Demon Shade (The Demons of Oxford Book 2) Read online

  “Angela. I thought Lydia was going to the trunk sale of clothes in Oxford?” Kennedy queried. The label being sold was more the Bannisters’ daughter’s thing. Kennedy couldn’t imagine the approaching-middle-age Angela liked the designs, with their wry twists on classic pieces. Kennedy did, or would have, if she could have afforded them, even at a sale.

  Not that she knew Lydia. Despite Mr Bannister—Tom—being the director, and Angela teaching English at Wyebury’s town centre Sixth Form College, Lydia attended a fee-paying school, out in the county. She’d made the odd appearance at parents’ evenings and open days, pale and blonde in her checked uniform.

  “And good morning!” Angela waved Kennedy towards the front seat, her gestures quick and balletic, perhaps, hard to make out.

  Kennedy rubbed her temples where something like a headache was looming. She should have eaten breakfast.

  “No, I’m getting her a few things for a surprise. Christmas presents.” Angela’s eyes were as wide and as deep blue as a lagoon. “Get in.”

  “Well, that’s lucky for me,” Kennedy said slowly, getting into the car even more slowly. She…didn’t really know Angela, of course. She’d never been her teacher and Kennedy had been surprised that the woman had called her a few days ago.

  “She probably wants you to go in and give a talk to Sixth Formers thinking of applying to Oxford,” Chandy had mouthed, when Kennedy managed to explain who was on the phone.

  But Angela hadn’t, making Chandy snort that Kennedy was one of ‘them’ now, would be going for afternoon tea with Tom and Ang at their big detached house with its big detached garden. Angela had only realised Kennedy was staying with Chandyce when she heard Chandy’s voice. She’d asked a lot of questions about how Kennedy had been getting on in her first term at university, how everything was, was she missing her new college friends…

  Kennedy had shushed Chandy, and Angela had managed to extract that Kennedy was sort of seeing someone there. Angela had called back within half an hour, explaining about popping to Oxford for the trunk sale and would Kennedy like to come along for the ride, spend time in the city, see her chap?

  “Looking forward to popping back? Seeing your officer?” Angela now asked. Her eyes shone with a brilliant kingfisher gleam in the mirror as she checked behind her to pull out onto the main road. Kennedy looked from the reflection to the original, but didn’t think she caught the same shade there. Weird lighting.

  “I expect you’re missing your new friends and all that’s going on? I remember I had a whale of a time at uni! Everyone back home seemed so dull in comparison. I was counting the days until the vacs finished,” the woman added.

  “Erm, right. Thanks for the ride. It’s kind of you,” Kennedy replied.

  “And I know you’re with your old friend and back home, but just think of all the lovely things you’ll be doing in Oxford next term,” Angela continued, glancing at her out of the corners of her eyes. “Not to mention romancing… Oh, a man in uniform!”

  She taught English, but was that any reason to sound so Jane Austen about Kennedy having had a couple of dates with a police constable? She caught Angela’s eyes in the mirror again and this time the shade of blue there was more like a summer sky, sort of soothing.

  “And a little older than you?” Angela continued. “That’s always good, the different rate females and males mature.”

  “Yeah.” Kennedy had to agree there. Most guys her age were kids.

  “More to talk about, with his job…different perspective on life…”

  “True.” Again, no argument.

  “How did you meet? You didn’t mention…”

  “Oh, I had to go into the station for something and we got talking.”

  “And?”

  The woman’s singsong voice and the azure gleams glinting from the mirror, the differing lights of the road changing it from celestial to mid-blue to Oxford blue, lulled Kennedy into telling Angela more, about having gone for coffee with Chris, then to hear a local singer-guitarist in a pub, and for a sit-down curry the other night and now today’s lunch. It was nice, to have someone to tell about it. Comforting, almost. Kennedy rubbed her shoulder blade against the seat behind her and must have fallen asleep, feeling happy and expectant and looking forward to seeing Chris. She awoke on the outskirts of Oxford.

