by Geonn Cannon
He examined her for a long moment. “You have the English?”
“If you’re asking whether I speak the language, the answer is yes,” Beatrice said. “I speak English, among others.”
“There’s nothing for you here, little girl. Turn around and walk away now or else leavin’ will cost you. Ya twig?”
Beatrice said, “I have business inside. There’s someone I need to speak with.”
He smiled to reveal he was missing his front tooth. “We’re the friendly ones. Whyn’t you stay out here ‘n’ see if you can handle us ‘fore you go disturbing anyone inside?”
“I don’t have time for this.” Beatrice reached into the man’s jacket and removed the brass knuckles he had stashed there. When he grabbed her wrist, she spun around and threw her weight against him. He stumbled and she hooked her foot around his leg, then kicked forward. He fell and sprawled on the grass, and Beatrice dropped her knee onto his chest. Now she could see the revolver that had been hidden under his arm and she sneered as she pulled it from the holster. The grip was clammy with sweat, but a disgusting weapon was better than nothing.
By now the other men had risen to defend their comrade. Beatrice punched the man she had pinned and got to her feet as the first attacker reached her. He swung a knife and she used the brass knuckles to knock it out of his hand. She stepped forward and forced him into a violent embrace, but he wasn’t prepared for her to drop her knees and wrap her arms around his waist. She lifted him off the ground and surged forward with him as a battering ram. A bullet from one of his friends sank into his shoulder, and one man inadvertently stabbed him because he had been leading with the blade of his knife.
Beatrice tossed him aside and dropped into a crouch to await the two men left standing. One man landed a punch, something Beatrice found impressive even as his friend took advantage of her distraction to pin her arms behind her. She struggled against him but found he was far too strong for her to break his grip. The puncher stood in front of her, so close she could smell his rotten breath as he grabbed the front of her clothes.
“Huh. She’s a woman, all right. Don’t fight like one, that’s for sure.”
Beatrice let her knees go limp and threw herself toward the ground. The man holding her fell forward and head-butted the man who had been groping her. Both men cried out as one man’s nose was broken by the other’s chin. Beatrice’s arms were freed, so she punched her would-be rapist between the legs. He folded and she stood up, turning to face the man who had been holding her arms. His upper lip and chin were smeared with blood.
Beatrice held out her hand palm-up and magicked one of the fallen guns to her. She wrapped her fingers around the weapon and aimed it at his head.
“If this fight is to continue, I’ll be forced to use every weapon at my disposal. How do you think you would fare in that encounter?”
His answer was to flee. Beatrice waited to make sure he was truly retreating, examined the men she had left bleeding or otherwise indisposed on the yellow grass, and stuck the gun into her belt as she stepped over them.
“Don’t bother getting up, gentlemen. I’ll show myself inside.”
She had only taken two steps into the darkened lobby before she heard a chorus of weapons clicking. She froze where she was on the broken tile and held her hands out to either side. Directly ahead of her was a door that had been nailed and painted shut. The ground floor had four apartments, none of them with doors and all of them too dark to see inside. To her left was a staircase leading up to the first story landing, and it was from these shadows that the voice of Dov originated.
“You have three weapons trained on you right now. You’re good, but I don’t think you’re quite that good.”
“I’ve faced worse odds. Renata Koessel, I presume? The Dove?”
“Dah-v, darling,” the woman said. “A subtle but important difference. It sounds like the bird of peace, but in my father’s tongue it means bear. It is a word whose true danger lurks beneath the surface. Where did you hear my name?”
“From a man in Whitechapel. It didn’t come cheap. I received his name from a soldier who fought in the Great War. I’ve been searching a long time for someone with the intelligence and wisdom to provide the answers I seek.”
There was nothing but silence from above for nearly a full minute. Then at last, following a signal Beatrice didn’t notice, the weapons leveled at her were disarmed.
Dov said, “Come up.”
Beatrice lowered her hands. She crouched slowly, making sure her hands were visible as she removed the gun from her belt by pinching the grip. She put it down on the tile, then placed the brass knuckles next to it.
