by Laura Powell
Rose beckoned over a waitress and got them both a glass of melon juice. ‘Cheers!’ she said, clinking her glass with Glory’s. ‘Isn’t this fun?’
It occurred to Glory that the last time she’d infiltrated a fancy party like this, it had been at Lord Merle’s mansion. ‘Thanks for letting me gatecrash.’
‘Oh, I’m grateful for the company. I’m not on any kind of official duty tonight, but my boyfriend’s working. Really, you’re doing me a favour.’ Rose smiled and took her arm, leading the way to a bench among a stand of trees. ‘You know I think there’s a connection between us,’ she said. ‘I always follow my instincts. They’re never wrong.’
So maybe Rose felt it too – the tug of Starling blood in her veins. And then there was the Morgan red in her hair, the strong line of her jaw. But Glory didn’t feel ready to bring up Uncle Vince. Not directly.
‘Actually, we got connections in more ways than you’d think,’ she said. ‘I even spent a few weeks at your old school – Wildings, that is. My family sent me to keep me outta trouble.’
‘And you escaped and came here? What an exciting life you lead!’ Rose laughed admiringly. ‘It’s funny; I absolutely loathed the place, yet it proved my salvation. Wildings was where I first heard about Cambion.’
‘But you didn’t have the operation out in Switzerland, did you?’
‘I honestly can’t remember. The time immediately before my illness is mostly blank. I remember getting on the plane to go to the clinic with Mummy, but that’s about it.’
‘There was another hospital you stayed in, back in England. The one your mum arranged. Do you remember who checked you out?’
‘I’m afraid I’ve forgotten that too.’ She gave a wide, sweet smile, which Glory wasn’t entirely convinced by. Maybe Rose wasn’t sure how much she could trust Glory. Or maybe she was afraid what might happen if she spoke out.
‘I can understand,’ Glory said cautiously, ‘Cambion don’t want the wrong people taking advantage of their work. But it were a big risk you took, knowing so little about them. You was lucky to get over that brain-fever too. Could be there’s patients that don’t.’
Rose shrugged. ‘No medical procedures are a hundred per cent safe. Of course, if I’d known what the stress of it all would do to Mummy . . .’
Glory decided to take a risk of her own. ‘So what about your dad, then?’ she asked, as offhandedly as she could make it. ‘Your real dad, I mean. What’s the story there?’
‘Oh, God.’ Rose pulled a face. ‘It’s all frightfully murky. He was some kind of two-bit gangster, apparently. Poor Mummy always did have bad taste in men.’
‘You ain’t curious about him?’
‘No. I’m my own person.’ She looked up into the rustling leaves, and frowned. ‘That’s important, isn’t it? To know who you are. To stay . . . real.’
Glory nodded.
‘But how does one know?’ Rose continued, biting her lip. ‘How can one be sure?’
‘Sure of what?’
‘Of who you are. What’s real, what’s – a – lie –’
She stopped speaking and covered her eyes with her hands. Her whole body trembled. Glory waited. Sure enough, the recovery, when it came, was swift. ‘Goodness,’ Rose exclaimed, getting to her feet. ‘I think the speeches are about to start.’ She smoothed out her skirt. ‘Come on, we don’t want to be late.’
A wooden stage had been set in front of the house, and decked with Cordoban flags and banners that read Vargas para el Presidente!. The man himself was small and plump with a sallow, melancholy face and tired eyes. When he took to the stage, they brightened, however, and his voice rang with determination.
Glory was more interested in people-watching than propaganda. She suspected at least two of the foreign guests were inquisitors; in contrast to rest of the gaily dressed crowd, they were in austere dark suits, each with a little crucifix pin on one lapel. One was a handsome Spaniard, the other a stocky, blunt-faced German. Both had a watchful air.
After the speeches were over, and the band had belted out a jazzed-up version of the Cordoban national anthem, Rose was beckoned over by a couple of elderly ladies in pearls. From there, several more guests claimed her attention. Time passed. Glory felt awkward and alone, sipping a sickly fruit punch, her heels sinking clumsily into the lawn. She could smell the roasting meat from the barbecue in her hair.
