home, she decided. She wanted to see what state Elle and Missy had left the place in, and if the pair of them were waiting for her, she'd at least get closer to working out what the hell was going on. She’d stake the place out first, make sure there were no police, or anyone else. At least she'd be safe from vampire reprisals for a few hours. She was more worried about the police in the light of day. Two crime scenes had to have her bloody fingerprints over them, and that DI would want to talk to her about his raid on an empty house.
There was a cafe across the street from her apartment, and despite turning down the sandwich at Adam’s, a deep hunger was gnawing away at her insides. Why hadn’t she eaten? Stupid. The realisation that followed — that she hadn’t wanted the handsome vampire to see her munching through a chicken and sweetcorn sandwich — didn’t make her feel any better.
Pulling up a chair in the café, she positioned herself with a view of the entrance to her building. She would have breakfast, have a couple of coffees, watch the world as it went about its business, and see if that business was her. When the café’s perennial serving staff, Angie, approached, she ordered a full English breakfast and a black coffee.
If anyone was watching, they were subtle. The best vantage point was right here, and unless Angie was a secret police informant, there was nobody else here. She doubted the police could spare round-the-clock surveillance. That kind of thing happened in movies, not real life. The police were so thinly stretched these days they could barely keep up with the constant volume of fresh cases, let alone spend hours watching the empty homes of people they were interested in. She saw it enough first hand every time the police protecting her as she attended some domestic violence case or city centre brawl got pulled away to another crisis.
‘Here you go, love,’ Angie said, handing over a plate so laden with fried meat it made Lucy’s stomach lurch with anticipation.
‘Cheers, Angie.’
‘You alright, love?’ the tiny woman asked. ‘You look like you had a rough night.’
‘Bit tired,’ she replied, honestly. ‘Been a long one. Hey, have you noticed anything weird around here the last few days?’
‘Oh, you know me. I keep my head down, love. Although, there were a lot of police here the other day, milling about outside your building. Not right sure what was going on, might have been a drugs raid.’
‘Really?’ Lucy asked, cutting up a sausage and stuffing it in her mouth to find it was hotter than the sun’s surface.
‘Oh yeah. Loads of them. Big wagon of them. Armed ones and everything. They don’t half scare me, though I guess you’re more used to them than I am.’
‘I dunno,’ Lucy replied, watching as a man in a dark jacket approached the building and rang on the buzzer. He was buzzed inside. ‘Not sure you ever get used to it.’
‘Well, I think it’s the Lord’s work you do, love.’
She disappeared back into the kitchen, leaving Lucy alone in the café. She ploughed into the breakfast with gusto, her stomach protesting at the sudden influx of meat, eggs, fried bread, and beans.
Nobody was watching, she decided by the time half of her pot of coffee remained. Adam was worried about her, but it didn’t seem likely Elle or Missy were actually interested in her. If the gnawing feeling in her stomach was right, they were wrapped up in this, but did their interest in her end the moment Cain didn’t eat her?
She left some money on the table — Angie never brought a bill out to her, but Lucy refused not to pay. This was their elegant solution, with neither having to back down from their positions of deference to each other. Lucy respected the hell out of the fact Angie kept this place going, a proper old-school café in a city fast running out of old-school anything.
Having put the money on the table, she knew Angie wouldn’t come out and collect her plate, so she took a few more minutes to finish her coffee and headed back across the street. She punched in the entry code and took the stairs up to her flat.
Elle hadn’t lied about cleaning up the place, but she’d neglected to mention the fresh door she’d put up to replace the shattered one, replete with a fresh lock Lucy didn't have the key for. Lucy laughed. Of course. No need to watch the place when she’d made it so Lucy had to go back to Elle to get the key.
Even as she stood before it, scratching her head as to what the hell to do next, the door to the flat behind her opened and Mrs Phatak poked her head out.
‘I’ve got the key for you,’ she said, looking somewhat harassed. The sound of manic children at play rang out from behind her.
‘Oh, great,’ Lucy said, and headed over to her neighbour. ‘Who gave you it?’
‘Tall woman. Pretty. I assumed it was your landlord?’
‘Something like that. Are you okay?’
Mrs Phatak rolled her eyes. ‘Birthday party. There are twelve children in here and they’re making more noise than I thought it possible to make.’
Lucy laughed. ‘You have my sympathy. Wish Nadim a happy birthday from me.’
‘Will do.’ A frown furrowed her brow. ‘I’m not sure what happened with your door. I keep trying to remember, but it… slips away, somehow.’
‘Burglary attempt,’ Lucy said. ‘I’ve been with friends for a few days since.’
‘Oh,’ she said, looking relieved, before realising it was not an explanation that gave much solace to a single mother living in the same building.
‘Someone I knew,’ Lucy added hastily. ‘Ex-boyfriend. Said I still had something that belonged to him. All sorted. He won’t be back.’
She gave a nod of solidarity, and the frown disappeared. Something smashed behind her, followed by a scream. She rolled her eyes. ‘I’d better get back in there,’ she said, and handed over Lucy’s new key.
