The Devil's Poetry

by Louise Cole

  He crept along the wall and peered into the front of the garden. The girl was clearly injured. Cyrus watched the tall man bundle her into the truck. The guy was a soldier. Cyrus could see it from here. He had never served himself, but he had known lots of soldiers in his time, and they all had that way of surveying the space, that air of assessing, even as they shook your hand, the fastest way to kill you should it be necessary. Nice people. Cyrus was proud to count none of them among his friends.

  More vehicles pulled up with more soldiers. It was time to leave. At least Cyrus could predict where they’d take the girl next.

  ***

  Mr. Portman drove fast, but it didn’t stop him from taking one hand off the wheel to press against my forehead.

  “You’re cold. Here.” He shrugged out of his jacket and passed it to me. “Put that on.” He fiddled unsuccessfully with the heater in the truck before thumping it. “Piece of shit. Don’t worry, we’re nearly there.”

  “Nearly where?”

  “Hospital. You cracked your head pretty badly back there. Then we’ll head to some place safe.”

  I touched the back of my head and found my hair matted with blood. Some of it was warm and wet. The road rushed up at me, wholly black, and for a little while the whole world stayed that way.

  ***

  Cyrus was wheezing when he arrived back at the makeshift camp, but he saw with some satisfaction that Wulf had at least found him troops. He had put out the word that they had found the Reader—no easy thing without mobiles or fixed abodes—and those who were left had swarmed to join them. They would need to find a more remote location where they would not be noticed, but that was no problem. If there was one thing Cadaveri were used to, it was staying on the edges of society. But that was for later.

  “The Reader is injured,” he gasped. “Take as many as you need to the hospital. Do not lose her. She either has the book or she’ll have it again soon. Priority one is to get the book. So we must not lose her.”

  “We should just go in and get her,” insisted Wulf.

  “No!” snarled Cyrus. “If we make a public scene they will hunt us down and there will be no one left to stop the Order. We track the girl to the book. If we can kill her quietly, we will, but don’t invite attention.”

  “How do you know where they have taken her?” asked a newcomer he did not recognize.

  “She’s hurt. They won’t take any chances with her wellbeing.” Cyrus gave a grim smile. “For now.”

  Chapter 6

  I felt so stiff, I could have been run over. Was I run over? Bright lights blinked overhead, and the room tipped gently back and forth. I turned my head, and white-hot blades slashed at my neck and scalp.

  “Try to stay still,” said a soothing voice. “You’re OK, young lady, but you’ve banged yourself up a little.”

  The voice leaned over so I could focus better. A nice face, kind, middle-aged, male. Wrinkles around his eyes. “Do you understand me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know your name?”

  “Callie. Callie McKenna.”

  “Well done, Callie,” he said, like I should win a prize for knowing who I was. “Do you know what school you go to?”

  “Lifley College.”

  “Excellent.” There was the warm burst of praise in his voice again. Top student, remembering where to turn up each day.

  “Do you remember what happened?”

  I had a sudden rush of images: dirty black cloth, a shimmering blade, Mr. Portman lifting a dead body off my legs. None of which would win the doctor’s special prize for clever girls, I suspected. Perhaps concern—and a straitjacket.

  “No,” I mumbled. “I remember doing homework. That’s . . . that’s the last thing.”

  “You went out on your bike, unfortunately, without lights. Lucky for you, the young American chap whose truck you rode into was traveling very slowly and brought you straight here.”

  “Mr. Portman? Is he here?”

  “You remember his name. That’s very good.”

  “I know him from school. Can I go home?”

  “Tell me, Callie, did you hit the truck, or did he hit you? Because if he ran you over, I’ll call the police . . .”

  “No!” I blurted way too fast. “No,” I repeated, catching my breath. “It was my fault. I came out of a lane and went straight into him and fell off.”

  The doctor checked his notes and then took my pulse, a futile gesture since suddenly my pulse was racing, and it had nothing to do with being knocked off my bicycle.

