Sister Death (Acid Vanilla Series Book 4) by Matthew Hattersley (best short novels of all time txt) 📗

“Oh, I see. So you wear expensive dresses in your downtime?”

“No. I mean, old man, that my underwear costs more than your entire outfit.”

He looked away. That sort of talk made his blood boil. Very disrespectful, so it was. But Acid knew that too. She gave it a beat, then mumbled something about being sorry, wouldn’t happen again.

“How much is Spook’s treatment going to put me back?” she asked.

He sucked his teeth over his gums. “How much can you get your hands on in the next week or so?”

“Fifty grand. At a push.”

He grimaced. “More than that.”

“Jesus. Who is this guy?”

“He’s the best. He saved your lassie’s life, and off-the-record as well. Costs a lot these days for that sort of job. Done well, at least.”

Acid blew out a long sigh, her head rocking back and forth like one of those nodding dogs you see in the backs of cars. “I don’t suppose… you could you help me out?”

“I might be able to.”

She blew out another dramatic sigh.

“Come on then,” she told him, raising her hand and clicking her fingers impatiently. “Give it.”

Gracefully, and without a hint of conceit, he reached into his inside pocket and pulled out the slip of paper. He handed it over and watched Acid as she squinted at the contents.

“Fine.” She clambered to her feet and cricked her neck to one side before turning to face him. “It looks like I’m bloody well going to Spain, doesn’t it?”

Eleven

Danny woke up confused and unsure where he was. Normally when this happened there was a warm body lying next to his, a pleasant reminder of the previous evening and why he wasn’t in his own bed. But this morning, not so much. Through the fog of sleep he stretched out with his hand and felt something hard, his fingers opening out and sending whatever it was scuttling noisily across the floor. Sounded like a glass bottle. He sat upright and groaned, his neck sore where he’d been lying awkwardly on the cold, stone floor of… what… some sort of chapel?

He groaned again as it all came hurtling back. His remembrance of the last twenty-four hours hitting him in the guts like a prize fighter.

“Fecking hell, laddo,” he muttered to himself. “This is the mother of all messes right here.”

He got himself upright and stretched an arm across his chest, at the same time working the thumb and forefinger of his other hand into his trapezius muscle. It was painful as hell. Felt like a trapped nerve. His eyes fell on the empty wine bottle lying a few feet away, some cheap local plonk. That explained why his mouth tasted like a donkey’s backside. An ass’s ass.

He continued to work on his shoulder, sensing a dull throbbing pain at his temples too. Well, that was damn stupid, wasn’t it, necking back a full bottle of wine when you were up to your eyeballs in it? Situations like this, you were supposed to stay alert, keep your mind sharp. Although, in his defence, the alcohol had helped him sleep, taken his mind off his problems for a few hours.

“Oh, shite. No.”

His heart almost stopped, then jumped into his throat as he remembered how he’d left in a hurry. He glanced around the chapel, praying he hadn’t been so stupid. Surely he’d brought it with him. Because what the hell was all this about if not? He spotted the black holdall stuffed underneath an old pew and hurried over to it. Forgetting briefly about his crushing hangover he wrenched out the bag and, falling to his knees, unzipped it. Without taking a breath he rummaged through the pile of clothes, his unease swelling until, mercifully, his fingers touched on the wooden box.

“Ah, thank Christ. Ya little belter.”

He lifted it out and shifted so he was sitting with his back against the stone wall of the chapel and the box on his lap. Carefully he lifted the lid to reveal the contents. Wow. Even now – running for his life and with his head in bits – he couldn’t help but feel a surge of good emotions, being in the presence of such a magnificent piece. Truly breathtaking. This was the first time he’d had a proper chance to examine it since stealing it from Luis Delgado’s office, and seeing it up close he knew his instincts had been correct. It was the genuine article all right. The Cherub with Chariot Egg. One of the six rare Fabergé eggs many thought had been lost forever. This piece in particular was from a series of fifty-two jewelled eggs made by Fabergé himself for Alexander III of Russia. It was so rare, so lost to antiquity, that only a single photograph existed of it – and even then it was only a blurred image, reflected on the side of an adjacent piece.

He held it closer, squinting at the detail of an angel pulling a chariot studded with a tasteful abundance of sapphires and diamonds. All intact. A precious and exquisite work of beauty. Perfect in every way.

Or so it seemed. Because as Danny tilted the egg upside down to examine the base, he heard something loose inside. He gave it a gentle shake. Yes. Something was rattling. Not what he wanted to hear.

Like many of his eggs, Fabergé had built a surprise inside of the Cherub for the owner to delight in finding. In this case it was a tiny clock face, which although hadn’t told the right time in years was still a wonderful addition. He clicked the latch and felt the excitement rise in his guts once more as he lifted the top to see the miniature clock gazing back at him, encased as it was with more diamonds and the promise of a better life. But the clock was fixed in place, not the cause of the rattling. Instead a small black plastic rectangle, about the size of his thumbnail,