‘Thanks, and good luck,’ Lucy said, even as the door closed behind her.
Lucy looked at the key in her hand — perfectly nondescript. It even had the generic plastic tab on it that locksmiths always put on. Even so, it felt strange. Opening the door into her apartment, the sense of otherness deepened. Everything looked exactly as she’d left it, or how it had looked approximately ten minutes before a deranged vampire crashed through the door and tried to kill her. No evidence of blood, no evidence of a struggle, no evidence of anything replaced. It was as though the damage had been simply… undone.
She looked in the previously smashed mirror. It wasn’t a new mirror; it was the old one. Restored without the faintest evidence of repair, it still had the foggy corner on the top right that had been there for years. The same went for the sofa — the fight had ripped it asunder, but as she sank into the familiar groove of her own arse, she knew instantly it was hers.
Even with everything returned to normal, Lucy couldn’t shake the feeling of a place no longer entirely her own. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but there was a definite sense something had violated her dominion over this place. The urge rose to run from the place, close her door and turn her back on everything within it, but she didn’t have the luxury. What had Elle and Missy left in their wake — were there spells here? Were they watching her? It was enough to send a shiver down her spine that kept cycling through on itself in a feedback loop.
Whatever she felt, though, she was too tired to fight it. Kicking off her shoes, she moved through to her bedroom. In here, at least, it felt like home still — but the fight never came in here. She pulled off her new jeans, took off her top and bra, and climbed straight into bed. The sheets were cool, and she pulled them up over herself, cocooning herself inside their comfort. She closed her eyes and fell instantly to sleep.
Sleep seemed on the edge of reach when something in the room snapped her back to consciousness. All was still and calm, and daylight still streamed through her curtain. Drool at the edge of her mouth suggested she had slept some, and a quick glance at her clock confirmed it was mid-afternoon.
Laying perfectly still, she listened. There was no Jones to have pounced on the bed to wake her — she was completely alone in the flat. She didn’t feel it — she felt eyes on her, somewhere. Listening so hard she could hear her heart and the bustle of day life below her window, she lay there.
Nothing.
She got out of bed, pulled back on her new clothes, and set about inspecting her room. It seemed exactly as she’d left it. Nothing disturbed in her drawers, nothing moved in her wardrobe. The thin layer of dust on her mantelpiece looked undisturbed… almost.
Her eye skipped over it at first. It looked such a part of her room; she looked right at it half a dozen times before realising. There on the mantelpiece, nestled between pictures of her mum and the two best friends from university who she spoke to on Facebook once in an aeon, sat an urn. Small, ceramic. Quite pretty, and in keeping with the rest of the room. But not hers. She was sure she’d seen one before, but struggled to place where.
Staring at it, she wondered what to do. The presence of the damn thing was unsettling enough, and the thought of touching it seemed like entirely the wrong thing to do. If this was a gift from Elle, God knew what was inside.
She crept up to it slowly, as though it might fire spiders at her face. Careful not to touch it, she peered inside. It was empty save for some kind of dark residue. There was no scent when she sniffed the air above it. She was about to reach inside with her fingers, but thought better of it. Moving through to the kitchen, she picked out a long spatula, wrapping it in kitchen towel and taking it back through to the bedroom. She hit the lights and opened the curtains, wanting as much light as possible.
Without touching the pot, she dipped the spatula in, scraping it against the bottom and the sides, almost losing control and sending the pot to the ground to shatter into pieces and bad mojo. She stopped it at the edge of the sill, holding her breath as she manoeuvred it back into place. Carefully withdrawing the spatula, she took a better look at what was inside.
Blood, if she had to guess. Old, practically gone to powder. Maybe mixed with something else for some dark purpose, but blood nonetheless. She unwrapped the paper towel, careful not to touch the powdery paste, and took it through to the kitchen bin, dumping it into an empty bag.
Grabbing some tongs, she went back into the bedroom and carefully lifted the urn up, carrying it through to the kitchen and placing it carefully inside the open bin. She might not know what the hell the thing was for, but she knew she didn’t want it in her house. Lifting the bin and tying the handle, she took it outside her door and placed it in the corridor.
Closing the door behind her, she felt an amazing sense of relief, a weight lifting off her shoulder and flying out of her flat, taking the bad vibes with it. She felt at home again.
Or did she?
A few minutes later, the dread returned, along with the sense of loss… loss of what was hers. She didn’t feel at home in her own home, like the ownership had transferred away from herself. It didn’t help that Jones wasn’t here, either. She wondered how he was enjoying what seemed to be his new home, wandering through the legs of ancient beings. It wasn’t fair. Sure, she and Jones treated each other like housemates who’d long since stopped spending much time together, but she still loved the little fuck. He was hers. She was his. It was as close as she’d come to a meaningful relationship in as long as she could remember.
‘Fuck this,’ she said to the empty house. ‘I’m going to get my cat back.’ She picked up her purse and jacket and headed out the door.