The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [73]
Deirdre stood, wishing as her head swam that she hadn’t drunk so much of the champagne. She blinked to clear her vision, then pulled on her boots and grabbed her jacket. At the door she hesitated, casting one last glance back at her expensive suite. Something told her she wouldn’t be getting the Seekers’ money’s worth out of it.
She tried the desk clerk and the concierge, but neither of them had seen anything similar to the coin before. Her best chance was back at the Sign of the Green Fairy. She headed through a side entrance, onto a narrow street. Outside stood one of the hotel’s maintenance workers, smoking a cigarette. He was young—rail-thin, pale, and stoop-shouldered, but somehow pretty for it all. His hair was bleached stark white, and tattoos of dragons raced up his arms, disappearing beneath rolled-up white shirtsleeves.
“Hey, American girl,” the young man said. “Nice jacket.”
“Thanks.” Deirdre started past, then on a hunch she turned back. In a way he reminded her of Glinda, at once tough and far too fragile for this world. She showed him the coin.
His lip curled up in a sneer. “No bloody thanks, girl. That’s not really my scene.” Belatedly he seemed to rethink his words. “But hey, I suppose if it works for you, then that’s … well, that’s that.”
“What is it?” Deirdre said, meeting his bleary eyes.
“You don’t know? Bugger. I thought you were making a proposition.” He took a long draught on his cigarette. “It’s a token. It’ll get you a free drink over at SD.”
“SD?”
“Surrender Dorothy. You know, over in Brixton. I was going to say, you really don’t look like part of that scene. You haven’t got any glitter on you.” He tossed his cigarette into the gutter and sighed. “Shit, I’m out of fags. Want to come with me and buy a pack? I know a room in the hotel we can do it in. I’m pierced, if you like that.”
Deirdre grinned. She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her jacket pocket and tossed it to him. “Sorry. You’ll have to make do with this.”
He caught the cigarettes in fumbling hands as she walked away. By the time she looked back over her shoulder, he was leaning against the wall, smoking again.
She caught a cab to Brixton. Deirdre paid the driver and stepped out, letting go of the handle barely in time to keep her arm from being ripped off as the vehicle sped away.
The street was deserted, but distant shouts echoed off sooty facades, and here and there shadows huddled in the alcoves of doorways, the cherry-red tips of cigarettes hovering before them like fireflies. Deirdre scanned the dim storefronts and at first saw nothing. It was only on her third or fourth pass that she saw a small, emerald neon sign she was certain had not been there a moment ago. It formed two letters: SD. Beneath it, also in neon, was outlined a pair of red shoes. Deirdre headed for the sign. There was a narrow, unmarked door. She opened it and slipped inside.
The doorman was an achondroplastic dwarf clad in black leather. He perched on a barstool behind a podium, his head shaved and a pointed blond beard on his chin. His eyes were a brilliant, handsome blue. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three. After looking her up and down, he bared large, white teeth in a grin.
“We’re full,” he said.
Deirdre eyed the empty hallway behind him. It was all black except for the floor, which was painted a scuffed yellow. The shimmering sounds of electronic dance music pulsed from beyond.
Deirdre matched his grin. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh, yes, we’re not taking anyone else tonight,” the doorman said. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
“How much?” Deirdre said with a sigh. “Five pounds? Ten?”
The doorman only shook his head.
Deirdre leaned on the podium. “Listen—this is important. I’m looking for someone I met earlier today. Her name is Glinda. I need to know if she’s here. She gave me this.”
Deirdre set the drink token on the podium. As she did, the doorman’s eyes widened.
“Ash and blood! Why didn’t you tell me you were looking for Glinda?” He snatched the coin up, tucked it into