“Enough of the pleasantries, it’s time to get ready,” Tristan said, handing Henry a sports bag. “Your gear. You left it at your flat, I thought I told you to keep hold of it at all times? Oh, and there’s this.”
He threw Henry a knife, sheathed in a leather scabbard. Withdrawing the blade, which was intricately inscribed with runes, Henry examined the hilt. A sculpted triquetra connected the blade and grip, the knife itself a dark metal that gleamed in the light.
“Every Inquisitor has a blade. This was your father's and so now it’s yours.” Tristan said. “Now, go get changed.”
Going through to the study, Henry closed the frosted glass door behind him. He changed, all the while listening to the conversation in the other room, which was only slightly muffled by the door.
“So Meyer believes that Grendal is Sabrina’s brother?” Jonny said.
“Sabrina the hooker?” One of the detectives said.
“One and the same. Silas will most probably be hiding with her, the mansion is half his after all,” Tristan said.
“I wouldn’t exactly call it a mansion,” another of the detectives said.
“And how do you know that?”
“Let’s just say I had a close call once.”
“Anyway, even if he isn’t there, Sabrina will know where he is,” Tristan said.
Henry pulled the armour over his chest and strapped the weapons in their respective holsters, before redressing in his blood stained clothes.
“Interestingly, Silas was identified by one of my officers before he fled into the under-city this afternoon. Alice was on patrol when she came across him. Unfortunately Silas escaped as she had other things to deal with,” Nick said.
“Like what?” Jonny said.
“Like getting my daughter out of the under-city.”
“Nick, where is Alice by the way?” Tristan said. “I tried calling her.”
“She has been summoned by Wade, I don’t know what for,” Nick said.
“Well, it’s just the seven of us then, although I don’t know if the kid is going to be any use. Why is he here?” the first detective said.
“Because Mark was my father and someone needs to make sure we take Grendal alive. I have questions that need answers,” Henry said, emerging from the study.
“Henry will be fine, worry about yourselves and besides, you know the plan, right Henry?” Tristan said.
“What plan?” Henry said.
“Stay alive and don't get anyone else killed. Once we catch him, you can ask him whatever you want,” Tristan said.
***
Henry had never imagined, for you wouldn’t he supposed, that on a normal winters evening, he would be travelling on a tube with a confirmed killer, a chief superintendent of the metropolitan police and a series of detectives all with magical abilities; on his way to try and take down a magical being from folklore in a place that can only be found by those who know it is there. To be honest, any of the details that he now knew about the real world, the one of magic and secret societies that the general population stayed happily oblivious to, would have sounded crazy to him just two weeks ago. Maybe he should just learn to take things as they come.
They got off at Camden Town and, following Tristan, made their way to the tea shop Henry had used as passage to the under-city before. Tristan gave a half smile to the nervous tea shop owner, which reminded Henry of his previous warning. Someone in the Inquisition is not who they claim to be. Who was it, the tea seller had refused to give any more information, but he had no reason to lie. Could Henry trust Tristan? Meyer did and that should be enough for him.
They moved through the shop without resistance, their motley crew coming to a stop at the other side.
“What the hell?” said one of the detectives.
The under-city was in chaos. Around them, people were fleeing from something unseen. Traders grabbed as much of their wares are they could, loading carts as they disappeared down alleyways, while opportunist thieves stormed empty shops in the momentary advantage. A young man tried to run past, but before he could escape, Tristan grabbed him by the collar.
“What is going on?” Tristan said.
The man locked eyes with Tristan and naturally, he looked terrified. He looked away, but in doing so caught Henry’s eye, his irises flashing iridescent purple.
“Deliverance. They are attacking the DAS! They’ll come for us next, please, I’ve not done anything,” the man said.
“Which entrance?” Tristan said.
“Not in the under-city, they are attacking up top. It’s the start of a war. Let me go, I need to get out of here.”
Tristan released him and the man scurried away as fast as he could.
“How did they manage to get in?” Jonny said.
