by Tim Lebbon
“No,” Vince said, and his thoughts were for all of the Kin. Those he had met, and those he had not—such amazing, beautiful creatures. They were fighting against fate and time, doing their best to weather the dying of their light in dignity and peace.
There was nothing about dignity here.
“Stay close to me,” Fat Frederick said.
They skirted around the island unit and headed across the kitchen. Eight plates, Vince noticed. He’d counted eight big cars in the driveway, including a Bentley and a Maserati. One or more of them was on fire now, and he couldn’t help feeling a grim satisfaction at that.
Yet such people, such monsters, couldn’t be hurt by material damage. If these exclusive diners knew what they were eating—and Vince was certain they did—they were sick to their souls.
As Fat Frederick eased a door open with his foot, a shotgun blasted. He fell back and to the side, dragging Vince with him. The first shot had gone wide, shattering crockery behind them and ricocheting against pots, pans, and the kitchen’s tiled walls.
Through the door Vince saw a flurry of confused movement. A shadowy figure stood close, but beyond, in a wider area lit by a brighter light, Claudette and another woman dashed toward a staircase. Claudette glanced back at the doorway.
The other woman was Mary Rock.
A split-second later a second shot erupted. Fat Frederick grunted, and Vince felt his jacket and left sleeve plucked as if by a curious child. He saw the blood but felt nothing more than pinched skin. He did not look again.
Time for wounds later, he thought, and Fat Frederick fired his gun three times.
Someone dropped beyond the door, and as it drifted shut Vince saw them scrambling away.
“You got them!” he said.
“No, they fell. Backed away.”
Then from beyond the door came a strange, high song. It sounded like a small child singing an unknown nursery rhyme, and the hairs prickled on the back of Vince’s neck. The volume rose and fell, as if the singer was far away and then closer, far away and closer. The song was calm and bewitching, and so out of place following the sudden violence.
Fat Frederick stood slowly, gun aimed at the door, left hand held awkwardly by his side. Vince saw blood dripping from his splayed fingertips. As the gangster walked forward, Vince reached for his shoulder to hold him back. But too late.
The door opened. Beyond, Kris was leaning back against the wall, shotgun dangling from one hand. Thorn stood before him, barely as tall as a toddler yet filling the large lobby with his song.
Vince checked out the hallway. His one visit to the house had also been at night, entering through a back door, and he’d not seen this place. There were several other doors, some open, some closed, and to the left a staircase led upward. There was no sign of anyone else.
“Claudette and Mary Rock have gone for the fairy,” Vince said. Meloy did not reply.
Thorn glanced at them and raised an eyebrow, one corner of his mouth twitching up into what Vince could only describe as a cheeky smile.
Of course it’s cheeky. He’s a pixie.
Kris barely seemed to notice their presence. His mouth hung open, his eyes were hooded, and his head turned slightly, back and forth, his eyes fixed on the singer. Whatever the words and rhythms conveyed, they were meant for Kris alone, though Vince still felt some fallout effects on his own senses.
Fat Frederick stepped forward, crouched, and pressed his gun against Kris’s stomach.
“Meloy!” Vince said. He whispered, loath to disturb the song. “Meloy, no!”
“No need,” Thorn said. The words were spoken very calmly, but the song did not cease. It was as if the air was alive with the glamour, and echoing with its wonder.
Next moment, the house echoed to another gunshot.
Even as he slid down to his right, Kris was still gazing at the pixie’s face with something approaching adoration.
“What the fuck?” Vince said.
“This song’s ended,” Thorn said, and a moment later he was gone. Vince didn’t even see where he went. It was as if he’d blinked too slowly, and when he opened his eyes again everything had changed. Fat Frederick stood over a crying, dying man, and past the staircase another door opened.
28
Angela heard the shooting, but Lilou pressed a hand to her mouth and shook her head. They couldn’t give themselves away. Vince and Meloy were always going to be the bait, and she had to accept that. She had to hope that Meloy really could look after himself.
