Vigil: Verity Fassbinder Book 1 (28 page)

In the end I bit the bullet. ‘I think it’s safe to say we’ve located Mr Baker’s son, or his new digs, at least.’

Bela protested, ‘That’s crazy – we only found his watch, a trace of him. There’s no evidence that he’s the golem—’

‘You think he’s a victim?’ I asked, disbelieving.

‘Maybe.’ But he didn’t meet my gaze as he spoke.

‘Bela,’ I said gently, ‘you saw what the golem did to those kids by the river. And there was nothing left of the Greenills:
hair, jewellery, clothing –
everything
was absorbed. I don’t think a Rolex is proof against that thing’s digestion.’ I examined my nails, scraped a stubborn bit
of dirt from under one. ‘And there was the beginnings of a nest in his bed at Baker’s.’

‘Maybe he’s the one controlling the creature?’ ventured Ziggi in a tone that acknowledged he was grasping at straws.

‘You said it yourself,’ I replied. ‘He’s a blank slate, precisely the kind of person who’d give himself up to a stronger will.
It would take a much more forceful personality than Donovan.
If
the golem is being controlled at all, it’s by someone else. Someone powerful.’

‘Doesn’t mean the boy’s . . .’ Bela trailed off, then said, ‘That kind of magic isn’t a simple enchantment, V, not something
you buy at the corner spook shop. He’s barely had contact with the Weyrd since his mother died.’

‘He was trying to find his grandparents, the Nadasys,’ I said, then, ‘Wait – what do you mean, “barely had contact”?’

Again, he looked away.

‘Bela’ – I kept my voice low and even, though I felt my resolution to be nicer to him ebbing fast – ‘what do you know about
this? Is Anders Baker pulling your strings?’

‘No one’s pulling
anything
of mine and I don’t owe
him
. I . . .’ He paused.

‘What’s this boy to you? Tell me now, or I will become very unpleasant, and that’s something neither of us wants.’

He kicked the grass at his feet and came to a decision. ‘I knew his mother. She was a . . . friend. I promised I’d look out
for her child. It’s nothing to do with Anders; it’s a matter of honour.’

I crossed my arms. ‘So if you knew Dusana, you knew her father.’

He looked away.

‘Then why the fuck didn’t you say so before?’ I yelled. ‘I thought this was just another job, not something personal!’

‘That shouldn’t affect how you do your job. Does it matter?’

‘Of course it bloody matters! The son of your “friend” goes missing after he’s been trying to make contact with his Weyrd
grandfather? The husband of your “friend” may be guilty of her murder? You knew these people and didn’t think to offer this
relevant information? Jesus!’

‘Time out, you two,’ said Ziggi. ‘We won’t get far if we’re fighting among ourselves.’

‘We won’t get far if we keep secrets!’ I shouted, but with marginally less volume. I pressed my fingers against the bridge
of my nose and prayed for painkillers. ‘So, have you seen him? Nadasy, I mean? Since he disappeared?’

‘No.’ Bela wiped his palms against his jeans. ‘Vadim dropped out of sight a few months after Dusana died. We had been close
once. He had . . . helped me a long time ago. When his daughter was gone he changed, became especially hateful of Normals.
And yes, he blamed his son-in-law, but there was no evidence Baker had anything to do with the death.’

‘Baker said Nadasy had cut his daughter off; that she’d become a pariah.’

Bela shook his head. ‘It was Magda, she was the one who refused to speak to Dusana. Vadim kept in contact, and that drove
a wedge between him and Magda. She left Australia.’

‘Right. And where’s she nowadays?’

‘Dead – a road accident in the Swiss Alps maybe a year before
Dusana’s death. I didn’t know her very well. After that, there was just Dusana. Vadim doted on her.’

My stomach began to rumble and I realised it was well past midday. The hungries were threatening to make me say things I knew
I’d regret. With a deep breath I reminded myself that Bela carried his history tightly rolled up inside. All his griefs and
losses were well-hidden, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel any of them. ‘Okay. First of all, Ziggi, please find us somewhere
for lunch, while
Zvezdomir’s
having a
really
good think about everything he’s neglected to tell us.
And by that I do mean everything
.’

