Chapter 6: The Wild One - The Night Market

The lift rose with its usual slow shudder, the soft whirr of cables behind the polished wood panelling the only sound as the two women stood in silence. Viola stood upright, purposeful, every inch of her oozing discipline. Pepper, on the other hand, kept her hands lightly clasped in front of her, resisting the urge to fidget with the hem of her sleeve. She swallowed her nerves down deep.

‘I apologise for Laik’s behaviour,’ Pepper said, breaking the quiet with what she hoped was a smooth enough deflection.

‘Please, you have no reason to. I’ve seen many like him throughout my tenure, they’re nothing new. All balls, no brains . . .’

Pepper raised an eyebrow in surprise.

‘Well, maybe he’s a little different on account of his, um, condition. Which, may I ask—’

‘You may not. Sorry.’ Pepper offered a small, apologetic smile. ‘It’s not my place to say. He gets upset if I start sharing his business.’

‘I understand.’

‘So, what are we doing again?’

‘We are going up to see if we can make ourselves useful. You are going to be meeting the heirs of the Cavendish Family in the process. I needn’t tell you that protocol must be followed to the letter. Whatever you are told is in the strictest confidence, even to that ass-wart sibling of yours. Whatever they require, you source and provide. And whatever you are exposed to, you are not . . .’ She paused, her tone thoughtful. ‘Intimidated.’

The lift continued its quiet climb. The floor indicator ticked upward.

Pepper glanced at her reflection in the mirrored lift door. Pale. Collected. At least on the surface she looked . . . fine. But her stomach felt like it was quietly tying itself into new and increasingly inventive knots.

Vampires.

It was still hard to fully accept. She’d grown up with them, like anyone had – on screens, in books, dripping in melodrama and bad accents. They burned in sunlight. They were afraid of crucifixes and couldn’t cross running water. Garlic was apparently lethal, and if you believed the films, they were all tragic romantics who either brooded or seduced in equal measure.

Little of it lined up with the truth.

Living among them for months had dispelled plenty. They didn’t drink from chalices, didn’t tear virgins apart in gory ceremonies. Not that she’d seen, anyway. Most of them just seemed . . . normal. In their own distant, slightly off-kilter way. They had routines, habits. Quirks like anyone else. For some reason she was especially surprised when she found out some of them enjoyed watching the football.

Sunlight was fatal, that was accurate at least. And they could be hurt, though recovered quickly. Aversion to garlic, she was told, was a sham to sell more produce at market in more superstitious times. The blood thing though, that still weirded her out. They did need it, that much was true, but not in the quantities she’d imagined. Just a small dose each day, like some twisted nutritional supplement. It was traded, labelled and categorised like perfume or designer wine. Shaped glass bottles. Wax seals. Looping gold script upon the label.

It unsettled her more than the idea of teeth in the neck ever could. The teeth themselves were usually retracted, protruding when necessary, like a cat extending its claws. Like an animal.

She realised she’d zoned out when she felt Viola’s eyes on her.

‘Anything wrong?’

‘No,’ Pepper said quickly. ‘Just a little nervous.’

‘You should be. It should be obvious to you that there are a number who believe you should not have this privilege. They have dedicated themselves to lives of service, have been with us for years in the hope of serving our betters. Some dream of just being in their presence. And yet you have gained their ambitions in the space of mere months thanks to the good word of your brother.’

Pepper hesitated, then asked, ‘If you don’t mind me asking, how long did it take you?’

Viola’s gaze remained fixed forward, unreadable as she looked to the floor numbers scrolling past lift doors.

‘That’s not the point.’

‘I don’t need Laik to vouch for me. He’s always been . . . protective. It’s well natured, but annoying.’

It came out easier than she expected. Still a lie. Still strange to say it aloud. But it was cleaner than the truth, and the deception had started coming more easily now, like learning to fake an accent when the real one might get you killed.

‘In this case, I doubt you would be anywhere where you are today without his endorsement,’ Viola replied, clipped but not unkind. ‘Despite his . . . unfortunate lapses, and numerous character flaws, he has always been in good standing with Lord Cavendish. I promise you that helped.’

The lift gave a mechanical shunt. The bell chimed.

‘Ah. Here we are.’

The lift gave a final, reluctant jolt. Then the doors, peculiarly, groaned apart with a sound like someone breathing out their last.

Pepper’s breath caught.

