Black London 05 - Soul Trade

the village, she wasn’t immediately tipping her hand.
    Jack flicked a fag-end in the general direction of the birds. “Still think everything is right and good?”
    “Of course not,” Pete said. The shadows and reflections on the glass were liquid, and the first real unease stirred, a flutterof her stomach that had nothing to do with the silent town. Nobody being in residence would be a much better outcome than something being there.
    “Can’t do anything about Crotherton until morning,” Jack said. “So aside from bunking with the travelers, where are we sleeping?”
    Pete had hoped that, as with most villages that attracted hikers and tourists, there’d be an inn or even a shoddy chainhotel, but there was nothing. Everything was dark and silent, and no signs on any of the storefronts promised lodging.
    Pete sighed. “I can only think of one place, and you’re not going to like it.”
    “Luv, I’d sleep cuddled up with a horny skinhead inside a roach-infested box at this point,” Jack said, punctuating his words with a wide yawn.
    “All right, then,” Pete said, telling her mobile togive her a map to the address she’d gotten from Ollie. “Come with me.”
    The Smythe house was only about half a mile from the square, but it was the most uncomfortable half mile Pete had ever walked. She could feel stares, hear whispers, and sense the rising crescendo of unearthly magic all around them. It was as if they’d tripped an alarm, and now the electric fence was on and charging the airitself to prick her skin.
    Jack grimaced and rubbed his forehead. Pete glanced at him. “You going to make it?”
    “It’s not even sight,” Jack said. “Something else. Whole damn place sets me teeth on edge.”
    “If everything were all right, we wouldn’t be here,” Pete said. “Think it’s some residue from the summoning? Maybe that’s what made Crotherton bugger off.”
    Maybe it’s what sent Preston overthe edge.
    Or maybe she was just tired and far too edgy. She stopped at the correct house number and looked up the walk, not sure what to expect.
    The Smythe house looked normal from the street. White plaster, red tile roof, almost like an Italian villa plopped down in the middle of green England. A neat garden with a weathered fence containing late mums and lilies. It was a far cry from the dankcouncil house the Smythes had occupied when Pete had first met Margaret’s mum, after Margaret had been kidnapped by Treadwell’s agents.
    The lights were off, but she pushed through the gate and up the path. The gate springs gave a shriek, deafening in the quiet night. Jack stayed on the street, eyes roaming through the darkness. Just knowing he was behind her gave Pete the nerve to pound on thedoor.
    After a minute of thumping, she started to hope that they weren’t home, or had moved, or anything that would save her from having to talk to Margaret’s parents. But then the lamp flared on above her head, and the door flew open.
    “What!” a skinny man in an undershirt and pants barked. “It’s one in the fuckin’ morning! Did you lose your watch up your arse?”
    “Mr. Smythe?” Pete said, purelyas a formality. She recognized his craggy face and sad, rapidly retreating gray hairline from the family photos she’d seen in London.
    “Who the fuck are you?” he shouted in response. “I told you lot, you wait for the morning like everyone else! Go camp on the green with the other freaks and stay off our personal property!”
    Pete didn’t bother asking him what he was on about. “Sir, you don’t knowme, but I worked your daughter’s kidnap case. I’m afraid my friend and I have come to Overton on business and we’re in a bit of a spot. Might we come in?” Honestly, she was glad it was Margaret’s father and not her gin-soaked, teary-eyed mother. Being shouted at by convicts was familiar ground, one she could navigate.
    Mr. Smythe drew back visibly, as if she’d brandished a tire iron at his testicles.“You’re a copper?”
    “May we come in?” Pete asked again. Let him think she still had a badge, if it made life easier. It wasn’t a crime not to correct an assumption.
    “Well, this ain’t a fuckin’ B&B,” Mr. Smythe said. “My wife and kid are asleep, and whatever it is can wait until mornin’.”
    “I’m afraid it can’t,” Pete said. “I’ve been asked to look into the disappearances in the area, and therewas a mixup at our lodging.”
    She tried a different tack, giving Mr.