After food, a thorough grilling and a fair bit of castigation, it turned out Bela really didn’t know much more than he’d just
told us. We went our separate ways, and I had Ziggi stop at the corner shop on the way home. When he drove off I headed over
to Mel’s, carrying the bottle of milk I’d borrowed from her earlier in the week.

As I wandered along the walkway, the hairs on the back of my neck stood to attention. The front door was open. I could see
a discarded pair of Birkenstocks, and puddles of something dark and viscous-looking with flecks of heart-stopping orange in
them. Moving carefully, I went inside, listening intently but hearing nothing. In the dim light I could see sticky footprints
where someone had stepped in the puddles and splashed on the lounge room floor. I called Mel’s name, but only the shadows
answered.

I crouched and sniffed at the fluid: an iron tang. Some of it was blood, but not all. Some of it looked like dirty water and
sludge.

I searched the rest of the house: three bedrooms, one treatment room, all redolent of bergamot and lavender and all empty.
Cupboards neatly packed with clothes, blankets, linen and scented candles, massage oils, acupuncture needles, cups and other
accoutrements required by any natural therapist. The bathroom was spotless and smelled of roses, with a multi-coloured pyramid
of guest soaps next to the basin and several bottles of rainbow bath salts on the shelf.
I checked under beds and in wardrobes and went through drawers as if somehow the occupants might have shrunk and hidden there,
but all for naught.

By the time I moved through the kitchen and out onto the tiny back deck overlooking the tidy yard, my throat was constricted.
Even so, I charged down the stairs, yelling so loudly that I barely heard the little voice that piped from the other side
of the fence: Lizzie was standing right where the land between the two properties had sunk and the palings were low enough
for her to see over the top. Her face was pale; she obviously thought she was in trouble. I realised at once what she’d done:
she’d snuck out to my hollowed-out tree with her books and dolls and some snackables – when I lifted her over the barrier
and hugged her fiercely I smelled salt and vinegar, and her sweater was flecked with shards of crisps. Being disobedient looked
like it had been the only thing that had saved her; scolding her was the last thing I was going to do.

‘Where’s your mum?’ I asked, and she looked bewildered.

‘Inside.’

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that wasn’t so. I put her back into my garden and said, ‘Go to my front door. I’ll be
there in a second.’

*

Later that night, after Rhonda McIntyre’s people had gone and Lizzie had taken refuge in my spare bedroom, I set wards around
the house. There were already basic, everyday spells to keep out the general low-level magical shit you have to contend with
– curses were easily repulsed, most unwanted visitors couldn’t just waltz in – but I needed something more stringent, so nothing
even vaguely Weyrd could enter. The new wards would bounce any intruder away and, if s/he continued to ignore them, s/he would
be shredded by winds until s/he either sensibly gave up or was turned into a form of butter.
Unfortunately, it also meant neither Bela nor Ziggi would be able to cross the threshold. Alas, equally unfortunately, it
didn’t cover the golem. It was, however, the best I could do.

I sliced the palm of my left hand, the sinister one, and mixed the blood with salt and sulphur. I took a paintbrush and scripted
the intricate symbols required to keep unearthly things from my door across the lintels and over the window. I baked four
loaves of bread with stalks of lavender inside and buried one in each corner of the yard. Next, I took a piece of thick cartridge
paper and wrote a spell that would keep the bearer safe on it in tiny letters.

I left it to dry and went outside. Ziggi was slumped behind the steering wheel, ostensibly asleep, but I figured at least
one of his eyes was open. Bela was waiting beside the fence. We sat on the footpath while we discussed what might have made
this attack different, and what Mel’s chances of survival were.

‘You think she’s still alive?’ he asked.

