I looked down at my patchy skin. ‘This isn’t bad for a couple of days.’
‘That didn’t happen in a couple of days. Malik gave you his blood as soon as he could. He carries the true Gift, so he healed you to this in about an hour. But there’s been no change since then.’
It was my turn to frown. That didn’t sound right. No pain, no gain; the words teased at the edge of my mind, nothing to do with exercise—wasn’t there something about fae needing to feel some pain for the magic to kick in with the healing? Then I remembered I’d been floating somewhere golden and warm, riding along with the sunshine, until my subconscious mind reconstituted the Earl and dropped him into my nightmare. ‘You had me stoked up on morphine, didn’t you?’ I asked slowly.
‘Of course, you were in a lot of pain; I didn’t want to see you suffer. Your metabolism works a lot faster than a human’s. I had to up the dose quite a bit before it took effect.’
Was that why I hadn’t healed? Too much morphine?
‘I shouldn’t worry about getting dependant or anything after this short period of use,’ he added. ‘When morphine’s used for pain relief it doesn’t appear to affect the addictive centres of the brain.’
I blinked. ‘I’ve got 3V, Joseph. It negates the effects of any other chemical addictions and it kills off any diseases or infections. ’ If it wasn’t for the obvious side-effects, 3V could keep humans as healthy as the proverbial horse. ‘Or didn’t they teach you that at doctor school?’
‘Sorry, yes, I know.’ He pushed his glasses up with the back of his bandaged wrist. ‘The reassurance stuff is standard spiel; you end up saying it all the time. Everyone gets all concerned about morphine being derived from opium.’ He shrugged tiredly. ‘But 3V only contradicts other infections when in the host; they’re still carried by the blood, and blood transference can still pass them on to someone who doesn’t have 3V.’ He tapped his face-mask. ‘That’s the reason for the get-up.’
‘You haven’t got 3V?’ I stared, surprised. ‘But you said Malik was your master?’
‘I didn’t, not exactly.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘You didn’t look like you were ready for a long explanation. I do a lot of work in Sucker Town—I’m part of the Health Department’s monitoring group—and I’ve seen the effects of 3V and I didn’t want to be infected.’ He indicated my arm dripping blood into the bucket. ‘Malik and I are friends; he would no more go against my wishes than fly to the moon.’
Friends? Wounded vamps don’t have friends, they have automatic survival responses. In other words, they mind-lock the nearest blood supply, sink fangs into it and the venom overdose turbo-charges the red blood cell production while making sure the victim doesn’t get the chance to run away, usually because they’re unconscious and paralysed by a stroke caused by the venom-induced hypertension. Great for the vamp, not much fun for any of his friends.
I looked at the bandages on Joseph’s arms, assessing him. ‘Malik can’t be too hurt, not if you’ve been feeding him.’ I pulled and squeezed my arm again. ‘If he’d gone into bloodlust, you’d be just another blood-slave by now.’ Or dead.
‘Yes, Malik’s explained all that to me.’ He sighed. ‘We’ve worked out a failsafe plan: a tranquilliser gun. If he’s hurt in any way, I shoot first, then ask questions later, once he comes round. The tranquilliser is the same one they use on big cats, like lions and tigers. I’ve been keeping him under the last few days so he’s safe enough to look after.’
Ri-ight! Well, that was certainly one way to deal with an injured vamp. I gave my arm another squeeze. It hurt, no ripples of anticipated pleasure this time. I checked my colour out in the mirror. The red splotches had gone, my skin was its usual warm honey—with the added pink and shiny bits—and my heart thudded a calm tattoo in my chest.
‘I’m about done here,’ I said. ‘You got a spare bandage I can use?’
He didn’t seem to hear, just stared thoughtfully at my blood plopping into the bucket.
‘Joseph?’
His head shot up. ‘There’s just over a pint there.’ Speculation lit his eyes. ‘Do you think you could manage some more? I wouldn’t ask but I’ve already transfused two pints of my own and Malik still needs more.’ His hands trembled where he clutched the rim of the bucket. ‘I didn’t trust anyone else to help, not with your problems with the police.’
When he put it like that, how could I refuse?
‘Sure.’ I clenched, then unclenched my hand, having to pump the blood out now.
Two pints would probably take Joseph’s body about six weeks to make the red cells up. 3V halved that timescale for a human. With 3V turbo-charging my own fae metabolism, I’d make the red cells up in around a week—yet another reason the vamps are so hot for a fae to snack on. Fae really are their ultimate fast food.
I looked into the bucket. That should do it. ‘I’m done here, Joe,’ I said, and gave him a quick smile. Now to find out how much of a jailer he intended to be. ‘So how are you fixed for lending me some clothes and letting me use the phone?’
‘You’re leaving?’ His expression behind the mask turned worried. ‘But what about Malik?’
‘I’m sure you can look after him better if I’m not here.’ As I stood I saw the wound on my arm was already scabbing over. ‘And anyway,’ I gave him a rueful smile, ‘I’m not the nursemaid type.’
‘Okay.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Clothes should be no problem, but I’m afraid I can’t let you use the phone.’ His face creased up in awkward embarrassment. ‘It’s not that I don’t want to help, but you’d be phoning your friends, and I don’t want any calls to get traced back to me or here. This is one of Malik’s safe houses.’
I frowned. ‘Aren’t you being just a tiny bit paranoid?’
‘Maybe,’ he shrugged, ‘but you’re wanted for murder, and they can monitor phones, especially mobiles, if they know the numbers. I saw it on that film, the one where the spy who’s lost his memory is on the run.’ He gave me a sheepish look. ‘Of course, it could just be dramatic licence, but I’d rather be paranoid than find out I’m right when the police are knocking on my door.’
Fine, no point wasting my time arguing with him, not when I’d been lying around comatose for three days. I had enough other things I wanted: a shower, some food, scissors to sort out my hair—and it was about time I started looking for Tomas’ murderer.
And I knew just where to start.
With the kelpie that lived in the River Thames.
Chapter Eight
The wind rippled the surface of the River Thames, pushing it into choppy grey ridges. I traipsed along Victoria Embankment, keeping close to the low stone wall that overlooked the river. Russet and brown hand-shaped leaves from the sycamore trees blew along the pavement, a smattering of cold raindrops hit my face and the river scent freshened the ever-present traffic fumes clogging the late-afternoon air. The constant line of cars, taxis and buses rumbled along, stopping and starting again with each quick change of the lights. I shuffled my way past camera-toting tourists, chattering school kids and an overweight jogger who was puffing and stopping as often as the traffic.
No one paid me any attention—but with the too-large parka I was wearing almost reaching my calves and the baseball cap hiding my tell-tale amber hair, I looked like any other homeless youngster wandering around aimlessly, even without the rolled-up jeans and old trainers stuffed with newspaper. Oddly enough, although Joseph’s mirrored wardrobes had been full of women’s outfits, it had all looked more appropriate for a night out at an S&M club than for wandering the streets of London incognito. Joseph had mumbled something about a friend and blushed red to the tips of his ears, then offered me some of his own clothes, but he still wouldn’t let me use his phone. I’d phoned Grace from a public box and told her everything; it hadn’t been an easy conversation, but in the end she’d agreed with my plans.