Going Your Own Way, but with Magic

Chapter 8

I love the station. Complete, perfect anonymity. No one notices or cares about me. Apart from when I go the wrong way on an escalator. Then they notice. Loudly. But apart from that, I can disappear. I can melt into crowds, and become no one. I haven't felt it in a while, and it hasn't gotten old.

The flat is a short walk, and fancy. It is at the very top of a very tall block of flats in the very centre of London. The rent could probably buy a small island nation. People wearing clothes that could, combined, probably also buy a small island nation (that is my metric for rich people), mill around and shoot me 'who let her in' dirty looks. There are lots of houseplants that look too perfect to be real in metallic pots and my feet sink into the carpet. There's some terrible but nonetheless expensive looking art on the walls. The receptionist is pretty with dark hair in a bun. She winces when she sees the mud on my trainers, but keeps up a bright smile.
"Hi, how may I help?" Her nails are painted pale pink and she has a heart shaped necklace on. I show her the note, and uncomfortably register the possibility of it being a joke. I mean, Raven. Okay. I've been gullible, but it's okay. I try to muster disappointment but all I feel is relief. "Um...Miss?" her voice is full of concern. That's not a 'stop wasting my time' voice. I am standing rooted to the spot, and then I realise she waved me past. So nothing is stopping me. Nothing. I can go in, now.
"Thanks. Thanks." I repeat it. The second time, it doesn't feel like a word. I sound like a doll with a malfunctioning talk box.
"It's okay. You'll want flat nineteen on the top floor." Cold dread fills me, deadening my limbs. Daphne scrabbles at my leg. I make myself walk, trying to tell myself I'm being stupid in a light-hearted, sarcastic manner. I don't believe me for a second.

I get in the fancy lift. I never thought lifts could be fancy, but this one manages it. It stops far too quickly, and I have to walk again. I am distracted for a second by the view. I've never seen the point of city skylines, and definitely not of paying lots of money to see them. But damn. It's beautiful. Beautiful in a kind of cold stone industrial sort of way, but beautiful. It makes me feel tiny. Finally, I'm standing outside the door and I can't delay any longer. On a stupid whim, I get out my phone. I text Lizzie first. 'I'm in London. Talk soon Max xx.' Mr Bates I can be a little more honest with. 'Going into flat (fancy). I'm scared. If not back by tomorrow, look for me. Miss you.' It isn't what I want to say, but I'm not going to be dramatic. I probably won't be dramatic on my deathbed. I shudder. Now is not the time to be thinking about death, not with my gut telling me what it is. Don't be so stupid. These aren't my last words. Surely I've been through enough not to be scared of a tea party. I ring the doorbell. It plays a pretty windchime sound.
"Come in, Max." The voice is female. I didn't expect that. Damnit, internalised misogyny. There is no reason a creepy mysterious person with a pretentious name who sends a creepy zombie to fetch you with a creepy invitation can't be a woman. This is what my foremothers fought for. The voice is soft and sweet and should be pleasant but there's a singsong quality to it that I don't like. Sick with fear, I step inside.

The apartment in beautiful and expensive and new. Perfectly new. Nothing is left out, none of the chairs have been sat in. The windows are covered with sheets, which is odd given how much she's paying for the view. The lights are bright and wouldn't be out of place in a hospital. Despite the newness of it, the place has a slightly musty smell. I try to relax. This is a stupid rich person. With a stupid name and chairs that cost thousands. It's a playground for people with more money than they know what to do with and it isn't lived in because she probably has a few houses. The sheets are an eccentricity. It's okay. I almost believe myself before I turn my attention to the woman on the sofa.

She looks about thirty but her hair is pure white, so bright it looks almost fluorescent. It is thin and straight and nearly touches her ankles. She's deathly pale, almost jaundiced, and her eyes are deep blue but glazed over. They're wide open. It takes me a bit of staring to figure out if she has eyelids. Her smile is too wide, and her face doesn't move unless she makes a conscious effort. There is something wrong with her teeth. I shudder when I see what it is. Her teeth have been filed to points. It's subtle, but there's no mistaking it. She has sharpened her teeth until they become fangs. She's wearing a white dress that must have cost a fortune. There's a bridal quality to it, although it's simple. It hangs off her bones. At some point, she was beautiful. Maybe she still is – her face is all angles, her hair is shiny and all her features are all in the right places. But there's something wrong, something I can't quite see. She looks like the memory of a person. She has two eyes and a nose and a mouth and I can see all of those things, but not together. When I try to look at her she dances on the edge of my vision. I can always see her teeth, though. They catch the light very well. There's a heavy brooch pinned to her dress. A raven. Pretty, loath as I am to admit it. Made of delicate twists of bronze, it looks like it could take flight at any second. And it's surrounded by dried blood. No. That isn't right. I have to bite my tongue to stop myself screaming when I realise. It's pinned, not to her dress, but to the skin underneath. For a long time, too, by the look of the blood. She has stuck a needle deep into her chest and left it there.