The kitchen’s enormous. I could fit my whole flat in the sink. It’s all silver and white surfaces and the ovens must be on because it’s so warm my body’s already thawing. I hadn’t realised how cold I was until I came inside.
At the workstations, a couple of chefs chop vegetables and throw them into tubs, chatting and laughing. Steam hangs in the air and the smell of cooking meat makes my stomach twist irritably. I’ve never smelt anything like it.
Countless sharp objects lie around. The ovens are gas, open flames spitting on the hob, chefs getting dangerously close in their uniforms, which could be flammable for all I know.
So many hazards my head spins. If I spend too long in here, god knows what would happen.
‘Just put that over here,’ Lily says, appearing by my side and loading her trays onto a counter.
‘I’m guessing Sophie’s not here yet,’ I say, doing the same.
‘Let me ask Harry. Hey, Harry!’
A tall guy in a chef’s uniform looks up from stirring a cauldron of soup. He breaks into a lopsided grin and sets the ladle down, ambling over.
‘You’re early.’ His voice is deep and he has an accent. I can sort of understand why Lily blushes.
‘Nina wanted the trays earlier than usual,’ Lily says.
‘Nina’s a pilled-up control freak.’
Nina sounds like a hoot.
Harry’s eyes swivel in my direction. ‘Who’s your friend?’
Something about the way he looks at me is unnerving. His eyes are chocolatey and soft and for a moment I think of Bolt. Why is he looking at me like that?
I put my hand out. ‘Jaime.’
He shakes it firmly. ‘Harry. You’re with Sophie?’
‘Unfortunately.’
‘You planning on drowning yourself now or after the champagne?’
I’m smiling before I know it. The first time I’ve smiled for real in a long time. It sends a warm ripple through my abdomen.
‘Oh, I want my share of the champagne,’ I say.
His laugh is booming, as warm as the steamy air.
I find Lily looking at me strangely, then she shoves Harry. ‘Nobody’s drowning. Where’s Sophie?’
‘I banned her from the kitchen until the guests show up.’
‘Bet she liked that.’
‘Not even a little.’
His lopsided grin returns. Why am I noticing his grin? I feel hot colour flooding my cheeks.
‘I’ll look for her,’ I say. ‘It can’t be that hard–’
Lily pushes Harry out of the way. ‘I’ll come with. This place is like a maze. Besides, if I don’t report for duty, Sophie will flip.’
Harry sweeps a hand in front of himself, bowing as we pass. ‘M’ladies.’
‘Such a moron,’ Lily says, but as she leads me out of the kitchen, she’s different. I struggle to figure out why but then I think of the way her gaze flicked between me and Harry. Why would she look like that?
Jealous.
That’s insane. I’m a spectral, knot-haired mess who hasn’t slept properly in a week. She must be envious of anybody who takes Harry’s attention away from her.
This is dangerous. I’m supposed to blend in, be inconspicuous, let people forget I exist. I’ve already messed up by being too friendly to Lily. If she ends up following me around all night – or worse, singling me out as some kind of goddamn love rival – I’m screwed.
I stop her in the corridor just outside the kitchen.
‘You don’t need to come with me. I’m sure I can find Sophie on my own.’
‘Don’t be silly–’
‘Nina wants the trays out of the van, right? I don’t want to get you in trouble.’
Lily bites her lip.
‘Go,’ I say. ‘Thanks for the ride. And save me some champagne.’
‘Okay. Good luck.’ She disappears back into the kitchen.
‘Yeah,’ I say to the empty corridor. ‘Thanks.’
Screw Sophie. She sounds like the queen of Bitchtown and I could really do without the drama. I’m in now. I can dump the pretence, find somewhere to hide, upstairs where people won’t be milling about. There’s got to be plenty of places to hole up in a place like this. I can watch the party from afar then make my move.
First I’ll get the lay of the land. Good to know if I have to make a swift exit.
The door at the end of the corridor opens into a grand lobby that resembles a museum. An elegant staircase sweeps up against one dark-panelled wall and expensive items glimmer on polished tables. Vinter likes to make an impression.
