High Stakes (2 page)

When I stroll in, he’s sitting behind his desk with the ramrod-straight posture of an army drill sergeant. I’d thought – or perhaps hoped – that he’d only work a few hours every day as a result of his advanced age. Unfortunately for me, he doesn’t do things by half-measures; he completes full shifts, crossing over from day to night to accommodate the needs of both Matt and I, as well as Peter and Arzo. He arrives at 3pm on the dot and departs at 11pm, immediately after winding his fob watch and ensuring it’s set to match the distant – and from here inaudible – chimes of Big Ben. I’m a stickler for punctuality, and there are no prizes for guessing where I get that from, but one can be too officious.

My grandfather looks up at me and frowns. ‘Bo. It’s about time you got here. We’ve had a busy day and I need to run through the adapted client list with you.’

I raise my eyebrows. ‘Busy day?’

‘Two phone queries and one walk-in.’

I don’t say anything. I don’t need to.

He tuts. ‘I told you when you when we started this venture that business would take time to pick up. People need to learn to trust us first.’

I snort. ‘People need to come and talk to us if that’s ever going to happen.’

‘Three is a good number.’

‘What did these three clients want?’

‘The first phone call was a search request. Peter dealt with most of it. A woman named Melanie Jones is looking for her husband and thought he might have been recruited. He was found with the Stuart Family.’

I wonder whether knowing that he’s still live and kicking, rather than a corpse floating in the Thames, made the woman happy or sad.

‘She wants to know whether she can sue him for desertion,’ he continued.

Ah. I guess she’s not happy then. ‘And the second phone call?’

‘Someone wanting a pizza delivery.’ I bite my tongue very, very hard. ‘I have no idea why people insist on eating such a poor excuse for food.’

‘Have you ever tried pizza?’

He gazes at me blankly. ‘Why on earth would I do that?’

Life is too short. I change the subject. ‘The walk-in?’

‘Now this is more intriguing. A young man with a most peculiar name is convinced that his dog has been bitten and is now a vampire.’

‘A vampire dog? That’s impossible. The only animals that have ever been bloodguzzlers are bats.’

‘All the same, he wants someone to go round to his house and investigate so I’ve pencilled you in. You can take Matthew with you if you promise to look after him.’ For some reason my grandfather has taken a shine to Matt. It’s probably because Matt’s compelled to do whatever he’s told by anyone who speaks to him.

I sigh. ‘It’s a complete waste of time. It’s probably some attack dog that the owner can’t control properly and it’s going around biting people as a result. He’s looking for an excuse to blame us for him being a shitty pet owner.’

‘Language, Bo, please.’

‘Sorry,’ I mutter. Arbuthnot Blackman is the only person in the world who can make me feel like I’m five years old again.

‘Of course it’s a ridiculous theory. But,’ he continues, ‘we can do with the story being contained. Having the populace believe that their beloved pets are about turn vampire is not going aid your cause.’

The cat uses that moment to leap into my grandfather’s lap. It flicks its yellow eyes at me with the sort of disdain that only cats can achieve. I can’t help thinking that it would probably be improved if it actually were a vampire cat. It certainly couldn’t be any worse.

‘You’re the head of this agency. Surely, it should be “our” cause?’ I say it mildly but the challenge is there.

‘I’m not going to deign to answer that,’ he sniffs. ‘Call in when you get to the house. It’s in Richmond.’

I snap out a salute. ‘Yessir.’

‘Bo, that kind of flippant attitude is not helpful.’

I start to leave before I say anything I might regret. The last thing I want is to end up on cat-feeding duty.

‘Oh, and Bo?’ Grandfather calls out after me. ‘Lord Montserrat requested that you telephone him at your earliest convenience. You may do that when you return from the,’ the corners of his mouth turn down, ‘vampire dog.’

‘Great,’ I mumble. The only reason I’m not taking umbrage at the implicit order in my grandfather’s words is because I’m really not sure I want to talk to Michael Montserrat at all.

Chapter Two: Kimchi

Matt and I take the motorbike. It was an expensive gift that I should have returned but I couldn’t help myself. It fits too well with the badass persona I like to think I’ve created for myself and is such a sleek joy to ride that I can’t imagine giving it up. I even have an over-sized leather jacket to match the look, although it’s currently being repaired after receiving a large scorching hole as a result of a hybrid black-and-white witch’s attentions. It’s probably just as well. My lack of height allows me to get away with a lot but, as my grandfather keeps reminding me, I’m supposed to do what I can to appear approachable and non-threatening. Personally I don’t think leather makes people throw up their hands and run away shrieking, but he’s determined to keep me looking ‘lady-like’. Apparently a man’s leather jacket doesn’t achieve that effect. Still, image aside, having the bike makes it far easier to zip through the city traffic and we arrive at the dog-owner’s address in a satisfyingly short space of time.

