Read Trueblood 01-The-Consolation-Prize Online
Authors: aaa
Luka had no idea.
“Be careful,” Luka said. “Getting a license from the Council to feed on a mortal is one thing; a license to turn, something else entirely.”
“Yeah, I know.” Dan gave a heavy sigh. “Look, why don’t you make tracks? I can handle things for the rest of the night. You’ll be back from your trip by Thursday, right?”
Luka nodded.
“I’ll let Simon down gently.” Dan winked and gave Luka a flash of his fangs. “By the way, you’re holding that sheet of paper upside down.”
When he’d gone, Luka groaned. He needed to feed. Even Dan had begun to look appetizing and Luka never snacked on employees. Despite his distaste for it, Luka mostly used bagged blood.
Delivered monthly by refrigerated van, ready meals were an innovation scorned by purists, but the safest method of feeding, particularly for Luka. He got to his feet and rolled his shoulders. He had nothing better to look forward to than going home and slumping in front of the TV with a bag or two while watching some boring movie. Not much of a life for a vampire. He wished his life was more exciting.
* * * * *
“Luka! Help me.”
He turned to see Simon in the arms of one of the guys who’d been ejected earlier. Luka clenched his teeth. He’d been distracted. Dan was supposed to have made sure the pair were well out of the area. Luka took a step forwards, felt a rush of air, a sharp prick on his neck, and as everything went black he thought,
not this exciting
.
“And the winner is…Pete Turnbull.”
Chloe smiled and clapped her hands.
“Employee of the Year…Pete Turnbull.”
Chloe’s smile widened and she clapped harder. Forget that her hands hurt, people were watching.
“Our new director of marketing…Pete Turnbull.”
No, it was no use, if Chloe tried any harder her jaw would fall off and she’d dislocate her wrists.
Prize for the biggest idiot? Oh yes, that would be Chloe Lord for not realizing Pete would go behind her back and steal her ideas.
After the office hunk had made his thank you speech -- and he’d included her, the rat bastard, there had been a long wait for the rapturous applause to die down. Then Chloe’s boss, Helen, called her to the front. Walking on red-hot coals would have been more enticing.
“And for all her hard work, I’d like to award Chloe Lord a consolation prize. Just a small token of the company’s appreciation. Congratulations, Chloe, and enjoy your gift,” Helen said and handed her an envelope. “Would you like to say a few words?”
Chloe shook her head. Speech was beyond her. Well, speech that wouldn’t have everyone in the room running for cover. She returned to her table, put the envelope in her purse, and nodded to acknowledge the congratulatory comments from those around her. The only joy in her heart was the thought of the resignation letter she’d left on Helen’s desk a few hours ago. Though she doubted her boss would be fooled into thinking Chloe hadn’t known what the evening would bring.
An overheard conversation in the ladies toilet, a goldmine of office gossip, had told Chloe that despite the boost in company profits having been solely due to her, despite her spending every waking hour fighting to make Oceant a national brand, despite her being the best person for the job as director of marketing, the position would not be hers.
Chloe stayed long enough to avoid being called a sore loser; long enough to hear the world, his dog, and his dog’s fleas congratulate Pete, and then tried to slink out. Pete appeared from nowhere and draped his leprous arm over her shoulder.
“No hard feelings?” he said.
Chloe smiled, if opening her mouth and baring her teeth counted. She had to force herself not to gouge out his eyes. How come she hadn’t realized the man was a weasel in designer clothing?
His fingers twirled her hair and she jerked away.
“Leaving already? I thought we’d have a dance.”
She took a deep breath. “Why the hell would I want to dance with you? You nicked my ideas, dumped me, and stole my job.”
He shifted from foot to foot. “We can still work together though.”
“You mean I continue to do all the work while you get the credit and you try to worm your way into my bed?”
“I’m your boss now.” He glared at her.
“Right, well sleeping with the boss is against my rules,” said Chloe and walked out.
When the door banged shut behind her, she breathed a huge sigh of relief. She’d never have to see the stupid prick again and she could try to forget what a mistake he’d been.
