Street Magic

to hunt down the estate agent who sold her and Terry this flat and bloody strangle the man. First the shade and now this, some bird who had slashed herself in Pete's bathtub.
    "I can hear her crying," Jack whispered.
    "I got your briefcase," said Pete desperately. "Jack, please just talk to me."
    He rubbed his hands over his face and with great effort met Pete's eyes. "Lawrence didn't give you any trouble?"
    "His manners far exceed yours," Pete said, handing Jack the books and the briefcase.
    One side of Jack's mouth curved. It was a far cry from the devil-grin, but Pete took what she could get.
    "Right," said Jack, running his fingertips along the scarred leather of the briefcase. His caress revealed the case was locked and bore no combination knobs, just an engraved plate that depicted a snake, eating its own tail.
    "What's in there?" said Pete.
    "Something of mine," said Jack.
    "Seems like you don't want anyone inside," Pete observed.
    "Oh, them that know, know better than to go into anything
I
own," said Jack. "This bloody lock was from Marius Cross, the previous owner."
    Pete had a good idea of what had happened to Marius Cross, locked briefcase or no. "Did you take it from him?"
    "From his cold body," said Jack. "Believe me, luv, he had no need of it."
    "Let's just get on with this," said Pete, ignoring the gnawing in her gut, the same as when she'd stood in the circle on the tomb floor.
    "Be a luv and get me a needle, or a sharp paring knife… something to prick meself with," said Jack. Pete spread her hands out, already shaking her head.
    "No, Jack. No more blood." Did he think she was stone stupid, after the last time?
    "Every second you spend arguing with me is another one that the precious hope of our nation's future has lost," said Jack sensibly.
    "You're not supposed to make even a little sense," Pete muttered. She rummaged inside her ottoman's storage for the sewing kit and handed Jack a needle. "It's disconcerting."
    "Seamstressing is never a hobby I pegged as one of yours," said Jack. He pricked himself without a wince or a sigh and rubbed his bloody finger pad along the lock. The snake uncoiled and the case gave three clicks.
    "It was Terry's kit," said Pete. "His shirts were hand tailored, so he mended them if they got damaged."
    "Ponce." Jack snorted. The briefcase lid popped up, ominous as a crocodile's mouth.
    "Just because someone can put things back together instead of breaking them down to shambles doesn't make that someone a ponce," Pete snapped. "You're a real sod, Jack."
    "That's hardly news, luv." He looked at her over the battered leather of the case. "You're doing a deal to defend some bugger that you dumped out on his arse."
    Pete rubbed her thumbs against her temples. Jack took a flat mirror and a velvet sack out from the case. The sack rattled again, like a snake.
    "For your information," she said quietly, "Terry left me."
    "Not surprising, that," said Jack. "I just guessed you'd be the one to do the leaving, since you seemed to be a hand at it when I knew you last."
    "Oh,
bugger
you," Pete snapped. "You and your little bag of marbles." Just when Jack seemed to be letting his rage go, it burst forth again, like an infection of bad spirit.
    "It's not marbles," said Jack. He set the mirror on the ottoman and shook the bag once, giving Pete a grin that made her feel cold rather than comforted.
    "What is it, then?"
    "Bones, luv," said Jack. He dumped out the sack. The white chips hit mirror glass with a death rattle. "It's a bag of bones."
    Pete flinched away from them instinctively, feeling a frisson of cold crackling intensity from the bones, each one round with a black center where the marrow had been picked out. They had been polished to a high shine and made a sound like beads as Jack gathered them up and rattled them between his fists. "Always feel so bloody silly doing this. Marius was an old
vaudun
, and they do like their theatrics and their headless chickens."
    "Please tell me we don't have to kill birds to get a result," Pete muttered. She was starting to feel foolish rather than bothered by Jack and his shaking of the bones. This was a scene she'd watched in too many silly films for it to carry the least hint of sincerity.
    "Don't be stupid," Jack said. "Just get the brats' pictures and put them on the mirror so I have something to focus on, and stand bloody well back."
    Pete extracted the wallet-sized snapshots of Patrick and Diana from their case files, and placed them