by Tim Lebbon
Vince gasped. He eased his foot off the gas, but he was still in complete control of the car. Glaring lights filled it as vehicles passed in the other direction, and for the first time in a while the night no longer seemed filled with dread.
“He’s healing you!” Fat Frederick said, his voice little more than a whisper.
“It’s all fading away,” Vince said. With one hand he touched some of the dressings Dr. Khan had applied, pushing on them and feeling no pain from the wounds beneath.
“Only glamour,” Thorn said. “Distraction. Pain will come again, worse.”
“Well, that’s something to look forward to,” Vince said.
“Thanks would be good,” Thorn muttered.
“Sorry. Thanks.”
“Welcome.”
Vince glanced across at Fat Frederick. The gangster was still staring in the mirror, mouth slack. Vince smiled. Maybe the Kin had more of a sense of humour than he’d given them credit for.
“So what other glamours can you cast?” he asked.
“Plenty. Some light. More dark. You’ll see soon.”
They continued the journey in silence. Vince thought he might have trouble remembering the way to Mary Rock’s house, but that single visit he had paid her months before was imprinted on his mind. He parked the car along the street and switched off the engine. It ticked and cooled. He had to glance around to make sure Thorn was still with them, the pixie had become so quiet.
“I’m afraid,” he said. “Maybe they’ll just shoot me the moment they see me.”
“I doubt that,” Fat Frederick said.
“Why?”
“If I was Mary Rock or Claudette, I’d have some pretty gross tortures waiting for you.”
“Good. Great. Nice to know.” Vince glanced at the car’s digital clock. It was almost 11:00 P.M. Ming had been told to call Mary Rock’s assistant Kris twenty minutes ago and inform him that Fat Frederick was about to deliver Vince to her. From that moment the lie was set, the plan in motion, and now they were governed by time.
“They’d better be ready,” Vince said.
“Mallian is ready.” Thorn’s voice was heavy and full again, and so certain that it invited no doubt.
“You’re sure you can…” Vince began, but when he turned around, Thorn was already gone. One rear door was open a crack. There hadn’t been a sound.
“Oh, I think he can,” Fat Frederick said. “You ready?”
“No.”
“We’ll be fine.” Meloy surprised Vince by tapping his knee. “We’ve got wonders on our side.”
“One of those wonders gored me with a dead thing’s splintered thighbone.”
“Nobody’s perfect.” He reached for the door handle. “Come on.”
They left the car. Vince went first, with Fat Frederick behind him, grasping his arm with one hand and pressing a gun into his back. Vince glanced around, looking for Thorn, but there was no sign at all of the pixie. The Kin’s glamour had settled across his body, shielding the pain and making him feel stronger, more filled with energy, than he had since he’d killed Daley and Celine.
The memory of that time on the abandoned Underground platform was a dull, emotionless dream. He had no regrets, and he found that troubling, but now wasn’t the time to question his feelings.
Mary Rock’s front gates stood open, and there were several vehicles parked in her wide driveway. Each of them was worth six figures. The unassuming house had a few curtained windows lit from within, and five exterior lights at high level.
“She’s got visitors,” Vince muttered.
“Shut it!” Fat Frederick said, shoving him along the graveled driveway. Maybe it was part of the act, maybe not, but it reminded Vince that they were in the enemy’s domain now, and he couldn’t afford to slip up. He began to worry about their plan, his heart started sprinting, and he wanted to turn and flee, regroup to scheme some more.
But it wasn’t only his life on the line.
Somewhere to his right a bush rustled, and he resisted the temptation to turn that way. He didn’t remember Mary Rock having guard dogs. It was probably Thorn.
Fat Frederick squeezed his arm tighter and pressed the gun barrel uncomfortably into his spine. Vince wanted to object, but then he saw movement at the window beside the front door. A curtain twitched aside. A pale face appeared, too far away to make out.
