by KJ Charles
Pastern turned to hail a cab. Crane batted his arm down. “Unless we need to, I should rather walk.”
“Christ,” Pastern said. “You do know that Lady Bruton’s got your lover right now? You do understand that she wants to hurt him?”
“I do, yes. And I know that if she had me, and Stephen was in my place now, he would come to my aid with all speed, and fling himself at Lady Bruton in a desperate effort to preserve my safety. It wouldn’t be the first time.” He shrugged. “I am not Stephen. We walk.”
“You’re a cold-blooded shit,” Pastern said, with feeling.
“True. And yet, I said she would be dead by suppertime, and I am a man of my word. Why don’t you tell me about your problem?”
Pastern sighed. “Do you know about the artist?”
“Artist?”
“He draws people. And once he’s drawn you, he can kill you. He rips the paper, or the canvas. Where do you think all the dead policemen came from?”
Stephen’s cases. That was part of Lady Bruton’s plan, part of a relentless assault on him—his work, Saint, the ring, Crane himself.
“This artist,” Crane said, casting his mind back. “If I speculated that he’d been spending a lot of time in the Strand recently…”
“Oh yes.” Pastern sounded almost sympathetic. “He’s got you all right. It’s a good likeness. On paper, too. You’d better hope he doesn’t set fire to it.”
Well, that explained how Bruton had got a hold on Stephen. Crane nodded. “I see. And how do you come into this?”
Pastern gave a tiny shrug. “He drew a picture.”
“Can anyone destroy the pictures, or must it be him? If you or I were to rip up the paper…”
“I don’t know,” Pastern said. “If I was sure that only he could do it, I’d have killed him weeks ago.”
“I dare say you would,” Crane remarked, looking at his face, and walked on, thinking hard.
Pastern insisted on coming up with him up to the flat on the Strand.
“No weapons,” he repeated. “If she thinks I let you get something—”
“I’m not seeking a weapon,” Crane told him. “I am aware that you’re all practitioners. What possible chance do we mere mortals have against you?”
Pastern narrowed his eyes. “Then what are we doing here?”
“I’m changing out of this suit. It’s Hawkes and Cheney, it is worth significantly more than you are, and I have no intention of getting blood on it. You may watch if it will alleviate your concerns that I am arming myself to the teeth.”
“I’ll do that.” Pastern propped himself against the doorframe, arms folded, as Crane shed his expensive coat. He gave an appreciative whistle when the trousers came off, which was doubtless meant to be irritating. Crane ignored him, selecting a practical grey tweed with deliberation. It was one of his less favoured suits, so his wardrobe would not be unbalanced by its loss, it was the one he had worn to face Lady Bruton the first time, which might just possibly bring back unpleasant memories for her, and he was fairly sure that there was a clasp knife in its inner pocket. In the smuggling years, he and Merrick had regularly secreted weaponry around themselves, and it had proved a hard habit to break.
They set off again. Pastern pulled out a fob watch to check the time. Crane glanced at it, and then looked back.
“That appears to be my watch, Mr. Pastern.”
“Not any more.” Pastern snapped it shut and slipped it into his pocket.
Crane clicked his fingers. “Hand it over. Now.”
“Let’s be honest, you’re not going to need it much longer. It might as well not go unused.”
“You are going to give that back.”
“I’m really not,” Pastern said. “No, don’t try to hit me, Lord Crane. Think of Mr. Day.”
It was only a watch, albeit a very expensive one. He could afford others. And Pastern was probably right: Crane had severe doubts that he would live till it next needed winding. Nevertheless, the theft grated, and more importantly it put him on the hind foot with the bloody man. That would not do.
“Very well, score your little point, Mr. Pastern,” he said, in his most aristocratic drawl. “For now. Be assured, in due course you will regret this indulgence. In the meantime, do accept my compliments on your fingersmithy. What a very talented petty criminal you are.” He didn’t bother to assess the effect of that, but walked on, glancing up to the sky at a flurry of movement.
“What are you looking at?” Pastern demanded.
“Magpies.”
“Why?”
