Chapter 4:
Your priceless advice
Hey! Wait!
I've got a new complaint.
Forever indebted to your priceless advice.
Heart-Shaped Box, Nirvana ("In Utero," 1993)
Beth showered quickly, returning to Demetri with wet hair and a fresh change of clothes from her rucksack.
Demetri's face said it all. You cannot go out dressed like that.
Rolling her eyes, Beth straightened her baggy, plaid shirt. Demetri tossed over her notebook, and she caught it by dropping her towel, hissing in annoyance.
I admit I know very little about this place, he had written. I recognise many of the essences here.
"Hazel seems...distracted by that woman, Iona. Can we trust her to help us?" Beth whispered.
Demetri prompted her to keep reading. We need to find Michael in the bar, he'd continued. In the corridor, the man you smiled at, wearing this...
Beth beamed. Demetri had drawn a strange, smiley face at the bottom of the page, one of she immediately recognised.
Michael visits the bar regularly, Demetri explained. I have messaged him to expect us.
How do you know he'll be in the bar, though?
In response, Demetri tapped his nose and temple. Beth scoffed softly, annoyed at her own stupidity.
His next question gave her pause. Can I trust you to handle this?
Beth nodded.
Although upon arriving at the bar, she was not so sure: the smell of the fresh blood was like cloying smoke. Beth recognised the couple wearing the matching raincoats, chatting with the barman like they were all good friends. The young man tossed back his drink. With a cheerful laugh, he licked his lips.
Beth couldn't see anything funny about wiping the glass to catch the purple clots. As the man sucked them off his long fingers, her empty stomach roiled. Worst still, her mouth flooded with venom. Shit! Desperate, Beth looked for Michael.
With his lean frame buckled over a table, he sat in a secluded corner. Michael's half-empty glass of blood was at risk of being knocked over by his elbow, and as she approached him, Beth didn't dare to breathe.
For as long as he could remember, Michael had been expected to look after his sisters. His father had had the onerous habit of throwing it back in Michael's face whenever he stepped out of line.
"Think of your sisters." More often than not, Tony Lewis's spit was thick, green, and had no business being anywhere near his son's face. "You must set an example, my boy. Do you hear me?"
Michael did. With his father bellowing at him, it was hard to do anything else.
"Leave him, Tony!" Mum would squawk, although Dad never did. Ever. He didn't hit her, mind. Instead, photo-frames and pictures covered the living-room walls, hiding the dents they couldn't fix.
So, what was this example Michael had to set for his sisters? He never dared ask, fearing what rage it would conjure. Following his father's example meant answering any disrespect with a clout on the ear, or worse.
Michael never lowered himself to such behaviour. The other boys in their neighbourhood were rough little urchins, nearly always fighting for fun, which Michael never truly understood. What was wrong with talking? Michael had hated and feared those boys equally, and so they sensed his weakness like sharks sensed blood. Michael learnt to hide them as best he could, but he was easy prey.
Hazel was not. She had mastered convincing crocodile tears by seven years' old, which she'd use to guilt the boys for hurting her brother. She was not pretty, but she was still a girl – a girl who beat them all at football. The first time it happened, Hazel took Simon White's ball as a trophy. She'd marched away, as triumphant as a war-queen, while Simon, a giant thirteen-year-old, howled at this unexpected injustice.
Julia certainly hadn't masked her feelings, either. She'd met the boys' jeers with rocks and glass, and quickly developed a fierce reputation.
Michael heard their dubious whispers. Julia Lewis? She's a mad one. Though no one was ever stupid enough to speak such things aloud. He probably should have been ashamed, but he was proud of Hazel and Julia more than anything. They did those things because they cared, because they loved him more than anyone else. Even when Hazel wanted to dye her hair and had massacred it with Mum's fabric scissors. It was the first time Michael had ever seen their mother cry without their father in the room.
Still, their father's words clanged in Michael's mind the night Hazel failed to return home. Think of your sisters. Look after them. That evening, Michael had offered to go with her to the club. Her terrifying new friends had sour faces and barbed clothes, reeking of pot and cigarette smoke.
So, Michael wasn't surprised when Hazel told him, very sweetly, to fuck off. He had been relieved by it, too.
"Well!" Julia's eyes were bright, the same grey as his own, though always a breath away from joy or fury. "Best to respect her wishes, eh?" She patted Michael on the shoulder as she scurried upstairs, leaving him covered with a light sprinkling of crepe paper from her scrap journal.
By the end of that dreadful week, Julia's eyes were as dull as old pennies. That bleakness had raged until the day his tragic sister died. Michael wondered what his father would have thought of that failure, then.
"Um, sorry." The small voice outside of Michael's thoughts was female and English. "Would you mind if I sat here?"
