by Alexis Davie
He walked forwards. Maurice, she noticed, was twisting his fingers together, looking unnerved, his beetle eyes darting from her face to her dad’s.
“If you mean the family heirloom you stole, Brinley, then of course it needs to get back into safekeeping. You are fully aware how old and how precious, how delicate it is. Frankly, I’m surprised you would risk taking it.”
“It’s mine.” She had said it before she had even thought it. Her father, who had still been walking slowly across the thick Turkish rug towards her, stopped in his tracks.
“It has been in the family for generations, Brinley. You are hardly of an age or level of discipline that would allow you to take one such—”
Brin could feel Garrick. She could feel him looking for her. His anger. She wasn’t going to be stuck here alone. It was enough.
“My mother’s family. That makes the book mine,” she said. Her fists were clenched, her hands hot for reasons she couldn’t fathom.
Her father was looking at her, shock registering on his face.
“Brin, sweetheart, give it to me?” His voice was soft now. Intentionally so, but it sounded to her as though he was aping some idea of a father that he had never fulfilled.
“I don’t have it,” she said, speaking in a voice even quieter than his had been. Her father’s eyes turned to Maurice, and he spoke in a tone worthy of the snake now.
“You had a job, fool!”
The skinny warlock stepped back. “Half the money,” he said. “For the girl, half the money, and the other half when I bring the book…”
Her father wasn’t looking at her now. He was just staring down Maurice, who was wilting. Even his moustache looked afraid, and the snake had wrapped itself in a second loop around its master’s shoulders, as if to protect him.
“When you get the book,” her father said, “you will get your fee. And nothing until such a moment. Do you understand?”
Maurice tried to back away but met the wall beside the fireplace. He was pressed up against it. His hat fell off, revealing dark and greasy locks beneath. He nodded.
Brinley was sure Garrick would find her, or she would find Garrick, if she ran. This thought floated up, unbidden. She could feel him so strongly she would be able to move towards him. Pinpoint him, maybe. Her hands really were hot. If she ran, where would she go? The door was always locked, the key in her father’s pocket. The window was blocked by the two warlocks…
And then it happened. Another surge of magic Brin had not intended. Her hot hands almost raised themselves, and the stream of light from them sped just past her father’s head, until suddenly, she could see the trees outside clearly. She could feel the wind on her face. Brin laughed. Her father spun around to look at the wall, or lack thereof, and then to his daughter.
“How did you…”
Brin shook her head. She knew she should run, but she was lost in laughter. This time, it hadn’t even been destructive, not in the traditional sense. There had been no explosion. The wall had simply… gone. Where had it gone, she wondered?
Her father was walking towards her. She threw herself sideways and landed on an arm on the rug. Her legs were fine now—a ridiculous healing time, even for an immortal. As she was clambering to her feet and readying to run for the empty space where the wall had been, it occurred to Brin that they were on the second floor. Well, what was that? Broken legs again, at worst? Maybe she would do that flying thing again.
There was a knock on the door.
“Sir, young Xander and Mr Chaffinch are here…”
Everyone looked around, including Brin. This, of course, should have been her moment. But she froze. Maurice grabbed her sleeve and yanked her towards him. His stupid snake hissed.
19
Garrick
Garrick found the book in a few minutes, looking everywhere that was high up. He had tried the tops of all the kitchen cupboards before moving onto the bedroom. The wardrobe, and sure enough, a hefty wrapped-up thing shoved at the back of its top.
The book, even wrapped, was warm to his touch. Brin was right, he thought, to talk about it like it was alive.
Garrick got down off the chair he was standing on and couldn’t help but pull the sheet from the book. Underneath, the leather was worn and soft. There were two strips at the page-edge of the cover meant, he supposed, to tie it with. He laid a hand on its front, palm flat. He could almost hear it talking to him, telling him he was doing the right thing, to take it to Brinley.
The address he had finally managed to extract from Mollie was close to where he had been that morning. Once again, he couldn’t believe how little time had passed. His whole world had changed shape in forty-eight hours. Now, Brinley was at the center of it. And she needed him.
He went through his usual ritual of packing to shift, though this time he also had the book. It was lighter than it looked and seemed to fit strangely well into his little sack of a bag. But then, Brin had said it could cooperate or otherwise. And it wanted, clearly, to get back to its witch. To its family.
It was dark enough that half of the city’s lights were off, and it looked almost peaceful. The night was still, and the moon remained bright. Garrick’s dragon was under his control now, on a day when it had been allowed out so many times. Besides, when something was important enough, Garrick the man and Garrick the dragon found it easier to work together, anyway. And both of them were enjoying swooping south, over the silver eel of the river and onwards, west a little, until they were over the affluent, heavily immortal suburb in which Brinley’s father apparently lived.
His garden, when they found it, was huge and manicured. Garrick wondered how long a gardener spent on the topiary every month to keep it like this. Even a witch or warlock would have to spend time. Nature magic wasn’t easy, not by any means, it was not a thing that wanted to be tamed. But at least there was plenty of space to land, silent and unseen, the moonlight that would have picked him out so easily on an urban street now helping him to blend into the greys and greens of the lawn and its sections of various plant life.