“I don’t know, the DAS is supposed to be stop this sort of thing, not be the centre of an attack,” Tristan said.
“And something so public, what will that mean?” Nick said.
“The man you killed,” Henry said. “He was supposed to be a traitor to the DAS wasn’t he?”
“The man you were supposed to kill you mean?”
Henry didn’t reply.
“My phone doesn’t show any reports of riots,” Nick said.
“Well that’s a good sign, means they are still in control of the media,” Jonny said.
“Look, we haven’t got time for this. We need to go,” Tristan said.
With that, the group carried on moving against the crowds, away from the centre of the under-city and towards Sabrina’s lair. As they approached the shop which Tristan had said would be their way in, he withdrew his gun and held it by his side. Moments later, everyone followed suit, which meant that seven armed men entered a tiny mirror shop to talk to, what appeared to be, a little old lady. They spread out in a fan in front of the old shop keeper who stood with her arms crossed in front of them. She gave a scalding look to each of them in turn and, unlike everyone else that met Tristan, she wasn’t one bit intimidated by him. She didn’t look terribly frightened by the guns either, so maybe she wasn’t a sweet little old lady at all.
“What do you want, steroid junky?” the old woman said to Tristan.
“We are here to use the access tunnel.”
“Well, cough up then.”
“Get out of here before I have you taken to the Inquisition vaults for aiding and abetting a fugitive.”
“You’ll do no such thing, I am a business woman and you are trespassing. We are closed, so bugger off,” the old woman said, her words almost a hiss.
This wasn’t going exactly as Henry expected. He had imagined they would storm Sabrina’s lair, not debate with some old lady just to get in. She looked impossibly old, like time had continued to pass and death had never quite found her. Although she was clearly ancient, the amount of extra weight she carried suggested that escaping death for such a time resulted in an unhealthy amount of comfort eating.
“I am not going to ask again,” Tristan said.
“Good, cos unless you produce some money, you lot aren’t going anywhere. And you pay per person for admittance, so cough up,” she said.
While Tristan talked, Henry found himself staring at the reflections of his companions in a large landscape mirror that hung at forty-five degrees between the wall and the ceiling. The two R’hard appeared as towering figures, their muscles doubling in size, their ears and noses retracting slightly to maintain their streamline look. If the R’hard looked tough, then the Alesh, dressed in a beige raincoat, looked rather frail. Silverfish skin covered every inch of his thin body. Fragile yet lethal, like a spider. Henry decided out of all of the types he had seen, even when compared to a Vampiris, it was the Alesh that worried him the most.
“Look you gym obsessed baboon, if you don’t pay up, you ain’t coming in. You ain’t gonna trick me or force me to, and if you think you can barge through you got another thing coming,” the old woman said.
Tristan looked frustrated, he obviously hadn’t imagine
d they would get held up at this point. The conversation appeared as if it would last a little longer, or at least until Tristan gave in and paid the woman.
Henry turned his attention back to the mirror, continuing his tour of their group. He looked towards Jonny. How old was he? Eighteen, nineteen? He may have been built for American football, but that probably didn’t stop him getting ID’d in every club he ever entered. Lastly, Henry turned to Nick, although, that wasn’t quite true. Henry attempted to look at Nick, but something was wrong. Something was very wrong. Nick had no reflection, there was just a gap in the room where he was standing between Jonny and the first R'hard. Henry looked back to the real Nick, who returned his glance, confused. Nick’s reflection wasn’t there, which if what he had been told was correct, meant only one thing.
Nick was Grendal.
Henry turned to look at Tristan who, reading his face, also clocked that particular fact. Then of course, all hell broke loose.
- Chapter 44 -
Lies
Alex looked at the screen in cold disbelief. The name listed as deleting the files was ‘Nicholas Stroud’ - her father. It had to be a mistake. Alex checked the next record, and the next one, but it was exactly what she feared: Nick was listed against every one. Clicking through to his own record, a red box at the top of the screen drew Alex’s attention.
