by Laura Powell
Already, she could hear sounds of pursuit. She burst out into the entrance hall, lined by broken busts of inquisitors past, and headed up a sweeping marble staircase. The main door thumped and rattled. More soldiers.
The house to the north side of this one had a roof terrace. If she could get to a top-storey window, she could sky-leap across to it. The terrace would provide a flat landing, while the alley that ran between the buildings would put some distance between her and the militia.
A thunderous crash announced that the front door was open. Looking down the shaft of the stairs, she saw a hand grabbing the banister only two flights below, then slide up towards her, fast.
On the next landing, she swung right into a dark corridor and then into a long gallery cluttered with more filing cabinets and shelving. Pounding feet were not far behind. In her desperation, she tugged at one of the towering stacks to try to block their way. The shelves crashed down behind her, with a flurry of yellowing papers and a satisfyingly solid crack. She pushed the next row down, and the next.
Finally, she reached the window at the north end. The shutters’ heavy iron panels and rusty hinges were a struggle to open, and sickening to touch. But at least there were no bars. Glory picked up a chair and smashed it through the glass. She summoned the knucklebone to her sweaty palm and swung herself up on to the ledge, bent almost double to fit within the opening. Shards of glass were still sticking up round the frame. Her flimsy silver dress offered no protection and soon it and the glass were speckled with blood.
Behind her, men were clambering over the tumbled racks. There was a warning shout, a stutter of gunfire. Too late: Glory had hurled the lodestone with as much force as she could manage over the alley and on to the terrace below. In seconds, she swung after it.
She landed painfully, the impact jarring upwards through her feet, knees, spine. Nonetheless, she dragged herself to her feet and plunged unsteadily on. The next leap took her to a new building, and a slope of uneven clay tiles. It was as well she didn’t delay. A thud and crack behind her alerted her to the fact she’d been followed. There was another sky-leaper, wearing the militia’s red uniform. A big man, he was also swift and sure-footed, and equipped with a headlamp to illuminate his path.
The night-time city gave off a murky glow, but Glory had no idea where she was heading or how far she’d come. Her only option was to keep going, ducking and diving among the chimney pots in an effort to lose whoever was on her tail. Her breath came in harsh gasps; her heart banged painfully against her ribs. It occurred to her that the other sky-leaper probably had a gun. She hoped the need to manage his lodestone meant he would have little chance to fire it.
San Jerico’s dilapidated rooftops were crammed with balconies and sun-terraces, and an attendant obstacle course of deckchairs, barbecues and washing frames. Glory stumbled on in a kind of daze, barely aware of twisted ankles and scraped shins. It was nothing like sky-leaping at Wildings. She’d been frightened then, but Lucas had been there, and even those last panicked leaps had been fuelled with a kind of elation.
Yet despite the clumsy desperation of the chase, with every sky-leap, hunter and hunted were briefly transformed – liberated – by a moment of unearthly grace. Suspended in the air, their straining, sweating bodies became a thing of miracle. To people watching from below, she knew they must seem like angels, dancing through the night.
There was little doubt, though, that the man was gaining on her. Glory was starting to falter, all too aware that with just one misguided throw of the lodestone, one lapse of concentration, and she could fall. She had no idea whether the militia was tracking their progress, but she needed to return to street level. Maybe then she could find some nook or cranny to hide in, or get lost in a crowd.
The air had begun to whir, distantly. She was too distracted to process the sound but it nonetheless filled her with a new kind of dread. Across yet another chasm, yet another wall reared up before her, its parapet dauntingly high. Two storeys down was a wide balcony, its French windows open to the night.
Glory only hesitated for a moment. She flung the lodestone, pushing it with her exhausted mind through the open window and into the room. Swooping after it, she had to bunch her knees to her chest in order to skim over the ledge of the balcony, and then twist sideways to avoid getting trapped in the narrow window frame. She landed in a heap on the floor, her right hand once more locked in contact with the lodestone. Looking up, she saw a huddle of shocked people, wine glasses in hands.
