grandfather’s door is open and he is standing at the threshold, watching my approach. I don’t have time to deal with any of his usual theatrics and I’m too numb to care about pissing him off, so I reach up to kiss him on the cheek before he prompts me. He surprises me, however, and puts up a hand to stall my action. The fact that I recognise sadness in his normally steely eyes is disturbing.
‘It’s all over the news,’ he says gruffly.
I feel a wash of fatigue. ‘What are they saying?’
‘That seven people at Dire Straits are dead. One is critical and in intensive care.’ He gives me a hard look. ‘They are looking for you to help them with their enquiries.’
I almost – but not quite – snort with laughter at the euphemism. ‘They can’t seriously believe I’m responsible.’
The cat pads out and snakes round my ankles. I half-leap out of my skin. It’s never bloody done that before. Things must be even worse than I thought.
‘I made a few discreet enquiries of my own. They don’t.’ I exhale loudly, but my grandfather continues. ‘They do, however, think you are involved in some way. That maybe you’re working with a new bloodguzzler Family or something.’
‘That’s stupid.’
‘I said as much. No granddaughter of mine would be in league with those things.’
My mouth twists. ‘No, it’s stupid to think that there’s a new Family. The other Families would never allow it. Besides, what would any of the vampires have to gain from all of this?’
His gaze is frank. ‘Dire Straits must have done something to annoy them.’
‘But we don’t work for vampires,’ I point out. ‘They have their own in-house investigators.’
He speaks quietly. ‘Maybe your firm was working against them.’
I mull this over. It seems implausible. We did look into vampires from time to time for some client or other but, as far as I know anyway, nothing Dire Straits has ever done would come close to deserving retaliation on this scale. In fact, I’d been under the impression the vampires allowed us a modicum of professional courtesy and would help us out from time to time if it served their interests. But then again, my own employer framing me for the murder of some two-bit, magic-dealing, half-breed daemon is equally implausible. Speaking of…
‘What about O’Shea?’
‘Who?’
My grandfather’s confusion is faked. I roll my eyes at him. There’s something about his attitude that’s reassuring and makes me feel normal again. ‘The daemon?’
‘Oh. Him.’
I put my hands on my hips and give him a death stare. The trouble is that I’m just not as good at it as he is and he knows it. ‘Is he awake?’ I demand.
He shakes his head and gestures inside. Disappointed, I follow him into the small kitchen. O’Shea is still sprawled out on the kitchen table, his chest moving up and down regularly. I watch him for a few moments.
‘He’s involved in this,’ I say eventually, as much to myself as to my grandfather.
‘Yes. So what’s your next move, Bo?’
Despite everything, I feel a flicker of pride. He may be an ornery bastard with an entrenched core of racism, but he believes I can sort this out on my own and without his help. If he thought otherwise, he wouldn’t be asking me what I planned to do next. A thought strikes me: unless he has no idea what to do now, of course .
‘I have a safe house,’ I answer. ‘I’ll take him there.’
‘Are you sure it’s safe?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’re just going to wait until he wakes up?’
I bite my lip. ‘I don’t have any other choice.’
He regards me silently. I wonder what’s going through that head of his. He had better not be gloating about the demise of my firm.
‘I suppose you’ll need some form of transportation,’ he says finally.
I look at him hopefully. I had been counting on the old man realising I’d had to dump my car and that he needed to help me out with a vehicle if he wanted to get shot of O’Shea
‘It’s all over the news,’ he says gruffly.
I feel a wash of fatigue. ‘What are they saying?’
‘That seven people at Dire Straits are dead. One is critical and in intensive care.’ He gives me a hard look. ‘They are looking for you to help them with their enquiries.’
I almost – but not quite – snort with laughter at the euphemism. ‘They can’t seriously believe I’m responsible.’
The cat pads out and snakes round my ankles. I half-leap out of my skin. It’s never bloody done that before. Things must be even worse than I thought.
‘I made a few discreet enquiries of my own. They don’t.’ I exhale loudly, but my grandfather continues. ‘They do, however, think you are involved in some way. That maybe you’re working with a new bloodguzzler Family or something.’
‘That’s stupid.’
‘I said as much. No granddaughter of mine would be in league with those things.’
My mouth twists. ‘No, it’s stupid to think that there’s a new Family. The other Families would never allow it. Besides, what would any of the vampires have to gain from all of this?’
His gaze is frank. ‘Dire Straits must have done something to annoy them.’
‘But we don’t work for vampires,’ I point out. ‘They have their own in-house investigators.’
He speaks quietly. ‘Maybe your firm was working against them.’
I mull this over. It seems implausible. We did look into vampires from time to time for some client or other but, as far as I know anyway, nothing Dire Straits has ever done would come close to deserving retaliation on this scale. In fact, I’d been under the impression the vampires allowed us a modicum of professional courtesy and would help us out from time to time if it served their interests. But then again, my own employer framing me for the murder of some two-bit, magic-dealing, half-breed daemon is equally implausible. Speaking of…
‘What about O’Shea?’
‘Who?’
My grandfather’s confusion is faked. I roll my eyes at him. There’s something about his attitude that’s reassuring and makes me feel normal again. ‘The daemon?’
‘Oh. Him.’
I put my hands on my hips and give him a death stare. The trouble is that I’m just not as good at it as he is and he knows it. ‘Is he awake?’ I demand.
He shakes his head and gestures inside. Disappointed, I follow him into the small kitchen. O’Shea is still sprawled out on the kitchen table, his chest moving up and down regularly. I watch him for a few moments.
‘He’s involved in this,’ I say eventually, as much to myself as to my grandfather.
‘Yes. So what’s your next move, Bo?’
Despite everything, I feel a flicker of pride. He may be an ornery bastard with an entrenched core of racism, but he believes I can sort this out on my own and without his help. If he thought otherwise, he wouldn’t be asking me what I planned to do next. A thought strikes me: unless he has no idea what to do now, of course .
‘I have a safe house,’ I answer. ‘I’ll take him there.’
‘Are you sure it’s safe?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’re just going to wait until he wakes up?’
I bite my lip. ‘I don’t have any other choice.’
He regards me silently. I wonder what’s going through that head of his. He had better not be gloating about the demise of my firm.
‘I suppose you’ll need some form of transportation,’ he says finally.
I look at him hopefully. I had been counting on the old man realising I’d had to dump my car and that he needed to help me out with a vehicle if he wanted to get shot of O’Shea
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