Subject alias, Grendal
Responsible for 32 homicides, MET references 7239214G, 8120654A, 8027823E…
Immunity deal Z76PO
Case Handler, Charles Harper
32 homicides. 32 lives her father had taken, the man she had admired and strived to be like all her life, the man she thought she knew and could trust.
Her father, a murderer. Her murderer, the man she had been chasing. The image of the latest victim, laying awkwardly on the floor of the flat, filled Alex's mind. All she could picture was her Dad, standing over the body, a knife in his hand. He had been brazen enough to return there, obviously not concerned by some chance a resident would recognise him. Nick had revisited his own crime scene, stood there and analysed it with her, when all the time he knew she was on a wild goose chase.
Thirty two deaths. The number was unfathomable, far greater than the nine the police were aware of. How long had he been doing this for to have killed so many? Had he been killing people while she grew up? Wishing Alex good night, tucking her into bed before stalking the streets? The man she knew couldn’t do this.
And why? What could drive him to do such things? The deleted records. The victims were suspects in murder cases, the ones that ‘got away’, escaped justice. But they hadn't escaped her father. He had taken the law, which he had sworn to uphold, into his own hands and made them pay for their crimes.
She had two options: expose him or live with the guilt of his crimes. The blood of any new deaths would be on her hands if she did nothing about it, but what could she do? Expose her own father and solve the case? She couldn't betray him, sentence him to a life in prison. Alex knew what awaited a policeman behind bars, locked up with the very people he helped put there. She wouldn’t do that to him. But to have killed to many? The force driving Nick must be more than a warped sense of self righteousness, it was an obsession. He couldn’t stop even if he wanted to, his vengeance had consumed him like an addiction, the charade of investigating his own crimes part of the thrill. Alex felt sick thinking about him, but there was another name on the screen that tore the last ounce of trust from her. Charlie had known what her father had done, what he was, and had helped cover it up. Why? For her? Was he trying to protect Nick for her sake, to spare her from the shame, the anguish?
Alex’s thoughts were interrupted by gunfire. Short burst shots streamed down the corridor like fireworks, lighting up in blurs along the translucent glass. An explosion shook the office, sending papers scattering everywhere and stationary flying across the floor. Alex rushed over to the door, pushing her weight against it, but it did not budge. She was trapped. Outside, the sounds of people shouting or running along the metal walkways were all Alex could hear. That was until a high pitch scream made her stop. Blood curdling, a woman’s voice contorted in agony, writhing in pain before suddenly, she went silent.
Alex hit the glass door as hard as she could, shouting for someone to let her out, but the glass just creaked, mocking her attempt to escape. Crumpling to the ground, Alex leant back against the door. It was pointless.
Minutes passed, how many she could not tell, as thoughts of how blind she had been engulfed her. It felt like a nightmare, that any second she would wake from it, but there was no escaping reality. Everything she held true was a lie.
The door opened with a click. Alex looked up to see Charlie, his jacket torn and blood splattered down his sleeve. Grabbing her arms firmly, he hoisted Alex up.
“How could you not tell me?” Alex said, punching out at him.
Charlie held her at arms length, his gaze turning from the computer screen to her’s. Some deep sadness filled his dark blue eyes, his lips resisting the emotion he was processing.
“Alex. I'm sorry, I did what I thought was best... Look, there isn't time. We need to move before they get here, the building is being evacuated,” Charlie said.
Grabbing Alex by the hand, Charlie dragged her out the room and bolted along the corridor. She stumbled, struggling to keep up with him, but Charlie didn’t slow. Around them, the office that had once seemed so controlled and measured was now in disarray, flames licking at the walls, the large glass partitions cracked into spider web patterns around gun shot holes. At the end of the corridor, Charlie stopped suddenly. A woman lay on the ground in front of them, her once pristine grey business suit burnt away, her flesh peeled and raw across the right side of her body.
“It’s all my fault,” Charlie said, tears falling down his blackened cheek as he squeezed Alex’s hand tightly. “I did this.”
