I must confess that I’ve played fast and loose with some details (I’m sorry, West End and I’m
really
sorry, Gold Coast). I’m a writer. It’s fiction. So I beg patience of the purists; while the reader will recognise certain
landmarks and suburbs, Verity’s city is not quite the city you know. It just looks a bit like it, seen through a glass darkly.
Enjoy the journey.
The night moved. Liquid sheets of black spread out then folded back in on themselves. The breeze, seemingly benign, made its
way down Robertson Street. It picked up pieces of garbage as it went – discarded newspapers, chip packets, soft-drink cans,
cigarette packs. It plucked detritus from the gutters, sweeping all it could find into an ever-growing, swiftly forming body.
It looked like a figure, a rough-torn thing: a man of rags and trash and darkness.
Had anyone been paying attention, they might have noticed when it began its journey – turning off Brunswick Street and taking
the slow incline – that the sound of footsteps had become audible. But as the road sloped, drawing further away from the lights,
as the whirlwind picked up speed and mass, the noise of anything remotely human was lost.
At the bottom of the thoroughfare, almost at the glamour of the James Street precinct, the thing feinted right as if it had
no interest in going any other way, then turned a hard left.
The homeless man who’d been sheltering in the curve of the concrete garden wall, praying he would not be noticed, felt only
a brief sting of ice reaching into his lungs, then the crushing sensation of too much air all around him as he was lifted
from the ground and quickly ceased to be.
At the very end of the strip, where the streetlights bloomed, footfalls were heard once again, a kind of a hiccough in their
rhythm this time, as if something
had changed. As if the tread beat out a broken tattoo of unexpected grief. Yet the two who’d watched the procession from their
vantage point on the balcony of a vacant apartment smiled, pride palpable.
They did not see death. They did not feel bereft at the loss of innocence. All they saw was their plan coming to fruition.
The ribbon was judging me, I knew it.
It had become increasingly apparent that wrapping things was not my forte. Even a simple rectangular gift was obviously too
much of a challenge. Corners broke through the too-thin tissue I’d bought because I’d thought,
Hey, an eight-year old would love that
! She probably would have, too, if it hadn’t developed holes within moments of me trying to swaddle a big book of fairy tales
in it. The stiff lace ribbon I’d finally managed to tie around the middle looked self-conscious and a bit embarrassed.
Oh, well. Lizzie would turn the gold and silver paper into confetti in a matter of seconds anyway. I could hear the sounds
of the birthday party-cum-sleepover already ramping up next door, and looking through my kitchen window into Mel’s garden
I could see a circle of small girls in pastel party dresses made of shiny fabrics, glitter and sequins. They all wore fairy
wings that caught the last of the sun’s rays as they danced and ran, lithe and careless as sprites. It made me smile. Mums
and dads were scattered across the grass, some carrying platters of cocktail sausages, fairy bread, mini pies and other essential
party foods while others seized the opportunity to laze around being waited on. It would be nice, I thought, to socialise,
do something ordinary for a change.
I took a last look in the mirror to make sure I was presentable – or
at least as presentable as I was likely to get. I picked up the offering, and that’s when the hammering started at the front
door. It wasn’t the good kind of knocking and my spirits sank. Things didn’t improve when I saw who was waiting on the patio.
Zvezdomir ‘Bela’ Tepes, model-handsome in pressed black jeans and a black shirt, managed his usual trick of appearing ephemeral
as a shadow, yet as all-encompassing as darkness. He gave a wave so casual it could have been mistaken for a dismissal. Just
seeing him made my leg ache.
‘Verity. I’ve got a job for you.’
‘But I’m going to a birthday party,’ I blurted, clutching the present like a shield. ‘There’ll be cake, and lollies.’
He blinked, caught off guard by my unlikely defence. ‘I need you to come right now.’
‘Party pies, Bela. Fairy cakes. Mini sausage rolls.
Small
food,’ I said, then added lamely, ‘It tastes better.’
‘Kids are going missing,’ he said, gritting his teeth, and it was all over bar the shouting. ‘And someone wants to talk to
you.’
He pointed towards the familiar purple taxi parked at the kerb in the late afternoon light. There weren’t too many cabs like
this in the city, although I guessed demand would be growing as the population did; it wasn’t just people fleeing the southern
states who wanted a new start in Brisbane – also known as Brisneyland or Brisrael if you were feeling playful, or Brisbanal
if you were tired of restaurants closing at 8.30 p.m. The taxi’s general clientele covered Weyrd, wandering Goths and too-plastered-to-notice
Normal, though most times even the drunkest thought twice about getting into this kind of car. It was almost like they were
snapped out of their alcohol-fuelled stupor by the strangeness it exuded.
Through the passenger window I made out a fine profile and
meticulously styled auburn hair. When the head turned slowly towards me, I recognised its owner, though I’d not formally met
Eleanor Aviva, one of the Council of Five, before. It was a bit like having the queen drop in. The driver next to her gave
a brisk wave.