A collection of dry, browned leaves skitter across the potholed road as the wind picks up ever so slightly. I flick a glance towards them, just in case, but there’s nothing sinister. I’m getting too jumpy. I chew my lip and focus yet again on the house.
It’s the very definition of nondescript. The red bricks were probably pretty once upon a time. Now, however, there are too many grubby stains from city pollution for them to look anything other than grimed and crumbling. There are a few tiles missing from the roof but the house is probably still water-tight. Except, that is, for the broken window on the first floor which looks as if someone has punched a hole through it. Whatever lies behind is dark and indistinguishable.
I check my watch again and feel my insides tighten. It’s still not time. I loosen my fingers from the polystyrene cup and flex them, one by one. I shouldn’t have accepted this job. Cheating spouses are easier than errant half-breed daemons. Then I amend that to quarter breed. O’Shea’s grandmother was pure Agathos but the rest of the blood flowing through his godforsaken veins is bog-standard human. I should be thankful that he’s not a quarter Kakos, I suppose. But then, if he were, I wouldn’t be here right now.
Seven more minutes. I drain the last of the tea and toss the empty cup onto the floor of the passenger side along with the other rubbish. Then I grimace as I feel my bladder tighten. Damn it, now I need to pee.
I consider my options. I was instructed to wait a full hour before breaching the property and confronting O’Shea. If I entered now, it would probably take me at least five minutes to locate him – by which time, I reckon an actual hour will have passed. Or almost anyway. I decide it’s good enough. I can still catch him in the act. I’m still hoping he’s on his own.
I zip up my leather jacket to stave off the cold and carefully open the car door, trying to remain as quiet as possible. I probably shouldn’t wear leather; it tends to have a mind of its own, groaning and creaking of its own accord whenever I make a move. Plus, its distinctive earthy smell can give away my presence in a heartbeat. But anything which has senses that are so attuned will know I’m coming from half a mile away and I like the fact that it makes me look kind of bad-ass. It’s difficult to appear threatening when you’re just over five feet tall so I’ll take whatever help I can get. The jacket is far too large for me and, if it wasn’t so elaborate in its embroidery and zips, it’d probably look ridiculous. I ‘borrowed’ it from an old boyfriend of mine called Zupper who I’d spent one sensuous, long summer with, zipping around on the back of his motorbike. He took off around Europe to find himself. I just took his jacket.
I step out, shooting a speculative look at the keys which are still in the ignition. I have a bad feeling about all of this and I’m starting to wonder if I need to be prepared for a quick getaway. To be fair, no one has come this far up the street while I’ve been here; I don’t even think a single bird has flown overhead. And it’s not as if my rusting heap of junk is particularly desirable to even the most desperate jacker. If I leave the keys where they are, I have a better chance of vamoosing out of here at warp speed should I need to. If someone appears from nowhere and nicks my car, however, I’ll be pretty much screwed. Aside from the fact that then I’d have zero way to get out of this graveyard of a cul-de-sac, I simply don’t have the cash to replace it and my insurance is virtually worthless.
I err on the side of caution and pocket the keys. I haven’t had much time to research O’Shea but nothing I’ve learned points towards him being physically dangerous. Yes, he might have less friendly companions inside and, yes, the prickles on the back of my neck are far from comforting, but balancing an extra five-second fumble with the threat of ending up entirely car-less leaves me with no choice. I really should look into some proper alternatives for future encounters though. I silently add it to my ever-growing list of things to do.
I glance up and down the street. It’s still deserted so I cross over quickly and jump the pathetic foot-high gate into the so-called garden, where I pause for a couple of heartbeats, cocking my ear for any sounds. Even though I’m barely a few metres from the front door, I still can’t hear anything.
The grass looks worse close-up. It even smells of decay. In the far corner there’s a one-eyed, blonde-haired doll, forlornly waiting for a long-since departed owner to return. Its sole iris stares at me emptily. I look away and move to the entrance, placing one cupped ear against it. I think perhaps I hear a dull thud from within, but I can’t be sure.