There’s a small patch of garden in front with a neatly trimmed lawn and one of those whirly contraptions for drying clothes. A single abandoned sock hangs from it. I’m tempted to rescue it but I damp down the urge. Matt looks at me questioningly and I nod, so he steps up and rings the doorbell. For a second there’s silence, then loud, excited barking erupts from somewhere inside. So far so normal. There’s a shout and the dog subsides but I can hear it whining.

‘I had a pet goldfish when I was little,’ Matt informs me as the door finally opens. ‘It died when I tried to take it out of the tank to play with.’

‘You tried to play with a goldfish?’

‘I was six! It looked lonely!’

I look up at the man standing in the doorway. He’s staring at Matt as if he’s crazy. I don’t blame him.

‘Mr Brinkish?’ I ask, directing his attention back to me. ‘My name is Bo Blackman. I’m from New Order. You called us about your dog?’

He blinks rapidly. He’s not much taller than I am, which makes a change, but he’s remarkably broad. His head is shaven and his shiny forehead seems massive as a result. ‘Good,’ he mutters. ‘Come in.’

I must have looked surprised at his willingness to invite two vampires into his home because he produces a wooden crucifix from behind his back and holds it up. ‘I’m not afraid of bloodguzzlers but you should be afraid of me.’

Matt snickers and I jab him sharply in the ribs. ‘Sir, I should inform you that crosses don’t actually harm vampires in any way.’

He frowns then, as if testing my words, thrusts it towards my face. When I don’t flinch, he reaches out and presses it against my skin. Nothing happens. He pulls the cross back and shakes it as if he’s hoping there’s a wire loose inside. ‘I paid good money for this,’ he says. He tosses it aside. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’ve got plenty of garlic.’

‘Garlic doesn’t affect us either,’ Matt interjects cheerfully.

‘Oh yeah?’ Brinkish says. ‘Well, my dog hates it.’

‘Is that why you think he’s a vampire?’

The man bares his teeth. Distractingly, one of his molars is gold-plated; if he had an eye-patch and a parrot, he’d make a perfect pirate. ‘I don’t think he’s a vampire,’ he says. ‘I know.’

He steps back so we can come inside. I’m about to move past him into the small hallway when he clicks his tongue. I glance at him askance and realise he’s pointing at my feet. ‘Shoes,’ he grunts.

I see several low-lying shelves brimming with all kinds of footwear. I look at Brinkish’s feet. He’s wearing a pair of fluffy slippers that don’t quite fit with his tough-guy attitude. ‘Wife doesn’t like dirt tracked in from outside,’ he says by way of explanation.

I nod dutifully and bend down to pull off my boots. Embarrassingly, there’s a hole in one of my socks that my big toe gapes through. Brinkish doesn’t seem to notice.

Matt clears his throat. ‘Uh, Bo? Is it okay if I stay outside?’ He drops his voice to a loud stage whisper. ‘My feet are really smelly.’

I pat his shoulder reassuringly. ‘No problem.’

Brinkish’s lip curls. ‘Just don’t mess up my lawn,’ he says, slamming the door shut in poor Matt’s face. He turns back to me. ‘The mutt is this way.’

I follow him through to a small living room. To say it’s over decorated would be an understatement: the sofa is covered in chintz, the wallpaper is a bright, repetitive floral design and everywhere I look there are china ornaments. I’d think it was all his wife’s doing but Brinkish absently places a hand on a large porcelain ballerina in mid-pirouette and strokes its head.

In the middle of the room, almost camouflaged by the contrasting patterns and clutter, is a dog. As soon as it sees me, it charges over, tongue lolling. It leaps up, placing its front paws on my legs, and yelps.

‘He’s, uh, very friendly,’ I comment, patting its head and doing what I can to avoid its doggy-breath licks.

Brinkish watches the pair of us with narrowed eyes. ‘Like seeks like,’ he says.

I extricate myself and sit on the edge of the sofa. The dog returns to its former spot in the middle of a garish rug and drools. ‘What’s he called?’ I ask.

‘Kimchi.’

‘Isn’t that a Korean food?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Don’t Koreans eat dogs?’

