Read Black London 05 - Soul Trade for Free Online Page B

we should check into a hotel,” she said, falling back to walk with him. “Too easy to track us that way. Besides, we’re broke.”
    “Yeah. If you’reinterested, I do know a couple of viaducts that are decent to sleep under,” Jack said. He tried to smile, but the expression looked like it hurt, and Pete winced.
    It was easy to forget, with the flat and Lily and the normal life they had when they weren’t doing this sort of thing, that Jack had started life as a poor kid from a bad council estate in the worst part of Thatcher’s Manchester. He’dslept rough, done drugs, and fought tooth and nail to survive on the streets before one of the Morrigan’s other shadows, Seth McBride, had recognized what he was and trained him to be a mage.
    Pete could have slapped herself for making Jack bring that part of his life up again. He never talked about it, beyond the vaguest generalities. What little Pete knew had all come from other people or theone dip she’d taken inside Jack’s memories via her talent, which had been enough for ten lifetimes.
    “I don’t think we’ve resorted to a carboard box just yet,” she said. Trying to keep up the smile, keep it light. Pretend it would all be fine. If she had no other skills, she had that one.
    “I’ll look up a few old friends, if they’re still aboveground,” Jack said. “’Least there are plenty of holesto crawl into in this town, if you need to stay low.”
    Pete nodded, deciding that even though Jack’s “friends” usually turned out to be lowlifes of the highest order, staying unseen was definitely top of her list.
    “I’ll make a call,” Jack said, heading for a bank of payphones.
    While he fished for change and dialed, Pete scanned the crowd. She’d felt the prick of eyes on her back since they’dleft the train. Not a magical feeling, a copper feeling. The crowds weren’t as thick as they had been in Victoria, and her tail didn’t have many places to hide.
    A few likely suspects—a young kid with a backpacking kit, an Indian woman in a business suit—passed her by when she stopped in the center of the sidewalk and pretended to check out her mobile.
    An older gent, chubby and balding, stumbledwhen she stopped short and cut an abrupt left to the newsagent’s stand, pretending that had been his destination the entire time. Amateur hour, for sure. Probably not the Prometheans, then. They could at least afford a tail who wasn’t fifty pounds overweight and wearing an eggplant purple windcheater, red-faced and panting with his attempt to keep her in sight.
    Pete took a step toward him, andthey locked eyes. Purple Coat surprised her then—rather than look away and pretend to be busy buying a newspaper, he nodded to her and then gestured with his chin for her to come over.
    Pete cast a look back at Jack, who was chatting away on a pay telephone. She caught a snatch of conversation, including “Fuck off, you old bastard.” He was within screaming distance if she needed him, so she cutthrough the new stream of people coming off a Cardiff train and approached the fat man.
    “You’re Petunia Caldecott,” he said without preamble. “The Weir.”
    “On my better days,” Pete agreed. “Nobody calls me Petunia, by the way. It’s Pete.”
    “I need to ask you something,” said Purple Coat. He shifted, fists shoved into his pockets, and Pete tensed again. This gent could very well be a nutter. Hecertainly looked the part. She and Jack didn’t have many fans in the UK these days, though assassins usually went directly for their target.
    Mentally, she cataloged her options. She could run, thump him with her police baton, scream, or try to sling a hex, which was about as reliable as closing your eyes and hoping the other bloke missed. Physical magic was Jack’s game. She was just a beginner.

    Purple Coat drew out a crumpled object wrapped in newspaper, and Pete started breathing again. “Ask, then,” she said. “Haven’t got all day, have I? We’ve