Read Drake Online

Authors: Peter McLean

Drake (24 page)

Chapter Twenty-One

W
ell of course
it would have been rude not to make the most of that. I took her out for dinner at the little Italian place round the corner and I really did tell her all of it this time. I told her all about Wormwood, and my gambling debt, and about his idea of how compound interest worked. I could see Trixie didn't think a whole lot of that, all things being equal.

“An angel's skull?” she echoed. “That's the sort of thing you people play cards for, is it? Seriously?”

“Ah,” I said, feeling slightly embarrassed. Looking back on it, I may not have entirely thought that part though before my mouth ran away with me. “Well, you know how it is. Sometimes, I suppose.”

“Well don't go getting any ideas about paying him back,” she said. “I like my skull right where it is, inside my head!”

I laughed. “Perish the thought,” I said. “All the same though, he's going to be bloody hard to get rid of.”

“No he isn't,” Trixie said, and smiled at me over her glass of red wine. “What time does this club of his open?”

Oh it was beautiful, it really was. We took a taxi from the restaurant to Wormwood's club, and I showed her where the door was. After that I didn't have to do much more than say hello to Connie so we could get up the stairs, and then it was all her. I think that was the night I really fell in love with her.

Trixie swept into the club like she owned the place, in the long sleeveless white dress she had whistled up from somewhere while I was taking a shower before we went out. The cuts and grazes on her face and arms were still only half-healed, but they lent her an air of dangerous mystique that made me feel like I had somehow stepped into an old Bogart film or something. She snagged a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and strode straight over to Wormwood's table. She sat down opposite him without waiting for introduction or invitation, which was an almost unspeakable breach of protocol. I stood at her shoulder, trying and failing to keep the increasingly smug smile off my face.

“I'll play you,” she said.

“What the fuck is this then?” Wormwood said.

He glared irritably up at her, then blinked and took another, longer look. She still wasn't hiding her aura, and I knew he could see it every bit as well as I could. He knew
exactly
what she was. He looked from her to me, and a slightly queasy look crossed his sallow face.

“Look, mate,” he said. “We ain't got ourselves into some sort of unfortunate misunderstanding here, have we?”

Trixie lit a long black cigarette and blew smoke in Wormwood's face. I kept quiet, not wanting to break her magnificent spell.

“It's like this,” she said, leaning forwards with her elbows on the table. She kept her voice pitched low, so only Wormwood and I could hear her. “I am Don's guardian angel, and I am more than capable of having you for breakfast. In fact I would actually enjoy it a great deal. Now I realize you play an important part in the underground economy of this country, but don't for one moment think that that protects you from me in any way. You could quite easily be replaced.”

“I see,” Wormwood said, his voice sounding slightly strangled. “What… well, that is… look, well, how can we sort this out then?”

Trixie smiled at him. After a very brief and extremely one-sided negotiation he soon came around to her way of thinking. Yes, of course the debt was paid off in full, and completely forgotten about. He was terribly sorry about having Connie slap me about those times too. Naturally he would continue to supply any alchemical requirements I might have in the future, and at a heavily discounted price too. He even offered me my warpstone back as a sign of good faith, that's how scared of her he was. Now I'm sorry but I'm not that proud, and I really missed that warpstone. I took it.

Trixie stood up and gave Wormwood a cool nod.

“Well then,” she said, “I think we're done here. I'll be seeing you.”

He cleared his throat in a way that said he really hoped she wouldn't. We were about to leave when I spotted Papa Armand on the other side of the club, engaged in a heated argument with the middle-aged woman with the peacock feather fan. Now I don't know how much you know about Haitian etiquette, but I'm going to take a guess at not much. You see, if you see your spiritual mama or papa somewhere you
always
say hello, even if they're in the middle of something. Even if your mambo is up to her elbows in laundry and on the phone at the same time or your Houngan is having a blazing row with some business rival, you still go and butt in to say hello. Over here it would be rude to interrupt, but in Haiti it's rude not to.

“Excuse me for a moment,” I said to Trixie, “I just have to speak to someone before we go.”

She nodded and I headed across the club, leaving her sipping her champagne and watching a card game. I knew Houngan Armand was only my papa because he said he was and I hadn't actually agreed to anything, but I felt I needed to be polite all the same. I didn't know a lot about him, but I knew he was heavy. For one thing he was here so he must be, and for another I've always respected Vodou and I've always liked him. I stepped up beside him and the fan lady and cleared my throat.

“…must be joking,” she was saying, her voice carrying a hint of an American accent. “You can't possibly expect us to…”

“Um, hello Papa,” I said.