  “I think you’re fine,” he said eventually. “You don’t appear to have a concussion, and you haven’t broken anything. You must rest,” he warned. “Don’t cycle without lights.” He emphasized every word by tapping the point of his pen lightly on the back of my hand, and I wondered briefly whether he would have been so patronizing if I’d told him the truth. Probably.

  “I’d rather you not be alone tonight in case you do show symptoms, but your friend has assured me someone will stay with you.”

  For a dizzying moment, I imagined spending the night with Mr. Portman, a fierce excitement rapidly giving way to acute embarrassment at the prospect.

  “Your friend is waiting to collect you when you’re dressed,” the doctor continued.

  “Mr. Portman?” I asked, trying hard to sound casual.

  “No.” He consulted his notes. “A Ms. Thompson?”

  I stopped myself from blurting “Who?” but only just. “Where’s my dad?” I managed.

  “On a business trip, apparently.” He looked at me keenly for a moment. “If your confusion doesn’t clear in the next hour or so, I want you to come straight back.”

  I summoned a smile. “Oh, I’m fine, really. That’s just normal ditzy forgetfulness, not head-trauma-oh-my-God-she’s-going-to-die amnesia or anything,” I gabbled.

  He raised an eyebrow before striding out, flourishing the curtain behind him.

  I dragged myself upright, swung my legs over the side of the bed, wincing, and stood. I pulled at the waistband of my jeans and saw the top of a large bruise, purple and angry, across my hip. It said something about the insanity of the last few days that I didn’t know whether it was new or from the club.

  I pulled Mr. Portman’s jacket from a hook and clutched it to me.

  “Callie?” called a soft voice through the curtain. “Can I come in?”

  A woman drew back the curtain and sidled around it. She was slightly taller than me, with tousled dark blonde hair and a wide smile. “I’m Ella. Ella Thompson. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Her voice had a more distinct American twang than Mr. Portman’s, light and warm. She held out a cashmere sweater. “I thought you might be cold.”

  I took it gratefully, tugging it gingerly over my sore head.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, as my face emerged from the depths of fabric. “I don’t know who you are.” I smiled uncertainly.

  “I’m a colleague of Jace Portman’s,” she replied. “I’m here to keep you safe. Shall we go?”

  My smile dropped. “Thanks, but I’ll wait for my dad. He’s not really on a business trip, is he?” I thought regretfully of Amber’s phone still tucked in my rucksack at home. I could have called The Woodman. “Could you ring him for me?”

  Ella arched an exquisitely plucked eyebrow. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. We really should get out of here.”

  I took a step back. Still chilly, I pulled Mr. Portman’s jacket over the cashmere. It smelled of him, spice and wood . . . somehow indefinably male. I figured Ella probably was a friend of Jace’s . . . which meant she probably didn’t mean me any harm. Even so, it went against every instinct to drive off into the night with a complete stranger.

  You drove off into the night with Mr. Portman, a voice in my head pointed out. That was different, I countered. He saved me. He’s a teacher.

  “Is Mr. Portman not here?” I asked her. An involuntary flush spread through me when I remembered his eyes, and the eff
ortless way he had thrown the body off me, lifted me in his arms. Oh, yeah. Some teacher.

  I realized too late Ella was watching me carefully with an amused smirk.

  “You like him, huh?” she said.

  “Yes. I mean no. You know, just like . . .” I stopped speaking and took a breath. “He’s a nice man, and he protected me.” I felt like I had suddenly lost control of the conversation. “My point is, I know Mr. Portman. I don’t know you.”

  “No, you don’t.” Ella shrugged a shoulder. “It’s really very simple, sweet pea. You can go home and face murderous demons who’ll slice you up in your bed, or you can come with me and be safe. Well, relatively safe. Jace will be along as soon as he can.”

  “Demons?” I hadn’t thought those creatures were human—but demons?

  “Demons, terrorists, uber-bad guys. Pick your term. It doesn’t change what they are.”

  “What about my dad? Who’ll keep him safe?” I swallowed.

  “Trust me, your father is a whole lot safer when you’re not there.”

