Because you don’t have a clue what you’re doing.
I clamped a firm lid on my inner voice, and checked my phone for local garages that might fit the bill.
The first two I crossed off my list before I’d even cut the engine. Unless they were running a chop shop in the back, they catered only for the more elite vehicles in the area. I excluded the garage I generally used too, because they were attached to the dealership and accountable nationally. If all else failed, I’d return there later.
The third I visited in person was more promising. Slightly shabby, and with motorbikes visible in the workshop, it nevertheless looked like a professional outfit. Three guys were working, one of them on a bike. I’d barely engaged the handbrake before the one nearest me gestured for me to lower my window.
“We don’t service those as a rule.” He jerked his thumb at the bonnet of my SUV.
I raised my eyebrows. “May I ask why?”
He scoffed. “Too many electrics. We prefer engines that work without needing an onboard designer computer.” He stuck his thumbs in the belt loops of his grimy jeans. “What’s wrong with it?”
I forced myself not to bristle at the assumption there was anything the matter. “Oh, it’s fine. It’s not for me. I’m looking for somewhere to recommend to a friend.” Jeez, could I sound any more pathetic? I cast around for the right thing to say. “He’s got a bike.”
“What kind?“
Fuck knows.I shrugged. “A big one?” I faked an embarrassed laugh. “Look, it’s probably obvious I don’t have a clue. He’s a friend of a friend, and a biker. He’s heading to spend some time down here, and he doesn’t want to be without a club-friendly mechanic if he needs anything he can’t fix himself.”
A second bloke came over. “If he’s a biker, he’ll know who to ask. He with the Wyverns, or affiliated?” His tone was noticeably less friendly.
I managed not to shudder as I replied, “I don’t think so. But you reckon he’ll already know all this? Huh, guess I could’ve stayed home today instead of trying to be organised on his behalf.” I kept my gaze steady and the first guy dropped his, but not before an eye-roll in my direction. Mr Less-Than-Friendly shook his head, and finally sighed.
“The Wyverns have a place out on Drummer Way. They’re not keen on outsiders though, so tell yourfriendto do his homework.” He smirked at me. “Can’t see them having much time for you either. Watch your step, pretty boy.” He strode off without a backwards glance.
It was only slightly less awful at the remaining two garages. Burning with shame over my appalling acting skills, I did a slow drive past of the Wyverns’ place, but unless they had Charley tied up in the pit, it didn’t appear as if there was anywhere to stash a captive, so I reluctantly scratched them off the list.
Thoroughly dispirited, I was about to head for home when I recalled the abandoned parade of shops on the other side of town. Merchants’ Place, as it had been rebranded in the 80s, or ‘The Drovers’ as it was known to everyone before its conception as a ‘mall’, and again since the mid 90s when the place had failed — after the original street name from the Middle Ages. I didn’t think anyone was still trading from there, but that made it all the more likely as a hideout for anyone doing nefarious deeds. It was worth a look.
* * *
I hesitatedwith one foot on the first rung of a set of decrepit iron steps. What the fuck was I doing? The floors above this particular boarded-up shop looked empty, and therefore an ideal hiding place for a kidnapper. But was I really about to stoop to breaking and entering in my search for Charley? Apparently my wolf had no such crisis of conscience. I glanced left and right once more, then darted up the metal stairs, keeping my footsteps as light as possible. Amazingly, the steps didn’t creak. At the top, I had to trust the railings held as I leant out at an angle to peer in the windows of the empty apartment. Flattened cardboard, sagging, empty shelves, and a pervading scent of damp were all I got for my pains, plus a palmful of rusty paint flakes.
I didn’t truly think Charley was behind these dingy walls. Should I double check, or press on?
A shout from below startled me. “The fuck you doing? Oi! Yeah you. I’m calling the police. Fucking druggies…”
Shit, a security guard.I didn’t dare get caught. Apart from the major inconvenience, Grandpa wouldnotbe amused. I rammed my beanie further down over my tousled hair, and mumbled some nonsense syllables, grateful I’d dressed in generic dark sweats and an old hoodie, not anything that could potentially identify me. I glanced across at the nearest escape route. Oh fuck, I’d really messed up this time. Good job I was limber, strong and fast.
Without waiting to overthink it, I jumped, landing on the top of the handrail. From there, I had to time it just right. I channelled my wolf and leapt again, my toes using the door knob of the flat as leverage to propel me onto the roof. I landed heavily, apparently out of practice at impromptu parkour, but was upright and scrambling across the roof tiles before the bloke below me was half a dozen steps off the ground.Keep climbing, I silently urged him. The higher he got, the bigger the distance between us when I got back to street level. My ankle throbbed, but I ignored it. It would heal soon enough.
Night was falling. The air was damp, and the tiles slippery, but I pelted across them as if the devil himself was on my tail. Fear of capture made me steady over the rooftops, or perhaps it was sheer dumb luck. Sadly my luck didn’t hold quite long enough. Within moments, I was tumbling arse over tit down a rickety fire escape about a hundred yards away, these treads slick with decomposing leaves. I banged my head on one set of railings, rattling my brain and fuzzing my eyesight. Then I slipped again. My joggers ripped, and my knee with them. I swore furiously as the air rushed from my lungs at the pain of my flesh tearing. Unwilling to chance capture by slowing down, I slithered to the ground trainers first and bolted away, my pursuer’s furious bellows ringing in my ears as I tore through Belfry Lane, up Poke Knife Alley, and took the long way around the cobblestoned Market Way — nowhere near the bloody market — back to the car.
Without catching my breath, I gunned the engine out of there and headed for home, cursing my stupidity at not having scoped out an exit route beforehand, to say nothing of not having considered security. “You absolute bell end, Bradshaw,” I muttered, ashamed of myself for being so strung-out over Charley’s disappearance that I’d let emotion cloud my common sense.
I parked up, and headed indoors as quickly as I could considering my injured knee. If I wasn’t mistaken, this Sorley bloke would be here soon, and I didn’t want a vampire looking down his nose at me for delaying Dalziel’s plans. I spared a glance through the windows as I filled a glass with fresh water and chugged it. I didn’t have much time. Guess I’d better see what damage I’d done to myself.
My leg was a mess. If I didn’t have wolf genes and accelerated healing, I’d have bled a puddle over my car. As it was, there were deep scratches and way too much flesh on display. It pulsed like hellfire too. I needed to shift to heal properly, but right before expecting a strange vamp to show up was so not the time. I’d sort myself out best I could, but first, I grabbed some clean clothes to change into after my stint in fur, shoving them into a sports bag. I was about to find a cloth to start wiping myself down when the doorbell rang.
* * *
I openedthe door to a handsome, stylish man with pale red hair, and Baxter. Because of course she’d come too. It explained how Dalziel had been so confident I’d know Sorley was legit. I ushered them inside, trying to disguise the fact I was limping.
“How the hell did you get here from London?” I challenged her. “It’s only been properly dark for about twenty minutes.” I gave the redhead a quick once over, and held out my hand. He sniffed like he’d smelled something bad and pointedly ignored it. Right, so he was one ofthosearseholes, although on second thoughts I probably did whiff a bit. Too bad he was pretty, although his good looks were seriously marred by his attitude.
“This is Sorley. Sorley, Lucien.” Baxter’s lips quirked. “I’ve been staying in the area.”
“Ahh. Well that makes sense, I suppose.” I tried to look businesslike. “All right, what’s the plan?”
