by A. L. Knorr
I forced myself to look at Uncle Iry. Tears had cut glittering tracks down his weathered face.
“I cowered like a mouse, listening to that poor creature’s cries, and some ugly part of me was glad the soldiers were too distracted to notice me. Afraid and angry, yes, and I will never forget it. I see that same anger and fear in you, Mr Sark.”
Sark made a kind of choking sound but didn’t speak.
“What did you see, Mr Sark?” Uncle Iry asked, his raw voice softer now. “What did they do?”
I turned back to Sark, and with equal parts shock and horror, I saw he also had tears. He blinked rapidly, trying to deny them, but they came. His chin sank towards his chest. Twice he tried to speak, each time the words dying in his throat, and on the third time, they came out in sloppy torrents alongside more tears.
“They were draining Inconquo,” he croaked. “Men, women, children, all of them. Sucking them dry to wake that monster, and when they had nothing but corpses left, they came for me. And I ran.”
---
“One-minute warning,” Jackie called and thumped her fist, once, on the bathroom door.
I stood in the hallway, leaning on the wall, my eyes closed to shut off the distraction of sight. My metallic sense was spread across the entire bathroom, not just the fixtures, also the pipes and nails in studs, small items like the tweezers I’d collected into a basket, now sitting at my feet. If Sark so much as tickled one wall screw, I would know it because the reality was that one screw and a moment of inattention could give him time to fashion a weapon and attack.
“I just know he’s waiting for us to let our guard down,” Jackie hissed at my shoulder. “I’m still not sure this is a good idea.”
I grunted noncommittally.
Focus like this had become much easier since my powers had synced with the Rings, but it still wasn’t easy, especially over prolonged periods and with such little sleep. I was coming around to the idea that perhaps Sark was telling more truth than lies, but arguing the point would distract me right now.
After his confession, he’d been a sobbing wreck, and on Uncle Iry’s advice, we’d offered him a chance to clean up. He’d nodded, unable to speak. With Jackie close at hand, I’d unbound his legs and marched him down to the bathroom, half expecting him to try something foolish.
So far, he’d been well-behaved, not even testing his bonds. I’d loosened some so he could undress, then quickly re-fashioned them and clamped on copper wrist manacles. He’d frowned down at the restraints but hopped into the shower without comment. The brief glimpse of his naked body testified further to the ravages of the last year. His pale skin slack on his bones, his physique had gone from underwear model to smack addict. Scabby, blistered skin reached from one armpit to his pelvis. Bruises speckled his legs.
I’d used the metal zippers and buttons to twist and ball up the filthy clothes he’d shed and deposit them in a rubbish bag. Jackie had procured some sweats from her boxing gym that had never fit her, and those she left on the sink for him.
Since then, we’d been outside with Jackie counting down the five minutes we’d allotted with fist thumps.
“Times up.” Jackie thumped hard enough to rattle the door.
Still no metal had felt the touch of Sark’s power. I opened my eyes, keeping a small portion of my awareness geared towards the bathroom.
Jackie pressed her ear to the door where the slap-splatter of the shower came to a faltering stop. She held the beat-stick, her shoulder levelled against the door.
“What is he doing?” she asked.
I shrugged, my eyes screwing shut again.
“I can’t see him, Jackie,” I said, very deliberately controlling each word coming off my tongue. “I can only sense the metal. He turned off the spigot, moved the shower rings holding the curtain. I felt a tremor through the towel rack, so he’s grabbed a towel …”
“Okay, I get it,” she cut me off, resting her hand on the doorknob.
“Sark, you’ve got ten seconds to be dry and dressed before I come in there. Anything hanging out that might offend my delicate sensibilities gets smacked.”
We heard Sark grumble an indistinct reply, and Jackie started counting down. I could just make out the rustle of fabric from the other side of the door. She twisted the doorknob on three, pushed the door open on two, and went into the bathroom announcing one.
Sark sat on the stool, wearing the sweatpants, though the legs were too short, and the drawstrings needed tightening. The sweatshirt had been drawn over his head but hung in bunches around his neck. He was hunched over, manacled hands in front of him with his elbows on his knees; what I am pretty sure were track marks raced up his forearms and the crook of his arm. He looked like a drowned rodent, his hair lank and damp over his face. I could count the vertebrae jutting along his bent back.
“I couldn’t get the shirt on with my hands together,” he muttered sullenly, not looking up.
With a thought from me, the manacles came apart. He finished dressing without comment. Once he was done, he held his arms out, a defeated gesture, and waited with eyes downcast. One more mental pulse and the bands clicked together looking as though they’d been forged that way.
“What’s next?” Sark asked, staring at his wrists.
“We’re still deciding what to do with you,” Jackie admitted, resting the baton on her shoulder. “And I am trying to decide if you’ve been blowing smoke up our skirts.”
Sark nodded, lowering his arms down to his knees again, and seemed to sag inward.
The disclosure of the atrocities he’d witnessed at the Group of Winterthür’s compound seemed to have deflated him. He was a ghost of the Dillon Sark we once knew. I questioned his mental stability, but his conviction in what he’d said was no longer in doubt, for me at least. Sark was a broken man, and he knew we’d seen him break. He couldn’t pretend with us, not anymore.
