Vigil: Verity Fassbinder Book 1

by Angela Slatter

  Then she regrouped, and tackled me.

  Rolling over, I tried to grab her but my hand was still senseless and I missed her wrist, catching the sharp edge of the blade instead. I let go quick-smart, but not fast enough: it had already done enough damage to slice through the numbness and my palm was slicked with blood. I didn’t have time to contemplate the wound because she drew back and drove the knife into my left shoulder. I managed to get my uninjured hand around her throat, and as she twisted the blade deeper and deeper, I banged her head against the wall with all my not-inconsiderable strength.

  Three blows, and her skull caved in, along with part of the wood panelling. Three blows, and the knife was deep into my flesh. Three blows, and everyone else in the house knew I was here – so how long before the evil cavalry turned up?

  I struggled to sit, and stared at the bleeding mess crumpled beside me. Gingerly, I felt around her squishy hairline looking for hints of horns, at her shoulder blades for stumps of wings, at the lower back for any sign of a tiny tail, to see if she’d somehow hidden what she was, but no glamour faded away as she died; she was just a very fit Normal, which I should have realised, because any Weyrd would’ve used their power against me, not just a stupid Taser, not just a stupid knife.

  I didn’t even know her name. She’d obviously taken up a new job after she’d left Baker’s employ – or maybe she’d already been working for someone else for a while, drawing two pay cheques. Whatever information she’d given me had just been part of a lure, a game.

  I wiped my face clean before tearing off a strip from the bottom of her T-shirt and stuffing it into the hole she’d made in me. I wound another piece around my left hand, hoping that would stop the bleeding long enough for me to do whatever I had to do to finish this. I leaned over and collected my phone. It was not lost on me that I’d once again been punctured.

  I stood up, and nausea and lightheadedness washed over me. I had to lean against the wall until I’d pulled myself together, then I squeezed my injured hand and the pain shooting up my arm shocked me alert. David needed me. This was not the time for a nap. I moved slowly across the tiled floor into the kitchen, one step at a time, pausing to see if anyone was going to come charging in, but there was no one at all. In the pantry the secret entrance was once again unlocked, and I could see the door at the bottom of the stairs was standing ajar, letting a feeble sliver of light spill through.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The rows of wine racks at the unlit end of the basement were still there, though their contents had gone. They gave me some cover as I limped along, trying to ignore my aching hip where the Taser had bruised it. As I got closer to the illuminated area, I noticed the benches around the walls and the steel tables had been cleared away, but the furnace remained in its corner, cold as a witch’s heart. Two narrow beds, an armchair, a few dining chairs and a low parquetry table with a slim laptop lying open on it – was that where the video of the golem had been uploaded? By whom? – had been added to the furnishings.

  Both beds were occupied, as was the armchair.

  David, identifiable by his favourite ‘badger on a bike’ T-shirt, was blindfolded and sitting cross-legged in the middle of one mattress. His bound hands had been roped to the metal frame, one to the top, the other to the bottom. Relief washed through me, making me feel faint – although that could have been the blood loss – and the pressure in my chest released just a little: he was alive, and from there at least, he looked unharmed. On the other bed was a worn-looking young man with middling brown hair, sitting hunched over and miserable. His clothing was filthy and an even filthier bandage had been wrapped around his left forearm. His expression pretty much summed up ‘unhappy with my life choices’. I didn’t know how much longer Donovan Baker would be able to assume human form.

  Huddled beside the furnace was Sally Crown. Her bloodied legs and head were at an angle that looked unnatural to me, and she was completely still, though she might just have been deep in exhausted slumber. I was too far away to tell if she was breathing.

  In the armchair sat Ursa, booted feet hanging over one armrest, jiggling happily as if waiting for the postman to deliver a long-expected parcel. Apparently there was a tunnel out of the Archives after all.

  ‘Sigrid?’ she called. ‘Are you done?’

  Ah. Sigrid. It felt better, knowing the name of someone I’d killed, though I couldn’t quite say why.

  When there was no answer she frowned – and looked up to see me standing at the edge of the wine racks. Her widening eyes told me I wasn’t precisely who she’d been anticipating. I had no choice now, so I stepped from the shadows – there was no cover, no way I could sneak over to free David and check on Sally without her spotting me.

