position as when I left him, one arm raised slightly where it’s cuffed, but his face looks more relaxed and his breathing is easier. There’s even a tiny snore. It occurs me that he’s very attractive, with chiselled cheekbones and flawless dark skin.
I bend down and check the wound on his neck. The stitches have done their job and it seems to be healing quickly. I guess that O’Shea has inherited the daemons’ ability to regenerate, along with his crazy orange eyes and model’s good looks. I sit down on the edge of the bed and consider what to do next. I’m tempted to shake him awake and demand answers but I might have a better shot at getting them once he’s recovered. I need to be patient.
I check my watch and see that I haven’t slept for as long as I thought. It’s only just gone midnight and this is the city that never sleeps. I don’t feel tired any more and I need something to distract me until my patient – or prisoner, depending on which way you look at it – wakes up.
By now my dress is crumpled but I decide I can get away with it. I find the Funny Farm plastic bag and pull out my wallet, taking out some notes and stuffing them into the tight bodice. I should probably keep more back because I have no idea when I’m going to be able to get hold of more cash. But I think I deserve a drink.
It takes me less than five minutes to find a place. If there’s one thing you can be sure of, it’s that in Britain you’re rarely far away from some place where you can drown your sorrows. There’s a bouncer on the door, a burly type but still human, who gives me a discreet once over, taking in my now less than perfect appearance. I give him a small smile and he lets me in.
As soon as I’m inside, part of me wishes I’d not bothered. The club must have great sound-proofing because what was little more than a dull beat from the street is now a heart-thumping, ear-churning level of decibels. I’m tempted to leave and find somewhere quieter but I decide to stick with it. Perhaps the level of sound will stop me continually worrying. I need oblivion, if only for an hour or two, not more time to think.
I give the dance floor a wide berth and head for the bar, perching on an uncomfortable plastic stool. Despite – or maybe because of – the loud music, there aren’t many other customers and I catch the bartender’s attention quickly. I order three martinis and down them in quick succession, shuddering at the strength of the alcohol. When they don’t immediately work, I order another three. At these prices, I’ll need to drink quickly if I want to achieve the effect I’m after.
The bartender is still making my drinks when I become aware of someone by my side. I tense, ready to do whatever I can to keep myself safe, but it’s just a guy. Not a vampire or a copper or anyone else wanting to do me harm. He’s not even a triber, just a guy who’s after a bit of fun to finish off his night. He’s good-looking in a geeky sort of way, with horn-rimmed glasses and a well-tailored suit. His appearance suggests he’s more prepared for a board meeting than a nightclub, despite the five o’clock shadow around his jaw. His hair is an attractive tortoiseshell colour, enhanced by the club’s bouncing multi-coloured lights, and his eyes twinkle at me with promise.
‘Hello,’ he says.
The bartender lines up my next three drinks. I remove the cocktail stick from the first one and pull off the olive delicately with my teeth, chewing it and savouring its fresh salty taste. I give him a half-smile.
He gestures at the three glasses. ‘You must be thirsty.’
In response, I pick one up and throw the contents down my throat. I’m tempted to lick my lips suggestively afterwards, but I manage to stop myself. This man is a sure thing and, even though I don’t normally pick up strangers, I can’t think of any better way to obliterate the newsreel that keeps running through my head.
I stay mute, although I reach
I bend down and check the wound on his neck. The stitches have done their job and it seems to be healing quickly. I guess that O’Shea has inherited the daemons’ ability to regenerate, along with his crazy orange eyes and model’s good looks. I sit down on the edge of the bed and consider what to do next. I’m tempted to shake him awake and demand answers but I might have a better shot at getting them once he’s recovered. I need to be patient.
I check my watch and see that I haven’t slept for as long as I thought. It’s only just gone midnight and this is the city that never sleeps. I don’t feel tired any more and I need something to distract me until my patient – or prisoner, depending on which way you look at it – wakes up.
By now my dress is crumpled but I decide I can get away with it. I find the Funny Farm plastic bag and pull out my wallet, taking out some notes and stuffing them into the tight bodice. I should probably keep more back because I have no idea when I’m going to be able to get hold of more cash. But I think I deserve a drink.
It takes me less than five minutes to find a place. If there’s one thing you can be sure of, it’s that in Britain you’re rarely far away from some place where you can drown your sorrows. There’s a bouncer on the door, a burly type but still human, who gives me a discreet once over, taking in my now less than perfect appearance. I give him a small smile and he lets me in.
As soon as I’m inside, part of me wishes I’d not bothered. The club must have great sound-proofing because what was little more than a dull beat from the street is now a heart-thumping, ear-churning level of decibels. I’m tempted to leave and find somewhere quieter but I decide to stick with it. Perhaps the level of sound will stop me continually worrying. I need oblivion, if only for an hour or two, not more time to think.
I give the dance floor a wide berth and head for the bar, perching on an uncomfortable plastic stool. Despite – or maybe because of – the loud music, there aren’t many other customers and I catch the bartender’s attention quickly. I order three martinis and down them in quick succession, shuddering at the strength of the alcohol. When they don’t immediately work, I order another three. At these prices, I’ll need to drink quickly if I want to achieve the effect I’m after.
The bartender is still making my drinks when I become aware of someone by my side. I tense, ready to do whatever I can to keep myself safe, but it’s just a guy. Not a vampire or a copper or anyone else wanting to do me harm. He’s not even a triber, just a guy who’s after a bit of fun to finish off his night. He’s good-looking in a geeky sort of way, with horn-rimmed glasses and a well-tailored suit. His appearance suggests he’s more prepared for a board meeting than a nightclub, despite the five o’clock shadow around his jaw. His hair is an attractive tortoiseshell colour, enhanced by the club’s bouncing multi-coloured lights, and his eyes twinkle at me with promise.
‘Hello,’ he says.
The bartender lines up my next three drinks. I remove the cocktail stick from the first one and pull off the olive delicately with my teeth, chewing it and savouring its fresh salty taste. I give him a half-smile.
He gestures at the three glasses. ‘You must be thirsty.’
In response, I pick one up and throw the contents down my throat. I’m tempted to lick my lips suggestively afterwards, but I manage to stop myself. This man is a sure thing and, even though I don’t normally pick up strangers, I can’t think of any better way to obliterate the newsreel that keeps running through my head.
I stay mute, although I reach
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