“So Daphne … what? Ran off with some new golden boy?”
Fiona shrugs. “I’ve heard whispers. There’s a lot of this going around.
The Coven sent me to talk to Lady Salisbury last week—her son’s missing. It looked like vampires, but old Ruth is sure he’s joined one of these cults.
They do prey on the daft and the gormless…”
“Daphne’s hardly gormless.”
Fiona raises her eyebrows like she’s refusing to comment.
“And you really don’t care?” I ask. “That she’s abandoned her marriage to chase some charlatan?”
“Who says he—or perhaps she—is a charlatan? Someone has to be the Chosen One. Maybe your stepmum’s got it right.” Fiona pushes the rest of her sandwich into her mouth. “All I’m saying is, when someone runs off like this, they’re usually running from something as much as they’re running to. I’m not telling Daphne Grimm how to live her life, even if she is as thickheaded as she is thin-blooded.” Fiona washes her last bite down with tea, then stands, brushing her hands on her jeans. “Right then, I’m off.”
“But you just got here.”
“I came by to check on you, and now I have. You look a mess.”
“Where are you going?”
She’s walking away. “Work.”
“Vampire hunting? On a Monday afternoon?”
“Something like that. Drink your tea, and mind your business.” She turns back to me. “And—”
“Don’t say it.”
“Eat something.” She winks.
16
BAZ
The good thing about my aunt’s terrible flat is that I can do some light hunting without even leaving the building. I just have to dispose of the empty rodents when I’m done.
Fiona let me move in here after I left Watford. Simon and I didn’t want to live together; that seemed premature—even though we’d shared a single room for eight years. Maybe that’s why it seemed like a bad idea. Some distance seemed prudent.
Still … I didn’t expect to be sleeping in my aunt’s flat every night. I didn’t expect to become so accustomed to the night bus back to Chelsea.
Simon needed time. He needed care. He still startled at bright lights and sudden noises. And prolonged eye contact. He’d get jumpy when we were alone together. He’d actually shudder if I touched him too softly—and not a good shudder. （My kingdom for a good shudder.） On the worst days, on the even worse nights, I used to think about all the bad things that have happened to Simon—just the ones I know about. And then I’d wonder about all the terrible things that have happened to him that I don’t know about. Twenty years of bad things. How long would it take for those painful memories to die back? Or, at least, to wither?
I’d wait.
I was going to wait.
The neighbours are tired of my music again. They’ve come to the door this time. Well, they can push right off—James Blake is a Mercury Prize winner, and this song was written by Joni Mitchell, surely Canada’s finest. They think they’re tired of this song? Once I figure out the magic, I’m going to loop the same two lines again and again:
“You’re in my blood, you’re my holy wine. You taste so bitter and so sweet.”
That’s the part that hurts the most, and I’ve decided that it helps to hurt the most. It sort of maxes out my nerve endings.
They’re knocking on the door. Fuck off.
More knocking. Seriously, fuck off.
I turn up the music. I have to use a spell to do it, because the speakers are already at their limit. “These go to eleven!”
The neighbours are really banging on the door now. I should spell off their hands. I’m not even going to answer the door—I’ll just spell their hands off from here.
Wait … They’ve stopped.
Have they stopped?
There’s no knocking …
No knocking …
I think they’ve given up. Good. Go back to your flat, and get used to this.
This is our soundtrack now. Oh—my favourite part is coming around again.
Sing it, James.
“You’re in my blood, you’re my holy—”
Knocking! Fucking pounding on the door!
I jump off the couch. My head spins. I give myself a moment. More bloody knocking. I plow over to the door and yank it open. My fangs might be out, I can’t be held responsible.
Simon Snow is standing there.
About to knock again.
His hand drops.