Spotting a soda can lying on the pavement, she let loose an exuberant kick and sent it flying into the road, along with her new red high-heeled shoe. Before she could launch a rescue attempt, a taxi rushed around the corner, swerved, and ran over it. Chloe stared in disbelief at the retreating tail lights. Since when did taxis rush anywhere? And how come he swerved to hit her shoe? With a lingering look at her squashed footwear, she limped three awkward steps before she removed the other shoe and stuffed it in her purse.
Chloe turned the corner in time to see the bus pulling out and wondered what else was going to go wrong. She’d probably arrive home to find her apartment had caught fire and her insurance company had gone bust. A drop of water splashed her cheek. Ah, shit, it was going to rain. Just great.
By the time she got home, she’d thought up so many doomsday scenarios she was relieved to see the place still standing. Chloe left a trail of wet belongings all the way to the bathroom. One red shoe, purse, jacket, little black dress, sexy red lace boy-pants -- she lived in hope -- and her watch. In the shower, dirty water eddied around her feet before it disappeared down the drain.
Her tears went the same way.
Shower over, Chloe stopped feeling sorry for herself. Action was the key because it left her no time to mope. She’d find a new job and a cheaper place to live, starting tomorrow.
She opened the door of her spare room, converted into a darkroom, and checked the photographs she’d left drying. Chloe unpegged a couple and held them up to the light. Black-and-white images of the Yorkshire Moors taken last weekend. The craggy land looked a little like the moon -- with sheep. Not bad, though she’d taken better. She tossed them back on the counter and closed the door.
Tucked up in bed, Chloe retrieved the envelope from her purse and stared at it. Whatever the consolation prize was, it could be no compensation for being cheated out of a job that should have been hers. She was tempted to throw the thing away without opening it -- just rip it up. An attempt to toss the envelope to the floor left it sitting in her hand. Chloe sighed and flicked her fingers but the thing stuck to her palm.
What the hell
! She gripped it like a dart and pulled back her arm.
“
No
,” snapped the familiar voice in her head.
Chloe froze. She waited to see if it was going to say anything else or if the other two would chime in.
Silence.
Chloe let her hand fall to the side of the bed and tried surreptitiously to drop the envelope on the floor. It remained in her fingers. Rubbing her hand against the mattress didn’t help.
Damn
. She put the envelope between her teeth and tried to wrench it out of her hand. Hopeless. One final attempt to launch it across the room almost dislocated her shoulder, but she still held onto the bloody thing.
“
Open it
.”
Chloe sagged. Her sixth-and-a-half sense bossing her about. She called it that because it wasn’t just a feeling, intuition, or gut instinct but actual voices that talked to her. Three different voices that had gotten her out of a couple of nasty scrapes over the years and once saved her life, so Chloe knew she shouldn’t ignore them. Not that she had much choice. They were pretty insistent, a bit like a dentist’s drill. An aggravating whine you had to put up with because in the end it would make your life better.
It was just a pity the voices weren’t of more practical use. They’d never whispered the winning lottery numbers in her ear, nor had they woken her when her alarm failed to go off and she missed her flight to Spain. Nor had they stopped her yesterday from soaking that good-looking guy when she’d shaken her umbrella into the street without looking. Funny how he didn’t look so handsome when he was wet and yelling. In fact, Chloe knew damned well that the only time the voices talked to her was when she was in serious trouble. And even if they were trying to get her out of trouble, her sixth sense told her she really didn’t want to open the envelope.
She edged across the bed, reached out as if she was going to pick up her book, and tried to let the envelope fall to the bedside table. Didn’t work.
“
Open it
.”
There was no way she wanted to open it. Something horrible was going to fly out and screech at her. Or was that in Harry Potter? Chloe watched in mounting disbelief when her index finger slipped under the gummed seal and ripped along the edge of the envelope.
“
Read it
.”
No, she didn’t think so. What was so important about this anyway? It was just a prize from Helen. Probably carwash vouchers or a free haircut at some dodgy salon where no matter what picture you showed them, you came out with the style they wanted and not you. Chloe glared at her hand as it shook the envelope. A card fell out. Equally treacherous fingers picked it up.