It was dark. Painfully so. There was sparse, erratic lighting in obvious need of attention, but what it provided was enough to assess what they had walked into.

The foyer resembled something from a horror movie – if horror movies had a budget for high-concept ruin. The floor was dense in places with mud and grass and actual trees, as if a forest had crept through an open window and forgotten to leave. It was so remarkably dense, making Pepper conclude this must have been in place for decades. Ceiling tiles sagged or hung at jagged angles, exposing electrical wires and copper pipes that slithered between lightless gaps. A lone strobe light nearby hummed a sickly buzz with every flicker.

Overgrown plants dominated the interior, vines crawling up columns, roots cracking through marble. Moss spread in patches across glass, stone and metal alike. It was beautiful, in a way, if one could ignore the creeping sense that everything here had given up on order a long time ago. Some insect buzzed loudly on by, making Pepper jump.

And in the centre of it all: a massive, weather-worn Japanese torii gate. Its wooden pillars were sun-bleached and splintered, lacquer long gone, red now faded into something more like rust. The thing stood in the middle of the floor like a totem dragged from another world where the natural pathway would send them beneath.

‘Remember what I said,’ Viola answered, stepping out with the confidence of someone who, while used to this sort of strangeness, remained on her guard.

Pepper followed, casting one last glance behind her as the lift doors shunted closed, sealing them inside.

Everywhere her eyes landed, something was either in disrepair or transformed by slow invasion. Walls were cracked open as if punched by giant fists to let through snaking cables or furniture. One desk sat half in and half out of a ragged hole, like someone had given up on moving it all the way. Strange graffiti traced the corridors in looping symbols and jagged, angular marks that glowed faintly in ultraviolet hues under sporadic cathode lights.

A glass-walled room that may once have been an office looked more like a greenhouse now, though it had long since given up any pretence of control. Plant life clawed at every surface. Condensation streaked the inner panes in sluggish rivers, and just as they passed, a single overhead sprinkler activated with a sharp click. A blast of cold, pungent water misted the area, trickling down the filthy glass. Green mould wept along the corners. Pepper’s feet took a couple of steps through something wet. Water, she hoped. She dared not look down to confirm.

Another room besides, its doorway lined with candles exhausted by overuse. Hundreds of them, maybe more. An effigy of sorts hung from the ceiling within, barely visible in the gloom. It twisted slowly on a wire, the shape indistinct and unnerving.

The deeper they moved, the more chaotic things became. Lights failed to follow any pattern. Some hallways glowed with warm yellow spotlights that burst like suns from the darkness. Others were all shadows, broken only by the occasional flicker from an exposed cathode tube.

Then Viola stopped.

Pepper almost bumped into her before noticing the sound. A soft shuffle in the dirt. The heavy snuff of breath.

Between two pillars tangled in ivy, a deer nosed its way along the edge of the floor, its hooves brushing against leaves and broken tile. Its fur was patchy, its eyes too wide, too still. It looked up and froze.

Then, in a flash, it bolted – crashing into something metal behind the undergrowth, sending a distant clatter echoing into the gloom.

‘Should we be concerned about that?’ Pepper mumbled.

‘Only if we’re told to be,’ Viola replied as they pressed on.

What should have been a boardroom had been transformed into something altogether wilder. Candlelight fluttered against dark wood-panelled walls, casting long, twitching shadows. Tables, not one but several, were scattered across the space like driftwood. Some were cracked. One was lopsided. Each surface groaned under the weight of objects: stacked books bound in skin and silver, cloudy jars with pickled things suspended inside, tangles of chains, broken mirrors, candle stubs melted into their holders, a porcelain doll with no eyes, an honest-to-God sink filled with toy frogs. The air smelled of dust, cloves, melted wax and something acrid – burning hair, maybe, or an herbal remedy that had gone stubbornly wrong.

Clocks covered the walls in no particular arrangement. None matched. Some ticked, some buzzed, some hung still as paintings. A few had shattered glass faces, their hands spinning endlessly, or not at all.

There was no structure to any of it. No clear theme.

Except to the woman who was its architect.

She stood barefoot on a table like it was a stage, balancing with effortless grace amidst open books, cracked teacups, and what might have been a petrified bird. Her blonde hair was pinned with bone clasps, streaks of violet catching the candlelight, and her outfit was the kind of ensemble that demanded you not ask questions – velvet corset, green army officer jacket, and a floor-length patchwork boho skirt that had been dragged kicking out of the 1960s.

