Page 11 of A City of Smoke and Demons
Ezra pressed his fingers into his eyes, wincing. The bruises were fresh, and it was too early in the morning to be in pain, even for him. He’d left his curtains open—light screamed into the room, making him groan and shove his head beneath the pillow.
His sleep had been dreamless, but now that he was awake, Ezra couldn’t shake the image of that woman with the ghastly face from his head. Maddog confirmed that Ezra hadn’t imagined her, butwhyin hell was he seeing this Familiar, or whatever she was, and why hadn’t anyone else seen her?
What was even more puzzling was that Maddog knew what she was.
In all his years with the Unseen, Ezra never came across a Familiar. He was aware there were things that existed in the shadows of the world but seeing something supernatural was not a common occurrence, as far as he knew.
Ezra dressed and padded barefoot down the stairs and into the empty bar. He wasn’t in the mood for trying to unravel a mystery this early so he helped himself to a bottle of whiskey, seton spending the rest of the day in bed, drinking and licking his wounds.
He couldn’t believe he’d had his arse handed to him so spectacularly. It was embarrassing. Hernan wasn’t going to let him live it down.
Maddog’s office was tucked behind the bar. The fancy, glass-panelled door was closed, but Maddog’s shadow moved behind it. Curious, Ezra paused. Voices eased from beneath the door.
‘… you need to bring me some proof …’ Maddog, sounding annoyed.
‘ … you might just have to trust me on this.’ A woman.
A sigh. ‘And the mark was on a dead man?’
Silence, then something too low for Ezra to hear.
‘Bring me proof,’ Maddog said firmly.
Loud knocking ricocheted through the building. A tall, shadowy figure was pounding on the front doors. Ezra hurried back up the stairs to his room before Maddog discovered him lingering outside his office. After a gulp of whiskey, he pulled the curtains closed, and crawled back into bed. The blonde woman’s terrible face pressed against the back of his eyelids, then shifted, and it was the redhead. She’d been living in the back of his mind since he followed her out of that pub. It was more than some misplaced sense of something familiar; it was the way her mouth fit perfectly against his, the way her curves melted into the sharp line of his body, and the way she felt beneath him, her fingers in his hair, her leg curled around his hip.
Ezra remembered the way her skin felt beneath his hands, like he’d touched her already. And her eyes—he swore he’d looked into them before. He could understand why she hadn’t told him her name. He slept with random women because sex let him forget, if only for a moment, who he was and what he was hiding from. Sometimes, it was easier to be no one than someone.
The door was flung open and Maddog marched in.
‘Up,’ he demanded, straightening his waistcoat. ‘There is someone here to see you.’
Ezra blinked. Jem?
Sharp, purposeful footsteps echoed on the floorboards, and a man appeared in the doorway. Dark hair, swept back. Dark clothes. A serious face, thin nose, and hollow cheekbones.
‘I must say, you don’t look very well, Mr Ives.’
Ezra experienced a moment of pure panic.
The man wandered in, wrinkling his nose as he surveyed the room, then seated himself in Ezra’s armchair. ‘Maybe a drink, Mr Pierce, if you will. It might take him a moment to come back to himself. It looks like he’s had a tough night.’
Ezra was aware of Maddog moving around his room, finding a glass and the bottle of whiskey Ezra had stolen. The gangster filled the glass and shoved it into Ezra’s hand. Their eyes met briefly; Maddog’s expression gave nothing away.
‘Relax. I’m not here to turn you over to the Gendarme,’ the stranger said.
‘I think you’ve got me confused with someone else,’ Ezra said lightly, hoping the man couldn’t see how his fingers trembled on the glass. This was it. It was all over. He wondered how far he could get this time.
Maddog opened the curtains. Ezra winced and downed his whiskey while the man in black sat in his chair and stared at him with too much interest for someone who hadn’t introduced himself.
‘Who are you?’ Ezra demanded.
The man smiled. ‘My name is Father Bertram Blackwood. When you’re conscious, we can talk.’
It took another glass of whiskey and a sharp tap on the cheek from Maddog for Ezra to be able to hold a conversation.
With theHead of the Church.
In his bedroom. In a gangsters club in the Devil’s Credges.