“Forward,” Fat Frederick said. He sounded excited, and Vince’s doubts multiplied even more. Could he really be trusted? Had they thought this through properly? Fat Frederick professed disgust at what Mary Rock was doing, but he also stood to gain quite a lot if he surrendered Vince to her. Mary Rock had excluded him from her true calling, but it was possible that she might consider taking him under her wing. Especially now that he had seen things, met things.
“Meloy, look, you know that—”
The front door opened and Kris appeared in the doorway. At the same time Fat Frederick shoved Vince forward, so hard that he lost his footing and sprawled in the gravel. The impact caused flares of pain in some of his wounds.
“Not here!” Kris said, stepping outside. “Mary’s entertaining! Around to the side entrance.” Just as Kris reached to close the door behind him, Vince saw a shadow flit from the undergrowth and disappear inside. Thorn, quieter and quicker than he’d thought possible. “Hurry!” Kris said. He marched across the front of the house and around the corner, glancing back to ensure they were following. Then the darkness swallowed him.
Fat Frederick scooped Vince off the ground and dropped him on his feet, as easily as a child picking up a kitten, then shoved him in the back with the gun once again.
Already the plan had changed—they were supposed to enter through the front door—and they would be forced to adapt to circumstances.
“Here,” Kris said from somewhere ahead. He opened a side door and a splash of weak light barely touched him, but Vince saw enough to make out the cold smile. “Someone’s very much looking forward to seeing you again. Fucker.”
We should go, abort, get the fuck out of—
As if reading his mind, Meloy nudged the gun into the small of his back, urging him forward.
“Wise of you to give him up, Freddie,” Kris said. “Mary’s very pleased.”
Fat Frederick’s fingers squeezed Vince’s arm so tight that he gasped and bit his lip to prevent himself crying out.
It’s all right, Vince thought. He’s mad at being called Freddie. He’s still here with me, not with them.
Then as Kris gestured for him to climb three stone steps up to the side doorway, and Vince saw who was waiting for them, he knew that everything was not in the slightest bit all right.
In her right hand, Claudette nursed a meat cleaver.
* * *
Angela shouldn’t have been surprised at how easily the Kin melted into the shadows. Lilou stood beside her like a normal woman, but somewhere out of sight to their left was Jilaria Bran, and to their right Mallian’s shadowy bulk was swallowed beneath a tree. The gardens were large, enclosed, and had access lanes between them. At this time of night they were also deserted.
They waited in the lane behind Mary Rock’s house. There was an eight-foot wall bordering the garden, but the dark outline of the large house was clearly visible above it. When the time came they would have to climb the wall. On her own, that would have worried Angela, but in present company she had no concerns.
She watched the house, her gaze drawn to the pitched roof with its several rooflights. Beneath those windows, the fairy was prisoner. Somewhere in there, too, was her friend Lucy. At least, that’s what she hoped.
What if they’ve got her someplace else, she thought, then she shut it down. It didn’t bear thinking about.
Fear constricted her throat, making it hard to swallow. Events felt so out of her control. She and her loved ones were at the mercy of unknown creatures and brutal criminals, and she had already seen too much pain and death. She couldn’t bear the thought of more, perhaps greater
loss.
“Thorn is in.” Coming from their left. Jilaria’s whispered accent was strange, a weird amalgamation of Irish and French but, Angela suspected, not related to those places at all.
“Mhoumar passes over us,” Mallian said.
Angela looked up. The night was overcast, and London’s glow made the clouds a uniform, pale gray. Against that background she caught sight of a fleeting object, like a buzzard flying so low she could almost feel its downdraft. She thought she heard the gentle chink of bottles, but it might have been her imagination.
Mhoumar settled on the roof ridge close to the large chimney, and in stillness she became invisible.
Nobody moved or spoke.
Angela felt a pressure building, the threat of action, and the silence seemed so loaded. She suspected that the three Kin were communicating somehow, though she didn’t know how.
“Thorn has disabled the security,” the witch said.