A stuffed iguana rode her shoulder like royalty, its glassy eyes unblinking.

She acknowledged the women’s arrival, looking down from her place. Her smile was too wide to be innocent, and her gaze flitted about as if she were reading thoughts in the air itself. Everything about her seemed to be composed with danger and delight, and of these she was many.

Vampire.

Heir.

Catastrophe.

She fell from the table mid-step, landing uncomfortably effortlessly to those watching, looking eagerly between the new arrivals.

‘Visitors. How nice,’ she chimed.

Viola bowed slightly, then gestured with her arm to Pepper.

‘May I introduce you to Miss Quinn Cavendish.’

‘A pleasure to meet you.’ Pepper gave a small curtsy, unsure if she was meant to or not. It felt old-fashioned, but this place felt old-fashioned in all the wrong places.

‘She’s curtsying.’ Quinn blinked as if someone had just thrown cold water on her. She turned sharply to Viola. ‘Why is she curtsying? Is it the seventeen hundreds or something?’ Then, as if struck by divine absurdity, her face lit up. ‘Wait, is this the seventeen hundreds? Did we go round again?’ She gasped, equal parts horrified and delighted. ‘Oh my God, did it work?’

‘I’m afraid it’s still the same year as yesterday, miss,’ Viola explained.

‘Aw. Maybe next time.’ Quinn pouted, looking her companion up and down. ‘What’s this one’s name?’

‘This is Pepper Montgomery.’ Viola offered the explanation like a rehearsed script. ‘A Domestic Affiliate assigned to the Cavendish household. One who assists in sensitive errands and internal support. And it has been agreed that she is to be at your disposal.’

‘A Domestic Affiliate, huh? Like you?’ Quinn hastily added, hunching over one of the tables, pawing over a scattering of playing cards.

Viola blinked, almost insulted at the assumption they were of the same standing. ‘Ah, well, not exactly like me.’

‘Your replacement, then?’

‘Not yet, at least. And, she is Laik’s sister, of all things.’

‘Well, sure, I know that much. I can smell him all over yous.’ Quinn pushed herself upright to circle Pepper, eyes wide, gait theatrical. ‘I like your hair. Very rad.’

‘Thank you, I like your, uh . . .’ Pepper looked around the room, trying to pick a word that might safely sum it up, ‘. . . style.’

‘Psh. No, you don’t. It freaks you out.’ Quinn pointed an accusing finger. ‘Congratulations, Vee, you’ve brought me a liar, this one. But she’s new, so I’ll let her off.’

‘She’s trying to—’ Viola attempted to explain.

‘No, I get it. She’s trying to keep me happy. But a good liar is hard to find. Super rare. And you’re close, but not quite there yet.’ Quinn was twirling now, gesturing to no one and everything. ‘Everyone tells me what I should and shouldn’t do. People like you. Her. All of them.’ She pointed at a row of bound teddy bears pinned along a display shelf, like they were attending a silent seminar. ‘Do I look like I need more opinions? Got many sharing every second. I don’t need to be guided into what someone thinks is the best path for me. That’s boring, right?’

She turned to the preserved iguana on her shoulder, nuzzling it gently. ‘Right. Telling me to do or not do this or the other. And they’re not even your thoughts. You’re someone else talking through you. I don’t need more lies, get me? What we need . . . is more deception.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t follow,’ Pepper stated.

‘You will.’ Quinn’s eyes twinkled with something untamed in them.

Pepper took the plunge, honesty suddenly feeling like her only weapon.

‘Your clocks are weird. This place is a shithole. Something back there stinks like it’s died. And the thing over your shoulder is very distracting. I don’t like it.’

Viola looked like she might explode; that was, until the young woman reacted favourably.

‘Oh finally! Some good old-fashioned honesty.’ Quinn beamed. ‘Thank you. Truly. And Mister Wiggles here isn’t a problem. He keeps me on the straight and narrow. Or as much as one can, am I right?’

She let out a laugh that ended in a cartoonish snort.

‘Uh . . . right.’

‘I wasn’t talking to you.’ She gently stroked Mister Wiggles’ leathery head, like coaxing a kitten into sleep. ‘Don’t worry. They won’t be staying long.’