Soft voices come from a room at the front of the house and I follow them to an impossibly large ballroom. Inside, tables are being assembled and covered in white sheets by waiters and waitresses who move hurriedly but quietly, as if they’re working a funeral instead of a party. I’ll head upstairs before anybody spots me.
I turn back into the hallway and find somebody watching me.
‘Who’s this?’
The way she speaks tells me this is Sophie. She’s not what I expect. Thirties. Brown hair. Average height. A businesswoman.
But her eyes are a supernatural blue and as they pass over me I can’t help shivering.
She waits for my answer with reptilian patience.
‘Uh, Jaime,’ I say.
‘What are you doing here?’
Her tone isn’t rude, but it’s not friendly, either. Sophie’s all about efficiency; even her posture’s efficient as she stands in the centre of the hall. She hadn’t accounted for me and it’s thrown a spanner into the works.
‘Seth at the agency sent me?’ I say, firmly but letting it sound like a question.
The blue circles of her eyes become slivers.
‘Seth? Which agency is he with?’
I frown. ‘Oh, Franklin’s. I– He just gave me the time and address. He said you’d be expecting me. Though, to be honest, this isn’t the first time this has happened.’
‘You’re not even wearing the right uniform.’
I knot my fingers together in a show of fretfulness that makes me want to smack myself in the face. ‘I can call him if–’
But Sophie isn’t looking at me any more. She’s peering over my shoulder, her jaw setting. I turn and follow her gaze.
A man stands at the top of the stairs. He’s only half dressed, his white shirt untucked and crumpled over his smart trousers. His dark blond hair is slicked back and his moustache is stiff with wax.
I recognise him instantly.
Magnus Vinter.
My heart rattles in my chest because he’s staring right at me. Vinter is staring at me like he’s seen a ghost.
His gaze never leaves my face as he descends. I stop breathing, squeezing my hands together. Why is he looking at me like that?
He murmurs something that must be Swedish as he stops before me, his gaze searching my face. ‘Are you…’
‘Herr Vinter?’ Sophie ventures, her tone less clipped now she’s addressing somebody who isn’t an idiot.
Vinter’s sea-green eyes flicker at me and I smile nervously. Anything to hide Rumer. Push her down by her shoulders and let Jaime clamber up. Not Rumer. Not Celene.
Jaime likes pop stars and fast cars and cheap bars.
He can’t know. There’s no way he knows I’m her daughter. Celene said she saw him just last month, but he can’t know about me. That I’m hers. Besides, I look nothing like her.
Vinter blinks as if emerging from a daydream.
‘I’m sorry, for a moment I thought–’ His accent is soft, buried under years of English living. If I didn’t know he wasn’t from here, I probably wouldn’t notice it at all.
Sophie’s looking at him with a kind of patience that makes me think this isn’t the first time she’s seen Vinter behaving strangely.
‘Is there something I can do for you, Mr Vinter?’
‘No, no, Sophie.’ Finally, his gaze breaks from me. ‘What am I saying? Yes, there is. I wanted to check that the pink roses had arrived. Mother insists on pink and she’d like to see them before they’re placed out.’
‘They arrived thirty minutes ago, Mr Vinter. I can fetch a selection now if you wish.’
Vinter still seems distracted. His gaze drifts back to me, as if he can’t help it. ‘What’s your name?’ he asks.
I clear my throat. ‘Jaime.’
‘You’re new.’
I nod. ‘Seth–’
‘Are you from here? London, I mean?’
‘Yes.’
I’m burning up under his stare, the way a camera negative sizzles and curls if it’s left under a bright light.
He can’t know. Unless…
I wonder how truthful Celene’s been with me. She said she had connections with Vinter. Was it more than that? He’s forty-two, which means he’d have been in his early twenties when my mother sold him the Crook Spear.
Was there something between them? Something more than business?
The spider in my mind shivers and I try to ignore it.
Jaime likes…
‘Mr Vinter–’ Sophie steps between us and lays her hand on his forearm. ‘The roses are being kept in the greenhouse. I can take you now. I won’t have another chance. There’s still so much to do.’
She begins to lead him towards the lobby.
‘I like the new uniforms,’ Vinter says.
