Resistance (Dark Realm Series) by Patricia Mason Page B

of the sweatshirt I wore beneath my trench coat. Between the
sweatshirt and the heavy black wool covering of the military style coat, I was
adequately warm in the cold of the September night.
    I wore my long brown tresses swept into a
style resembling a beehive with a swath hanging down my back. My hair was one
of my vanities—along with cat eye makeup and ruby red lipstick. Although
the hood crushed my hair, it also kept my identity from the eyes of every Tom,
Dick and beastie at large in the London night. Not that the slit of a moon
above provided much illumination, particularly given the foggy soup of cloud
and soot hanging in the air. However, the odd gas street light with its winking
flame cast a dim light and a human couldn't be too careful. Besides, most of
those curious and covetous eyes were able to see in the dark. My profile
couldn't be called low, though. The loud "thunk" of the heavy soles
of my knee-high boots against the cobblestones did tend to announce my
presence.
    "What's this bloke's name again,
Amy?" Driscoll asked, as we neared our destination—the
blackmarketeer's shop.
    "Corporal Amy," I corrected
again as I hurried to keep up with him. "His name is Fenwick and he's not
a bloke. He's a demon and he's not to be trusted." But then I distrusted
all supernatural beings, vampires in particular...
    "Which vampire controls him?"
Driscoll asked.
    "None." I restrained an eye
roll. "He's a demon, not a ghoul."
    "What's the difference?"
    Was he kidding me? How had this prat
survived this long?  
    "Demons aren't created by a vampire
like a ghoul. They spring fully evolved out of Hell. Fenwick is an independent
contractor."
    "Oh. Righto." Driscoll nodded.
    "Do you have a plan for negotiating
with him?"
    "A plan?" Driscoll's brows knit
in confused creases.
    Having dealt with the little fire-spitter
in the past, I knew the trick was to give Fenwick something, but not too much.
He had to get just barely enough to satisfy him but not so much that he might
think me weak. Show weakness and he'd be tempted to try to double deal, which
usually entailed death or something more unpleasant.
    "We're just going to pay him for the
information," Driscoll said. "We'll figure out how much when we get
there."
    Brilliant. I hoped Driscoll's spontaneity
wouldn't cost us more than gold coins.
    At the sound of clop, clop, clop
accompanied by the roll of wheels on the cobblestones, I halted.
    "Wait." I snatched my companion
from the street and into the shadowed doorway of the nearest building, ignoring
his outraged cry.
    A carriage pulled by two huge black
Belgians with red glowing eyes barreled past, trampling the spot we'd occupied
just seconds before. The coat of arms on the door was blurred by the speed of
the vehicle. Once the carriage had disappeared from sight, we emerged from
shelter.
    Driscoll shrugged off my hold. "You
didn't have to maul me, Amy."
    I bit my lip to keep myself from
correcting him for the third time, as he walked off and I followed.
    "I wonder who was in the
carriage," I said. "Must've been someone important since it was drawn
by vampire horses."
    "Not necessarily." Driscoll
sniffed derisively. "And not necessarily vampire horses."
    I snorted. "When was the last time
you saw a living horse? They were consumed or converted long ago. Besides,
didn't you see their glowing eyes?"
    Just then the smell of vomit and blood
invaded my nostrils from nearby. I had to continue forward despite my own
nausea, not wanting to lose Driscoll, but I tried to step carefully.
Nevertheless, with my next stride, my foot must had to have landed on the
blood, or at least some of it, because the psychic vibration of the blood's
memory shot like a bullet through my brain, sending me a vision. A
human—no more than age seventeen—had been taken on this spot.
    An image of the young man with
chin-length golden blond hair flashed behind my eyes. Cameron...Cam...The name
came to me. His name was Cameron McAlvy. So young.
    A dark hand, the