The Templar's Curse by Sarwat Chadda (classic books to read TXT) 📕

took off her shades so she could look him clear and straight in the eye. The man was merely doing his job, she supposed. Life would be much simpler if he let her do hers, unpleasant as it was. It was better for everyone.

She put her hand gently on his shoulder. It was invading his personal space, it was violent, and yet gentle. He didn’t know what to do. So, he became afraid.

It was strange to see how she affected people like that. She’d seen her dad do it but he was a guy of barely restrained violence and Billi had worked hard to be nothing like him. Nothing at all and yet there it was, the fear. The paleness and the sudden faintness of breath. She was just an eighteen-year-old girl who smelt of exhaust fumes and wasn’t big at all. She liked to think she had a friendly face, or at least an unassuming one.

She wanted to be harmless. Not someone who made grown men piss themselves. That was not a particularly useful life skill.

Though it explained why she, even now, didn’t have that many friends. All the more reason to hang onto the ones she did have. One in particular. Maybe that’s why she was distracted. Things weren’t going that smoothly on the relationship front. Turns out there wasn’t the ‘happily ever after’ once you got your fairy tale prince.

Billi put her finger to her lips. “Shhh.”

The concierge gulped.

Her mobile started buzzing.

About time.

She glanced at the screen. The Royal Suite. Where else?

She turned to the lift, leaving the man standing, and no doubt sighing with relief. This would all be over in ten minutes and she’d be gone and he’d have the Ritz exactly how he liked it.

The lift was brass and glass and she joined a couple, an elderly woman in furs and pearls while her husband wore black tie with his little pot-belly straining against his scarlet cummerbund and had ‘works in insurance’ written all over him. They shuffled discreetly away from her into the corner. Billi sighed deeply as she watched the indicator ping upward, floor by floor. The pair departed, but not before a brief, wrinkle-nosed glance back at her. Maybe her leathers did have a little bit of a whiff…

The doors slid open for the corridor leading to the Royal Suite. A guard waited for her.

There was a brief look of surprise, no one had told him that he’d have to handle a scruffy young woman but these sorts of deals were well above his pay-grade.

Ex-Special Forces? Or a government agency? Judging by the guy’s swollen biceps straining under his off-the-peg two piece she had to go with SEAL. There was something fishy about him.

He walked her to the door but, before knocking, twirled his finger. “You know the drill.”

American accent. SEAL for sure. “You try a grope and you’ll be getting an elbow in your face.”

“What makes you think I’m interested in your skinny ass?”

Bag down and arms outstretched, Billi let him do his job. He was quick and efficient and a moment later he had her frisked and found her knuckle dusters. “Silver? You find many werewolves in London?”

“Not any more.” Billi felt an itch along her old scar. Once, and not that long ago, things had got pretty desperate with the werewolves. Once, not that long ago, she might have even become one. Still, no recent urges to chase cats or scoff down a bowl of Pedigree Chum.

The guard put her dusters in his pocket.

“I’ll want those back. They’re a family heirloom.”

“Your granny work for the Peaky Blinders?” He rummaged around in the shopping bag, seemingly unimpressed by the bundles of cash, then handed the bag back. He opened the door. “Sir, your guest is here.”

“Show her in, Tommy.”

The guard nodded her through, then closed the door behind her, while he remained outside.

The cool breeze drifted through the sitting room. The floor to ceiling windows overlooking Green Park were wide open and the room lit only by the lamp on the low coffee table before a lush, gold-embroidered sofa. The huge chandelier chimed gently and the room was filled with the perfume of orchids. Huge bouquets spilled from vases along the mantelpiece. But the smell, potent as it was, still did not hide the stench of rotten flesh.

Flies buzzed around the table lamp and the man standing in the draught by the window. His suit hung loosely over his emaciated frame and he leaned upon an ebony cane.

He took a deep breath and the air rattled in through his spindly chest.

“Salaam alaikum, Ms. SanGreal. Come and join me. The view is lovely.”

“Waa-alaikum salaam,” said Billi. “You’re looking well, Mr. Lawrence.”

His laugh was more a hiss, and his thin body shook. Despite his feeble physique and immense age, his blue eyes shone, burned, with feverish vitality. He wasn’t going into his grave any time soon.

The Ritz wasn’t tall, only eight storeys and the Royal Suite occupied two of the upper storeys, facing east and north. The top half was stepped back, giving the upper rooms their own balconies with which to enjoy the view over Green Park. There was one such balcony directly below her with a table set out. Some of the older, larger trees reached across to brush their leaves against the windows of the lower floors. Below was a narrow alleyway where diners ate under a canopy while keeping their toes tucked in from the motorbikes that used it as a shortcut. One such bike was parked up, its rider idly leaning against the railings. He seemed impatient, constantly checking his watch. Billi liked that. The best things were worth waiting for.

Lawrence sat down on his sofa. “Your father’s not available?”

“He is, but has better things to do with his time. You know how sensitive he is about… things.”

“Things like me?”

“Yeah. He might be tempted to test the limits of your immortality.”

Lawrence straightened his cuffs. She was amazed he could wear the chunky Rolex on his brittle