  “Oh, sorry! What a terrible travel companion I am!” Kennedy apologised. “You said the venue for this sale is the Catholic Chaplaincy?” She’d looked it up, to discover it was central. She thought it a funny location to hold a sale of women’s more or less designer clothes, but the place had big conference rooms it rented out for stuff like this.

  “Yes. It’s not far from the police station, actually.”

  “We should think about parking. It’s a nightmare there.”

  So people said. She never had trouble chaining her bike up wherever she needed to, but the topic served to occupy her driver, who was against park and rides out in the middle of nowhere as it meant struggling with shopping on the bus back to the car. Angela was also not happy with multi-story carparks as she got flustered on their ‘helter-skelter’ turns. They agreed to try their luck in the centre and found a spot in St Giles, right at the top near Cornmarket Street.

  Kennedy walked Angela to the venue, nodding when Angela said she’d go to the Ashmolean Museum after, where she always spent ages, so Kennedy could take as long as she liked and call her whenever. She felt Angela staring after her, as she walked away, but when she turned around, Angela was nowhere in sight.

  It’s being back here, Kennedy reasoned. After everything last term…wonder I’m not in a mental hospital. Nevertheless, she hurried to the pedestrian square, their square, where she was meeting Chris, and, lost in thought, shrieked when he stood from sitting on a bench to stand right in front of her.

  “I’m right sorry! It’s this square. Not good for us, is it?” Chris lamented. He forced his mouth into an apologetic twist, but his toffee-brown eyes twinkled and his open face was one big beam.

  Maybe. It felt strange to be back in Oxford, especially after everything that happened. ‘Their’ square for instance, where they’d sat and chatted, was where Kennedy had attacked a living statue mime artist and could have gotten arrested. Lucky she’d had a cop with her. He wasn’t in uniform today, but what she thought of as proper trousers. Not tracksuit bottoms, with jeans considered formal wear. Yes, true, it was good to be with someone older. God knew Kennedy felt ancient. And probably was.

  And with someone with the means to refuse her offer to pay half for the meal. Partway in their walk to the side street off the market, he took her hand, which was nice. She’d never held hands with Aeth. And yet this warm, human contact made her ache for Aeth. She had no idea what he was doing during her break. Did he stay in stone form when she wasn’t around? He’d said—well, she’d forced out of him—that he was a sort of guardian to her, so did he take a vacation, unpetrify somewhere or even go somewhere else in stone form, when she wasn’t there to need him? She tried to keep to the vow she’d made when term had ended and she was on the coach home: don’t think about it.

  “We’re here.” Chris ushered her into the Mediterranean restaurant, the delicious cooking smells making her stomach rumble. “One step up from curry or pub grub, eh?”

  “It looks lovely!” She’d never been abroad but thought she’d like the area or region this was an example of, with its bunches of spices and strings of sausages and shanks of ham hanging from its low beams, and basil and oregano perfuming the place. “It’s a shop as well?” She pointed at the rows of jars, tins, and bottle for sale.

  “You can buy the bits and try making the meal at home!” Chris joked.

  “I can’t. Can’t cook beyond the basics,” Kennedy informed him.

  “I like having a go. I’ll cook for you next time.” Chris looked down at his feet after he’d spoken, his soft brown thatch of hair flopping.

  “Oh, thanks,” Kennedy said after an awkward pause. She w
as glad their waitress came, to seat them and make suggestions what to order.

  The food was wonderful, all fresh, local ingredients and balanced flavours, and the space light and airy, feeling like late summer even in December. Kennedy was on edge, at least to start with, as she’d been when they’d gone to the Duke pub, or the Spice Palace, but no mention was made of the strange happenings she’d been involved in, that had brought them together.

  “I wanted to bring you here, but there’s a problem.” Chris bent his head nearer to hers, and Kennedy tried to keep her face impassive, waiting for him to go on. “The desserts are too healthy. Look at them! Roasted banana frozen yoghurt, watermelon sorbet? Pah!”

  “Oh!” Kennedy rode the kick of relief. “What do you suggest?”

  “Sticky choc cake.”

  She squinted over at the board to read the day’s fare. “I don’t think—”

  “Not here. I know a place.” Chris’s baby face gleamed, and she laughed. “It’s not far,” he said.