‘What? Oh.’ Sophie flicks an annoyed glance at me. ‘Yes, not strictly official yet. Jaime, speak to Lily. She’ll show you what needs doing if she ever shows up. Oh, Mr Vinter, you’ll just love the roses…’
They disappear into one of the rooms off the hallway and I let my breath go in a rush.
What was I thinking coming here? I must be out of my mind. Booby traps are everywhere. Any second one could snap its teeth into my ankle and I’d be down for the count. And what use am I to Bolt dead?
Bolt.
He’s the only reason I’m doing this. The only reason I’ve got myself into this mess. If I can’t save him, what good am I to anybody?
I have to keep it together.
Get the Crook Spear, let that bullet do its worst, free Bolt.
Screw the waitress act. I’m in now. I find myself staring at the staircase Vinter came down. The gun’s up there and I can’t resist its call any longer. It’s now or never.
I hurry up the stairs, trying to ignore the nag. I feel more on edge than usual, and not just because of what I’m up to.
Celene? Am I worried about her? More than anything, I’m concerned she won’t make it to the party. She’s instrumental to the plan and if she ends up bleeding out in the Dead Room, I may as well put the Crook Spear to my head and blow my brains out now.
This is where it gets real.
Either I find the Crook Spear or I cut my losses and go home. This is no different to what I do as a shadow. I’m working a case Julian left under the removable floor in the phone box. That’s all.
A pit of yearning unexpectedly opens in my belly. Those were simpler times. All I had to do was follow people and not get caught. Easy when I was Shadow Rumer.
I’m not sure what kind of Rumer I’ve become.
George said I was different right before Ellis sliced his throat open. That was days ago now. My heart convulses at the memory of him slumped to the floor. So fragile, so kind.
You have to surround yourself with the people who see the good in you.
There won’t be any good in me after tonight.
It’s almost as if the world wanted to give me a breather for those two years I worked for Julian. A taste of the real world before I was wrenched down into the realm my mother inhabits. Inevitably. Unavoidably. Inescapably.
That life’s been at my heels every day since I was born, but I’ve always managed to outrun it, dart into side passages, turn corners blindly in the hope it won’t track me down.
Not any more.
I’m on the landing. Below, a waitress hurries down the hall balancing champagne glasses on a tray. She disappears towards the ballroom.
I creep down the landing. Through a tall window, I glimpse the lawns at the back of the house, immaculate and green. Empty flowerbeds. Tilled earth prepared for a winter snooze.
I could sleep for weeks, my body’s so heavy. For a moment I feel the full bone-deep weight of my exhaustion. The past week has taken its toll and I’m not finished yet.
Drawing a curtain over the tiredness, I hurry on. There’s no time.
I hear a voice and throw myself through the nearest door. It’s a parlour like nothing I’ve ever seen, except perhaps in Mara’s warehouse. Mara would approve of this, a vision of yellow and blue and silver. It’s like something out of old movies. I half expect to find Marilyn Monroe draped across a sofa.
Somebody’s on the landing outside. Peering through the keyhole I make out Vinter, fully dressed, poised at the top of the stairs. He’s impressive, done up like that. He could have stepped out of the past. There’s something regal and mysterious about him and maybe a little childish. Like a kid at a wedding.
A quivering voice needles through the door so loudly I think she’s in the room with me. She speaks a different language. Swedish maybe. Then pink silk rustles past the keyhole and a grey-faced old woman joins Vinter at the stairs.
‘English, mother. Nobody will understand you.’
‘The pink is ugly,’ she snips. ‘My dress won’t match the roses.’
‘I’ll have a word with Sophie.’
She spits what has to be a Swedish swear word. ‘She has liar’s eyes.’
Mrs Vinter’s fine, sharp-angled limbs bend like wire, her hair a woolly scrub fixed with gleaming silver pins. Her son resembles her, though she wears her pride angrily, perpetually half sneering.
If she has it in for Sophie she can’t be all bad.
‘Play nice, mama.’
He helps her down the stairs, though her back is ramrod straight and she seems to hate his fussing.
A few moments earlier I might have stumbled into them on the landing. I’m relieved I didn’t. I have a feeling Mrs Vinter would recognise another battleaxe if she saw one – she wouldn’t buy my innocent waitress routine for a second.