The door was locked. Mallian was about to smash it down, but Lilou stopped him. Their entry had to be silent, maintaining the surprise. So Angela picked the lock. As the tumblers clicked, she heard what might have been a snort of respect from the huge man.
Inside, they found themselves in a large utility room with laundry goods, a big chest freezer, and a walk-in closet. There was also a low, narrow staircase leading up, dog-legged after just seven steps, and Angela guessed it might once have been a servants’ access to the upper floors.
Ideal for three of them, but not Mallian. He was too big.
“See you in the attic,” he said, and there was a defiant, gleeful look in his eyes.
“Keep hidden,” Lilou murmured as the Nephilim squeezed back through the door to the outside. His scarred, knotted back was plainly visible in the harsh artificial light. Angela had no idea how someone could survive such wounds, but had to remind herself that he wasn’t someone. He was something.
“How can he fly if…”
“Mallian doesn’t fly.” Lilou glared at Angela. Then she whispered something in Jilaria’s ear, turned, and said, “We need to—”
“Where’s Lucy?” Angela asked. She faced Jilaria, not Lilou. Speaking directly to her felt somehow unclean, unallowed. The witch turned to her slowly, sneering.
“She is all that matters.”
“Where?” Angela demanded. Even raising her voice to this woman scared her. She felt like a young kid talking to a stern, unapproachable school principal, but she had to reach past her own discomfort and fear. For her friend.
Jilaria Bran, she realised, was equally unused to dealing with humans. In the witch’s downward glance she saw nervousness… and a giveaway.
“Basement,” Angela said.
“She is all that matters!” Jilaria hissed again.
“You save your friend, and I’ll save mine.”
The witch nodded.
“Angela—” Lilou began, but Angela shrugged a hand from her shoulder and backed away.
“You might be right, but Mary Rock hasn’t been able to kill your fairy, and if she tries again now, with all this going on, she’ll fail again. But if they try to kill Lucy…” Her voice caught in her throat, because such words inspired a terrible image—Lucy tied to a chair, Harry grabbing her hair and tilting her head back, Claudette sawing into her neck.
The gush of blood as her friend died.
Not even knowing why.
“I’m to blame for her being here,” Angela said. “Please help me.” She hadn’t meant to plead, but she felt barely in control of her emotions, an innocent bobbing in violent seas that hid horrors in their depths.
“The plan,” Jilaria said.
“It was hardly a plan at all.” Lilou looked aside, thinking. Then she nodded once. “Mallian will match anything they have waiting in the attic. We could use your help, Jilaria.”
The old woman hissed and shook her head, pacing back and forth. Then she nodded.
“She’s still alive.”
“How do you know?” Angela asked. From nearby, another gunshot made her jump.
“I can hear her heart. Now follow.”
* * *
Fat Frederick walked calmly across the lobby, gun held in front of him, and Vince had to follow. For a second he’d considered taking the shotgun from Kris, but he’d never fired a gun before. He had no idea how to use it, and he had no desire to touch the dying man.
As they skirted around the foot of
the staircase he glanced nervously up. No movement. The windows on either side of the large front doors flickered with reflected firelight coming from outside. Another set of double doors, closed now, must have led to the dining room.
Where are they now, what are they doing? he wondered. It was doubtful that Mary Rock would leave her guests unguarded, but Vince couldn’t really claim to know her. For all he knew, she might have slit their throats at the first signs of trouble.
A door slowly opened.
Lilou stepped out.
Even recognizing her, Fat Frederick was still tensed, gun shaking ever so slightly in his hand. After a moment he slowly lowered the weapon.
“What’s happened?” Angela asked, pushing past the nymph, staring at Vince, then at the downed man. Kris was squirming against the side of the staircase, but his movements were lessening, the pool of blood around him growing.
“We don’t have much time,” Vince said. The exploding Molotov cocktails, the flames, the gunfire—even though the detached house stood in large grounds, such events in a salubrious neighbourhood would attract plenty of attention. The police and fire brigade would be on their way. They might have only minutes.