  Ice slid through my veins. How much danger was I in that my father was safer without me?

  Ella took out car keys and a mobile and refastened her handbag. “Jace will protect you, Callie,” she said softly. “It’s all he cares about.”

  “But why? Who is he, Ella?”

  “See honey, that’s where it gets complicated.” She took hold of the lapels of Jace’s huge jacket and tugged them gently so it wrapped me better. It was a curiously maternal gesture. “Because the real question is: who are you?”

  ***

  “Bag ’em, and take them out to the truck. Use a different dump site.” Miles dispatched the two members of the clean-up crew, glancing over at Jace, who stood by the newly fixed garden door to Callie’s bedroom. Jace saluted him with the small blue leather book before sliding it into his jeans’ pocket.

  “Where’d you find it?” asked Miles.

  “Her underwear drawer.”

  Miles grinned. “Why do women always hide stuff with their underthings?” He twirled a pair of panties on his finger before Jace slapped his hand down and slammed the drawer.

  “It’s an unconscious expression of power,” said Richie, squatting beside a vacuum cleaner.

  Miles and Jace glanced at him, eyebrows raised. “Come again?”

  “Women know their power over men comes from their sexuality, ergo they unconsciously associate important stuff with their underpants.”

  “Ergo? What college made you a professor, farm boy?” Miles clipped Richie affectionately across the back of the head. He gestured to the cleaner. “You sure you know how to use this?” he asked.

  “It’s just like a regular carpet cleaner, man, except with the best stain buster you can imagine.”

  “It gets out blood? I should get one for all the red wine stains on my carpet before I lose my security deposit for good.”

  Richie grinned. “Well, this baby cost five grand. How much is your security deposit worth?”

  Miles grimaced. “About a tenth of that.”

  “Besides, it wouldn’t do nothing to wine. The solution is magnetized so it pulls all the iron particles into it. That’s where the red staining comes from, see? Suck all the iron out of blood, and it ain’t red no more.”

  “We got this, where?” Jace hovered in the doorway. “By the way, we have about fifteen minutes until closing time at the local pub and her father comes home.”

  “Guy in procurement for the CIA wet team. Ella call the girl’s dad?” Rich flicked a switch, and the little cleaner roared to life. Jace gestured Miles out into the hall.

  “You coming back to the safe house?” Jace asked.

  “Maybe. So what’s she like?”

  “Who?”

  Miles rolled his eyes. “The Reader, of course. She up to it?”

  Jace shrugged. “She’s . . . young.”

  “Young and foxy?”

  Jace curled a lip at him. “Just young.”

  “I thought she was seventeen. That’s not illegal here, man.”

  “Pull your mind out of that particular sewer right now. We’re working here.” Jace started toward the front door.

  “Ah, goddamn it, J. Don’t do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “I know you. That whole ‘women and children’ shit? I was checking you weren’t going to be too protective of our girl, and there you go already, all Mr. Chivalry.” Miles put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Not on this, Jace. This girl isn’t a keeper.”

  “It’s my job to protect her.” Jace pulled the keys from his pocket. “We need to finish up here and leave.”

  “Ah, guys? I think we have a problem,” Richie called.

  Jace and Miles jostled against each other as they pushed back into the bedroom. “What?” snapped Jace.

  Richie gestured helplessly to the rug. “Well, the stain’s gone, but it’s wetter ‘n a fisherman’s boots.”

  “Isn’t this thing meant to suck the water back out?” Jace’s boots squelched as he walked across the rug. “For Christ’s sake, it’s a carpet cleaner. How hard can it be?”

  “It’s symmetrical, right? The rug?” Miles glanced under the bed. “So we lift the bed and spin it. Put the wet section out of sight.”

  Sighing, Jace took one corner of the bed. “OK, we’ll lift, and you move the rug. On three.”

  As they hoisted the bed, Miles caught his eye again. “You know what I’m talking about. If you can’t do this, I’ll be here.”

  Richie dropped the edge of rug he was holding and slumped. “Jeez, y’all. Does this gal not know about bookcases?”

