Silver Vein: Beneath the City Sleeps Book 1 Read online

  Copyright © 2021 Shannon French

  All rights reserved

  -

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Silver Vein

  Beneath the City Sleeps Series

  Book One

  Other Books by Shannon French

  Beneath the City Sleeps Series:

  Silver Vein

  Orchard of Bones (Coming 2022)

  The Shadow Wolves Saga:

  Tempt

  Covet

  Ignite (Coming January 2022)

  Dedication

  This book is for all the people who, instead of hiding from the monsters under their beds, would rather invite them under the covers.

  Playlist

  Sweet Sacrifice - Evanescence

  Not Gonna Die - Skillet

  Your Guilty Please - Henry Verus

  Forsaken - David Draiman

  I Feel Like A God - DeathbyRomy

  Murder Party - NOT THE MAIN CHARACTERS

  FMRN - Lilyisthatyou

  Start a War - Klergy, Valerie Broussard

  Beautiful Dangerous - Slash, Fergie

  Throne - Bring Me The Horizon

  Warning

  This is a dark urban fantasy novel with vampires, demons, angels and a main character that does not listen to that little voice in her head telling her this is a bad idea. If naughty language and even naughtier love interests don’t suit your tastes, avoid this story at all costs.

  Trigger Warnings:

  ● Sexually explicit scenes

  ● Death

  ● Blood (It’s a vampire book after all!)

  ● Violence

  Chapter One

  My lungs burned. The muscles in my thighs stretched to their limit as I bounded past one unfortunate man carrying a cardboard cup holder, which, regretfully, turned out to be holding four steaming cups of coffee. The cups were propelled up into the air, their contents spilling across the man’s white shirt and the path beneath his feet.

  “Sorry!” I yelled, struggling to spit the words out as I leapt over the rusted metal table that had been pushed to the ground in an attempt to slow me down. Of all the places to run through, my client had chosen Strutton Ground on a weekday, where the space was occupied by an endless row of market stalls. Faces blurred into one another as my feet continued to pound against the cobblestones, narrowly avoiding a covered surface laden with French breakfast pastries.

  In hindsight, holding off until he was in a quieter area might have been a better option for both of us. As I dodged a couple holding hands, I couldn’t help but regret my decision to step out of hiding and begin my pursuit. In my defence, the young man I was following didn't look like a runner. He certainly didn’t look like he’d be quite as fast as he was.

  “I just have to talk to you!” As I had hoped, the sound of my voice encouraged him to crane his neck around to check how close I was behind him. For the first time today, luck must have been on my side, because this glance over his shoulder led to him losing his balance in the most theatrical way possible. He came tumbling down to the ground with an audible crash that despite my worn-out legs still beating against the ground to catch up with him and my lungs on fire with exertion, I couldn’t stop myself from chuckling.

  Still, not wanting to waste what might be my only moment in the spotlight, I threw myself from a few feet away and mounted him like he was a shire horse. To onlookers, our entanglement had to have appeared ridiculous, but that didn’t stop a warm sense of accomplishment from filling my chest.

  “Hey! I could have you arrested! This is assault!” The boy fought beneath my weight. Luckily for me, he had barely turned sixteen and wasn’t much larger than I was, all gangly limbs and panic. If he’d been any bigger or stronger, I wouldn’t have been able to keep him pressed against the hard ground for long at all.

  “Was all of this necessary?” I panted, fighting to catch my breath while I ran a hand over my sweaty brow.

  “I’m serious. I’m calling the police!” He continued, and I rolled my eyes, signalling to the crowd forming around us that the situation was well and truly under control. Kind of—for now, at least.

  “Fine, call the police, have me arrested for assault. Ultimately, you’re a minor and you’ll go straight back to your parents, I’ll not be charged and to top it off, your parents will send me a big fat cheque with my name on it.” The boy’s shoulders slumped, as though everything had clicked into place.

  His parents were decent people. I’d made sure of it when I took on the case. There was no point searching for someone if they were better off missing. We’d had a few cases like that in the past with runaways. Kids who had left home because of abuse or other unsavoury aspects of their family life. This boy, however, was not one of them. His parents had been trying to get him on the straight and narrow for years. He’d got into drugs and theft early in his teen years and his mum and dad had tried everything in their power to get him to come home. By the time they enlisted my help, they were beyond desperate.

  If only kids like him would realise in a few years he would have all the freedom he could ever ask for. By the age of eighteen, he was more than welcome to run off and join the circus if he wanted. For now, however, he was lucky enough to have parents who cared enough about him to make sure he was safe and loved. But if there was an easy way to make a kid like him understand that, I didn’t know about it.

  “I won’t go back to them, they don’t understand!” As much as I wanted to ignore his argument, I stepped aside and grabbed the top of his arm, helping him up from the ground. His face was flushed from all the running and his eyes darted nervously over the faces still glancing in our direction. Luckily, the area was filled with enough distractions that people lost interest in our conversation quickly.