“Lucy is in the basement.”
“Then let’s go.”
“But the fairy—” Fat Frederick began, before Jilaria Bran cut in.
“You.” She turned on Angela. “You have responsibilities, knowledge. Now that we’re together, you come with us. You’ve been to the attic. You know where She is being held against Her will. Lilou and the others can rescue your friend, but…” She reached out and clasped her fat, pale hand around Angela’s wrist. “You’re coming with me.”
Angela glanced despairingly at Vince.
He smiled and nodded.
“Meloy and I have got Lucy. Right, boss?”
“Damn right,” Fat Frederick said. He was staring at Lilou. He’d gone quiet since shooting Kris, but in a way he seemed more in control, exuding calm.
The nymph smiled and nodded. “I’m with you.”
Vince went to Angela and took her in his arms, squeezing hard and moving her back so that Jilaria had to let go. He pressed his face to hers and whispered in her ear.
“It’s all going to be fine.”
She nodded, her cheek rubbing against his.
“But we don’t have much time,” he added.
“Okay. Yes. Please, Lucy…”
“We’re going now.” He pulled away, nodded at the others, then headed back toward the kitchen. Fat Frederick and Lilou followed. Glancing back he saw Angela and Jilaria starting up the staircase, and he felt a moment of shattering, gut-dropping dread. I might never see her again! But now wasn’t the time to let doubt or fear weaken him. They were in the midst of things, and none of them could hesitate.
Kris was still. Stepping over his sprawled legs, Fat Frederick snatched up the sawed-off shotgun. It was a single pump action, and he pulled his belt out and slid the weapon underneath.
“Hurry,” Vince said. “We haven’t seen Harry yet.”
“Then he’s down there with her,” Meloy said.
No more killing, Vince wanted to say, but no one could guarantee that, and he was nowhere near in charge. His wounds were flaring again, and across his left forearm were blazing pinches where the shotgun pellets had stung.
Fat Frederick still bled. He seemed not to notice.
“Basement this way,” Vince said.
“What about those car owners?” Fat Frederick asked.
“Thorn is entertaining them,” Lilou said. “Hopefully he got to them before they pulled out their phones.”
“One way or another, this place will be crawling with police soon.” Hesitating only slightly, Vince pulled open the narrow door set in the side of the staircase. He was the first inside, heading down toward the basement. The light was on, but the stairwell jigged to the right at the bottom, roughly plastered walls on either side. There was no way of telling who or what awaited them, but he didn’t pause.
Lucy depended on him, and Angela had put her trust in him. He’d already betrayed that trust once too often.
He reached the basement with Fat Frederick and Lilou following close behind. It was a small room, poorly lit, the only contents a floor-to-ceiling wine rack against one wall, and a chair on its side at its center. There were dark, wet patches on the floor around the chair. There was also a doorway in the far wall, door removed and light spilling out. Shadows shifted beyond.
Vince dashed forward, and Fat Frederick was beside him now, wounded arm held across his stomach and gun pointed forward. A thought struck Vince—
I wonder how many people he’s really killed.
—and then they reached the doorway together.
This room was smaller still, and lined with an array of cardboard and wooden boxes, some open and spilling polystyrene packaging. At its center stood Lucy, ankles bound, wrists tied in front of her, gagged and terrified. Harry was behind her. He held her long hair in one hand, and the other nursed a knife against her throat.
His eyes flickered left and right from Vince to Meloy, then back again. They settled on Meloy. He knew where the main threat came from.
“Mary told me to slit her throat,” he said. “Soon as we heard the first shot, the first fire from outside. Sent me down to kill her… but I didn’t.”
“Because you want to live,” Fat Frederick said.
“Partly that. Partly because I just don’t want to kill. Defenseless girl, all tied up. Claudette would have done it, sure. And Daley, he’d have done it with a smile and a hard-on. But not me. I’m not like that.”