He came down smooth and soft. He shifted quickly, easily, with necessity but not panic, and checked in the bag for the book when he got his clothes out. It was warmer than before. Positively glowing, he thought, with how close they must be to Brin.
Honestly, Garrick felt as though he might be glowing a little, too. He pulled on his trousers and t-shirt and did up his boots, his breathing heavy but measured, his muscles warm and a little sore from the flight. More like he was aware of them. That was all.
It was on his walk to the house, during which he kept to the shadows at the edges of the lawn, that Garrick noticed the view he had into an office. It was all brown leather and red drapery. It looked like the office of a very old-school, human politician, Garrick thought. The huge window was a strange choice in an old pile like this. Then there was a breeze, and a pile of papers flew off the table and onto the floor. Something—a paper weight, maybe?—rolled out of what he had thought was a window.
Garrick laughed. He tried to keep it quiet. That had to have been Brin. And now, it was his way in.
There were trees just outside the office… if the office could be thought of as ‘inside’ at this point. Garrick had no problem climbing up one and taking a step over, grabbing the corner of a remaining wall to pull himself in. He was long-limbed and slim, after all.
The office smelled as musty as the decor suggested it would. Garrick didn’t stick around to investigate the place, though, making instead for the gothic-arched wooden door at the other end of the room. When he tried the brass handle, it didn’t budge.
No matter. His shift had been recent enough, he should able to…
The doorknob melted in Garrick’s hand. He smiled. Sure, he’d done that many times, but it still amused him. Maybe he was a stupid little boy at heart.
He slipped into the corridor, avoiding the pool of quickly hardening metal on the floor, and looked right and left. The decor was Victorian, like the o
ffice, but a little less masculine. On the wall were portraits—every one of them had a bit of Brin in them. Was the house her mother’s, as well as the book?
Speaking of, he again put his hand into his bag to check on the book’s safety. Of course, it was there. He tried to listen, but even with his intensified hearing, he couldn’t quite…
And then there were male voices coming down the corridor, not far away. Heading towards him. And he recognized all three of them from the cafe that morning.
20
Brinley
The basement was cold and damp, even in the summer. It was also silver-lined and part of the old network of vaults in which, traditionally, immortal prisoners were kept. Only a few of the vaults were in use now; those closest to the council meeting rooms and the attendant auditorium and below-ground courthouse.
Silver dulled the powers of all immortals. In here, Brinley was basically fit only to perform at a children’s birthday party. Still, it had taken all four men to get her out the office and down here. And when Xander had commented that she was feisty, he’d suddenly got a bloody nose. And he’d screamed. Maybe her spell had broken it. She could only hope…
To pass the time, Brin was playing chess against herself. The basement was where they kept a lot of their old crap, including boardgames. Brinley was learning that neither Brinley one nor Brinley two were very good at chess. This wasn’t a surprise, she hadn’t played since she was a kid, but there had been so many revelations and new skills revealed in the last few days she’d half thought that ‘amazing at chess’ might just happen, too.
She was, she thought, in checkmate, but she might just be stupid. To be fair, this also meant she had won! Brin threw up her hands and let out a soft whoop. Victory! Then she slumped against the wall. How long had she been in here? Long enough for two probably very truncated games of chess. So… not very long.
The wall behind her was not only damp. It was also slimy. Some kind of sludge-moss hybrid was growing down here. It smelled odd. Brin sighed. They had opened the trapdoor, and her father had ushered her down the ladder. Xander, she was almost sure, had tried to give her a shove, the older men putting themselves in the way on him. She had looked up and seen a glint of something in his piggy little eyes.
She hated to depend on a man for anything, least of all protection, but she could not help herself imagining Garrick getting his hands on Xander and squeezing his fat neck until he…
Obviously, Garrick, as leader of the council of immortals, would not murder anyone. But still, she liked to imagine.
21
Garrick
Ridiculously, hiding behind a drape had worked. Garrick, the ruler of all immortals for a thousand miles in every direction, had hidden behind a curtain. Thank goodness for the awful taste that had led to this decoration.
Now he was stood close to the door. He was tense, ready to move quickly if he saw anyone but listening hard to the conversation in the office.
“It’ll be at the shifter’s house. They’ve been seen together.” This was a voice Garrick didn’t know. It had been silent on the walk to the office, and he hadn’t been able to see them from behind the curtain when they had gone in. He wondered if they had fixed the wall. The voice was reedy, rasping. Not a pleasant voice.
“Could you give us a little more information, for goodness’ sake, Maurice! You already failed once—”
“They’ve been seen together, your daughter and the washed-up dragon… Garrick. He’s on the council. But he’s a drunk, it’ll be no problem for—”
“I’ll send someone,” came Xander’s voice. “I don’t think we can trust Martin’s… Mr Montegue’s little helpers anymore, can we, Dad?”
