The Book Eaters(15)
5
THE HAZEL EYES OF HESTER
PRESENT DAY
Regardless of their origins, I believe that ’eaters have been with us for centuries at a minimum. I am reminded of the myth of vetalas in India, described as “evil spirits.” They are classed as a kind of early vampire myth, yet unlike the pishachas (another creature from Sanskrit legend) the vetalas are not bloodsuckers. Instead, they are more like causers of mayhem, lurking in darkness, and known for their vast knowledge and deep insight.
Sound familiar? For me, this myth overlaps heavily with what we know of book eaters.
—Amarinder Patel, Paper and Flesh: A Secret History
A sense of unease settled across Devon’s shoulders as she ducked into the Crow’s Nest Pub.
She paused in the entryway, trying to suss out the source of her anxiety. Hot air blasted her cheeks and neck, negating the pleasant outside chill as the glass door closed softly behind. A tattered wall poster suggested ten helpful ways to spot cancer; it seemed out of place for a pub. Could ’eaters even get cancer? One of many things Devon didn’t know about her own kind. Girls weren’t told things unless they needed to know.
She craned her head, peering into the main area: high ceilings, plastic chandeliers, wooden floors shot through with cracks, and streetlights blinking through leaded windows. Flaking tinsel draped the walls and a plastic tree lurched in the corner, hung with Poundland baubles. Most people wore bright colors and cringeworthy Christmas tops, in stark contrast to Devon’s own all-black uniform of jacket, boots, trousers, and shirt.
Aside from the tawdry atmosphere, nothing seemed wrong or out of the ordinary. Yet she couldn’t shake that sense of tense watchfulness, an itch between the shoulder blades that wouldn’t quite go away.
Ridiculous. No time for paranoia; she had a job to get on with.
Devon stepped through and pushed her way to the bar. People bustled around each other, noisy and cheerful. Tomorrow, the pub would be closed for Christmas Day; tonight, it was open with extended hours to accommodate every alcohol-related need.
She stepped up to the bar, flagged down a barman. “Pint of Guinness, please. Go easy on the head.”
“As you like.” He pulled the lever, filling a glass. “On your own tonight, then?”
“No.” She forced a polite smile and tried not to resent his wholly unnecessary small talk. “I’m waiting on a friend.”
“Thought you might be.” He handed her the brimming glass and a napkin. “Got any special plans for Christmas?”
The idle question stung.
“Yes,” she said, a little sharp. “Later tonight, I’ll be holding a vigil for someone I lost ten years ago.” The compass weighed like a lodestone.
The barman left her alone after that. Devon paid with a good tip and avoided any further eye contact. She took a long sip from her drink while she waited for Chris, or whatever his real name was.
And waited.
And waited some more.
People brushed past. Laughter rose and fell around her. By eight twenty, she was most of the way through her drink. Devon checked her phone. Nothing. No cancelation, no excuses, they’d simply ghosted. Either Chris-the-illicit-chemical-supplier had gotten cold feet, or he was running late. Neither was a scenario she had time for.
Frustration washed through her frame, amplifying the tiredness, and she leaned against the bar top. If this was a bust … Her sanity and patience were a thin veneer these days. Sixteen months of dragging Cai all across England had felt like sixteen years. Exhausting, repetitive, bleak. So many dead ends.
She was finding people, sure. The Ravenscars had sourced equipment and chemical components from a variety of shady human organizations. There were plenty of people to chase up. But such folk were skittish. Many had refused to meet with her or deal with her. Others claimed they no longer supplied that Family.
Chris was the third person to admit he actually had dealt with the Ravenscars, citing one Killock Ravenscar by name. He was also the first to agree to tell her more information—for a price. If he showed up, anyway.
“Pardon, but do you have the time?”
Devon looked over her shoulder. And then looked down—at a much smaller woman. Bright hazel eyes peered up through a pair of rectangular glasses. Barely over five feet, with rounded shoulders and stocky build. She was somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five. Her wool coat smelled of expensive cigarettes and her leather handbag was exquisitely made. Devon didn’t know a lot about fashion, but she did know a fair amount about leather, having eaten it all through her childhood.
“Eight twenty-five, assuming my watch is accurate.”
“Oh.” Hazel-Eyes deflated. “That’s even later than I thought.” Her accent was erratic, a mix of Scottish and Geordie. Border counties, likely enough. Not uncommon in these parts.
“Were you waiting on someone?” Devon twisted toward her.
“A Christmas Eve date, sort of. I think she’s stood me up. We were supposed to meet at half past seven.” Hazel-Eyes had what Devon thought of as hair-colored hair: a muddy salad of dusty brown and dirty blond. Beneath the expensive coat, the rest of her was that same kind of mishmash, from the brown-green irises and patchwork skirt to the asymmetrical blouse.
“Mine’s stood me up, too,” Devon said. “Unless they’re just late.”