Michael raised his head from folded arms. "Pardon?"
A petite redhead hovered near his table. With a toss of her head, she moved the hair out of her eyes, and her mouth twisted down. Michael had seen this face before – oh, on the stairs a moment ago, yes, but also through a pulsing smog of agony. Jane's hideous, useful gift.
Back in Volterra, where everything went so awfully wrong. The girl's face had been a window into love and horror, giving and taking what strength she had. Those gold eyes were orange now, and guarded, but it was still her. Michael knew the rhythm of her pounding feet as they had run towards Demetri.
"We've seen each other twice now," Michael said aloud. "Haven't we? Of all places!"
The girl really was an open book. She cringed, eyes darting around, and her response was a question. "Hi?"
Michael watched as a phantom, a projection of her need, held her from behind. Protected her. The face's chin and cheek were bitten ruins.
But what was she doing here?
"Oh, good Christ. Please, sit down." Michael offered a seat.
"T-Thanks." The girl moved his glass of blood out of harm's way. Her face read like it was a personal affront, but she tried to look unruffled. "My name is –"
"You're Beth." There was that look of surprise again. Clearly, the girl wasn't used to being acknowledged. Bless. Michael smiled. "Are you on your own?"
Beth shook her head. She leaned forward, lowering her voice. "A certain tracker is with me."
"A certain –?" There was only one person who that could be, but Demetri was never this coy. Michael frowned. "Where?"
Beth's mouth twitched, poorly hiding a smile. "Iona's not the only one with glamours." She tapped out a rhythm on the table. It sounded like Morse code, but Michael hadn't listened to his dad's attempts to teach him.
When Michael felt something hard brush his arm, he jolted in his seat.
A hand. An invisible hand had touched him.
Beth patted him gently. "It's okay. Michael, it's just our friend." She was staring hard at the free chair opposite them. Her expression serious, yet her mouth still worked to smother a laugh. "It's our guy."
The chair creaked, and Michael's phone hummed in his pocket. The chairs here are comfortable, aren't they?
"God." Burying both hands in his hair, Michael glanced between Beth and the outwardly empty chair. "You – that's – that's – oh, I hope you understand the risk of coming here."
Beth made a noise like a laugh. "Your sister was decidedly vague on that front. Before I ask any questions, though, I have to know where you fit into all this."
"Fair. But do look at me when you talk," Michael said gently. "It's common courtesy."
A spasm of guilt scrunched up Beth's face. "Sorry. Um, I can't," she said. "If I look at you, my glamour will – I have to concentrate and I don't want to risk it."
What loyalty, Michael thought, nodding. What did you do to earn it, Demetri? "Okay. Iona believes I have deserted, and I would like to keep it that way."
Beth twisted her lip. "Right. Our friend says…you know who we're dealing with here."
"I do. My advice? Act naïve, but don't ask too many questions." Michael raised his eyebrows as Beth grinned.
"I think I can manage that."
"Good. Watch." Draping an arm around the back of his seat, Michael turned to face the lobby.
Sat at her desk, Christabel picked at her magenta nails. Her made-up face looked lurid, even improper, with her brow furrowed like that. At the feeling of being watched, the woman looked up and raised a dark eyebrow. Nodding to her, Michael turned back to Beth.
"If idle gossip is to be believed, darling Christabel was once a Soviet spy."
"Whoa," Beth breathed. Michael wondered if she truly knew what that entailed. "What…about Dana?"
They glanced at the woman. She stood stiff and attentive, but as she caught Beth's eye, her expression softened just a little. "Don't tell her I said this," said Michael. "But Dana is the sweetest. You'd do well to make friends with her, I promise you. She fought in the Thirty Years War."
Beth frowned. "Um, okay. And Iona and Radko? Are they…veterans, too?"
Michael had to laugh. "No. Radko is the youngest out of all of them."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
I saw the way you looked at him. Michael looked around for his drink, drained it to quench the low fire in his throat. "Why are you here? What are they asking of you?"
Demetri was tapping out a message. "Well, I thought I was acting as a spy," Beth mumbled through a self-deprecative smile.
Clucking, Michael plucked a loose thread on his t-shirt. "What then?"
Beth just shrugged, beating out another code for Demetri on the table.
God, does she not know? Michael said, "Please, don't take this the wrong way, but you don't look like much of a fighter, Beth."
"Oh, really?" She laughed, harsh and humourless. "That depends, Michael."
Michael stared at her. "On what?"
"Well, what's the fight?"
The blood in Michael's system turned thick and sour. "Beth," he said. "It's the fight. I have theories about these "special guests," but what about you?"
"I –" Beth was tense beside him, still staring at Demetri's chair. "Are we in danger?"
"That depends," Michael sighed. "Where do your loyalties truly lie?"
To be continued...