‘While the intent is to introduce you to Pepper here,’ Viola interjected smoothly, ‘we should also ask if we can be of any service to you, miss?’

‘‘‘Miss”. That’s cute. Am I cute? Witches got called cute before they went zipping about the stars with their jukeboxes and got burned at the stake for being not of the ordinary. Cute’s dangerous.’

‘I couldn’t really say.’

‘I suppose not. That’s not a thing that happens here, is it? Not yet.’

Something crashed down the hallway – a metallic clatter loud enough to make them jump.

‘Is anybody else here, miss?’ Viola keenly put to her.

‘Hah! Oh, I hope so, otherwise it’ll be pretty bloody spooky, won’t it? All dark and that.’

‘We did see the deer.’ Pepper tried to justify the commotion.

‘I have a deer now? When did that happen?’ Quinn’s face lit up with genuine delight. ‘Wait, hold that thought.’

She whipped around, scanning the clocks before darting toward a light switch and flipping it six times in quick succession. She paused, listening. Then, a seventh.

Another crash, deeper down the corridor, like two metal pipes violently striking one another.

‘Is that normal?’ Viola asked.

‘Not really, it should do it on the third flick. I need to get an electrician to sort that.’

‘May I arrange one?’

‘No . . . I best find the other one first. Don’t want to lose a second in here. Actually, it might be that stink you were talking about . . .’ She bit at her nails.

‘Then is there anything else we can help with?’

‘Oh, of course, now’s the time you’re here for that. Yes. Help. There is.’

She circled Pepper again, and this time, with a sudden flick of movement, snatched her hand and jabbed it with a pin hidden in her palm.

Pepper, unsurprisingly, yelped in alarm.

‘What’s the matter?’ Quinn quirked her head to the side.

‘You hurt me! You made me bleed.’

‘And? It’s just blood. Don’t be so selfish. Finger, please.’

Viola’s expression gave Pepper nothing – no sympathy, no instruction. Just cool, professional silence.

Pepper relinquished her hand, heart racing. Quinn squeezed a few drops into a glass filled with something dark and amber. She swirled it. Sniffed.

‘If it’s just blood, why do you want mine?’

‘Never known someone so squeamish. Regular Edward Jenner, you are. Figure you wouldn’t mind, being that red is such a good colour on you. Besides, Mister Wiggles demands you be tested. He demands everyone be tested, but today is your lucky day.’

Quinn took a sip from her glass and smacked her lips.

‘Ha! Thought so. She can stay, this one.’

Viola bowed slightly in thanks, leaving Pepper utterly confused.

‘I don’t—’

‘I know you don’t,’ Quinn shrugged. ‘But I do. And that’s allllll that matters.’

Pepper touched her finger to her mouth, soothing the sting.

Quinn, already half lost to some other thought, moved among the tables, scattering old books, incense sticks, and a pile of unboxed cassette tapes. A stone Buddha smiled from under an umbrella of newspaper-stuffed lanterns. A statue of Ganesh watched from within a birdcage.

‘How is that brother of yours? He’s always so busy.’

‘Like you say: busy.’ Pepper drew her finger away. ‘Laik is in demand by many people.’

‘Mmm, I suppose he is. Either way, I would appreciate him to make some time for me once in a while. Tell him to come by at some point, would you, please? I miss that smiling, pretty face of his. Brings me the sunshine, it does.’

Pepper frowned. Was there something buried in that? Or was this just another of Quinn’s meandering thoughts?

‘He smiles?’ Viola asked, amused.

‘Oh. I mean, not him smiling. I mean his smile smile. From his other. You know, the one with the pretty eyes.’

Pepper shivered involuntarily upon realising what she was referring to.

Viola noticed.

‘Will that be all?’

‘Just one teeny, tiny thing,’ Quinn said, sweeping papers from a table in a flurry. Books thudded to the floor. She slammed her hand down on something, seized a pen, scribbled furiously on paper, stuffed it into an envelope, and turned with a flourish.

‘Could you hand this to my brother personally? It is imperative that he receives it within the next . . .’ She scanned the walls again, eyes hopping from one clock to another in deduction. ‘. . . twenty-eight minutes and thirteen seconds.’

She turned back to her mess, disappearing into the glow of lamplight and haze of incense. When she finally noticed them still standing there, she waved vaguely.

‘Oh, we’re, uh— We’re done here.’