“I did not require you to disarm yourself.”
“I would never enter your inner sanctum with tools of violence.”
Dov said nothing. Beatrice stepped over the weapons and ascended the stairs. As soon as she reached the landing she was greeted by a strong wave of jasmine undercut by a bitterer, earthier scent she couldn’t identify. There was only one door and it stood open, revealing a lavish office space. Her feet sank into the carpet when she entered and city sounds she hadn’t been aware of hearing through the walls were suddenly muted by the thick curtains.
There was a sitting area in the middle of the room, and Dov sat facing the door in one of the massive wingback chairs. She was younger than Beatrice had expected, only barely in her forties, with dark hair pulled back to frame a strong, square jaw and a slender throat. Her eyebrows were thick and regally arched, leaving her with a haughty and judging expression. She wore a red dressing gown that was open at the throat to reveal the ruffled collar of the blouse underneath.
“Tell me your name.”
“Beatrice Sek.”
Dov said, “Your true name. The name you were born with.”
She hesitated. Names had power, but everything she’d heard of this woman led her to believe it would be safe. “Bao Tai Sek.”
Dov rolled her eyes. “Your true name.”
“That is the only name I know.”
“Hm.” Dov brought her hands up to steeple the fingers. “You’ve obviously gone to a lot of trouble to find me. What do you expect in return?”
Beatrice said, “I’m told you’re a witch.”
Her lips curled ever so slightly. “I won’t cast spells on those who have wronged you. Judging from your display downstairs, you wouldn’t need my help with that, anyway. You’re a powerful creature in your own right.”
“I barely did anything.”
“You took out a group of men who intended to cause you bodily harm without resorting to your magic until the end. A weaker practitioner would have flattened them where they stood. You have discipline. That is important. It’s the main reason I had my security officers hold their fire when you came in.”
Beatrice said, “There was no security downstairs. I heard the weaponry and felt their sights on me, but they didn’t really exist. That was you.”
One eyebrow arched, her green eyes narrowed, and her smile widened. “Once again, you impress me, Miss Sek. I can only imagine what you seek.”
“As you said, I’m adept at magic. I’ve always been able to draw and manifest energy. But last year while I was drawing a large amount of power, something unprecedented happened. I have a large tattoo on my back. While I was conjuring, the ink began to glow. I felt no pain, but the energy burnt through the clothes I was wearing. I was told you’re the most learned practitioner in London. I’ve jumped many hurdles just to attain an audience with you.”
Dov said, “The tattoo’s design... what is it?”
“A tree.”
Beatrice opened the pocket of her coat and withdrew a drawing she’d had made of the tattoo. It had been on her back in her earliest memory, a tree that seemed to grow from her hairline to spread its branches over her shoulders and down her spine. It seemed to grow as she did; the design never faded or stretched as her body changed over the years. Until the incident on Knossos, she’d thoug
ht it was just some peculiar artwork, perhaps a way for her birth parents to eventually identify her, but now she was afraid it had a deeper purpose.
Dov refused to take the drawing. “I need to see it with my own eyes.”
Beatrice scoffed.
“Miss Sek, if I wished to see your naked body, I would not play coy. I would simply ask.” She gestured. “I’m only interested in answering your question to the best of my ability. I cannot do that from a potentially flawed duplication. If you want my expertise...”
“Fine.” Beatrice loosened the tie at her throat and tugged at her collar. She pulled the shirt over her head and bundled the material in front of her chest as she turned around. The chair creaked as Dov stood up and moved closer. Beatrice looked over her shoulder and saw Dov held a ball of light over her cupped hand. When she brought it close to Beatrice’s back, she felt just a hint of warmth from it. Any humor she’d seen in Dov’s expression was now replaced with a stern professional curiosity.
“How many branches? Have you ever counted?”
“Four hundred and twenty-six.”
Dov clicked her tongue against her teeth. “It’s a focus. But I’ve never seen one so intricate. May I touch it?” Beatrice nodded. A moment later she felt a cool finger tracing one of the lines. She tensed to avoid shivering.