‘There you are!’ Rose hurried over, flushed and glowing. ‘Sorry to desert you; if you’ve had enough, I can order a car. I just have one little errand to do first.’ She flourished an envelope someone had given her. ‘It means going into the house. Want to come?’
Glory glanced at the militiamen patrolling the grounds. ‘Uh, I don’t think that would be a good idea. The security . . .’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that. You’re with me, remember.’ Rose smiled mischievously. ‘Surely you’re not scared by the thought of a few ex-inquisitors.’
Despite her misgivings, Glory followed the other girl across the lawn and round to the back entrance of the low white mansion. It led straight into a cloakroom. Across one wall, a collection of differently sized iron muzzles hung from hooks.
The traditional witch’s bridles had spiky prongs to place on the tongue, but these were a more user-friendly version. They were made of thin, polished iron bands; the widest circlet was designed to fit around the brow, with another that clipped around the throat. One slender hoop crossed the crown of the head, ear to ear; another went from the back of the neck to the centre of the forehead, dividing on either side of the nose. Glory put a hand out to the metal, already feeling the shiver of anticipatory sickness. The cold of the iron went through to her bones. It would be much worse if she was attempting witchwork; as it was, the contact flooded her with a wave of tiredness.
Rose pulled a commiserating face. ‘Poor you. I remember how horrid the stuff used to make me feel.’ She’d already selected her bridle, and was putting it over her head, briskly clipping the head and throat bands into place.
She opened the door leading to the hallway. At the end of it was an iron-enforced door to the main house, with a security guard stationed to one side. He obviously knew Rose, as he checked her security pass and turned the lock on the bridle with a good-humoured grin. ‘Back in a minute,’ Rose said, swiftly typing a code into the door’s keypad.
Glory sat down to wait on a bench at the end of the hallway furthest from the guard. There was a table with flowers and magazines, like a posh doctor’s waiting room. It was not one minute, but nearly fifteen, before Rose returned. She stood in the hallway, a little flustered, for a strand of hair was tangled in the neck-band’s catch. The guard came to assist.
While his back was turned, the door behind him opened, and a little boy peeped out. ‘Rosa! Quiero venir a la fiesta!’
‘Esteban!’ Rose exclaimed. ‘How did you get here? Niño travieso!’
The boy giggled. He had his father’s big dark eyes, though his were merry, not mournful. The guard swore under his breath and tried to shoo him back through the door, but the child squirmed out of his way.
‘He wants to go to the party, of course. Little monkey – he must have learned the door code.’ Rose said something to the guard, then turned to Glory. ‘I’ll take him back to his room and explain to the nanny.’
The guard checked her bridle was still locked in position before Rose was allowed to take Esteban by the hand. He chattered away to her in Spanish like an old friend. As they went through the door, he waved at Glory. Surprised but charmed, she waved back.
When Rose returned for the second time, she was full of apologies for the delay. ‘I’ve called our driver, so he should be waiting out front.’
‘That Esteban’s a cute kid,’ Glory remarked, as they made their way to the car.
Rose’s face lightened. ‘Isn’t he a darling? So much fun too.’ But afterwards she fell into a distracted silence, which lasted throughout their journey home.
When their driver pulled u
p at the turning to Casa de la Armonia, Rose got out to say goodbye. ‘Maybe,’ she said, biting her lip, ‘I shouldn’t have brought you to the party. Maybe it was a mistake.’
‘We got away with it, didn’t we?’
‘This time.’ Rose’s voice was scratchy and forced. ‘But you mustn’t go again. You could get into trouble.’ A flash of pain crossed her face. She reached out and clenched Glory’s arm, so her nails dug into her flesh. ‘A lot of trouble, do you understand?’
‘Thanks for the tip,’ Glory said tersely. She wasn’t sure she had the energy to keep dealing with Rose’s mood swings, whatever their cause. She walked off without saying goodbye. But later that night, Rose left a message on her phone.
‘I’m sorry if I – well, if I was a bit rude or odd earlier. When we said goodbye, I mean. Maybe I’m not coping with things as well as I should.’ There was a pause. ‘Please, Glory. Don’t give up on me.’
And Glory’s memory lurched back to Serena Merle’s final moments in the attic.
White skin, violet eyes; frenzy and flames.
