Yvonne glanced out of the frosted glass to the people gathering in my private waiting room. Each one there to sell their soul. She did not know that, and she likely never would.
She heaved herself out of the chair with a heavy sigh. “I’ll let you get on with your day.”
I grunted. “It would be better with coffee, Mi Roja.”
Yvonne let out a laugh. “If I came over to the trading department, I’d make you all the coffee you wanted.”
“Darling.” I fixed her with a sardonic smile. “You’d have to sell your soul for that.”
It seemed like Ms Lindsey had finally gotten around to phoning the police because the alleyway behind the office had been cordoned off with blue police tape. A white tent covered the industrial-sized bin—hiding the body from the public as a crowd of officers and forensic suits gathered outside of my office building.
The presence of the police had drawn the attention of several commuters, and I noted their mainly British mannerisms. Stiff and rigid gait. Quick and stolen looks as to not be accused of morbid curiosity.
I rested my hip against the reception desk on the ground floor as I watched the London Met swarm the pavement outside.
“What’s going on?” The receptionist asked. Her coral lips were pursed in a distasteful sneer.
“Police.” I waved over my shoulder. “Dead girl in the alley.”
Mrs Hannigan, the elderly receptionist, grunted audibly before reaching into her purse and grabbing a piece of wadded up tissue. She wiped her nose and then proceeded to polish her glasses with it. I bit back a shudder.
“You immigrants need to have more respect. Bunch of woman-haters.” She muttered, her tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth as she focused on the lenses. “It might be normal in Syria. Dead woman on the street. It’s just not done in London. We're a good city.” She brandished the glasses at me before slipping them on her nose.
“They’ll find who did this,” I assured her.
“Did I say I was worried?” Her nose tilted in the air.
I rolled my eyes. “Si, of course not.”
One of the officers outside waved to get my attention, and I pushed away from the front desk.
“You better be here legally.” Mrs Hannigan called after me.
“I'm Spanish, Vieja.” I laughed.
She humphed behind me.
Mrs Hannigan might have been a racist with outdated views, but she was harder to fire than a water-logged cannon. She'd come with the office building, and I had no idea who actually paid her salary.
I saw him in a sea of black stab-proof vests and uniformed officers. A man that would be better suited to a battlefield than wearing a suit. Short clipped hair, almost blonde but not quite, with broad shoulders tapering down to a tight waist. The Detective wore a white shirt, with the sleeves rolled up, even though it was a chilly afternoon in March. A radio clung to his belt, but there was little else to imply that he was with the police.
“Mr Ramirez?” He quirked a brow as I approached, rubbing the scruff on his chin, before reaching over to shake my hand. “Detective Harrison. Can I ask you a few questions?”
“Sure.” I forced myself to smile. If I wasn’t surrounded by the cloying scent of a dead hound, mixed with the various human perfumes of the officers, I would have leant forward to scent Detective Harrison.
Baby blue eyes. Cheekbones for days.
I looked down for a wedding ring. He caught the movement of my eyes, and I met his gaze unashamed.
If anything, he seemed amused, before he lifted his tablet and his expression hardened.
“What time did you arrive at your office this morning?”
“About six,” I said, chewing my bottom lip.
“And did you notice anything or anyone strange around the office?” Detective Harrison did not look up from his tablet.
I shook my head and then verbalised my response. “No.”
“And the local council emptied the bins this morning. Do you remember what time?”
“I heard them from my window around six-thirty.” I craned my head to catch a glimpse of the white tent.
“Would you mind identifying something for me?” The detective turned the tablet around, showing a black splodge on the victim’s skin. He magnified the picture.
It was a rose.
Goddamn. I knew that mark.
“A tattoo?” I asked robotically.
“A brand.” The detective corrected.
“I don’t recognise it,” I lied.
I must have been convincing because Detective Harrison hummed but said nothing more about the strange mark. “I’ll call if we have any more questions.”
I nodded shakily and began to walk away.
It wasn’t until I was back upstairs that I realised that the Detective had not told me the woman’s name. Nor asked if I had known her.
The rose brand on the woman’s arm pointed me in the direction of a pair of Daemon brothers, based in Mayfair.
Daemons were once humans. They took on Hell magic to become immortal—through ritual or bargain. In the grand scheme of things, a Daemon was very different from a Pureblooded Demon—a creature spawned in Hell that fed on Sin.
The once-human Daemons fed through touch. The Rose brothers were both incubi, though their tastes differed with their choice of meal.
Samuel and Vincent Rose. Identical twins.
I had a feeling that the dead Hell Hound had been a message from Vincent Rose. A man whom I had broken up with several years before.
London was full of Demons, Daemons, Witchlings and more.
I did not want to see Vincent, but I also did not want his 'gifts' to grow more... Bloody.
The Rose brothers lived in a townhouse in Mayfair, a behemoth of a building by Central London standards. With roman pillars, white painted brick and fleur-de-lis black iron railings along the pavement.
I had long since blocked Vincent's number from any devices that I possessed. Which meant that I couldn’t just call—I had to go and see a man about a dog.
My driver, Simon, deposited me on the street outside of the Rose household and knocked on the main door without apology.
The ruddy-faced housekeeper, Ms Timmons had more grey strands in her bun than the last time I had been to the estate. She said nothing but gestured for me to enter, my Italian loafers clacking against the Victorian checked tile as her silent footsteps dogged mine.
The drawing-room was as it always was. Drenched in the scent of cigar smoke, leather and bourbon. The crackling fire roared behind a pane of glass, and the high backed chairs looked anything but inviting.
Ms Timmons closed the door behind me and left me standing in the centre of the hunter-green room. Staring up at the collection of dead beasts on the wall. Most notably a stag, and a Siberian tiger.
I shivered as I caught a glimpse of the orange glass eyes of the striped cat. So similar to that of a Hound.
“Luiz.” A husky voice purred, startling me from my reverie.
My back straightened as well I turned. My stomach dropped, but I refused to let it show.
Vincent Rose looked as he always did. Immortal and frozen at the same age when he had died. Cresting the age of thirty.
His copper hair stuck up in several places, through laziness or purpose, I had no idea, but the Daemon almost always looked like he had interrupted mid-fuck. His lips were thin, and his eyes slanted up, shiny with a genius akin to madness.