He turned and grinned at me. He had a glass of rum in one hand and a cigar in the other. The fan lady looked slightly surprised to see that it was me addressing him in that fashion, but she nodded in understanding all the same and took a step backwards to give us some space.

“Don-boy Drake,” he said, his silk top hat nodding as he bobbed his head in welcome, “good to see you. Papa Armand just reasonin' wit' this lady right now, but one thing afore you goin'.”

“Yes Papa?” I said, leaning closer to let him whisper in my ear.

“I'm goin' say it again, Don-boy. Time him come when a man gotta choose what path he goin' walk,” he said.

He chuckled then clapped me on the shoulder and turned away, back to his argument with the fan lady. I shivered and went to find Trixie.

“Everything all right?” she asked as I took her arm.

“Yeah,” I said, although I was no longer quite so sure that it was. “Yeah, I think so.”

“I'm tired,” she said. “Shall we?”

I led her out of the club and down to the street to look for a taxi, but Trixie suggested walking home instead for the fresh air. Now I'm not a fan of walking at the best of times, or fresh air as it goes, but after her magnificent performance with Wormwood I wasn't about to refuse her anything.

“Yeah OK, why not?” I said.

We were maybe half of the way back to my place when something whistled at me from an alleyway. I turned to look and made out the unmistakable shadowy outline of a night creature. I felt Trixie tense beside me, but I put a reassuring hand on her arm.

“It's OK,” I said, “I know these little buggers.” I walked to the mouth of the alley and looked at it. “What?”

The night creature looked at me for a long moment, and sniggered. “Don't you ever check your email?” it said. “You've got a message.”

I hardly ever looked at my email, or even turned the laptop on for that matter. I'm not a big fan of technology, as I might have said. Or much of a businessman either, sadly.

“I'll take a look when I get home,” I said. “Cheers.”

It showed me a few long, crocodilian teeth in something that might have been a smile, and scurried away into the shadows. Of course, it might
not
have been a smile at all. I shrugged and went back to Trixie, and took her home.

“Um,” I said when we got inside, feeling slightly awkward. “Sleeping arrangements?”

It was only a one bedroom flat, after all. Trixie gave me a level look.

“You're on the sofa, Don,” she said firmly.

I sighed. It was
my
flat but… yeah OK, fair enough.

“Night then,” I said.

She stopped at the bedroom door and turned back to look at me.

“Oh, there is just one thing, before I forget,” she said.

I frowned. I couldn't believe Trixie ever forgot anything, and this felt like it might just have a sting in its tail.

“Yeah?”

“What happened to Aleto's dagger? The one Adam gave her, I mean?”

“No idea,” I lied automatically. “I guess it got blown to pieces when she did.”

“Oh,” Trixie said. “Pity.”

I felt bad about that straight away, but it was too late to change my mind now. Obviously she wasn't going to approve of me having a demonic weapon but, well, a man in my line of work never knew when he might come to need something like that.

“Night,” I said again.

“Yes,” she said, “it is.”

She closed my bedroom door behind her. I sighed and sat down at my desk, and took the whisky bottle out of the bottom drawer.

Time him come when a man gotta choose what path he goin' walk
. I was starting to think Papa Armand might just be right about that. I dragged my laptop out of the desk and turned it on to check my emails.

I only had one message, from an anonymous address. It simply said, “You have made an enemy.”

It was signed
Adam.

Acknowledgments

W
riting can be a lonely business
, but nothing worthwhile is ever accomplished alone. I would like to thank the following people for helping to make this book what it is:

My long-suffering beta readers, Nila and Chris, for their invaluable feedback.

Alison Clayton for telling me I could do this, all those years ago – thank you, ma'am!

My editor, Phil Jourdan at Angry Robot, for his guiding hand.

My wonderful wife, Diane, for everything else and most of all for putting up with all my shit while I did this. Love you babes.

About the Author

P
eter McLean was born
near London in 1972, the son of a bank manager and an English teacher. He went to school in the shadow of Norwich Cathedral where he spent most of his time making up stories. By the time he left school this was probably the thing he was best at, alongside the Taoist kung fu he had been studying since the age of 13.

He grew up in the Norwich alternative scene, alternating dingy nightclubs with studying martial arts and practical magic. He has since grown up a bit, if not a lot, and now works in corporate datacentre outsourcing for a major American multinational company. He is married to Diane and is still making up stories.

talonwraith.com • twitter.com/PeteMC666

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n Angry Robot
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opyright © Peter
McLean 2016

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istributed
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his is a work of fiction
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U
K ISBN 978
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US ISBN 978 0 85766 511 9

Ebook ISBN 978 0 85766 512 6

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