Chapter 22
The fake passport, debit card and smartphone from Troy took three days to arrive, and were left for Lucas in a locker in Euston station. It appeared Troy wasn’t above making the most of the situation: the photograph of ‘Wayne Bond’ was of an acne-scarred teenager with long greasy hair and a receding chin. The passport came with a set of latex moulds to put on his fingers for the print check, and a pair of fake-iris contact lenses to fool the eye-scan. The final component was a small plastic bag containing a sprinkling of hairs, eyelashes and flakes of skin, to match the features in the photograph. A glamour didn’t physically change a person’s looks, but covered them up with somebody else’s. It was like making a mask, with samples of bodily matter used as the basis of the illusion.
Of course, as soon as people realised Lucas was missing, they would guess where he had gone. If the authorities wanted to monitor his activities, they’d probably be able to track him down without too much difficulty. But he’d deal with that when the time came. For now, his priority was getting out of the country.
Lucas booked a Monday morning flight with ‘Wayne’s’ debit card. Ashton was at work, Philomena was at school, and Marisa was embarking on her daily round of tennis club, lunch, shopping and salon appointments. He had a ready-made elusion to get him to the airport and packed lightly, using a sports bag. There was a letter for his father, similar to the one he’d written before leaving for Wildings, which he intended to send by post. Everything was in place for a speedy getaway. But just as he headed towards the door, it opened, and his father came in.
‘You’re going after her,’ Ashton said flatly.
Lucas knew the game was up. He didn’t even attempt to bluff, just got a better grip on his bag.
‘I have a lead. It’s something I need to follow up. And though I can’t tell you the details, I need you to trust me on this. Just like you trusted me before, when you let me join the secret service.’ He paused. ‘I’m not on my own either. I have help.’
‘I suspect,’ said Ashton with a bitter smile, ‘that is something else I’m better off not knowing about. It seems nothing I do or say has any influence on you.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘For God’s sake!’ Lucas’s voice sharpened with frustration. ‘Duty, loyalty, Doing The Right Thing – isn’t that supposed to be “the Stearne way”? Isn’t that what you’ve always taught me? When I was alone with Gideon and Striker, Glory was the one who found me. And if she hadn’t . . . if I’d been left . . . if . . .’
‘I know,’ his father said quietly. ‘Don’t think I’ll ever forget it.’ He closed his eyes; when he opened them again he looked older, and greyer. ‘I realise you’re trying to do the right thing. That doesn’t alter the fact I think you are acting wrongly. Recklessly.’ Then, when Lucas was getting ready to argue again, he said, ‘But I won’t stand in your way. Is that enough?’
Lucas nodded. He had a choking feeling in his throat. He went to the door, and opened it, and Ashton didn’t try to stop him.
But then his father put out his arms and drew him back, with unexpected strength. ‘I’m proud of you,’ he said. ‘Come back to me. Come back soon.’
Lucas transformed into Wayne in an allotment shed. He began by sketching two portraits: one of himself, and one of the face on the passport photograph – spots, lank hair and all.
Glamours were more effective the closer they were to a person’s real appearance. This meant that altering one’s build was very difficult, disguising age even more so, and changing gender impossible. Whether Wayne Bond was a real person or a computer generated one, Lucas would have to work hard to recreate him convincingly.
With each stroke of the pencil, he felt his fae unfurl on to the paper. He burned the self-portrait on a mirror, watching his reflection dissolve, and mixed the resultant ash into a smatter of the physical ingredients. Spitting on his finger, he worked the mess into a paste. This was smeared on to the drawing of Wayne, which he then folded into a small square. He pressed it between his hands, visualising Wayne’s features, saying his name. The next time he looked into the mirror, a stranger’s face was reflected back.
Yet another alter ego. Perhaps Dr Caron had been on to something, referring to her patients’ Seventh Sense as if it were an actual person. Lucas and Glory had laughed about it together. He’d christened his fae Adam, but she’d come up with something ridiculous for hers. What was it? It troubled him that he couldn’t remember.
To restore his true appearance, he simply had to tear up the amulet. For somebody else to expose him would be more difficult. If they destroyed the amulet, they wouldn’t immediately destroy its illusion, because the witchwork was prolonged by physical contact with the witch who crafted it. The longer Lucas carried the amulet around, the stronger the glamour would be.