  ‘Sigrid won’t be joining us this evening.’ I saw David jerk at the sound of my voice. His head turned blindly in my general direction.

  The Archivist had obviously been expecting her minion to return in triumph, possibly with my head on a platter. She rose, surprisingly sprightly, but knocked over the silver-tipped walking stick that had been leaning against the side of her chair and it rolled enthusiastically across the floor and hit the toe of my shoe. I stood on it. I knew what it was now.

  Ursa eyed the thing with annoyance and not a little fear; that combined with the shock of seeing me was apparently so unpleasant that she began to lose her form entirely.

  Though I’d encountered a lot of negative reactions, this was new and extreme: it wasn’t just a shifting or a simple shape-changing so much as a peeling; the Archivist’s outer layer came off at her hairline, reminding me of a snake shedding its skin as it started folding back and away. The body grew a little taller and filled out until ‘Ursa’ was no more than a discarded husk to be stepped out of and kicked aside. In her place stood a vaguely familiar, kindly-looking grandfather in crumpled old-man trousers and a long-sleeved polo shirt.

  The Ursa suit emitted the scent I recalled from my second visit to the Archives; what I’d thought had been stress-related was actually slow but inexorable decay. I wondered how long it had been since the real Archivist had been killed and her form stolen? How many records had Vadim Nadasy destroyed while he’d walked around in her shell, how many secrets had he pilfered?

  And why had none of the other Weyrd noticed? Ursa didn’t leave the Archives, I knew that from Ziggy. She wasn’t a social creature, had no assistants, and mostly communicated by memo . . . so her lifestyle meant it was an easy thing for Vadim Nadasy to take over. All he’d have to do was avoid contact . . .

  Ah, but me. He couldn’t resist seeing his opponent, could he?

  ‘What have you done with Sigrid?’ he asked in clipped tones. I didn’t answer, mostly because I didn’t want to say I bashed her head in.

  ‘I know you,’ I said softly, trying to dredge up a memory. It was something to do with Lizzie . . . the football match . . . the old man who’d been watching the game on the day of the brawl. ‘At the sports ground—’

  ‘Dig deeper than that,’ he said, a distinct sneer in his voice. And I could feel there was something else, something profoundly buried, something that still refused to come to the surface. I shook my head and he repeated, ‘What have you done with Sigrid?’

  ‘Sigrid is . . . indisposed,’ I said and saw understanding flooding his face, followed quickly by rage.

  ‘David, are you okay?’ I called before the Q&A went any further.

  ‘All things considered . . . I’m really pleased to see you. And I mean see in the broadest sense of the word.’ Though his reply was pure smartarse I detected a relief matching my own.

  ‘Likewise.’

  ‘Is the girl okay? I heard them bring her in; they’ve been hurting her. She . . . she’s been quiet for a while.’

  ‘Why did you take her?’ I asked the old man. ‘Why couldn’t you just leave her be?’

  ‘Little Sally Crown,’ cooed Vadim Nadasy. ‘Sigrid caught her for me. Silly little Sally should have known better than to betray
my poor Magda – she should have known better than to help you.’

  ‘I was given to understand that you and Magda had had a falling-out.’

  ‘Water under the bridge,’ he said dismissively. ‘We . . . reconnected. We talked about the good old days, about how all our rights and privileges had been given away by those mealy-mouthed Councillors—’

  ‘And that’s when she started her business again?’ I guessed. ‘But not meat this time.’

  ‘Hasn’t been a decent butcher since your idiot father got himself caught.’

  ‘And you brought your grandson on board?’

  He made an impatient noise and I noticed how the boy cringed. Donovan Baker hadn’t moved when I’d come into the light; he’d just cowered on the edge of the bed. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, but everywhere something adhered to him, some skerrick of paper or chewed gum or twigs or dirt. And now I could see that his feet and hands weren’t quite right: it wasn’t just that they were covered in garbage, but that they were partially made of rubbish and filth. Halfway up his neck was a greying carapace of cigarette packets, the discoloured Winnie Blue logo still visible on some of them. Around his right wrist was the remains of a silver bag from a wine box. I could smell him too, his odour a mix of rot and old booze, sweat and piss and contamination, overpowering his grandfather’s discarded shell.