‘I really don’t know. But there are three sets of footprints in there, one barefoot and the other two sneakered. That blood’s
not right either – it’s not human, or not entirely.’ I scratched at my cheek where the wounds were scabbing over and starting
to itch. ‘Something went wrong, whatever the visitors intended.’

‘She might have been—’

‘I know. I’m preparing myself for that . . .’ I shuddered. ‘If that’s the case, I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to tell
Lizzie. So until I know for sure, I’m going to believe Mel’s alive.’

‘I’m always amazed by your optimism.’ But I knew he wished there was even a shred of doubt about the Greenills’ disappearance,
that he might have some hope to hang onto. We didn’t speak for a while until he came out with, ‘I’ve been thinking about your
dead siren.’ At my look he added, ‘The angel?’

‘Yes?’

‘That’s new.’

‘What part of it? And please get to your point quickly, I’m ageing rapidly here.’

‘Angels don’t like sirens.’

‘They don’t like us either.’

‘I mean, they
really
dislike them, as in “more than anything on a very long list”. They seldom even reside in the same areas if they can help
it.’ He answered my questioning look with, ‘Sirens have wings and no need of faith. Angels have been cut off for a long time.
It makes them bitter.’

I opened my mouth to ask more, but was distracted by the haunting sound of Lizzie’s sobbing.

‘We’ll talk later,’ he said, but by the time Lizzie finally calmed and went back to sleep, he was gone.

The parchment had dried. I folded it into a tiny origami bird and enclosed it in my grandmother’s glass-fronted locket – Lizzie’d
always loved it. She was curled in the middle of the bed in the spare room, as if the linen moat might provide protection.
Gently, I slid the pendant over her neck, thinking her asleep, but when I sat back her bright eyes were upon me.

‘Hey,’ I said.

‘Where’s my mum?’

‘I don’t know, honey.’

‘You’ll find out, right?’

‘I’ll try.’

‘You found me.’

‘Yeah. I did. I promise I’ll find your mum,’ I said, writing a cheque I wasn’t sure I’d be good for. I kissed her on the forehead,
wishing I could ensure a dreamless sleep, but I knew she was in for the sorts of
nights I’d had after Grigor’s arrest: fitful napping fractured by bad dreams that either seemed endless or returned you to
wakefulness with a shriek, sure there was a monster under the bed until you remembered why you were upset – and then reality
felt infinitely worse.

I tucked her ancient teddy bear in beside her and pulled the covers up. Though Mel’s sister was notoriously difficult to find
on those rare occasions when she was actually needed, and though she really,
really
wasn’t wanted, police procedure said she had to be looked for, so McIntyre’s team were trying to trace Rose in case she could
help with enquiries. I was absolutely certain Mel wouldn’t want Rose to be taking care of Lizzie, though – and even if Rose
wanted to, which was highly unlikely, I sure as hell had no intention of handing the kid over.

The kitchen was cold and I wrapped my fingers around my mug of hot chocolate, trying to absorb the warmth. I wasn’t convinced
that whatever had come a-calling was really after Mel. This wasn’t an ordinary home invasion. No one had any reason to take
her. She had no enemies – her ex was still in Thailand and the worst Rose would have done was steal her wallet. I couldn’t
imagine a disgruntled client doing anything like this.

Poor Mel.

On closer inspection, the flecks of bright orange in the goop on the floor had looked very much like carpet fibres. But I
took comfort – a very tenuous, anorexic kind of comfort – from the fact that Mel’s shoes had been left behind; as I’d said
to the boys hours ago, the golem hadn’t been leaving anything on its plate, and those Birkenstocks had been thrown off in
a struggle. As far I knew, I was the only person who’d had a chance to fight against the golem, and I was still alive. It
was proof of nothing, really, but I had to hold onto
something
. Strangely, it was easier to believe Mel’d been taken to get at
me
, and if that really was the case, she had no value if she was dead. Ergo, she was currently safe. Maybe they’d come for me
and I hadn’t been home, so they’d tried for Lizzie, and not being able to find her, had taken her mother instead. That would
be a sign that whoever it was knew that both mother and child meant something to me.