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

A bad combination. Plus she was in no mood for games. “We’ve got a long history,” she replied, holding up her forearm to reveal the raised scar along its length. “First time I encountered him, he gave me that.”

“So… you’re in the same line of work?”

“What line of work might that be, Daniel?”

“Daniel? Wow.” He sat forward in the chair. “Are you flirting with me, Acid Vanilla?”

She sighed dramatically before marching over to the large chest of drawers standing alongside the bed and yanking at the middle drawer. Once open, she slid her hand to the back, feeling around until her fingers touched on what she was after.

“Here,” she said, flinging the new passport at him. “This is what I’m here to do. There. Job done.”

He fumbled the catch but laughed it off, not taking his eyes off her as he reached down and scooped it up. “Thanks a lot.”

“Don’t mention it. So for the next twenty-four hours, or however long it takes us to get out of here, you’ll answer to Seamus O’Neill.”

He scoffed, opening up the passport to check. “Seamus O’Neill? Fecking hell, could you not think of something more Irish? Eamonn Shamrock, perhaps? Darragh Luckycharms?”

She turned from him, fighting a smile. A sharp cough sorted her out. “Your uncle arranged it, blame him. Besides, I’d say Danny Flynn sounds like a cliched Irish name in itself, especially combined with this cheeky chappy routine you’ve got going on.”

“Cheeky chappy? Geez. But yeah, it’ll do. Thank you.” He flung it on top of his holdall and looked at her, his face widening. “Speaking of names, you were having me on before, weren’t ya? You’re not really called Acid Vanilla?”

She sat on the edge of the bed facing him. “Yes. That’s my name.”

“Yer mammy name you that?”

“That’s not what I said. But that’s who I am now.”

He nodded in acknowledgement. “So that’s… what, a codename? An alias?” She didn’t respond. “So you are in the same line of work as old Jimmy? What was it you called him again?”

“The Dullahan. I’m not sure he’d appreciate Old Jimmy.”

“The Dullahan,” Danny repeated, rolling it around his mouth. “Je-sus. Isn’t that a demon from Irish folklore or something? Aye, I remember from school. Something about if he called yer name you’d drop down dead.”

Acid stuck out her bottom lip. Sounded about right. “You never heard him called that?”

“He was always Uncle Jimmy to me. His wife is my ma’s sis. Though I’ve not seen him since Auntie Sheila passed away. Poor old cow.”

A flicker of humanity washed over him, muting the twinkle in his eyes for a moment, but a second later he was back and grinning at her. “And you’re somewhat of a bad-ass, is that right? Ya come here to protect me?”

“I’m here to give you that passport. That’s all.” She stood up and walked into the bathroom, leaving the door open and talking as she splashed water on her face. “If I remember correct, the next flight back to London is in three hours. You can stay here until then.”

She grabbed a towel from the heated rail and patted her face dry before leaning around the door. Danny was waiting for her, his face a picture of confusion. “What about the woman trying to kill me?”

“Not your problem anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

She cracked her knuckles, realising she’d had her hand gripped in a tight first. “I mean, I’ll take care of it. All you’ve got to do is toddle off home. Simple.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why will you take care of it? Who asked ya to? Uncle Jimmy?”

She sighed and sat on the bed, leaning back against the headboard. “For heaven’s sake, I can’t decide if you’re stupid or trying to wind me up. You must have been a nightmare as a kid. But, no, all right? This is nothing to do with your uncle. You don’t need to concern yourself with all that. We just need to get you safely out of the country.”

Danny was silent now. He stood up and paced around the room, his roguish facade replaced by intense concentration.

It didn’t make her feel any more comfortable. “What is it?” she asked him.

“What if I helped you find her, help you kill her. That is what ya mean to do, isn’t?” He sat beside her on the bed. “Then you can help me with something.”

“Absolutely not.”

Danny baulked. “That’s it? No? You don’t want to hear what I have in mind?”

“I can guarantee it won’t be worth my trouble.”

“Is your trouble worth ten million dollars? Perhaps more?”

Her face remained neutral (okay, on the sneery side of neutral), but the words had landed in her lap like a tonne of gold bullion. Ten million dollars. A lot of money in anyone’s book. And money that she was in dire need of. At present, Acid didn’t have the first clue how she was going to pay for Spook’s care.

“You said yourself money was tight,” Danny said, leaning in, as if he already knew how to push her buttons. “Ten million dollars. Think about that. All for you.”

And she was thinking about it. But the bats weren’t happy. This was not part of the plan, they told her. Tread careful.

Screw it.

Now she really needed a drink. A proper one. Something strong and spicy to dilute –or better still, drown – the growing unease in her stomach. Without a word she slipped off the bed and walked over to the minibar where a selection of drinks and extortionately priced snacks were on offer. She grabbed two Jack Daniels miniatures and held them up for Danny to see.

“Oh go on then,” he said. “Ya twisted my arm.”

Thankfully the minibar also had proper tumblers, made of glass (an absolute must), and once the drinks had been decanted she carried the tumblers over and handed one to Danny. Cheers. She resumed her place on the bed and held the glass to her lips, letting the spicy fumes envelop her senses before taking a long and delicious sip.

“Okay, let’s