An uncomfortable throat clear from Mr Chaffinch. These men were disgusting, Garrick thought, playing politics even as they bartered for a woman. He was almost on Xander’s side. At least the porcine little arse was honest. He honestly wanted to possess Brinley and control the human race, so that was no good. But the other two wanted those things to happen, just with bows on. Put a bow on something awful, and it was insult to injury.
“Well, Xander, perhaps we could have our teams work together…”
Teams—washed up warlocks in a boarding house, and what, a bunch of angry posh kids with chips on their shoulders and enough inherited privilege they thought they should rule the world?
“Can your fellows… Can your men guarantee us the book?” There must have been a silent answer to this, a nodded head. “Fine,” came the voice of Brinley’s father, and then sharper, “Remember, you cannot use the thing without my daughter, and I have her. So don’t get any ideas.” His tone sent chills down Garrick’s spine. And then he was furious. Her father was supposed to love her, protect her, and here he was, selling her to the highest bidder. The dragon in him flexed, rolled, bristled.
When were these idiots going to let slip where Brinley was?
“I will be down there myself when you return,” her father continued, his tone measured and threatening. “I don’t expect it will take long to send your… people?”
Xander’s sigh was audible through the door. “No, Mr Montegue. And how about we bring this whole arrangement forward even further? Just… get it done?”
“Fine.” Her father’s reply had been all but instant.
“But I don’t even know if I want her,” Xander complained, and his father shushed him as if he were a child.
“You are fully aware it is not about—”
“Well, I have to give her children, don’t I? She seems to have some attitude issues, if you ask me. Aren’t there other books?”
“Not,” said Xander’s father, sounding as though he was literally gritting his teeth, “like this one. We made this deal for a reason, son, and we will keep this deal. Do you understand?”
There was a grunt. Garrick had gone off Xander again. Rollercoaster, this. Wait, he’d said ‘down’? Her father had said ‘down there’…
Garrick scanned that mental map he had of London. They couldn’t have left her anywhere she could do damage. She could be in silver restraints, maybe, or, yes, the vaults extended over here. Plenty had been in areas that were historically inhabited by immortals. If this was, indeed, a Valentine property, of course they would have their own.
He had to stop himself from running down the corridor. This house would creak, he should take it slow. As he laid one foot carefully in front of the other, he could hear the blood pumping through him, feel his own pulse in his fingers. And in his bag, the book seemed to be humming. It felt like sunlight on his side.
He took what must be a servants’ staircase, slim and winding and getting cooler the further he reached into the below-ground section of the house. He would have to go right to the bottom. The vaults had existed long before any property, and some were as deep as the silver mines that had allowed their existence.
When he was finally spat out, he was in a low-ceilinged room. There were cave-esque openings to the left and right. He tried calling Brinley’s name but did so softly. She probably wouldn’t hear him, and her father would be headed down here soon.
It smelled musty, damp. Garrick coughed. Mr Montegue had not been taking care of his property. What a waste.
Garrick looked left, then right. He was sure the book’s hum had upped its volume, quickened in pace, with right. He started through the door. Why were they always built so low? He had been born around the time these passages had been built. Someone should have noticed how tall immortals were sometimes. Lazy, really, making the tunnels this small.
This tunnel wound around and almost in on itself. It was dark, with sconces in the wall for candles or torches. He supposed at some point the servants had carried them down here, set everything up. But today, he had to rely on his animal vision until he was too twisted up under the house even for that, and then he had to feel along the wall.
Eventually, he saw light. It looked far away, but perhaps it was simply an even smaller opening. No one of 5’11” or more
should get through it, surely. Garrick popped out into the light. It was a storage room. There were boxes, children’s things, old shoes. It looked almost homely. And there was a big set of stairs, a decent door above them…
He glanced at the floor below his feet. A trapdoor.
22
Brinley
Brinley was on her fourth game of chess when she heard the footsteps. Weirdly, they didn’t seem to be coming from the direction of the door, the stairs, but maybe she was disorientated. She tried to put her feelers out, get a sense of who it was up there and how angry they had arrived, but she couldn’t. The silver. She thought she felt a thrum of some kind, like a hot day. Like a happy insect. It could just be her own blood or her own heart.
She wanted to shout, especially when she heard knees to the floor, hands on the wood. But it wouldn’t help anything.
“Brin,” she heard, “are you there?”
“Garrick?” Her heart was in her mouth. She screwed her eyes shut and opened them again. “Garrick, is that you?”
“Of course,” he said. “I wasn’t leaving you!”
She wanted to scream, to be in his arms. She took a deep breath. “It’s a vault, there’s—”
“I know, silver. I thought I could handle it, but being near it is making me feel sick… weak… Has your father had this reinforced?”
Brin shrugged, then realized she was doing so only to herself. She laughed and realized that was also weird. “I don’t know; wouldn’t put it past him.”
“I have the book,” Garrick said into the floor, to her.
Brin thought for a moment. It wouldn’t open for him, but maybe if they were close enough to her? He had to be away from the silver, but not too far…