“Let’s go.” Lilou touched Angela’s shoulder and shoved her forward gently, and together they dashed across the lane to the house’s boundary wall.
Once there,
Angela looked up. She couldn’t even touch the top if she jumped, and the brickwork was smooth, no handholds or footholds, especially in the dark. The whole point of them going in this way was to avoid gates or any easily seen access, so they had to—
“Hurry,” Jilaria Bran said. She was on top of the wall, sitting astride it and leaning down to present a low silhouette. Even as Angela glanced at her, the witch dropped down the other side with little more than a rustle of clothing.
Angela felt herself lifted. The arms that closed around her were surprisingly warm and so, so strong. She smelled Mallian’s breath close behind her, sweet and mysterious, and she had a sudden urge to turn around and stare into his face.
Then she was on top of the wall, holding on as the arm let go.
Mallian pulled himself up and over, so graceful and silent for such a large creature. He had lifted Lilou with his other arm, and she smiled at Angela as she dropped into the garden.
Angela lowered her legs, and then let go.
The garden was heavily planted, and the four of them moved quickly through shrubs and low trees toward the rear of the house. They reached an exposed lawn and Angela paused, but Mallian did not. He strode out, and even in the poor light he would have been obvious to anyone looking from any of the rear windows. Imposing, striking, terrifying, he crossed the lawn in ten long steps.
Downstairs, several windows were lit, and there was movement inside.
No voices called out. No warnings were shouted.
They followed Mallian, and as he reached the house and pressed himself against the wall, his voice rumbled out one single word.
“Mhoumar.”
If anyone heard, they might have mistaken it for an animal calling in the night. From around the front of the large detached building came the faint echo of smashing glass.
Then, smeared across the deep undergrowth and trees bounding the garden, the suggestion of firelight.
“Time to go inside,” Mallian said.
Angela saw his teeth glistening as he grinned.
* * *
“I’m going to make this slow.”
“Yeah, right,” Vince said. “Because a meat cleaver is great for killing someone slowly.”
Fat Frederick still had the gun pressed into his back. The door behind them remained open, and in the small hallway Kris turned on the light, dazzling them.
Vince tensed as his eyes grew accustomed to the bright glare. Claudette still stood several feet away, blade twitching in one hand. She didn’t look very happy. He’d pushed her brother in front of a tube train, so he guessed that was understandable.
So when does this all change? he wondered. They were inside, Meloy had a gun, but still the situation felt uncertain.
“Mary Rock would like to extend her thanks,” Kris said to Fat Frederick. “Unfortunately she can’t be here to greet you in person, as she’s entertaining this evening. It’s not a very convenient time, I’m afraid.” He smiled. It would have sent children and small pets fleeing in terror.
“No worries,” Fat Frederick said. “So long as I get what’s due.”
“Of course,” Kris said. “I’ve been instructed to offer you a sit-down with Mary, and an ongoing involvement in her enterprises.”
“A partnership,” Meloy said.
“It’ll be what Mary wants it to be.”
“What about the woman you’re holding? His girlfriend’s friend?”
Kris shrugged as if Lucy was of no consequence, and Vince had the sudden certainty that she was dead already.
“So what’s on the menu this evening?” Vince asked.
Kris stiffened. Claudette took a step forward, holding the cleaver across her stomach. She was boiling, and he wagered it was only Kris’s presence that kept her restrained.
“Not here, Claudette,” the older man said. “Mary wants it done quietly, and out of sight. Mr. Meloy, if you’d be kind enough to follow my associate downstairs, there’s a room in the basement where—”
From outside came the smashing of glass and a whoomp as splashed fuel ignited. Another smash, another eruption of flame, and Vince knew that it was time. Now was when he’d discover whether Fat Frederick really was on their side, and the side of the Kin, or whether pure greed and power were his true driving forces.
Kris’s eyes went wide at the gun that suddenly appeared over Vince’s shoulder.
Claudette crouched, heaving the cleaver underarm as she did so.