When I’m sure they’re gone, I move to the large set of doors on the other side of the parlour. All the rooms downstairs were connected by these grand doorways and I’m hoping it’s the same up here.
I go into another parlour, this one with a few trinkets on the bookcases, but none of them guns. The next room is filled with taxidermied animals. A tiger mid-pounce. An eagle spreading monstrously large wings.
Still no gun.
I have to pretend I’m invisible.
My hand tightens into a fist.
Invisible.
That’s what’s wrong.
I was invisible for so long working for Julian I thought I’d slip into Vinter’s without anybody noticing. I’d work quietly behind the scenes, then when the moment was right I’d slip away and nobody would be any the wiser because why would anybody pay any attention to pale, boring little me?
Except that hasn’t happened. Harry the cook’s chocolate brown eyes were all over me. Vinter spotted me from the top of the stairs. And Sophie appeared behind me without me even hearing her.
They all saw me.
I used to be able to follow people for hours without them ever noticing.
What’s different?
Me.
I’m different.
That’s what has been nagging at me all afternoon. Not worry over Celene or the thought that I won’t be able to pull the plan off. It’s the fact that I’m not invisible any more. The events of the past week have bent me out of shape somehow. Rendered me corporeal. I was a shadow for so long, I didn’t think it was possible to be any other way.
But here I am, talking to people, smiling and doing a job. A real job.
I’m not the Rumer I used to be.
This isn’t good.
The next room takes me to the front of the house. Dusk is settling and lamps have been lit along the drive. Cars glide towards the house. I go to the window and peer down, careful to tuck myself just behind the curtain. The guests are arriving. A woman wearing a cleavage-flashing dress kisses Mrs Vinter’s hand at the door, then peels her lips back in a predatory smile at her son.
I wonder how many of the guests are here solely to convince Vinter to marry them. Men and women. I’m fairly certain the women will all go home disappointed.
I’m about to move on when a man emerges from one of the cars. He hobbles slightly as he approaches the entrance but I’d recognise that big frame anywhere.
‘Julian.’
What’s he doing here? I left him tied to a chair in the tower block. Rose must’ve rescued him, but Rose is working for Mara. Is Julian another of Mara’s puppets? Is he here for the Crook Spear?
I lean in closer to the window. A faint bruise runs along his jaw, a shadow left by Bolt’s fist. We beat him up pretty badly; though not as badly as Ellis the Nicotine Man. I wonder if Mara’s retired my mother’s old accomplice. I think of the way the hammer felt against his bones with a mixture of horror and excitement.
Just before Julian reaches the entrance, his gaze flickers up at me.
Quickly, I shrink back behind the curtain, my pulse racing. Did he see me? I’m pretty sure I moved in time but my palms have started sweating and I can’t think straight. Is he here for me? Or maybe he’s one of Vinter’s suitors. I honestly wouldn’t be surprised.
There’s no way Julian would know I’d be here. Even I didn’t know until yesterday. Unless Mara’s guessed I’ve joined forces with my mother. I clench my fist, remembering the shard slicing into my palm as I held it over Mara’s throat. If Celene had turned up two seconds later, I’d have succeeded in killing him and I wouldn’t be here, searching a mansion for a mystical gun.
The gun.
As Julian is greeted at the door by the Vinters, I go to the landing. A hum of voices comes from the ground floor as the guests congregate. I wonder how long it’ll be until Celene arrives. If she makes it. An image of her determined face flickers in my mind and I know she will.
I head down the landing, creeping swiftly towards the door on the other side. As I go, I peer through the banister rails at the lobby below, blood thundering in my ears. There’s Julian, champagne glass already in one hand, the other hand in his pocket. He looks lonely. His head starts to turn but I’m already through the door, clicking it shut and leaning into it.
How did I ever do this? All that time I spent shadowing people and not once did it feel like this.
Because I didn’t care.
The cases I worked weren’t personal. There’s so much more riding on this than with any of the cheating businessmen I trailed.
I turn and my chest swells.
Cabinets fill the room, each holding expensive-looking artefacts. I prowl between them, ignoring the ceramics, swords and jewels. The gun has to be here somewhere.