I moved into the bathroom and leaned against the sink, my hands resting at my sides. Sark didn’t look up. Being this close to him wasn’t without risks, but the wire rack over the toilet seat was a nice assurance. With one thought, I could send the tines of shelf out like snaring webs. It would spill the contents of the shelf all over the floor, including some of Jackie’s favourite nail polish, but it would be a small price to pay.
“You said they were draining the Inconquo,” I said, noting the shiver that ran through him. “What does that mean?”
Sark tucked his arms up against himself, rocking forward until his forehead nearly touched his knees.
“Blood,” he whispered. “They were draining blood.”
A chill ran up my spine, and the hair on the back of my neck prickled at the ghastly statement.
“Why?” Jackie found her voice first, but it was as hard and tight as her posture. “How could that possibly bring him back to life?”
Sark’s head shook slowly from side to side. “He’s not dead. He’s catatonic, shrivelled, barely clinging to life, but still alive.”
The last word came out with a trembling mix of horror and awe.
“So, the blood is a transfusion, and the Inconquo are the most likely match?” Jackie asked.
“Hold on.” I raised a hand. “You can’t just start pumping blood into someone to make them healthier. You get blood when you’ve lost it, to replace what you had before, not because its medicine.”
Jackie shrugged, and we looked at Sark. For a few seconds he didn’t say anything, but when he did his voice was a little angrier and a little stronger.
“I don’t know how, but the Group of Winterthür has used strange science and other less natural means to draw youth and life out of things in the past. Some of the oldest members are only alive now because of it.”
Jackie and I shared a horrified glance. But as my mind started to revolt against the implications, I remembered what I had witnessed and faced last year. My definition of the word possible had grown considerably.
“So, they’re trying to juice up this non-dead
ancient bloke,” Jackie reiterated. “And when they didn’t have enough from the victims they had on hand, they came for you.”
Sark nodded.
“How many people did they drain?” I asked before I had the sense to convince myself not to ask.
“Six,” Sark replied heavily, his voice quavering. “Two men, two women, and two children, all operatives in the organization. The children were the first.
We were silent for a long moment, in honour of the dead or wrestling with our fear. I wasn’t sure.
“Bollocks,” Jackie spat, sharp and incredulous. “If they pumped a body full of the blood of that many people, it would burst.”
Sark raised his head a little. “That was why they wanted more, because he wasn’t swelling. His body just seemed to absorb or maybe burn through the blood. It seemed to have no effect. After the first subject, I suggested that it wasn’t going to work, but they were sure that it must be doing something.”
“After the first subject,” I repeated, the words hurtling out of my tongue like verbal darts. “You mean the first child? The first innocent child you watched them bleed dry?”
Sark refused to look up and face the anger that had bloomed inside me like a fire. He hung his head and sank lower and deeper. I clenched a fist.
Uncle Iry came down the hall then, calling my name. I swivelled halfway out of the bathroom to see Iry almost at the door.
“Ibby,” he said, his outstretched arm holding something that buzzed angrily. “This has not stopped since you took Mr Sark to clean himself.”
I stared at the object in his hand for a second and then recognized it for the archaic phone Daria had given me. I took the phone and read the yellow analog screen over the digits. The incoming number was just a string of 1 and 0’s. The number was scrambled, but I was sure it was Daria. Who else would know to call the phone?
“What is it?” Jackie asked from the bathroom.
“Somebody … somebody important,” I said, not sure if I wanted Sark knowing who was calling. Hustling past Uncle Iry, I went into the bedroom.
I thumbed the green striped button to accept the call and then raised it to my ear. “Hello?”
“Ibby dear, it’s been a while,” came Daria’s throaty voice, though her tone was more superficially cheery than her usual earnest tones. “I imagine you have all sorts of questions.”
“You imagine right, Dary.” I forced my voice even. “We’ve got a visitor who’s filled our ears with all sorts of stories. I’d appreciate it if you could help sort the truth from the lies.”
A husky laugh came over the line, something wild and hollow that was again so unlike the Daria I’d met a year ago. “Oh sweety,” she cooed. “I won’t have to help you sort anything.”
“Why not?” I demanded.
“Because Ibby, if we are talking about Sark, there is nothing to clear up. It’s all true.”
8
I nearly missed her next words as I gaped at the phone.
“To be honest,” Dary continued with that tinny cheerfulness. “I thought he’d have crawled his way to you sooner, but I always overestimate the competence of others. Or, in your case, maybe it was just laziness.”
The accusation stung me enough to provoke a response. My hand tightened around the phone casing hard enough to make the plastic creak.
“What is that supposed to mean?” I growled.
A long-suffering sigh came through the phone.
“Ibby,” she said in the most patronizing of tones. “If I have to explain everything to you, you’ll never start thinking for yourself.”
The phone creaked again as I ground my teeth against the flippant condescension.
“Lazy? What am I supposed to have been doing? Sark was disgraced and on the run, and you helped us stay off Winterthür’s radar.”
A low groan drawled in my ear, the kind a person makes when they have to perform a dull chore.