  “Unfortunately, that isn’t up to me or you right now. Here.” I removed one hand from his wrists and started digging around in my pocket. “This is my card, my number. If it isn’t working, if you honestly can’t stand it there. You can call me and we’ll figure something out. Your parents want to help you. Give them a chance.”

  After a quick call to the boy’s parents, we waited in heavy silence for them to show up. It took a while and the entire time I held onto the kid’s arm as if he were about to take off into the sunset. He looked resigned to his fate, however, and made no move to escape my grasp. After so long in this job, I’d become immune to the look of relief and words of thanks from grateful family members, but when his mum rounded the corner and saw her son sitting just a few feet away, it hit me right in the chest. There were tears all round, hugs and kisses and whispers of ‘thank God’s’ and ‘are you OK?’. I felt like butting in and letting them both know that he was absolutely fine but I’d be feeling the effects of our chase for the next week. The muscles at the back of my thighs were already seizing up and I rubbed at them with cold hands while I watched the newly reunited family walk away.

  I took the two minute walk to St James’s Park and hopped on the district line, it’d take me thirty minutes at best to get into Upminster and from there it was just a short stroll to the office in Whitechapel where I could finally get a cup of coffee. The tube wasn’t as busy as it normally was, given it was just before lunchtime and most of the commuters were already long gone but there were still tourists and students
lingering on the seats, phones and books in hand. Exhausted, I leaned my head back against the window and revelled in the slower pace of my breathing. It’d been a long time since I’d had to physically run after someone and I swore to myself that next time, I wouldn’t bother. Sure, it had felt worth it afterwards, but how on earth was I supposed to make it through the rest of the day feeling like a truck had hit me?

  Thirty minutes passed by in a blur of pedestrians and body odour and I took great joy in stepping out of the station and into the crisp air. A man in Victorian clothing and waving a sign was already standing in the street herding tourists towards the next Jack the Ripper tour as I passed and headed towards the office. Bundling my coat a little tighter around my body I hurriedly crossed the road to get away from the swarm of people and pushed my way inside the stiff entrance.

  The office was filled with the smell of stale coffee and the sound of the radio blaring from the back room. The moment I stepped a foot over the threshold, I was home. Thatcher was rummaging around somewhere; I could hear the scrape of his wheelchair on the uneven floorboards through the back. Although the office was modest, the building was larger than it appeared. Through the widened door into the back was a small apartment area Thatcher and I had developed for him after he’d lost the use of his legs. Before, we’d both lived in the space upstairs, which had since turned derelict and ended up being used as storage for old furniture and client files. I’d told him thousands of times to call in a couple of builder’s to do the repairs and get the space on the rental market but he’d argued that the pretty penny he’d get each month wouldn’t be worth having strangers invading his personal space.

  There was no reason for me not to live upstairs—all the place needed was a thorough clean and some TLC, but the idea of living and working in the same building as Thatcher all over again felt a little too much like giving up the only ounce of independence I had left.

  “I’m back,” I called, setting my bag down on my desk chair and perching on the edge of the table. Thatch always kept the office too warm and already I was desperate to remove my heavy jacket and drag my hair up into a bun to keep my neck cool.

  “Oh, that was quick,” he replied, finally gracing me with his presence as he rolled himself through from the back room.

  Thatch had led a hard life, and it showed, more so these days. He looked haggard, with a long, trailing grey beard that reached the collar of his shirt and a head of thinning hair to match. His eyes were the most terrifying shade of charcoal, almost dark enough to make a person question whether he was wearing coloured contacts. Yet it was the faded tattoos adorning his arms that were more telling of his age—classic army tattoos, where the lines were so blurred against his suntanned skin you could barely make out what they were.

  “It was a simple catch,” I said, kicking my feet back and forward. “Although he put up a fair fight for a kid. Didn’t throw any punches, but he certainly gave me a run for my money as far as speed was concerned.”

  Thatch chuckled, digging in his shirt pocket and pulling out a small envelope before he spoke. “Parents dropped this off for you.”

  “I hope he’ll be OK,” I muttered, not realising I’d said the words out loud. “He seemed like a decent kid, just lost.”

  “Yeah, well.” Thatch stretched his arms up over his head and groaned. “Aren’t we all?”

  I tore into the envelope with a shrug and eyed the number written on the crisp paper. My face twisted into a grimace.

  “This isn’t even enough to cover my rent,” I added. “Good job my landlord’s too scared to evict me in case I dig into his past.”

  Thatch shook his head, but I noted the small smile at the edge of his scarred lips. “It’s not always about the money, Quintessa.”

  “Eurgh, don’t use my full name, I feel like I’m in trouble.” My shoulders rattled with a shiver that travelled straight up my spine. “And if it’s not about the money, then why do we do it?”

  It was supposed to be a joke, some light humour to break up an otherwise heavy conversation. Thatch didn’t seem to see it that way, though.

  “It’s about finding people and bringing them back to their loved ones. Bringing the missing folk home and making sure they are safe.”

  My eyes narrowed. “Is that from your daily affirmations calendar? I swear the gift was a joke.”

