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‘Inspector, Kim Jones for the Daily Mailhere, what evidence do you have that the sidhe murdered Mr Eriksen?’
‘If she’s not the killer,’ came a shout from the crowd, ‘why are you saying she’s dangerous?’
The inspector held up her hands, her collection of rings looking like expensive knuckledusters. ‘It is believed Ms Taylor was injured when the bakery exploded, and is thus not fully cognisant of her surroundings; we don’t think she would deliberately hurt—’
Shock sliced through me. ‘The bakery exploded?’ I blurted.
‘How else did you think you were injured, my dear?’ The Earl muted the sound. ‘I understand there was a lot of loose flour around; the news bods have had an expert on to explain the chemistry, something about starch being easy to burn and dust catching fire at the slightest of sparks, and then, boom!’ He threw his hands in the air to illustrate his point. ‘The explosion looks quite extensive.’
Questions jumped into my head; I picked out the most important. ‘Was anyone hurt?’
‘Only yourself and Malik al-Khan, who is sadly much worse off and unlikely to be around in the near future to provide you with any aid.’ He smiled happily and briefly squeezed my thigh, causing another wave of craving to wash painfully over my body, effectively silencing my other questions. ‘Oh look, this is my favourite part,’ he said, pointing the remote at the plasma again. Through lust-blurred vision I recognised the bakery. The CCTV recording showed the back of someone— me—dressed in ru
‘You do have a capacity for upsetting people.’ The Earl brushed a speck from his knee. ‘It really is rather careless of you, my dear.’
I stared at the TV, my mind sifting through everything. Was he right? Had I angered someone enough for them to kill poor Tomas just to set me up? Or was there some other reason? Whatever it was I wouldn’t know until I—or the police—found his murderer. Trouble was, if I walked into Old Scotland Yard without an alibi, DI Crane would have me banged up faster than I could say I’m i
The Earl was gazing at me expectantly, and since he appeared to be offering me the carrot after effectively threatening me with his fang-tipped stick, I dutifully asked the question. ‘What’s the deal?’
‘Direct and to the point as usual. It is one of the several aspects I cherish about you, my dear.’ He licked his lips. ‘But of course, business before pleasure.’ He waved at the TV screen. ‘I can make this problem go away.’
Surprise, surprise. ‘How exactly?’
‘Why, friends in high places.’ He gave a quick frown. ‘Or is it low?’ Then he smiled as if I should get the joke. I didn’t. ‘Well, anyway,’ he carried on, ‘friends who have the same ideals that I do, and who are, very rightly, concerned about the current situation.’
It was my turn to frown. ‘What situation?’
‘Why, my tragic demise, of course.’ He squeezed my thigh and a slither of lust made me gasp again. ‘My passing has left a breach in London’s vampire community. I fear the lack of true leadership will result in utter chaos. All my careful pla
‘What the—?’ I stopped at the Earl’s admonishing look, conscious of his hand on my leg. ‘I don’t understand what you’re talking about.’
His expression turned condescending. ‘Allow me to explain, my dear. I have worked tirelessly this last eight hundred years to ensure vampires here in my country are both respected by and respectful of humankind.’ He adjusted his cuffs. ‘It is how we were able to successfully recover our human rights; it is why we have not been hunted almost to extinction as in the Russias and the East. It is why we do not have to barricade ourselves into our castles as they do in the rest of Europe.’ He spread his arms wide as if to a larger audience. ‘To ensure that continues, I conceived the idea of vampires contributing to the entertainment and media industries, and thus elevating ourselves from the common perception of blood-sucking parasites subservient to the Witches’ Council to revered celebrities with the power to influence the human world as we so desire.’
Megalomaniac soap-box, much!
‘With my presence gone and me no longer the dominant voice,’ he carried on, ‘I fear that the reactionary elements within our society will force a situation where we have to return to hiding our faces, to pretending that we are something we are not in an effort to live lives of precarious comfort.’
I narrowed my eyes. ‘That still doesn’t tell me what you want.’
‘You are my blood-bond, Genevieve.’ He beamed at me. ‘You will be my avatar.’
‘What?’ I was still none the wiser.
‘All will become clear, my dear.’ The Earl waved a dismissive hand at the French doors. ‘Sadly, though, our time together has run out. Dawn approaches, so I will leave you to rest until later.’ He smiled his charming smile and then vanished.
Stu
Then I realised I could move.
I had to get out of here, wherever herewas. I struggled to sit up, my hands slipping on the stupid satin sheets, my arms and legs feeling like they belonged to someone else, the numbers on the monitor at the side of the bed flashing ever faster as my heart beat a crescendo in my ears—
The bedroom door opened.
A man walked in carrying a large wooden tray, a worried frown on his fortysomething chalk-white face. He wore jeans and a rumpled T-shirt and white gauze bandages were wrapped thickly around his wrists and elbows. He stopped at the bottom of the bed and looked at me from eyes magnified like a startled owl’s behind his wire-rimmed glasses. His hands were trembling enough that the contents on the tray chinked. Then the frown disappeared and he smiled, showing even white humanteeth.
‘Oh good, you’re awake, Ms Taylor.’ Little wooden legs clicked out under the tray as he placed it down on the bed. ‘I was begi
Chapter Seven
Istared at the tray’s contents: a chilled bottle of Cristall—my brand of vodka—sat next to two glasses, one empty, the other filled with orange juice; a small porcelain dish of liquorice torpedoes, and what looked like a BLT sandwich. Other than the red rose in a cut-glass bud vase, the tray held all my favourites—if it wasn’t for the fact that he was a vamp’s flunky, I’d be worried I’d picked up a stalker instead of a slightly worse-for-wear jailer.
‘Who the hell are you?’ I demanded.
Owl Eyes flinched as if I’d hit him. ‘Doctor Joseph Wainwright. Joseph. Didn’t Malik tell you—?’ A high-pitched alarm cut him off and we both looked at the heart monitor. The little red numbers were flashing 302: 302 beats per minute. I pulled the electrodes off my chest, wincing as the skin ripped away with them. What the fuck were they stuck on with? Superglue? The red numbers blinked out, the heart graph flatlined and the monitor’s alarm started squawking loudly. I slapped it quiet.