Black London 05 - Soul Trade

never had any jobs booked of late. Nobody in the Black trusted him, and nobody wanted him anywhere near them, especially after word had got round of what happened in Los Angeles. Personally, Pete thought that returning four of the worst things the Black had to offer to their iron prison in Hell was an accomplishment,not a liability, but mages were only human. They got scared, they got paranoid, they closed ranks. Jack might be more talented than most, and a damn good exorcist, but nobody in London would consider him worth the risk. Not for years to come.
    Possibly not ever.
    Pete herself, not being in direct contact with the four primordial demons or Nergal, was less of a risk, but nobody trusted her becauseshe was the Weir. Only mundanes would hire her, and the work she’d done for Wolcott would barely cover their bills.
    She scooped up dirty clothes from the bedroom floor, determined to do at least one thing today that would actually yield a tangible result. Lily was in her bounce chair watching children’s programs on Pete’s laptop. Jack was out on the fire stairs smoking. Pete figured she couldtake a few loads of clothes down to the wash, then do the sweeping and washing up before both Jack and Lily got bored and demanded her attention.
    The black envelope given to her by the pale men fluttered to the floor from inside her jeans. Pete considered it for a moment, a square black stain on her floor, then decided she was being ridiculous. It was just paper—nobody was afraid of paper. Shepicked it up, sitting on the edge of the bed and sliding her thumbnail under the edge of the envelope.
    She’d been inclined to ignore the sort of buffoonery that resulted in a bunch of gits accosting her in a graveyard, but Jack’s reaction to her question hadn’t been what she’d expected. If this Prometheus Club scared him so much, didn’t she owe it to herself and Lily to at least see what theywanted from her? To be prepared for the worst?
    The invitation was all one sheet, folded in on itself like a puzzle box, and Pete watched as black ink flowed across the white paper, spelling out a formal script before her eyes.
    Miss Petunia Caldecott
    The Prometheus Club requests your presence
    10 th full gathering of Members
    Manchester, England
    One week hence
    Pete blinked, logically knowingthat it was only a small enchantment on the paper, but transfixed all the same. How could they know she’d even open the envelope, not toss it in the bin?
    Because they knew her, Pete realized, and knew she’d be too curious to not at least look.
    She felt the same flash of worry and panic she’d caught in Jack’s face take up residence in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t like strangers knowingher this well. Where to find her, how to manipulate her.
    She was about to crumple the thick paper and toss it into the bin when she felt a stab of pain in the hand not already aching from her tussle with the wraith.
    “Shit!” Pete gasped, leaping up and dropping the invitation to the floor. Too late, she saw the ink had raced from the letters, through the paper, and into her hand, piercing herskin like a barb. The ink massed into a circle within a circle in the center of her palm, and Pete hissed, scraping at it but only making the pain worse. It burned and stung, like being tattooed with a hot iron.
    On the floor, one final phrase bled across the thick white card.
    Attend or die. The choice is yours.
    “Shit,” Pete said again, feeling her blood drain with all haste toward her feet.She swayed from the pain, catching the wall, which only made the mark hurt more.
    “Luv?” Pete heard the sitting room window open and shut as Jack came in from his smoke.
    “I’m fine,” she managed. “Just … scraped a bit.”
    Her shaking voice gave her away, and Jack came running. “What’s happened?”
    Pete held out her palm wordlessly. The pain had largely ceased, but she still felt the intrusion ofthe ink under her skin, and foreign, unfriendly magic along with it.
    Jack picked up her palm and turned it, brushing his finger over the ink.
    “Stop!” Pete shouted through gritted teeth, as the hot poker feeling flared again. “Dammit, Jack, that hurts.”
    He whistled, removing his callused fingers from the ink. “That’s a bloody strong one,” he whispered.
    “Strong what ?” Pete demanded, trying topull her hand from Jack’s grasp. The ink was agitated at his touch, turning and twisting under her skin like a living serpent, trying to