  ***

  Cyrus watched from the shrubbery opposite the hospital. He had positioned sentries all around the building, hiding in crevices, locked doorways, and under the stone arch of the external staircase. He had a line of sight to only two of them, but, between them all, the signal would reach their vehicle—waiting with the engine running in the only exit road—whatever door she emerged from.

  He stepped back into the undergrowth where he was lost in shadow, the sharp twigs of some bush scratching his face. He was gambling that the Order would push to have the girl discharged as quickly as possible and take her back into their custody. But there was no rush. He could wait.

  ***

  Before I could learn more, a nurse interrupted us with a stack of release forms. Ella signed them with a flourish and brandished her car keys.

  “I think we’re good to go,” she said. She tapped her phone as we walked through the emergency department toward the doors. “Jace? We’re leaving now.”

  She paused, pushing the phone harder against her ear. “You’re breaking up a little. Did you say you’re on your way here?”

  As we got to the big sliding doors, Ella dropped her car keys. “Damn it, hold on.” She stepped out and crouched, scooping them up. “We’ll meet you there.” I strode past her as she gave a sudden gasp and grabbed my shin. “Back inside. Move, Callie. Go.”

  She scrambled up and shoved me hard, back into the lobby. “Jace, change of plan. They’re here. We need you. They’re here.”

  Her breathing accelerated, and I noticed beads of sweat break out on her forehead.

  “Ella?” I asked, but she pushed me off.

  She took a shuddering breath and said, “Stay here.” She walked quickly back to the door and glanced around the parking lot. She put the mobile back to her ear. “I don’t know, Jace. For Chrissake, I can’t see them. It feels like a lot. It feels . . .” She took another shuddering breath and grabbed at the door. “It feels . . . we need you.” I caught her as her legs started to give, and I dragged her inside.

  “Are you all right there, love?” A nurse hurried over.

  “She’s fine,” I said quickly. “She hasn’t eaten. I’ll take her to the canteen.”

  I shoved my shoulder under Ella’s arm and lurched to the elevator. She was surprisingly heavy. I muttered urgently to her, “Ella? Come on, don’t fla
ke out on me. Ella.” The elevator pinged, and I gave the nurse a reassuring smile. “She feels much better now, thanks,” I said through the closing doors.

  Ella began to stir a little, propping herself against the center rail. “Where are we going?” she murmured.

  “Away from the front doors. I couldn’t think further ahead than that. Are you all right?”

  “Better.”

  I don’t think she convinced either of us.

  “It’s the white-eyed guys, isn’t it?” I said. “The ones you called demons earlier? They’re outside.”

  “They’re called Cadaveri.”

  “Sounds Italian.”

  She shrugged. “Latin maybe.” The elevator pinged, and the doors slid open.

  “Second floor. Are we getting out?”

  Ella hesitated, glancing around for signs. “Yes. There’s a coffee bar up ahead. We need to stay in a very public place until the guys get here.”

  “The guys?”

  “Jace and Miles. They’ll get us out.” She walked briskly now, her faintness clearly gone.

  My stomach bubbled and my throat dried out to parchment. “Are we going to have to fight? Again?” I whispered as we pushed through swinging doors into a coffee lounge.

  “I don’t know.” Ella threw her handbag onto a chair and walked to the drinks machine, change jiggling in her fist. “Maybe. However, taking you out of here without bodyguards would be suicidal.” She raised her eyebrows quizzically. “Well, maybe homicidal. You’d definitely die, I might survive. Wanna try?” She gave me a tight little smile.

  “No.” I curled into a booth. The only other occupants of the room were a family by the window, talking in hushed tones. They all looked down the whole time, as though the table top were a map of the future.

  I was revising my opinion of Ella, and I’d only known her five minutes. That couldn’t be good. I really wished I’d looked for a pay phone to call my dad. Do places still have pay phones?

  “Are we safe up here? Won’t they follow us?”

  Ella shook her head. “I don’t know. They don’t typically attack in public places. I think they’re probably waiting for us to leave.”