Crane gave him a scathing look. “Because they’re there. I could hardly see them if they weren’t.”
They were there, too; on railings and window ledges and three on the pavement in front of him. Ten, all told.
Ten for a dance? That was what this business with Pastern was, a merry dance, keeping him moving, and unsettled. Crane knew his casual rudeness was making him far more credible to the windwalker than any attempts to build an alliance would have done. Whether that would be enough to make the man hesitate, and if his hesitation would mean anything at all—well, that was outside Crane’s control.
Or ten for a dearth? Was it a warning? The magpies had been right too often for Crane to disregard the possibility. If he faced a dearth of allies, he and Stephen were probably going to die. Or perhaps it was a dearth of power. Lady Bruton would doubtless have Stephen in iron. Crane had to assume that, had discounted any intervention from his lover in the rapidly assembled web of guesswork and hope that now passed for a plan.
In some ways, it didn’t matter what the magpies meant. As long as they were still flocking to him, he and Stephen might have a chance.
Or perhaps he’d just seen ten magpies. London was infested with the bloody things, after all.
They turned down Bouverie Street, which meant they had to be heading to Temple Lane. Crane had staked everything on that being their destination, and the pure relief as Pastern stopped outside the chapel door was outweighed almost at once by a sudden, overwhelming rush of the terror that Crane had not allowed himself to feel till now. It gripped him now so that he could barely draw breath into his lungs.
Lady Bruton was a powerful and ruthless practitioner. Crane had faced death at her hands just eight months ago, and he did not want to do it again. She had allies, the murderous artist Newhouse at least, and probably more, since Stephen was no easy victim. The artist had a picture of him, and that thought alone was enough to make him taste bile in his throat. And in the likely event that his plan didn’t work, all Crane had was a clasp knife, which might suffice to cut his own throat rather than let the Bruton bitch use him against Stephen.
I’m fucked. We’re going to die. I don’t want to do this. I’m afraid.
“If we could get on,” he told Pastern, who was watching his face. “I do have plans for the afternoon.”
Chapter Twelve
Stephen knelt on the dais at the end of the chapel, hunched over. His face hurt, and his wrists and ankles hurt, and his heart hurt most of all.
He was such a damned fool. He might have saved Rickaby if he’d only acted; even if Rickaby had always been doomed, he would have had a better chance of saving Crane. They had no chance at all now. Why had he gone, why had he walked into this trap…
Lucien, Lucien, what have I done to you?
The iron burned cold on his wrists, shutting down his senses, so that he had nothing but eyes and ears, which he didn’t want to use, because he had no desire to see what was going to happen.
Lady Bruton was marching up and down in front of the dais, with little, irritated steps. “Where the devil is the man?” she snapped. “Why doesn’t he come?”
“He’ll come,” Fairley assured her, as if he knew any more than she did. “We have Day. He’ll want his boy friend back, Pastern said—”
&n
bsp; “Pastern.” Lady Bruton spoke with contempt. “If he doesn’t come back here with Crane, you rip up that picture.” That was to the artist. “Pastern’s picture. You tear it slowly, understand? Make it last. Or pour something on it. Vitriol. I want him to suffer.”
“For God’s sake, Elise,” Fairley said. “Crane will come.”
Lady Bruton made a spitting noise and turned on her heel once more.
She had not been like that before, full of angry tension. She had always reminded Stephen of a woman posing for a portrait, gracefully still in elegant attitudes, allowing her loveliness to be admired.
Nobody would be admiring her these days. Eight months ago, when Stephen had raised a cloud of magpies at Piper to attack their enemies, Lady Bruton had escaped, but not before the birds had done their work.
Her face was a ruined mess of lumpy scar tissue, red and brown, where the birds’ claws had scraped and gouged. It looked as though the wounds had become infected, and healed badly. The side of a nostril was missing, to a magpie’s sharp beak, and one eye was milky-blind. Stephen suspected that her long gloves covered equally damaged hands.
They had not made her a beautiful widow, and she would not forgive them.
Fairley rocked back and forth, heel to toe, glancing at Stephen. “I still think we should kill him now,” he mumbled, and received a withering glare. “Well, we should! If he gets free—”
“He won’t.”