“All that self-discovery last year, all that pulling back of the curtain, and you came to the conclusion you could go back to business as usual?”
The question struck me as odd. The answer was, “Of course, that is exactly what I concluded.”
True, Jackie and I had changed, and she’d trained like mad in self-defence, while I grew more comfortable with my abilities, but I still wanted to bring my uncle to the UK and to pursue a career in archeology. I’d never considered a different path.
“I guess I thought,” I paused, buying time to process and cobble my thoughts, “that the immediate crisis was over. Kezsarak was contained, and Winterthür was busy chasing Sark.”
“Stupid, stupid girl,” Daria’s voice laughed acidly, her cheery affectation peeling off in strips. “You think the war can be with a single victory? Did you really think that Winterthür was remotely distracted by chasing an insect like Sark?”
“If you’re so worried about the Group of Winterthür, why did you help them by helping Sark? The only thing I’m learning from this game is that I don’t know who you are at all.”
The phone was silent for a moment, and when she finally spoke, Daria’s voice was infuriatingly calm and gentle.
“My dear, I already told you who I am. My reasons are frighteningly, terribly, and ridiculously simple.”
The way she said this made it clear that I was supposed to know what she was talking about. I wanted to scream, to demand that she explain herself, but Daria seemed determined to “teach me”. I had to choose: smash the phone or play along.
“Fine,” I spat as I began to pace. “You said you weren’t a good guy and that you are an independent contractor. I understand that means you work for money, but what Sark says you did has nothing to do with money. He was on the run from the law and Winterthür, and you gave him something to get him back in their good graces. Gave, Daria, not sold. So, what am I supposed to take from that? There was some other kind of payment? You got something else out of this besides a chance to be a world-class bitch?”
A throaty chuckle––pleased, not mocking––told me I was making progress.
“Better late than never I suppose,” she purred. “Do you want to take a shot at the next level? You’ve got the time.”
The last little comment about time snagged me, but I didn’t want to lose momentum.
“You wanted the Group of Winterthür to have the key and Sark to be the one to give it to them,” I continued. “You knew they had the location of Ninurta’s tomb. Maybe, you hoped they’d lead you to the Barrow of the Heavens. There was something you wanted in there?”
“You’re not half so bad at this as I thought. It was just a question of motivation, not ability.”
Cutlery rattled in the kitchen at my agitation. I took a deep breath and stilled them with a thought.
“But just because we’re friends,” she said, “I’ll tell you it wasn’t something but someone.”
“Someone? The only person in there was Ninurta. You wanted to get to Ninurta? Why? What do you w—”
“Times up,” Daria announced. “Ibby, it’s been lovely, but I’m afraid you are going to have company before long, and you need to talk to Lowe. Give him my love, and just so you get the chance to tell him, I need you to take this very seriously: get everyone the hell out of that flat. Now!”
The line went dead, and I stared at the phone for half a heartbeat and then dismantled it with fumbling fingers. As I pried the case off, I shouted so I was sure that Jackie would hear me loud and clear.
“Real McCoy! Jackie, we’ve got a REAL McCOY!”
---
The Real McCoys was a euro-dance and pop group out of Germany that had some hits when Jackie and I were still in nappies. When we hit our tweens, we discovered separately and each of us came to love them. One of their biggest hits was a song called “Run Away” whose synthesized, electropop beat combined with brutally repetitive lyrics had been the beginning and end of our infatuation. When we finally met at university, we laughed and bonded over the song. When we moved into the new fl
at, we’d decided we needed some code words and phrases. Remembering the ill-fated “Run Away” jam, we’d decided that Real McCoy was the code for our escape plan.
---
My shout had hardly finished echoing down the hall before Sark and Uncle Iry burst out of the hallway, Jackie herding them forward with hand and baton. Sark’s foot caught on the rug, and he struggled to stay upright. Uncle Iry took him by the ears to brace him, his eyes darting between Jackie and me.
“Is McCoy a person?” he asked, but Jackie was already racing back into our rooms to grab our emergency bags, while I moved to Sark.
“People are coming,” I told him, reading his expression even as my will insinuated itself into the copper manacles around his wrists. “We are leaving. If you come with us, you do exactly what I or Jackie say, when we say it, got it?”
Sark stiffened at the mention of our impending visitors, but he met my eyes and nodded. He cringed as the copper responded to my instructions, slithering from his wrists, up his arms, over his shoulders, and down his torso. The metal stopped once it separated into thin hoops around each leg. I held a finger in front of his face, my lips pursing into a grim line.
“One time,” I hissed. “You disobey once, you argue once, you drag your heels once, and those hoops tighten together. Bones break, bollocks burst, and no matter what, we leave you to those coming after us.”
“Understood,” Sark nodded hands raised in surrender and then added defensively, “I came to you for help, remember?”
“We’ll see.” I turned to Uncle Iry who was still bracing Sark. “Sorry, Uncle, but it’s not safe, and we need to go now. You are going to have to trust me.”
Uncle Iry let go of Sark and looked around, trying to make sense of the rapidly evolving events. After a second’s consideration, he nodded. “Good thing I didn’t unpack.”