“Sorry.”
“It’s all right.”
Dov said, “How old is this?”
“At least thirty years. It was done when I was a child.”
Dov’s finger stopped moving. “When you were a child? Who did it?”
“I don’t know. I don’t have any memories of--”
“Stop.” Dov dropped her finger and stepped back. “I cannot help you.”
Beatrice pulled her shirt up to cover herself as she turned to look at the witch. “What are you talking about?”
Dov crossed the room quickly, her gown parting around her legs like a bird taking flight. She stopped at a bookshelf next to the window and took a moment to run her fingers along the spines before she found what she was looking for. She took it from the shelf and cradled it with one hand as she flipped pages with the other.
“There are only fragments of this story that still exist. When magic was first identified, when the first groups of adepts were found, they had histories and prophecies. One of those prophecies told of four harbingers who would signal the beginning of a great magical age. Each would represent an aspect of being. Earth, wind, water, and fire. When these four elementals are brought together, they would bring about the fifth element: void.”
Beatrice said, “They would destroy the world?”
“That is unclear. All that’s known is that each child would be born into the world with a mark identifying them. A mark like a tattoo in the shape of a tree to signify the earth element.”
Beatrice became cold. “You’re saying I’m one of these elementals?”
“That, I cannot tell you.” She closed the book and held it against her chest. “The prophecy is incomplete and we have only your tattoo as evidence. But you asked for my insight and I have given it to you. There is the matter of the prophecy being Japanese whereas you are Chinese. Maybe it traveled, maybe it was spread throughout that corner of the world, or maybe it’s completely unrelated. I only know one thing for certain, and that is what I felt when I touched your tattoo.” She held up her finger. “You are powerful, Miss Sek. You terrify me.”
“I should go.”
Dov put a hand on Beatrice’s arm. “If you come back, it won’t be necessary to cripple my guards. I would very much appreciate a chance to explore your tattoo in depth.”
There was no doubt now that she was being flirted with. She arched an eyebrow as she finished buttoning her blouse and smoothed down the material. “I thought you said you were terrified of me.”
Dov smiled. “Yes. And that excites me.”
Beatrice didn’t know how to respond to that, so she simply nodded and stepped out of the other woman’s reach. She had much to think about, and Dorothy was most likely wondering where she was.
Chapter Three
Eventually the gloom grew so deep that Dorothy was forced to turn on the lamps just so they could see. Trafalgar excused herself so she could try reaching home before the rain started. Dorothy wished her luck and moved to the library. Her mind was full with Cora’s account of what happened to her last expedition. She had a vague memory of reading an archaeological theory implying the Mediterranean Sea had been dry some millions of years earlier when a tectonic shift caused the Strait of Gibraltar to cut it off from the Atlantic Ocean. Civilizations could have built cities on the salt plains of the newborn desert, and those lost cities could be key to understanding where the Minotaur and its ilk had come from.
She wasn’t aware the storm had finally broken until the room’s temperature dropped low enough for her to want a shawl. She looked up from the book and smiled at the irony of not hearing rain because she was so absorbed with reading about a desert. Now it was all she could hear; pelting on the windows and the roof, a steady and comforting sound that helped fill the empty house. After her grandmother died but before Beatrice moved in, Dorothy had tried to get used to the silence. She’d never succeeded.
Leaving her books open on the table, she went to retrieve a shawl from her bedroom. She was halfway across the landing when the front door opened. She stepped to the banister and looked down, knowing even before she looked who she would see. The clothes threw her at first, but it quickly became apparent that it was indeed Beatrice dressed in a raggedy, neglected outfit. She was soaked to the skin and paused in the foyer to attempt drying off before venturing further.
“Trix,” Dorothy said. “I’ll get you a towel.”
Beatrice glanced up and said nothing. Dorothy went to the linen closet and retrieved a pair of towels, tucking them under her arm before she descended the stairs. She put one down and Beatrice obediently stepped onto it so she would stop dripping on the carpet. Dorothy wrapped the towel around Beatrice’s hair and rubbed it vigorously as Beatrice undid the ties and catches of her clothes.