Whose body is this
? she demanded.
Chloe made a last desperate attempt to close her eyes, then gave up. No point fighting. Her sixth sense might have told her not to open it, that extra half made sure that she did. Pity none of the voices had intervened earlier and stopped her from resigning before she had another job.
You are invited to spend four days at Sunset Spa, Washburn Hall, Harrogate, West Yorkshire.
Accommodation and nourishment provided. All spa treatments included
.
The card finally dropped from her fingers. Noise rushed into Chloe’s head as though she lay on a pebble beach with waves crashing and retreating right in front of her. Her stomach clenched and she thought for a moment she was going to be sick. Had Helen done this deliberately? Did she know Chloe had once lived in Washburn Hall? If so, then she also knew that fifteen years ago, Chloe’s parents, sister, and grandfather had died there.
Twelve-year-old Chloe would have died too, but the voices in her head told her something bad was going to happen. Chloe tried to get everyone to go to a hotel for the night. Why would they listen to a kid? After everyone went to bed, a voice ordered Chloe to go outside. She’d tried to resist. Wrapped up warm, she was reluctant to leave her room but her feet had taken her downstairs and out of the house. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she’d begun to understand that something bad was happening and that the voices were warning her, trying to help her. She’d gone back inside to get a knife from the kitchen and taken up a position outside the front door, a teenage guard ready to repel whoever came to hurt her family.
The killer was a faulty boiler, leaking deadly gas that seeped under doors and wove unnoticed through the house. Everyone died, except for Chloe, half-asleep on the doorstep, and Selena, her grandfather’s new wife, visiting her relatives in Scotland.
Selena inherited almost everything, including the Hall but not her stepgranddaughter who went into care. Chloe hadn’t been back to her family home since the night of the tragedy, though she visited it often enough in her dreams, plagued by nightmares of what she should have done and hadn’t -- like pretend she had appendicitis so they’d take her to hospital. That would have worked.
Chloe sighed. This time the voices were wrong. She wasn’t going to do what they said. How could going to the Hall save her from serious trouble? It would rake up every bad memory and the nightmares would return. She’d be safer in her apartment. No, Chloe decided, there was no way she was going back.
Chloe emerged from sleep with a start and immediately pulled her arm from under the duvet. It looked completely normal and she released a shaky sigh. She’d had the dream again, one that started a few months ago, in which she dangled over an abyss trying to reach for the hand of Mr.
Right only for him to vanish before she could grab him. Chloe wondered if he’d been put off by the sight of her arm because in her dream, a monstrous, entangled black vine stretched from her wrist to her elbow. It was always a huge relief to wake and find she hadn’t been the victim of some sneaky serial tattooist. Chloe’s dreams were always interesting and generally she could interpret them to make some sort of sense, but this one had her flummoxed.
She rolled over, saw the computer screensaver shining in the darkness, and stopped breathing.
The computer had not been left on last night. Someone had been in her room. She shrank under the duvet. Computers didn’t turn themselves on. She burrowed down a little further but nothing leapt at her. She heard no voice telling her to run because a madman with an axe was about to separate her head from her body. There was no sound at all other than her quiet snuffles. After a couple of deep breaths, Chloe snuck a hand out to flick on the bedside light. She was alone.
Perversely she wished she wasn’t. Chloe rather fancied waking up with a good-looking guy lying next to her, provided he didn’t have an axe. She sat up and swung her legs out of bed.
A few steps and one nudge of the mouse later, her stomach churned. Hard to figure how she’d managed -- in her sleep -- to go online and make a reservation for a four-day stay at Washburn Hall’s Sunset Spa, but the evidence sat on her screen. She tried to cancel. Her fingers wouldn’t hit the right buttons. Chloe was tempted to bite them.
“I don’t want to go,” she said out loud. “Are you three listening?”
She lifted a suitcase from the top of her wardrobe.
Oh damn
.
“I don’t like spas.”
She took a swimming costume from her bottom drawer.
“I’ll go some other time.”