The gun fired, so close to Vince’s ear that it was akin to a punch in the side of his head. He winced and fell, right hand clasping his ear, left held out to break his fall.
The cleaver swished past his elbow and struck Fat Frederick in the stomach. He looked down, apparently uninjured, but momentarily distracted.
Kris stepped backward through a doorway and slammed it shut. Claudette glared at Vince, furious, undecided, then darted through another door, leaving them alone in the hallway.
Fat Frederick shouted something at him, his voice distorted as Vince’s hearing began to return, whining, humming.
“We can’t stay here!” he shouted again. He picked up the cleaver and shoved it against Vince’s chest, then tried the door Kris had backed through. It was locked. The only other door in the small hallway was where Claudette had gone, and Vince got to it first.
Meloy shouted something else behind him, but Vince’s concentration was on what lay ahead. He hefted the cleaver in one hand and turned the door handle with the other.
It opened onto a short corridor. It was empty but for a shoe rack and a few coats hanging on hooks. The door at the far end stood ajar. From beyond came bustling sounds, metallic clanks, and the mouth-watering scents of cooking.
Vince moved. He heard Fat Frederick behind him, and was comforted by his presence. Even so, when he reached the door he paused and pressed himself to the wall, trying to peer through the crack without putting himself in danger.
The kitchen was large and messy with the chaos of cooking. He caught the flicker of white clothing as someone fled from the room, and he was left staring at a bubbling pan on the hob, a large board of chopped vegetables, and a set of square plates laid out on a serving island at the center of the room.
If Claudette was waiting inside the door with a knife—
Fat Frederick pushed past him and kicked the door open. It slammed back into the wall and rebounded, bouncing off Meloy as he stormed into the room, gun held out and aiming left and right. The lighting was bright, glaring. No one sprang from hiding.
Vince didn’t understand. Claudette had been so close to him she could have smelled the stale blood of his wounds, and her vengeance was at hand. Surely she wouldn’t have fled at the first sign of trouble? She’d be waiting, hiding… wouldn’t she? The face of her dead brother would have allowed nothing else.
The plan had been daring from the start. Angela
had wanted to carry out the rescues of both Lucy and the captive fairy with as little violence as possible, and with no one else getting killed. When Fat Frederick approached with Vince, she’d hoped it would lull Mary Rock and her people into a false sense of security. But it was also risky, because no one knew if Claudette or Mary Rock would want to kill Vince on sight.
Angela had gambled that they wouldn’t. She had met the older woman, seen composure and calmness there, as well as a hidden coldness that she hoped would crave more than a simple, quick revenge.
As it was, Mhoumar had launched their distraction right on time, and if the plan was working, Thorn would already have disabled the house’s security systems. Angela and the others would be making their secret, silent way into the house.
“She’s still here somewhere,” Vince warned, but Meloy didn’t seem to hear. His attention had been stolen, and when Vince saw what he saw, he felt his own alertness dissipate, as well.
On a chopping block beside the tall built-in oven was a chunk of meat, steaming and bleeding juices across the worktop. It was resting, waiting to be carved. As Vince realised what it was, the heady scent of cooked meat went from appetizing to sickening.
The skin on the small, limbless torso had been slashed and seasoned so that it crisped in the oven, but the exotic tattoos were still plain to see.
“Oh, Jesus,” Vince said. He felt bile surging in his throat and swallowed it down, its staleness burning his gullet.
“The sick… fucking… bastards!” Fat Frederick said. That was when Vince became certain of the big man’s allegiance. He saw the disgust in his eyes, the disbelief, and the tears that streamed down his cheeks seemingly without him realizing.
“Meloy, we can’t help that one, but we can help the others,” Vince said. “The fairy, and whatever else they might have here. Meloy!”
Fat Frederick’s head snapped around, and it took a second for his expression to settle. It was replaced by a cool, calm rage, and Vince was so glad he wasn’t on the receiving end.
“We can’t let this happen,” Meloy said.