  “Nowhere is here. This is Oxford.” She laughed again because Chris parroted the last sentence with her. He was a non-native, like her, and must have had it said to him as many times, if not more, than she had.

  “And this is so bloody Oxford!” she exclaimed when they got to his ‘place.’ Beyond rustic, it looked like someone’s house, the dining area all stained wooden floorboards and sprouting odd tables and chairs with mismatched cushions that somehow complemented the chintz drapes and pastel walls. “I cannot believe that someone thought Kitsch in Synch was a good name for—”

  “Shhh!” Chris begged. “Else they’ll ban us, and I won’t get my iced coffee. You know I have to find places to get it where no one from the station sees me. Show some sympathy!”

  “But it’s winter!” she exclaimed.

  But it was true; Chris ordered one, so she got one too to be sympathetic, and a slice of the gooiest cake she’d ever seen, and they settled into the living room section, with its squashy sofas and armchairs and books in little cases and board games on shelves in alcoves. The topic turned to Christmas, and where she’d be, and with whom.

  “Oh, nothing special.” Kennedy had thought of going back to Holden House, the children’s home she’d grown up in, for the traditional Christmas Day lunch. They had an open-door policy. Each Christmas and Easter she’d met former inhabitants returning, and now perhaps she’d be one. Oh, no, Chris wasn’t going to ask her to his place, was he? Or, God, to his parents’? She darted her gaze around the room and saw a heap of colourful leaflets on a coffee table.

  “That looks fun,” she said at random, plucking an equally arbitrary flyer from the pile. “A…carnival? With strolling players?”

  “Seems they come every so often. I saw a poster. Kennedy? You…okay?”

  “Yeah. Fine.” Apart from suddenly being colder than the stupid iced lattes Chris enjoyed. Her head still bent, she closed her eyes rather than look at the pictures of the travelling troupe, or players, with their traditional historical costumes; some with white powdered faces and some with…masks. The paper shook in her hand and she scrunched it in her fist, fighting to inhale.

  “I guess iced coffee on a cold day is only for the initiated,” she said. “I’d better go outside to warm up!”

  “I have to make a move too.” Chris sounded reluctant. He helped her into her coat and held the door open for her. “Walk me to work? If you’ve got time?”

  The twinkle in his eye was probably because she had before, after they’d had iced drinks. But now… “Urrggh, sorry, but I have to dash to get stuff done before my ride home,” she explained. “Next time?”

  The kiss he gave her was still stinging her lips when she hurried in the direction of Heylel College. She didn’t have any obligations or commitments, and her ride would wait. But she wanted to look up at the roof of the museum and see if Aeth was there. I should have taken a photo of him. I will now. Her route took her down the long road that led to the University Parks, and when she got to the railing near the gate, the poster affixed there knocked the wind out of her.

  It was a larger version of the flyer she’d seen, this one showing the traditional attractions of the fair, the funfair rides and games, the booths, all traditional, wooden and time-worn…and the cloth theatre tent, with the small masked troupe standing in front. So the carnival was here, in the park? She didn’t think so, but didn’t linger to read the details, instead rushing to Heylel and Aeth, trying to ignore the sensation she’d experienced a lot here, during her first term. Only then, her demon mark had itched or prickled. Now? It burned hot.

  3

  Would he be there?

  Standing outside Heylel Museum, the building at the far back of the college grounds, Kennedy tipped her head back to peer up to its roof. She couldn’t see clearly at first, and couldn’t make out details. But then her heart leaped when she caught sight of the stone figure of Aethelstan up on high. Aeth. Noble stone. Rocky to…none of his friends. Currently, yep, in stone form, looking out over the grounds. In herma form, to be precise. Which one must be in Oxford. So, no calling him a grotesque or, perish the thought, a gargoyle. Hermai probably considered carved statues that spat water to be beneath them, the lowliest of creatures.

