The Big Smoke. Jason Nahrung
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regarded Reece, the unblinking gaze settling on his throat, his wrists, his groin. 'Back again, Hunter? Getting thirsty?'
Reece's hand was on his sidearm before he realised it, closely followed by Felicity's restraining hand.
'We're late,' she said.
'In trouble again, are we?' Vee asked, feigning ignorance.
'I'll be back,' Reece said. 'Mira is my bludger, after all.'
'Bludger?'
'Host.' Reece savoured his minor jargon win over Vee.
'Was your "bludger", I think you mean,' Vee replied, unabashed. 'The Hospitaller has declared isolation. There are no visiting hours. For anyone.'
Tran added: 'Regardless of who they are; or were. It's for her own good, and that of her visitors. Someone in bedlam cannot be expected to react rationally.'
Campbell sauntered over to eye Reece over the top of his narrow, frameless glasses. He didn't stand too close to Vee, either. 'Don't they want you upstairs?'
Felicity tugged on Reece's arm, mumbled, 'Better not keep the Old Man waiting.'
'Nice seeing you, Hunter Reece.' Vee smiled, a corpse-like grin.
Felicity pulled Reece into the lift and hit the button for 13. Boardroom. His last view was of Tran, Campbell and Vee watching him leave, like Macbeth's three witches, all but rubbing their hands at his impending fall from grace.
Reece breathed out, trying to relax the tension in his muscles. 'I hate that fucking mutant.'
'Your prejudice is showing, old man. I think Vee's the most honest person in the building.'
'How's that?'
'Vee's all vampire. Not male, not female. Just vee.'
'Well, I still don't trust he/she/vee; whatever.'
'With Mira out of commission, Vee is Strigoi.'
'That freak's no Strigoi.'
'Someone's got to do the mojo.'
The door chimed open. 'Bend over, here it comes,' Reece said, and she slapped his arm; then she straightened her jacket as they walked side by side into the reception.
'Go in,' the red-eye Familiare behind the desk said. His uniform patches showed him to be one of Maximilian's, loyalty all but guaranteed by shared blood. All the board members had such lackeys, although younger members such as Treasurer Tony Campbell preferred to call them personal assistants — a sign of the gulf between the bright young things and their ancient leader. Reece imagined it must be frustrating for the up-and-comers; what was the retirement age for a vampire warlord?
The boardroom was utilitarian: a long table, a blank wall with a retractable projection screen, a side door to a kitchen area, another to the toilets. Another wall was taken up with a framed tapestry of knights butchering pagans in a dark forest under the banner of a black cross. Wide windows looked across the river to the mountains in the west; traffic pulsed over the bridges and along the riverside expressway. On South Bank, the sightseeing wheel rotated in a slow blur of colour. If only the wheels turning inside Thorn were so brightly illuminated.
Hochmeister Maximilian von Schiller stood statue-still, arms clasped behind his back as he took in the view. He was five-foot-six, as solid as a brick shithouse, with no neck to speak of. His jumper hung to his mid thigh; combined with his bowl haircut, it gave him a certain monkish air, but the man's demeanour always reminded Reece of a member of the Inquisition. He could imagine Maximilian extracting confessions with hot pokers and cages of rats. It made his own Special Branch interrogation techniques seem incredibly amateurish. The man's eyes were reflected green dots in the window and Reece could feel them shift their focus to regard the two of them.
Maximilian's second-in-command stepped from a patch of darkness between two downlights. Preceptor Heinrich had a reputation for blending with the shadows, despite being a full head and shoulders taller than Maximilian and even wider in the chest. He wore a shiny jacket open to reveal a tight shirt, his narrow waist sporting sword and sidearm.
'This had better be good,' Heinrich said.
What irked him more — the mess at the tattoo shop or the fact they were late — was impossible to know. Reece didn't bother apologising for either, just gave his report as succinctly as possible. A rumour of Kevin Matheson in town, provided by a snitch, now dead, along with her tattooist boss; Reece thinking to follow the grease monkey to see who his connections were, the Viscounts wrecking the plan.
He didn't mention the Needle or the girl the gang leader had sent to meet Matheson. Dangerous to withhold information, but worth the risk.
Maximilian turned, his intense eyes sweeping across them like a searchlight's beam from his long, thin face.
'Definitely this "grease monkey" from the outback?'
Reece slid a hard copy of one of the photos he'd taken across the table. 'It's him, all right.'
'And no sign of Danica?' Maximilian stretched her name out, Daneetza, as though tasting some exotic honey, a complicated flavour of love and hurt, confusion even.
'Just Matheson.'
Maximilian touched the image, one finger pressing it into the timber as though he could draw information from the ink itself.
Heinrich asked, 'Who killed the tattooist?'
'The Viscounts, presumably. Johnny Slick was down from a headshot when we arrived, but he was gone when we returned. Flash had turned off his security cameras, but it's a good bet the gang cleaned house while we were trading pleasantries out the back.'
'"Presumably". And what are you presuming now?'
'That someone tipped off the Viscounts, and they saw a chance to get a leg up.'
'The tattooist?'
'Unlikely.'
'Why was Matheson there?'
'We're looking into that.'
Heinrich snorted. 'Unfinished business, Lieutenant Reece?'
'It's not something I'd rule out.'
'Unfinished business,' Maximilian said, studying the photograph again before turning his attention to Reece. 'With you? With my daughter?'
'It's an avenue of investigation we're considering.'
'Do that. And the killing of the tattooist and your informant; tracks are being covered?'
'So it would appear.'
'The way forward?'
'Johnny Slick. Find out who pointed him in Matheson's direction.'
Heinrich nodded his approval, his meaty lips pressed tight as though still tasting the plan for hidden flavours.
Maximilian's hand closed slowly, nails scraping on the table as he scrunched the photograph. He loomed huge, those eyes filling Reece's vision, like staring into a landslide.
'And now, the thing you're not telling us. The reason you didn't mount a full operation to secure the mechanic.' He held up the ball of paper. 'Even though you knew it was he.'
Felicity licked her lips and said, 'We may have a leak, my lord Hochmeister.'
'A leak?' Heinrich said, as though they had just shat on his shoe. 'You'd better have bloody good evidence before accusing anyone in this operation of treachery.'
Felicity swallowed, then continued: 'We think someone, accidentally, or on purpose, told the Needle about Jasmine Turner setting up her farm; and the Needle told Bhagwan. Bhagwan didn't want to compete against Turner — he was afraid of losing his special privileges as a supplier of cattle blood to us — so he told Taipan, who hated Jasmine Turner. Taipan obligingly went Rambo on Turner's operation before it was up and running.'
Reece added, 'Of course, it didn't work out quite as Bhagwan hoped. His farm was destroyed and Jasmine took