“What do you mean? Charlie, what’s going on? You aren’t responsible for this, how could you be?”
Another explosion stirred him from his torment and, wiping his tears away with his sleeve, Charlie continued on. More bodies lay inanimate along the corridor, some riddled with bullets, the horrific injuries of explosions marking others. How could this happen, in Whitehall of all places?
The corridor opened to a large square staircase that went deep into the building. The lights throughout the building had failed, the moonlight cascading through the skylight their only guide. A doorway to the side of the stairwell was flanked by men in military uniforms. A mix of what looked like lab workers and men and women in business suits were hurrying past them to safety.
With Charlie taking the lead, they ran the perimeter of the room and were about three meters from the door when a flash of a bullet froze them in place. It had been fired from the floor above, hitting the first soldier stood by the door, blood erupting from his chest. The soldier beside him raised his weapon, ready to return fire, but he wasn’t quick enough. A bullet ripped through his head, splattering the wall with blood, before his body slid to the floor devoid of any life.
Charlie reacted as if making a last minute run in a rugby match, more out of instinct than thought or decision. He shouldered Alex towards the lower flight of stairs and, hitting them hard, the pair tumbled down them. They finally came to a stop on the landing below, Alex's face hitting the metal floor hard.
“Are you ok?” Charlie said, bullets peppering the top of the stairs.
A sharp pain stabbed at Alex’s jaw and putting her finger to her tooth, she found it loose.
“I’m fine,” she said, spitting out a mouthful of blood.
From a side door, soldiers poured out onto the walkway, taking what feeble cover they could behind the railing of the stairwell. They fired back, their guns recoiling into the air as pulses of blue light flew across the black void of the staircase. Shots hailed down in return for a few minutes before the giant room took on an eerie stillness, smoke from the weapons hanging in the air. Alex hadn’t seen how man
y there had been, but perhaps that was it. Had they won?
The skylight above the staircase exploded, sending glass streaming past like hailstones. Shards of the metal frame crashed against the stairs, a deep clang resonating around them that send vibrations rippling through the floor. Alex looked up in time to see the bodies fall, corpses of soldiers from the roof tumbling past them into the darkness. Alex stood slowly, trying to take in what was happening, moving behind the guards as everyone squinted up toward the night sky. At first it was just one, and then another, huge shadows cast across the stairwell, like looming giants, as figures lined the perimeter of the roof.
“Get back,” Charlie said.
Without warning, the silhouettes jumped down from the roof in unison, free falling to their inevitable deaths. Alex's attention was drawn by one as he fell with ever increasing speed until suddenly, he was slowing. His descent somehow became controlled, without abseil or parachute, coming to a rest on the walkway across from them. He had jumped twenty-five feet with the grace of a dragonfly coming into land, when by all rights, he should have been dead. Soon, he was surrounded by the other people, regular ordinary people. Not all of them made the leap so elegantly, colliding with the railings in a series of thuds, but every single one appeared completely unharmed by the fall.
Before the soldiers could react, a fireball shot towards them. Charlie rugby tackled Alex again, getting her out of the line of fire as it hit. It exploded against the railing, metal and bodies sent flying outwards.
“Stay with me,” Charlie said.
Gripping Alex’s wrist so tight she felt it might bruise, Charlie ran to the adjacent staircase as behind them, the soldiers scrabbled to shoot back. Another fireball hit and with the grind of sheering metal and a wave of heat, the stairway gave way. Bodies tumbled into the void, the distant glow of fire a haunting reminder of a fate Alex had narrowly avoided.
On the adjacent walkway stood a man, a sadistic grin adorning his cadaverous face. He raised his hands and began to chant. At his words, the floor beneath Alex’s feet shook violently, bolts popping from their concrete braces as the staircase jerked forward. Alex collided with the railing, clenching it tightly as the walkway pivoted, the floor becoming vertical. The thin metal bars were the only thing standing between her and a fifteen foot drop to her death.
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