  A bit dizzy with the prospect of seeing him, Kennedy took a deep breath. For God’s sake. She hadn’t been this breathless when she, Chandy and Layla had queued up at the local radio station to see Cardi B going in for an interview. The museum seemed to be open—at least, she could hear noise from inside, so she didn’t know if it would be possible to take her usual route, via a top floor exit, to the roof. Hmm. Where there’s a will…

  She circled to the back the building and set down her bag to check she had everything. Wet wipes, small washcloth, small bottle of water, small bar of soap. What? They’d had rain, sleet—must be awful to be exposed to the elements up there with no shelter. She shed her coat and limbered up. She tied her bag to her, having foregone a backpack in deference to being on a date, and stepped back a few paces, cracking her fingers and assessing footholds and handholds up the wall.

  “And it’s Kennedy Smith.”

  She froze at the voice behind her.

  “The wheel has come full circle,” the male voice continued.

  Kennedy turned slowly. “Drew Lytton,” she mimicked. “And you mean because this is where we met? I’m flattered you remembered.” Attack them with their own weapons being the best form of defence and all that. She tilted her head to look up at the tall second year. “At least this time I don’t have to reprimand you for smoking in a non-designated area.”

  “I was unfair about that,” he said. “Sorry. You’re just doing a job. One you probably don’t even want to.”

  He looked pale and tired. Sort of pinched. “Look, I’m sorry, for what I said that night. When I took the piss out of your attempt to wear eyeliner and suggested you watched YouTube tutorials?”

  “Oh, that.” He waved a long-fingered hand. “I was just relieved you didn’t say something about the floppy fringe too.”

  “That was next,” she admitted.

  Drew laughed. “Give me a break! Haven’t you ever thought it was a good idea to let a chick make you over when you were a bit buzzed?”

  “Yes,” Kennedy said at once, thinking back to the many evenings she, Layla and Chandy had spent experimenting with makeup and accessories, a can or bottle between them, laughing their heads off.

  “Oh, right.” Drew looked a bit startled. “Hey, to repeat what I said before, are you ever not doing something weird?”

  “What am I doing?” Kennedy spread her arms wide. Nothing to see here.

  “It looked as though you were preparing to scale the wall, climb on to the roof and wash something? The roof art, maybe? You can’t tell me that’s part of your scholarship hours duties.”

  Wow. She hadn’t noticed him watching but he must have been, for a minute at least to have seen her checking her stuff. “What can I say? I’m an urban activist.
”

  Drew reached in his pocket for his cigarettes but replaced the pack at her frown. “Like, street art? Couple of years ago, it was yarn storming everywhere. You remember, graffiti knitting? Covering stuff in hand-knitting to feminize masculine public spaces? Then last year was all guerrilla gardening, planting seeds on abandoned sites or private property.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So, your form of protest or direct action is…washing the city’s public art?” He laughed so hard he had to sit down.

  “And what the hell are you doing here? And all dressed up smart and in Heylel colours?” Kennedy challenged, indicating his suit and tie, visible now his long overcoat had splayed open, in addition to his scarf. “Wow—is that a little-bitty waistcoat?”

  A scowling Drew stood, untwisted his lanyard and held it out for her to read.

  ‘“Official student body representative’?” It didn’t seem likely for the second year. He wasn’t one of the keen ones, on every committee going. Quite the reverse, especially if what Kennedy suspected was true: that he wrote for the subversive newspaper the Spire. “Is that why you’re here in the vacation?”

  “Yup. Academic probation.” Drew blew on his nails and polished them on his lapel. “Also known as being on the prince’s shit list.”

  “The principal?” Kennedy barely knew what the guy looked like. Balding, smallish, was as much as she recalled. She felt in her pocket for mints and offered Drew one.

  “Yep. I get to stay up for two weeks—I know; it’s usually the scholarship students who do. Must have cheap labour even in the vac…”

  Kennedy didn’t want to think what those students could be providing. Last term’s events loomed large.

  “Stay up and catch up on work or go down.” Drew pretended to weigh up two things, one in either hand. “Oh, thanks.” He popped the mint into his mouth and spoke around it. “Catch up being a euphemism for actually hand some work in. Oh, and I have to ‘demonstrate my commitment to college’. Hence, ta-da!” He gestured at himself and waggled his lanyard.