The Midnight Mayor - By Kate Griffin Page 0,110

pet mercenaries; and that the death of cities is in London and wearing a pinstripe suit, please. He’ll know how to contact me.”

He did.

He contacted me in under two minutes, and didn’t sound like a man who’d been asleep.

“Swift? What in God’s name is going on?”

“Nothing in God’s name, unless you want to discuss theology with Oda. But enough to go around for the rest of us.”

“What is this about Kemsley? And Anissina?”

“He’s dying, Mr Earle. His skin has been peeled from his flesh - most of it, from what I can see. Anissina is . . . I don’t know where. She isn’t answering her phone. She vanished into smog and that’s the last I saw of her. We were attacked by a Mr Pinner. He bleeds paper, bullets won’t stop him, magic won’t stop him, his suit is sewn into his flesh. And . . . no, no I think that’s about it. I don’t want to rush to conclusion, but I think we’re buggered. Oh, and the nurse wants to know Kemsley’s medical history.”

“What nurse?”

“We’re at Elizabeth Anderson Hospital.”

“Have you been followed? Is this Mr Pinner there?”

“We took the Black Cab.”

“I wish you hadn’t. The bill will be . . .”

“We were being flayed alive by a man with a smug smile, Mr Earle. I’m sure you don’t want to go through the trouble of having to find another Midnight Mayor so soon after the previous incumbent died that particular death.”

“Christ. Jesus fucking Christ,” muttered Earle. “Don’t move. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

He was there in fifteen.

What kind of man wore a suit to bed?

He brought minions. Aldermen: nameless, stone-faced men and women. How we loathed Aldermen.

“Where’s Kemsley?”

I jerked my head at the door. I’d had to let the light go out in my fingers, too tired to hold it. I’d found a bit of wall that didn’t look like it was going to collapse immediately, and made it my friend. The Aldermen had torches. They hurt our eyes.

“In there. There’s a nurse looking after him. You’d better not be too rude. The NHS has a policy on rude visitors.”

Earle gestured at the chipboard door, and one of the black-coated silent Aldermen detached himself and drifted through it, pulling it shut behind him.

“What about Anissina?”

“I told you. I don’t know.”

“What about my—”

“I don’t know. One is dead, at least. We got separated. Mr Pinner was waiting. I guess he must have known we’d go looking again after Nair died there. I guess he didn’t mind, until we got too close to the flat where the kid stayed. Then he did his thing.”

“What about this kid?”

“Not there.”

“So at least one of my men is dead for nothing?”

“No. At least one of your men is dead for confirmation that Mr Pinner is a mean son of a bitch who would probably have a bit of a giggle at a strategic nuclear strike. Also for confirmation that Nair was killed by this . . . thing. And to prove that the kid is connected; to conclude that this whole bloody thing has been tied up in a way that gives me a migraine just to think of; and to find that there was a CCTV camera in the stairwell. I know it’s not like dying to save puppies and children, but I’d go to the funeral and we’d honour their memory with true gratitude.”

“You’re gabbling, Swift,” snapped Earle.

“I’m a little fried.”

“How did you survive?”

“It was all a bit of a blur.”

Earle glanced quickly at Oda, who turned her head away. It meant something, that movement - I just didn’t know what. Add it to the list.

“This CCTV camera” - the guy could prioritise - “It was working?” “When I last checked. You people have a thing for this, right? I mean you’ve done the assault rifles and stuff” - we wanted to laugh, or possibly cry, or some hysterical thing in between, a madness on the edge of my voice - “so you’ve gotta be up there with the whole spy surveillance shit, right?”

“We can probably manage something.”

“Good. You should probably do it soon. I’m guessing Mr Pinner is kinda pissed that anyone survived. He’ll probably come looking. And we’re not in any condition to fight, not against a guy who can’t die.”

“There are scratches on your face.”

“Paper cuts.”

“He . . .”

“Yes.”

“What is he?”

“You’re asking me?”

“Yes. You were Bakker’s apprentice, and whatever he was in life, there is no denying that he was an expert in these matters. Do

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