His bottom lip juts out. ‘A few. It’s hardly a staple part of their diet.’

I get the impression this is a conversation he has had many times. ‘Kimchi,’ I call softly to see what the dog will do. His ears perk up and he bounds over to me, then jumps up and plonks himself onto my lap so my vision is almost obscured. Kimchi certainly verges on the more rotund side of canine.

‘So,’ I say, peering round first one floppy ear, then the other. ‘What makes you think he’s a vampire?’ I feel ridiculous even saying the words.

‘Check his teeth,’ Brinkish tells me.

Somewhat warily, I place my hands on Kimchi’s hindquarters and gently encourage him to look at me. My face is immediately slathered in several wet licks.

‘Dogs should be afraid of vampires. Instinct should tell them to attack or run. He thinks you’re his new best friend,’ Brinkish continues, as I try to peer into Kimchi’s mouth while avoiding any further collisions with his tongue. The reek of digested Pedigree Chum is off-putting. I can’t see anything out of the ordinary about his teeth, however. Not that I’d try and pass myself off as any kind of animal expert.

‘Um…’ I begin. ‘What exactly am I looking for?’

‘His fangs!’ Brinkish says, exasperated.

I look again. They seem perfectly normal to me. I glance at Brinkish, letting my guard down as I do. Kimchi swoops in for another lick. ‘It’s normal for a dog’s canine teeth to be long,’ I say, giving myself the air of a knowledgeable professional, while twisting away from the dog.

‘Yeah?’ he challenges. ‘Then explain why he won’t go outside during the day. He refuses point blank to be taken for a walk unless it’s dark.’

Kimchi whines as if sensing he’s the focus of our discussion. I stroke his ears and he subsides but I can feel his eyes on me. ‘Perhaps if you take him to a vet…’

‘I cut myself a few days ago,’ Brinkish interrupts, his voice rising. ‘Some blood dropped on the floor. Before I could get a cloth, he was licking it up.’

Tired of dodging Kimchi’s slobber, I scoot him off my lap. He pants, tail wagging, then disappears out of the room. I sigh. ‘Look, Mr Brinkish, can you see my eyes? The red in the centre of my pupil indicates I’m a vampire. Kimchi doesn’t have that.’

‘Oh yeah? Kimchi, come here,’ he calls.

The dog returns, my right boot in his mouth. I gape. In the space of a few seconds he’s managed to rip off a chunk of the expensive leather. Brilliant.

Brinkman grabs a small torch from a side table. He’s obviously prepared for this. He passes it over to me. ‘Shine it in his eyes.’

I’m doubtful; I don’t want to damage the dog’s vision by shoving a bright light into them. Brinkish, however, seems insistent so I do as he asks. As soon as the torch is turned on, I can see it: there’s definitely some kind of red pigmentation there. It’s in Kimchi’s iris though, not his pupil.

I put the torch down and stand up. ‘He’s just a dog. The vampire mutation only occurs in humans and bats. It’s widely accepted that other animals are immune.’

‘It was widely accepted once that you could either be a black witch or a white witch,’ Brinkish sneers. ‘Look where we are now.’

I rub my forehead. The hybrid witches created as a result of O’Connell’s desire to make the world a better place went public not long after he was charged with murder. Most people seem to think they’re a good thing. Having met a few of them, I would beg to differ.

‘I really do think you should just take him to a vet.’

‘No. There must be a test you can do. Something to prove it.’

I grit my teeth. ‘I suppose I could take a sample of blood…’

‘Take the dog.’

I stare at him. ‘Take it where?’

‘You vampires have got state-of-the-art laboratories. Don’t think I don’t know that! Get him properly tested by bloodguzzlers who know what they’re doing.’

‘And then what? When I prove to you that your dog is just a dog?’

His eyes shift. ‘Bring him back, of course.’

‘He’s your pet, Mr Brinkish. Your responsibility.’

‘Responsibility is not letting a potentially lethal animal out on the streets. There are children living round here!’

I close my eyes briefly. I need to humour him; New Order is supposed to take all complaints and concerns about vampires seriously. As my grandfather suggested, it wouldn’t take much to create a panic about people’s pets turning guzzler overnight. A few well-placed internet articles and … poof! We become even more hated than ever. I’m not stupid; I know that the British are more inclined to feel sympathy for a dog than they are for a human. In fact, it’s not just Brits. There’s a reason why the dog always survives in disaster movies: people just don’t enjoy seeing animals suffer. I chew my lip.