When I reach the back of the collection, I rock to a standstill. The cabinet in front of me is filled with guns. Ten of them, all pointing in the same direction, like a school of killer fish. One of them has to be the Crook Spear but I have no idea which. They’re all different shapes and sizes.
I press close to the glass, scrutinising each one, remembering the drawing on the wall in cabin one. The sorceress holding the firearm. The image wasn’t clear; the gun an indistinct blur of brushstrokes.
Little placards rest below each of the weapons. Every one is inscribed with a country of origin. France. Norway. Japan.
Morocco.
My pulse quickens. Only one of the guns is from Morocco. Red and gold designs swirl over the dark wood and the metal is tarnished with age. It’s elegant but nowhere near as ornate as the others.
‘Jackpot,’ I whisper.
Hastily, I check the cabinet for an alarm. There isn’t one.
‘You’re far too trusting, Vinter.’
Listening to the buzz of voices beneath my feet, I try to gauge if anybody will hear the glass smashing. It’s impossible to tell and I don’t have a choice anyway, so I turn, crook my elbow, and jab it at the pane. Hairline cracks spread through it and I jab again. It shatters loudly but the buzz of the party doesn’t waver.
There’s nothing but air between me and the Crook Spear.
Carefully I reach in and lift it from its holder.
I half expect the floorboards to tremble or a ghostly wind to stir.
It’s surprisingly heavy as I turn it over in my hands. I inspect the chamber, which only contains two bullets.
Mara was right about something.
One bullet to kill, one to render somebody unkillable.
This is the gun my mother used to murder Mara’s father. Now I’m going to use it to complete the circle. I can’t help trembling. The gun looks so unremarkable but it’s hiding a dark secret. It’s cursed, too.
It doesn’t react to me, though. I thought maybe it’d be like two magnets coming together. I’d feel some kind of pull or charge. My hair would go static and I’d experience mystical visions, glimpse the farthest reaches of the universe, watch the birth of stars and the death of gods. Instead, I just want to get this over with.
The spider in my mind is restless.
My heard jerks to one side.
A noise from the landing.
I throw myself at another door and make it through just as I hear the main door click open. Not daring to breathe, I listen as somebody quietly enters the room. It could be a guard doing the rounds. Or Julian. Or maybe Mara’s arrived and he’s gone straight for the goods. That seems unlikely. The party’s only just started. You’d think he’d wait a polite amount of time before ransacking the place, unlike me.
Footsteps resound on the floorboards and I’m pretty certain whoever it is has just strolled up to the gun cabinet.
I swallow the lump in my throat, waiting for a shout as they discover the smashed glass, or an alarm being triggered. Instead, the footsteps approach the door I’m hiding behind.
Panic builds in my chest. There’s no way I can explain why I’m up here. Or why I’m cradling an old gun in my good hand.
Somebody’s right on the other side of the door and I know they’re going to come through and find me.
I grab the handle just in time. Somebody tries to push it down and I grit my teeth as I squeeze it up, forcing it not to move. It digs into my bandaged palm and I’m immediately sweating, pain spearing my flesh. I wedge the Crook Spear under the handle.
If the intruder thinks the door’s locked he’ll give up. He has to.
The handle rattles and I don’t think I can hold it for much longer. Then the pressure eases and footsteps ring over the floor. I release the handle, my hand cramping with pain, checking the Crook Spear. It doesn’t look like it’s been damaged.
‘Rumer?’
My heart’s in my throat as I whirl towards the voice.
Celene stands in a doorway across the room, little more than a shadowy cutout.
How many goddamn doors does this place have?
‘What are you doing up here?’ I hiss.
‘I could ask you the same question.’
As I stare at her, I realise we’re in a library. Books chequer the walls and a couple of leather sofas huddle in the darkness in the centre of the floor. The only light comes in through the door with my mother.
‘I got confused,’ I say, hiding the gun behind my thigh. ‘I was looking for you and–’
‘Give it up, Rumer.’ Her voice is a low rumble and I try not to let it get to me. ‘The gun isn’t your concern. If you come with me now, you won’t get hurt.’