“Bullshit,” Vince said. He was looking at Lucy, trying to calm her with a smile, but she was terrified. Traumatised. Her clothing was filthy and fouled, hands pale, wrists bleeding.
“So, what now?” Fat Frederick asked. He edged into the room. Harry stiffened and pressed the knife harder beneath Lucy’s throat, forcing her to stand up straighter on tiptoes.
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t kill her,” Harry said. “Just that I don’t want to.”
“Harry, let her go,” Vince said. “If you do anything, Meloy will shoot you. Hurt her anymore and you die. You’re not in charge here anymore.”
“I’m going out that door,” Harry said, gesturing behind him with a nod of his head. “Neither of you can stop me, and…” He drifted off, eyes going wide as he stared past Vince. Even without looking Vince knew that Lilou must have let her guard down, and memories flashed at him, images of pure beauty and lust untainted by guilt.
“Let her go, Harry,” Lilou said. Her voice was the sweetest song.
Harry took a step back and lowered the knife. He still held Lucy’s hair. She was frozen, eyes turning left and right, breath held, not knowing what was to come.
Fat Frederick moved inside the room and shifted right to get a clear shot.
“You lie,” Lilou said, and now her voice was tinged with anger. “You’re trying to save your own skin. Using her as currency. You’ve killed plenty of times, haven’t you? Just not humans.”
Harry opened his mouth but could not speak. He could not tear his gaze away.
Vince feinted to the left, then darted forward in a crouch in the hope that he could reach Harry before this all went bad. But his efforts were in vain.
Fat Frederick fired.
Harry hit the floor, his brains hit the wall, and Lucy swayed where she stood, eyes wide and a scream struggling to escape her gag. Snot poured from her nose, her whole body shook, and Vince stepped in close just in time to catch her. She leaned into him, then slumped against him, and he closed his arms around her, hating the way she shook and sobbed, hating the way she stank. Hating himself.
With a snick! Fat Frederick appeared beside him and slashed her bindings with a flick-knife. Lucy reared back, holding onto Vince’s collar with her left hand, and punched him in the face.
Meloy sniggered. Vince’s eyes watered with pain.
Then she tugged her gag a
side, leaned into him again.
“Get me away from here,” she demanded.
“You’re safe,” he said. Her shaking continued, betraying the knowledge that he was lying.
“Now that we have her,” Lilou said, “you help us.”
“Of course,” Fat Frederick said. “Yes. Anything.”
Lilou turned without another word, headed back across the basement, and the rest of them followed.
* * *
“What can She do?” Angela asked as they ran upstairs.
“Anything.”
“Anything except free herself?”
Jilaria Bran scowled at her, but said nothing.
Angela led the way, remembering this journey from the last time she’d made it. Then, everything had been different. Vince was still missing, and though she had believed her life upside down, it had merely been slightly askew. Now, she would have done anything to be able to switch back to that moment. She knew things that she could never unknow, had seen things she could not unsee, and she dreaded what might await them all.
Every time she blinked she saw Kris lying dead. Bad as he was, seeing his corpse had still been a shock. Any doubts about Fat Frederick’s allegiances had been blown away. Any thoughts that, perhaps, some of those stories about him were exaggerated, and he was simply a hard-core businessman, were similarly expunged. Such brutality drove home how much peril she and her loved ones were in.
She hoped that Vince had found Lucy. Alive.
They reached a landing, and Angela recognised the narrow staircase that led up toward the attic. She went first.
Three steps up she was stopped by several loud impacts smashing down from above. Cracking, crunching, shattering, they shook the entire house like a series of detonations.
“Mallian is entering,” Jilaria said. “Hurry. I don’t want to miss what happens next.”
The staircase curved around into the attic space, and it was here that they found the Kin leader. He had come through the roof, smashing slates, snapping rafters, and forming a hole through which the night poured. His entrance had broken one of the weak lights, and the other bulb swung on a loose wire, throwing his majestic shadow around the empty space.