Before they could react, she got to her feet and ran on. A thump, accompanied by the sound of breaking glass, told her that her pursuer had not landed as neatly as she had. A woman began to scream. Glory flung herself into a hall, where a little girl in her pyjamas stood staring at her. ‘Outta my hexing way,’ she shouted hoarsely. Skidding down the stairs, she found a corridor ending in a fire escape, but there was a police car in the street below and so she had to go up again, up once more into the night –
The whirring, roaring night –
At first she didn’t understand. Then she felt the wind on her face, whipped up by the helicopter’s blades. A beam of white light swung through the dark, and when it found her, all she could do was twist and flutter, helplessly, like a moth caught in a flame.
Chapter 26
Raffi had got on the phone to his father minutes after he and Lucas arrived at the club, but the police were as much in ignorance about the circumstance of the raid as everyone else. Nobody seemed to know the outcome of the Red Knights’ witch-hunt. All the Carabosse staff had been taken away for questioning. There were many conflicting reports, and increasingly wild rumours. The most persistent ones were that the girl was a foreign witch, an Anglo, and the attack had been on an important dignitary.
In the end, they returned to the penthouse. Without knowing the facts, there was nothing else they could do. Raffi persuaded Lucas to try to get some sleep, after father promised to wake him if he learned anything new. Lucas grudgingly obeyed. He knew he needed to be as strong and alert as possible if he was to be of any use the next day.
He dozed fitfully, his scraps of dreams full of Glory’s escape or capture. Sometimes he was the person chasing her, and she was always twisting just out of reach. In others, he watched, helpless, as she leaped over a dark stream to where Gideon was waiting. He argued with her too, in increasingly tangled crescendos of accusation and appeal.
The morning’s news sustained Lucas’s sense of living in a bad dream. Raffi’s father, Comandante Almagro, was able to confirm that the suspect witch was Gloriana Starling, and that she was now in the hands of the Red Knights. Furthermore, Senator Vargas was about to hold a press conference to announce his withdrawal from the presidential race, following a bane attack on his son.
At eight o’clock, the Almagro family gathered round the television for the announcement. Vargas’s face was ashen and his voice quavered as he began his speech. Raffi translated for Lucas. The Senator had reason to believe the attack on his son was a warning shot, and although the perpetrator was in custody, there would be worse to come if he continued his campaign. His loved ones did not deserve to suffer the danger attached to his position. Therefore, to his great sadness and regret, he would no longer seek election as president.
The audience around the TV whistled and clapped. Several jeered. But the Comandante looked troubled. He drew his son aside for a private word. When Raffi returned to Lucas, his face was grave.
‘My papá, he is glad this man, Vargas, is not to be boss of our country. He is glad the whispers he heard are true. But he is unhappy it happened in such a way. To put the bane on a little boy is very bad thing. It makes my papá full of worries. Especially if it is found out that I, his son, knew the witch.’
‘Glory’s as innocent of this as you or I am,’ Lucas said, with a snap of angry impatience. ‘There’s no way in hell she’d hex a child.’
It was just possible that Glory had got mixed up with whatever shadowy forces had gathered
to bring Vargas down. Someone might have taken advantage of her anti-authoritarian, anti-Inquisition beliefs. Someone like . . . Rose Merle? But Lucas couldn’t begin to understand how or why.
‘Either it’s a terrible mistake,’ he continued, ‘or she’s been framed.’
Raffi chewed his lip anxiously. ‘Innocent or no, she will be made an example. The president must be supporting Vargas in this and so will my papá. Many of the people will be very angry at what has happened. It will be a big trial, most famous.’
‘That’s if Glory even gets as far as a courtroom,’ said Lucas. ‘I’ve told you what Gideon’s like. He’s a maniac. I can’t leave her with him and his gang.’ He looked at Raffi hopefully. ‘Unless . . . perhaps your dad . . .?’
‘No,’ said Raffi, reluctantly but firmly. ‘My papá cannot use his police against the militia, not for this. It would make civil war – revolución.’