  ‘The boy offered himself,’ Nadasy sneered. There was no pride in his voice, only disdain for the fact that Donovan had allowed himself to be so used. I felt for the boy, that his very human desire for affection had led him to this. ‘My grandson. Nothing of the Weyrd about him but that little pulse, the miniscule thread of blood his mother left him, the faintest hint of what he could have been. Not like you.’ His face stiffened, and it was by that expression of well-bred distaste that I finally knew him.

  ‘You came to my grandparents’ home after Grigor’s arrest,’ I said.

  He grinned, and it was an ugly thing. ‘I offered that grandmother of yours more money than she could have spent in a lifetime. I promised her you’d have the best of everything. She wasn’t interested.’

  ‘No,’ I said, proudly. ‘She would have seen right through you.’

  I hadn’t understood then why Not-Ursa had been questioning me about my childhood. He’d wanted to see if I remembered him. Keeping the mage in my sights, I bent to pick up the walking stick, then gave it a twirl. In my hands it was little more than a club, but if Nadasy got hold of it, this thing that stored his power and magnified it, we’d all be in trouble.

  ‘Stop that!’ he yelled, and it took me a moment to realise he was talking to his grandson. Donovan had been picking at his dressings. It looked like the injuries I’d inflicted on him in the tunnel had got worse. Nadasy returned his regard to me, his face creased with contempt. ‘Thus I am served with such materials. Even you were better – even a shifting peasant’s child had some puissance.’

  ‘You’re really not the cuddly type of granddad are you?’ I sighed. Despite everything the golem had done, I pitied him. ‘Donovan, how are you doing?’

  ‘I . . . I don’t feel so good. I just wanted to be special. I’ve been so ordinary all my life. I thought . . . I thought if I were different . . .’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘You thought someone might care about you,’ I finished, then addressed the old man. ‘You told him he could change.’

  ‘He didn’t take much convincing.’

  The boy started to sob, and his grandfather’s expression hardened.

  ‘Donovan?’ I said, and he lifted his head. ‘Did you kill your father?’

  Vadim Nadasy exploded, ‘You killed him? We need him to find Dusana!’

  ‘It wasn’t me!’ screamed the boy, retreating against the wall. ‘It wasn’t me! It was Aunty Sigrid!’

  ‘Aunty Sigrid? But your father was an only child,’ I said, confused.

  Nadasy looked past me, discomforted, as Donovan blurted, ‘She was his daughter – Granddad’s. She was Mum’s half-sister – but she was useless, like me. Part Normal.’

  ‘Oh my, Mr Nadasy! What a nice view you must have in that glass house.’ The room threatened to spin again and I leaned on the walking stick-cum-wand and tightened my injured fist to make myself focus. Still Nadasy remained silent. ‘Poor old Sigrid. Not favoured, but useful: a whipped dog hoping for approval – hoping to be loved. Did you make her work for Baker in case he let anything slip about your golden child? Did you think she’d tell you?’ I laughed. ‘You should have thought about it from Sigrid’s point of view: if Baker was gone, so were your chances of getting Dusana back, and if Dusana was gone for good, then maybe there might at last be some love for Sigrid.’

  ‘That’s preposterous,’ he snapped, but I could see his colour leeching away.

  ‘Hope is corrosive.’ How right the Councillor been. I was willing to bet that once Nadasy had returned to Brisbane and set his plans in motion, Sigrid, who’d spent so many years toiling on his behalf, had realised Dusana was finally within Daddy’s grasp. That must have tipped her hand: she’d killed Anders Baker, determined that the knowledge of her half-sister’s whereabouts should disappear forever. But I knew where she was . . . not that I had any intention of sharing that. ‘Donovan? How about you untie David for me? Then we can all walk out of here. We’ll get you some help.’

  ‘The boy won’t obey you!’ shouted Nadasy.

  Donovan didn’t move, but his glassy stare started swinging between us.

  ‘Your weakness, Mr Nadasy, is that you can’t see anyone else’s angle. Everyone else is just a pawn to you. You’re as bad as the angels.’