Thanks to his WICA training, he already knew how to use the fake finger moulds and contact lenses. They and the black-market passport were as good as anything the secret service could provide; in spite of the lank hair, Lucas knew he had reason to be grateful to Troy. The journey to Cordoba went without a hitch.
He arrived in San Jerico at three o’clock in the morning, in a torrential downpour. The water spilling from the gutters was full of scum; the air stank of fumes and garbage. Blurred by rain, the city appeared a jumble of violently bright lights and colours. Even at this hour, the street parties were in full swing. He managed to find a taxi to take him to one of the budget hotels listed in his guidebook. The room was cramped and dingy, but he was past caring. He rolled into bed, and didn’t wake up until four the next afternoon.
He’d slept for nearly thirteen hours but Wayne’s reflection was still puffy and bleary-eyed. Lucas disliked hiding behind somebody else’s face, yet he had to do so for a little longer. It was his best chance of surveying the set-up at Casa de la Armonia. Troy had heard nothing since a brief email from Glory to say that she’d arrived safely. Lucas needed to bear in mind that he was here for Candice Morgan too. He owed Troy a report on his sister’s welfare. So, after a quick shower, he took a taxi up to the villa.
An overgrown but patchy hedge surrounded the back garden. The afternoon was warm, and there was a skinny young woman with bright pink hair and a bikini to match sunbathing by a pool. Candice, he presumed. Lucas watched from behind the hedge as she was joined by a man in swimming trunks and a Hawaiian shirt. That must be the no-good actor boyfriend he’d researched on the web. A lot of stomach-churning pawing and slobbering ensued.
Most of the windows in the villa had their shutters closed so he wasn’t able to see if Glory was inside. He began to move deeper into the foliage, in the hope of some useful eavesdropping. He might have got away with it, if it weren’t for two yapping dogs who suddenly appeared out of nowhere and hurled themselves noisily into the hedge. Lucas beat a hasty retreat back into the road.
‘It’s a freakin’ per
vert!’ Candy squealed. ‘Spying in the bushes! Watching me sunbathe! Urgh!’
Todd lumbered towards the hedge and shouted, ‘Vaya! Vamos!’
It was time for part two of Lucas’s plan. He gasped excitedly.
‘Todd? Todd Lawson?’
‘What’s it to you?’
‘Everything! Galaxy Combat is my favourite TV show of all time. Well – until you left. I mean, you were the reason everyone watched it, right? And then I come here on holiday, and find out you’re actually living in San Jerico! Unbelievable!’
‘So he’s a pervert and a stalker,’ Candy huffed. Lucas suspected she was peeved she wasn’t the object of his interest after all. ‘Seriously, babe, we should call the police.’
Lucas interjected a note of hurt into his voice. ‘I’m not a stalker; I’m a fan. I only came here to tell you how awesome you are. It’s not just about your acting either. Because I heard you were writing a screenplay and that it’s going to be huge –’
He didn’t need to say anything more. He was immediately invited into the villa and supplied with an autograph. And a photo opportunity. And a very long, very boring monologue about the fascist conspiracy at the centre of the Screenwriters’ Guild.
Lucas smiled and nodded, and did his best to look suitably overawed. Meanwhile, he took the opportunity to check the place out. The house was a mess, but it wasn’t the crack den of Troy’s fears. He was pretty sure Glory wasn’t at home. There was a red cardigan on a chair, though, that he recognised as hers. And a sparkly hairclip lying on the floor. While Todd was mid-anecdote, Lucas scooped up the clip and put it in his pocket.
‘Precious,’ Candice said, reappearing at the door with a pout, ‘I’m gonna have to get ready for work soon. Rona wants me in early tonight.’
‘Are you an actor too?’ Lucas asked.
Todd guffawed. ‘She’s a barmaid.’
‘I’m a celebrity hostess,’ Candice snapped. ‘And me and Glor’s wages are paying for that beer, remember.’
She flounced out. Todd just laughed again. ‘She and her cousin work at the Carabosse,’ he said. ‘It’s a freak show for hag-fanciers. Now, where were we? Oh yeah.’ He repositioned his laptop. ‘Here’s a clip of me two years ago at Comic-Con . . .’