Lucas had feared as much. ‘OK. But what about your dad’s informants? Is there any way of finding out where Glory is being held?’
Here Raffi was able to help. The Red Knights had a shiny new office in the centre of San Jerico, which they liked to show off to their clients, but Glory had been taken to a hacienda out in the countryside, just over an hour’s drive to the north of the city.
‘But Lucas,’ Raffi finished, ‘you cannot go Smash! Bang! into there. You are a kid, OK? Civilian. Not special super army guy.’
Lucas took a deep breath. It was time to name-drop WICA.
At first, Raffi simply burst out laughing. Then he was stupefied into silence. Finally, he started asking questions. It took all Lucas’s patience to answer them. But he knew he had to convince Raffi of his credentials. In fact, he managed to give the impression that he broke into military fortresses on a regular basis. After all, he still needed Raffi’s help. He couldn’t get out to the hacienda on his own.
He needn’t have worried.
‘You are one crazy bastardo!’ Raffi proclaimed admiringly, slapping him on the back, and immediately offering to be the getaway driver. Lucas had to work hard to convince him not to accompany him into the Red Knights’ lair.
‘It’ll be easier for one person to sneak in than two. And it’s what I’ve been trained for.’
‘OK, so what about your secret spy amigos? Can they not help?’
Lucas had already decided against telling WICA what had happened. If there were other British operatives stationed in San Jerico, he was worried they would hinder rather than help him, or at the least cause a dangerous delay. The post-Wildings debrief had made it clear how low a priority Glory was for the authorities back home. As for the Wednesday Coven’s contacts . . . well, even Troy didn’t trust them.
‘All you need to do is drive me there,’ he told Raffi, with much more confidence than he felt. ‘Give me an hour to get Glory out, and if there’s no sign of us after that, then you can start making emergency calls.’
Chapter 27
Glory was unconscious for the duration of the flight in the helicopter. The last thing she remembered was an acrid-smelling cloth being held to her face, and the world collapsing into darkness. When she woke up, she was lying on a bed in a strange room, and Rose Merle was watching her.
She had no idea where she’d been taken, what time or even what day it was. The window was tightly shuttered and the room was lit by a single bulb. It was small and bare but didn’t feel like a prison. There were blue patterned tiles on the floor, and an old-fashioned china washbasin in the corner. No noise could be heard from outside.
Her arms were oddly heavy, and she realised she’d been bridled. The iron cuffs came almost up to her elbows. Groggily, she sat up and turned to where Rose was primly perched on a chair.
‘Oh, Glory,’ she said, and her mouth quivered. ‘How could you?’
Glory scrubbed her eyes with her hands, tried to collect her scattered thoughts. Her body ached all over.
‘I saved Esteban.’ Her tongue stumbled over the words. ‘Saved him. If – if it weren’t for me –’
Rose shook her head sorrowfully. ‘That’s how we knew it was you who hexed him in the first place. It was a black bane, Glory. Only the witch who cast it could undo it. After you left the mansion, the fae-healer confirmed it. And then the Senator was sent this.’
She passed her a photocopied piece of paper. Spanish text, with the English translation written below: This time was a warning. Next time, we will not be so merciful. We are everywhere, and we are watching. Withdraw your campaign.
‘You’ve got what you wanted,’ Rose said. ‘An hour ago, Senator Vargas told the nation he was pulling out from the presidential race. Whoever you’re working for must be celebrating.’
Glory didn’t respond. Instead, she heaved herself out of bed and went to the basin. She splashed cold water on her face. The iron chafed her arms. Her bruises throbbed and cuts stung. She was glad of it. The pain focused her.
She was thinking hard about the lifting of Esteban’s bane; how sure she was that she’d failed, and how relieved she’d been when she had felt the malign fae leave his mind and body. But it wasn’t her that saved him. In that respect, Rose was right: it had been a black bane. The witch who’d hexed him was the witch who had cured him.
‘I feel such a fool for trusting you,’ Rose went on, twisting her hands. ‘It’s my fault you wormed your way into Vargas’s home. I can’t forgive myself.’