  Relief warmed my chest when a grin appeared on Thatcher’s face as he settled himself behind his desk and began entering his password on the computer.

  “Don’t kid yourself, that thing went straight in the bin on Boxing Day.”

  Tightening the knot in my hair, I chuckled, deciding a change in the subject was in my best interests. “What’s on the agenda for the rest of the day?”

  Thatch ran a hand down his face and shrugged. “Check the diary, my brain’s been scattered like dog shit today.”

  My brow creased. “Is that even a saying?” As expected, Thatch didn’t answer and instead, I stood up and grabbed the diary off his desk. It was a worn, leather-bound notebook that had seen better days, but it did the trick. Scrawls of ineligible writing and doodles took up most of the pages, but when my eyes settled on the name under tomorrow’s date, my head tilted curiously to the side.

  “What now?” Thatch groaned, not looking up from his keyboard as he typed slowly with one finger at a time, moving over the keys.

  “You’ve got here that we have an appointment coming in tomorrow, Lily Rig?” I twisted my face and tried to think where I had heard the name before.

  “Oh, shit,” Thatch said, finally pausing his erratic movements and peering at me. “I was meant to tell you about that.”

  “Tell me about what?”

  “She was in the news a few months ago, her sister went missing.” It was clear Thatch was waiting for me to catch on to what he was trying to say.

  “Yeah, so? Isn’t that the unfortunate business that we find ourselves embroiled in?” I set the diary to one side and looked up. The expression Thatch had written across his face made me uncomfortable, yet I couldn’t quite place it.

  “I was going to ask you to take the afternoon off. I thought the case might hit a little too close to home.”

  Lily Rig’s name finally clicked somewhere in my head. Her sister, Jocelyn, had been in the news around three months ago after going missing, seemingly without a trace. That wasn’t an enormous deal, but it was the details surrounding the case. I remembered vividly now, as though I were watching the news all over again.

  “She was eighteen, at university… art student, right?” I cleared my throat as Thatch offered me a curt nod.

  “The details were a little foggy,” Thatch explained softly. “She was last seen at that club. The one in Kensington.”

  “Yeah, I’m familiar,” I grunted, laughing as I shook off the tremor that rattled my shoulders. “I don’t understand how that place hasn’t been shut down already. The fucking place is a bad omen. It lives up to its namesake.”

  “Can’t argue with you on that one.” Thatcher agreed solemnly, but my mind was flooded with memories of my friend. The vague recollection of Jocelyn’s news reports was being replaced with Beth’s, as was the case every time we got another missing person who happened to be a young woman with similar circumstances.

  I guess friend was a bit of an understatement. We’d been practically inseparable. She was at university studying art history when she vanished. As if into thin air. We had been living together at the time and stupidly, when she didn’t come home one night, I thought nothing of it. I was happy for her. I’d figured she’d met up with a friend from school or someone she’d met walking home. It felt so ridiculous now, given my job, that I hadn’t been more suspicious. Unluckily for Beth, she’d had no one else to give a shit about her. No one else to miss her.

  “Listen, Omen is just a place, Quinn. I know what you’re like, don’t go digging somewhere that’s already been dug,” Thatch warned, spinning his wheelchair out from behind his desk and making hi
s way over to me. He set his bear-like palm on my knee and offered me a kind smile. It was the sort of expression he reserved purely for me, and he wasn’t forthcoming with it. He wasn’t the feely, fluffy type. He’d grown up rough and refused to change for anyone. Anyone but me. It was nice to think that he considered me as a daughter, as I did him as a dad.

  “There’s something off about that club, Thatch. I don’t get how people can vanish the second they step through the fucking threshold.”

  “I know, I know.” He nodded furiously, as though he were terrified I was about to leap up off the desk and run over there. “I meant what I said, Quinn. If you don’t want to get involved in this case, you don’t have to. I can find someone else to handle the legwork.” Thatch nudged me in the side repeatedly, winking until he knew I’d got his somewhat tasteless pun.

  “You know it isn’t edgy to make fun of your disability,” I quipped.

  “Screw you, my edge is all-natural.” He smiled, and I mirrored the expression with ease.

  “I’d like to take care of this one if that’s OK,” I said, trying to put on my bravest face and hide the fact that I wanted nothing more than to burn Omen to the ground.

  Chapter Two

  The meeting with Lily lingered in the back of my mind for the rest of the day. I’d distracted myself for a few hours by playing chess on my phone and flicking through the ridiculous amount of spam emails filling my inbox. The truth was the prospect of another missing person’s case that somehow revolved around Omen had me a nervous wreck.

  Thatcher and I hadn’t officially investigated Beth’s case since her family had never accepted our friendship and had little faith in me being able to help in finding her. Other than the standard police questioning, I’d been kept in the dark. In the end, Thatch did some digging and found out Beth had been dating one girl that worked at Omen and had last been seen outside the club. I’d tried to find a name or even a description, but there was nothing. Omen was untouchable. Whatever agreement they had with the police meant that nothing ever came from that line of enquiry.