“He did before,” Fairley retorted. “Didn’t he?”
“With the ring. With Crane’s blood. He won’t have either of those this time. Newhouse, what do you do if Crane comes near him?”
“Tear the picture,” Newhouse said, in the singsong voice of a child repeating his lesson. It was not the first time that point had been made. “Tear the picture, kill the lord.” The artist was wandering around the empty chapel, poking at the bare walls. It was a modern, plain construction, unconsecrated or deconsecrated, without pews or statues or any of the trappings of belief. Stephen rarely gave much thought to religion, but he felt vaguely that it was right this was not a place of worship. There was going to be too much pain here for that.
Fairley was still grumbling. “If this had been done properly, we’d have had Crane months ago. If Underhill had controlled himself—if the justiciary had kept their noses out of our business—”
“If you had taken Crane’s case as you were supposed to,” interrupted Lady Bruton venomously. “All of this went wrong when he got involved.” She jerked her head at Stephen.
“I tried!” Fairley insisted, flushing red. “I said I would deal with Crane. I can’t help it if I was overruled.”
“Can’t help it,” mimicked Lady Bruton, unpleasantly. “You’re on the Council. You shouldn’t be overruled. But no, you didn’t have the nerve to insist, so you left us with a justiciar, him, in our midst, and then Peter—” Her voice cracked, and she turned from Fairley to Stephen with a look of loathing.
We killed her husband, we ruined her face, we spoiled her plan that must have been years in the making. Stephen could guess at the details now, as if they mattered. Fairley had been part of the Brutons’ plot to strip the power in Crane’s blood. They had not expected their victim to seek magical help, and Fairley had tried to save the situation by appointing himself to Crane’s case when Stephen had attempted to pass it on. But Stephen had refused to leave the job to a man he regarded as a soft fool, and none of Fairley’s fellow Councillors had taken his side. Stephen’s involvement had saved Crane and led to Sir Peter Bruton’s death, but that had not been enough, and now they were all going to pay for what he had left undone.
If only Crane decided not to come at Lady Bruton’s bidding. Perhaps he wouldn’t be fool enough. Perhaps he was running away now. Lady Bruton would kill Stephen, of course, and it would not be a good death, but there would be nothing Crane could do about that anyway and, Stephen thought, if he only knew the man was safe, he would have something to hold on to in what he knew was coming.
Crane was a practical man. He must realise there was no chance, that this was merely Bruton’s means of revenge on them both, that there was nothing to be gained by dragging it out. That must be what was taking so long, when they had expected Pastern back for the last half hour. Crane wasn’t coming. Stephen held the thought to himself, cherishing it, because he would so much rather his lover abandoned him to die than that he came to share his fate.
There was a knock at the door. Fairley opened it, hand raised to strike with power, and stepped well back with a satisfied grunt.
It was with no surprise at all, but a yawning sense of despair, that Stephen saw Crane stroll in.
Pastern closed the door behind him and indicated him forward. Crane took a few steps, then paused, looking around. His gaze came to rest on Stephen, who stared back helplessly, misery thick in his throat, and Crane gave a little twitch of a smile. “Good afternoon, Stephen.”
Stephen tried to smile back. He wanted to say he was sorry, but Crane would know that anyway.
“Don’t move,” Fairley told Crane, approaching cautiously with another set of iron handcuffs. “Hands behind your back. We’re all practitioners here.”
“I’m not,” Crane said. “But if it gives you pleasure…” He took off his thick overcoat, tossing it to Pastern as though the man were a valet. The windwalker sidestepped and let it fall to the floor. Crane ignored that. He extended his arms behind his back, and Fairley secured the cuffs, then walked round and began to pat him down.
“It’s all right, he didn’t have a—” Pastern began, and stopped as Fairley pulled a clasp knife from Crane’s coat.
“What the devil is this?”
“You shit,” Pastern said to Crane.