Glory gave a cracked little laugh. ‘You’ve got front, I’ll say that for you. You must’ve done the set-up for Esteban’s bane while we was both in the Senator’s house.’ She eased herself back on the bed. ‘Which conveniently placed me – an unbridled witch – at the scene of the crime. Of course, you’d know how to get round the basic security systems, thanks to your day job in the militia . . . but that still leaves the question of how you hexed a bane through a bridle, without setting off no bells. How d’you manage it, I wonder?’
Even as she spoke, she thought of Cambion. Cambion – and Endor. They were most likely one and the same. First they recruited witches to the cause, then they removed their allergy to iron. She couldn’t imagine how they did it but the result was clear. Rose was an unidentifiable, untraceable weapon.
Rose had listened to her speech with a sad gentle smile. ‘I really wish you’d cooperate.’ She gestured to their surroundings. ‘This isn’t so bad, you know. Other people wanted to put you somewhere much less comfortable. That’s why it’s important that you tell me the details of how you committed the crime, as well as who you’re working for. It will make everything easier. I promise.’
Glory snorted. ‘Very easy, I’m sure. Starting with a phone call to me lawyer and a visit from the UK ambassador; finishing with cake and balloons and a first-class ticket back to Blighty.’
‘People who reject human laws don’t deserve human rights.’
‘Nice slogan. You think up Vargas’s catchphrases, as well as torture his kid?’
Rose sucked in her breath. ‘This is what the fae does to people. People like you – it corrupts them. Blackens the soul. I can feel it now, in this room . . . The shadow and stench of it . . .’ She shivered. ‘And I won’t be part of it. I won’t.’
She got to her feet and rapped on the door. It was opened by a soldier with a gun.
When she looked back at Glory, there were tears in her eyes. ‘I’m sorry. I liked you, Glory. I really did. I don’t want you to suffer. But I can see you’re past saving.’
Glory wasn’t fooled by the tears. Only Rose had had the means and opportunity to set her up. There had always been something odd about her, something wrong, right from the start. But Glory had been too soft and stupid to see the danger.
She paced around the little room but got no closer to working out where she was, let alone for how long she’d been unconscious. The shock of the bridling, in combination with the drug used to abduct her, had probably knocked her out for a good while.
Her body had now adjusted to the iron, so she decided to test it by dr
awing on her fae. The only result was a wave of icy nausea, and she nearly blacked out again. It would have been even worse with a head-bridle. How in hell had Rose managed it?
Fight or flee, flee or fight . . . There was nothing to make a weapon from. The chamber pot under the bed was plastic. So was the plate of refried beans and cassava bread that had been left for her on the floor. Even the bedding had some kind of plastic coating. She realised that this, and the absence of her trainers, was to prevent her using shoelaces or sheets to hang herself. A cramp of panic gripped her chest.
As a diversion, she started to inspect her bruises and scrapes, trying to be practical about it. Her dress was torn and bloodstained, and the remains of her make-up was smeared down her face. To use the washing things left out on the basin seemed a kind of defeat – as if Rose was right, and she had something to be grateful for. But she did feel slightly better after cleaning herself and eating some food. She even put on the long grey shirt that was hanging on the door. Much as she hated looking the part of a helpless prisoner, she didn’t want the soldiers eyeing her through the tatters of her dress.
These activities didn’t take long. Afterwards, she sat on the bed and tried to calm the thin continuous trembling that had set up under her skin. The light was controlled from outside and she wished she could turn it off. She would have welcomed darkness, and the illusion of hiding. She closed her eyes instead and gripped the grimy white fuzz that was all that was left of the feather Sheba had given her. It had somehow got caught in her hair.
There is a real world outside this, she told herself, with real people. They will find out what’s happened, and help will arrive. It has to. It must.
But she could be anywhere. She could have been taken out of the country. And who would be looking for her, anyway? The cat-woman? Candice? Lucas . . . who she’d told to stay away from her for ever?