“Thank you,” Beatrice said.
“Of course. If you were going to be out, you could have used the car.”
“I wasn’t going very far.”
“Regardless...” She stepped back and helped Beatrice out of the sopping-wet clothes. They let them fall onto the towel at Beatrice’s feet rather than transferring the wetness to Dorothy’s outfit. “Come with me. I’ll take you upstairs and find you something dry to wear.”
Beatrice followed Dorothy upstairs without a word. Her silence was alarming. She would have expected a self-deprecating comment, a joke about being in her underwear, anything.
Beatrice’s bedroom was at the far end of the second floor, a cozy space with a slanted roof and a view of the courtyard between her home and the back of the building on the neighboring street. Beatrice went to the closet and removed a boxy pink chemise. She stepped into it and drew the straps up onto her shoulders as Dorothy opened the curtains to let in the meager light allowed by the storm. Beatrice sat on the bed and Dorothy knelt on the carpet in front of her.
“My hypothesis is that whatever you’ve been seeking has either yielded results you didn’t expect, or you have reached a dead end and don’t know where to turn. Whichever it is, I hope you know you can come to me. Whatever you need.”
Beatrice touched Dorothy’s cheek and let her palm linger. “I know.”
Dorothy turned her head and kissed Beatrice’s wrist. “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be here to listen. I love you, Trix.”
“I love you, Dorothy.”
Dorothy put her head down in Beatrice’s lap, and Beatrice loosened the ties of Dorothy’s hair until it was spread across her lap like a spill of crimson ink. Dorothy closed her eyes as she was petted by Beatrice’s long, slender fingers. This dashing and heroic woman came into Dorothy’s life intending to rob her. Instead she had been trapped by an artifact carelessly left out i
n the open. When Dorothy finally came home, she freed Beatrice from her prison. Since then Beatrice had felt indebted to her savior, even though she was responsible for saving Dorothy multiple times as well.
And now Beatrice was sneaking out of the house on secretive missions, dressed in outfits she would have worn as a cat burglar. Whatever her purpose, Dorothy knew she could either handle it on her own or would ask for help as soon as it became necessary. She stroked Beatrice’s thighs, her fingers easing up the lace edge of her chemise. Beatrice lifted up off the mattress and pulled the smooth material up to her waist, accepting Dorothy’s offer without speaking. Dorothy pressed her lips to Beatrice’s thighs as she eased her legs apart. She couldn’t apply her expertise or problem-solving skills to whatever was concerning her dearest friend, but there was a way she could ease the tension in her.
Dorothy flicked her fingertips against her tongue, then rubbed them against Beatrice’s sex. Her index and middle fingers parted Beatrice’s lips, and she used her thumb to massage the sensitive pink skin she had exposed. Lowering her head, she used her tongue and thumb in concert. Beatrice had helped her relax after enough expeditions; it was the least Dorothy could do to repay the favor.
Beatrice kept her hands in Dorothy’s hair and began moving her hips against Dorothy’s mouth. She made quiet noises of pleasure, grunts and gasps that occasionally trailed off into muttered oaths and curses. Dorothy smiled as she used the tip of her tongue to tease. Beatrice was usually so in control of herself that it was fun to take her to the edge and hold her over without letting her fall. She extended her middle finger and pushed it inside, then joined it with a second.
“Oh, Lady Boone...”
A thrill ran through her at the use of her proper title, and she redoubled her efforts. Beatrice twisted strands of Dorothy’s hair in her hands and pulled as she climaxed, arching her back before collapsing onto her pile of blankets and pillows. Dorothy turned her head and brushed her cheek against Beatrice’s thigh, kissed her sex once more, and then pushed herself up. Beatrice twisted on the mattress and watched as Dorothy reached under her dress to remove her undergarments without actually undressing. She let the thin materials fall before she straddled Beatrice’s hips.