“Whoops,” Crane said, with a tight smile, and lurched over with a gasp of pain as Fairley threw out an angry hand. Stephen couldn’t feel the power, not with iron on his wrists, but he could hear Crane’s harsh breathing, struggling for control, and he gritted his teeth and shut his eyes.
Surely to God Crane hadn’t come for him armed with just a clasp knife. Surely.
“And you, you worthless wastrel—” Fairley smacked a hand at Pastern, who tumbled upwards and backwards, out of the way of the attack.
“Don’t blame me,” Pastern snapped, landing gracefully several yards away. “He must have had it on him. He didn’t have a chance to get anything.”
“Do you understand what we can do to you?” Fairley began in that all-too-familiar bullying tone. He did love to show what power he had, ever trying to impose his flabby will on anyone he could make bow. Stephen did not want him to get his hands on Crane’s bloodfire. “You do realise that Newhouse still has that picture of yours?”
“Yes, I know,” Pastern snarled back. “You have Crane now, curse you. Leave me alone.” He took a leap at the wall and scrambled up the smooth plaster to a high little window, where he perched on the ledge, hunched up, scowling.
Crane had straightened, with some care. He was looking at Fairley. “Do I know you?”
“You don’t need to know me.”
“Oh, I recall. You’re the fawning shit I met in April, with the damp handshake. A traitor as well? How charming.”
“Shut up!” Fairley raised his hand again and Lady Bruton said, “Stop.”
Crane looked over at her. His eyebrows shot up as he took in her ruined face, then he said, clearly and deliberately, “Oh, dear. Oh, dear me.”
Lady Bruton stared at him, eyes and mouth narrowing, pulling the tight scars into a net around her face. She lifted her hand, pointing one gloved finger at him. Stephen shut his eyes.
“Before you start hurling magic around,” Crane remarked coldly, “perhaps we should have the discussion for which your lackey brought me here. I do not negotiate more kindly for being in pain.”
“This isn’t a negotiation,” Lady Bruton said, with a near
laugh. “Negotiate? This is all you need to know.” She swung round, to Stephen, flinging out her arm, and agony speared through him.
It lanced through his bones, knocking him sideways. The pain flared down his spine like a hot wire along the nerves, and he jerked violently, feeling the iron sear into his wrists as he thrashed. Another stab of agony hit him, straight through his head, and this time he couldn’t hold back the scream.
Lady Bruton let her hand drop at last. Stephen lay, gasping, as the pain faded, feeling blood in his mouth where he’d bitten his lip. He forced himself back to his knees, with difficulty because his ankles were shackled too. Lady Bruton was taking no chances. When he could control himself sufficiently, he looked up, blinking away tears of pain, and saw Crane standing, watching, silent.
“Any more of your insolence, Lord Crane, and I will hurt him again. Again and again and again, until he can’t bear it any more, and then far more than that.” Lady Bruton’s eyes were fairly blazing now. “Do you understand? You will kneel to me or I will break him in front of your eyes. And don’t imagine you can do anything about it. Show him, Newhouse.”
The painter, over by the wall, waved the pencil sketch that he had gripped ever since Crane’s entry. He held the paper in two hands, with fingers and thumbs, and gave the edge the slightest little rip. Stephen gasped, in instant terror, and Crane’s grey eyes flicked to him, cool and unreadable.
“To summarise,” Crane said. He sounded just slightly bored. “Your drawing will kill me if abused. And you propose to use that threat to make me watch while you torture Stephen, unless I obey you. In what?”
“I want your power,” Lady Bruton said. “I want the Magpie Lord’s strength. What he could do. I want it.”
“We want it,” Fairley said loudly.
Crane gave him a little nod of acknowledgement. “Of course. And for that, you need my cooperation. Stripping me won’t last you long. You need me alive and doing your bidding. Is that correct?”
“And that’s what we’ve got,” Fairley put in. “While we have Day—”
“Well, not quite,” Crane said thoughtfully. “One of my family’s more unattractive qualities—and we have many—is that we’re not very easy to use. It’s in the blood. You may have observed the results of Mr. Pastern’s attempts to wear the ring. We keep what’s ours, and the Magpie Lord’s power is mine.”