  ‘Ah, my feathered friends—’

  ‘You know about them?’ Now I really was surprised. I’d never dreamed the two cases might be connected.

  ‘Stupid girl! Who do you think told them about the prophecy?’ He laughed, delighted to be able to demonstrate his superiority. ‘Not directly, of course; they don’t like my kind any better than I like yours. But whispers and rumours travel fast, and in time they always find the right ears. You killed my ’serker, so I had to find something else to eradicate the Council, just in case Donovan proved to be less than efficient.’

  ‘Why get rid of them?’ I asked. ‘Because they wouldn’t help you against Baker all those years ago?’

  ‘Ancient history . . . but in some small spiteful way, yes.’ He threw his shoulders back. ‘Once upon a time I was very reasonable about the Normals—’

  ‘Reasonable enough to get one up the duff,’ I interrupted, but he ignored me.

  ‘Back then I had faith in the Council. I believed we could live in harmony beside the primates. But then they grew too big for their boots and we could no longer move about freely, or live as we wished. We were forced to cover what we truly were with glamours, to make ourselves ordinary. I might have still remained tolerant, had one not dared marry my daughter, and when he took her away, I saw I’d been wrong to be so benevolent. We’d lost everything, discarded our great inheritance, out of misguided compassion.’

  ‘Did you feel that way when you fathered Sigrid?’

  He continued to ignore me. ‘And Anders Baker, so smug when he told me what he’d done, so self-satisfied when he taunted me . . . oh, I wanted to take him apart slowly, but I couldn’t risk losing my Dusana forever.’

  ‘You left, though . . .’ I prompted, hoping he’d get lost in his tale. Every extra minute was a minute closer to Bela finding us . . . if only Ziggi could get hold of him. I looked at Donovan, hoping he’d lean across and untie at least one of David’s bonds, but the boy was too sunk in his own misery to move. Over by the furnace I thought I saw Sally’s foot twitch – but it was so brief, so fast. It could have been my imagination because I so badly wanted her to be alive.

  Nadasy obliged, saying, ‘I travelled. I made myself humble, apprenticed myself to whoever would teach me their secrets, their deepest, darkest magics. I sought all possible means to take someone else’s sorcery apart so I would know how to tear the veils th
ey’d wrapped around my daughter.’ He shook his head. ‘So many years . . .’

  I took a couple of steps towards David, but Nadasy raised a finger and waggled uh-uh at me.

  ‘But you came home. You must have found what you needed . . .’

  ‘In part,’ he admitted. ‘I knew how to break the spell that had changed her form, but not where she was, or how she was concealed. And Sigrid failed to discover that.’ He drew himself up. ‘Still, we had other plans, Magda and I: we summoned the ’serker to remove the Council so that we could fill the breach . . . and then you came along and ruined everything. A good battle plan must be fluid and we wanted to deal with you in a special way, so when this idiot grandson presented himself . . .’

  ‘Why not just kill me outright?’

  He looked genuinely surprised. ‘Where’s the suffering in that? Oh my dear, you underestimate how very annoying you’ve been. You’re constantly in the way, digging where you’re not wanted, always at the beck and call of Zvezdomir Tepes, turning over stones and letting the light shine where it shouldn’t.’

  And I recalled the Winemaker’s words: ‘You’ve made some trouble for us!’ At the time I thought she’d meant for her and Sally, but now I realised Magda would never have elevated Sally to her level. Sally was no partner, merely an implement.

  ‘After you murdered my poor wife, I knew I couldn’t do it on my own, but I am nothing if not a strategist. I have always made it my aim to read every great grimoire there was to be found, every record of prophecy and doom I ever came across. And I recalled that of the double-winged, of the river-city when, months and months ago, I caught whispers of the angel and the siren keeping company and realised how that could be used to my advantage. I’d put the tale out so it might be heard by the other angels, the angry ones . . . I let it tempt them here with a promise of breaking the sky. All of that was set in train long ago! Let the angels run home and we’ll see how well the apes will do against the natural selection of the night.’ He glared at me. ‘You were still getting in the way, but at least the boy’s activities kept you out of my hair. And soon the angels will do their work, you’ll be dead and my Magda will be avenged and then—’