I didn’t say anything. Just stood there feeling numb.
Marcus didn’t look great. I knew that he was more concerned about the loss of the knife than anything else but I was filled with remorse about what had just happened. What I’d done.
People were streaming out of the building now, the sound of an alarm strangely muted in the background.
“Well, we can’t stay here.”
There was a set of stairs which lead up to the gallery’s main entrance. I followed Marcus and we kept on going until we were well away from the building. People were congregating in groups all over Trafalgar Square.
“I need to talk to someone about this,” I said. “I know it’s not the sensible thing to do but I just can’t leave it like this.”
Marcus was struggling to focus on me, his skin looked grey. He looked like he was going to be sick.
“I can’t let you do that. Those people in there were Enchanted and whoever is willing to do that to someone isn’t going to think twice murdering the pair of us. You think that you’d be safe in a police cell? Think again. And now that they have the Seelie Blade there’s no telling what they intend to do with it.”
“But I cast that spell. That man was totally innocent.”
“You did the best you could under the circumstances – we both did. Whoever wanted that knife didn’t care about who got hurt in the process. We’re both lucky to have survived, don’t forget that.”
“But who has that kind of power? To enchant someone like that, and from such a distance.”
“We’re out of our league here, Bronte. We’re talking about some really powerful witchcraft going down. We need to pull-back and re-group. Kinsella needs to hear this directly from you, not watch about it on the evening news.”
He was trying to weaken my resolve but I was having none of it. I’d been reticent to go back to Kinsella when I had the knife. I certainly didn’t want to see him now that I’d lost it.
*
We stood and watched as an ambulance drove across the square, lights flashing. It parked directly outside the gallery. Two paramedics appeared carrying cases of medical equipment which they lugged up the stairs.
Marcus brushed a lock of hair from my face. “You did what you had to do. We both did.”
His hand carried on down and rested on my shoulder. It wasn’t the physical contact that I was uncomfortable with it was the fact that he was being so proprietorial, like he owned me. He was trying to share the blame but he hadn’t been the one to cast the spell.
Hold the hand, employ the mind.
Great advice, if you follow it.
My biggest worry about taking my skills onto the street had been that I’d use them rashly and that someone would end up getting hurt. It looked like my biggest fears had come true.
“C’mon, Bronte, we’ve got to see Kinsella.”
I stepped away from him, relieved to get out from under his hand.
“I’m not going back to the office!”
He glanced around awkwardly, aware that my outburst had drawn attention from some of the people flooding out of the gallery.
“You have to come back with me, now,” he said, but as ultimatums go it lacked a certain something.
He was slurring his words. That chair must have done more harm than I’d thought.
“Who knew we were coming here today?”
Marcus’ face twitched. “Kinsella, obviously.”
“Anyone else?”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I’m saying that we can’t trust anyone in the office.”
“You want to go after these people on your own? After what just happened? Face facts: we’re getting our arses kicked out here.”
When I didn’t respond Marcus took out his phone, selected a number and passed it to me.
“At least speak to him before you do anything stupid.”
“It’s a little late for that. I’d never have used that spell if I’d even suspected that he was Enchanted.”
“Because you can only enchant an Innocent?”
It was exactly what made that particular form of enchantment so cruel.
“To look at him, you’d never have thought he was…”
“A virgin? Why not? What were you expecting – a flaxen haired princess?”
I balled my hands into fists. The whole thing was unravelling in front of our eyes. We’d gone from finding the knife to losing it in a matter of minutes and it was all down to me trying to do things on my own. The truth was difficult to face. If we went back to the office now, Kinsella would have no choice. We’d both be thrown out and that would be the end of everything. I couldn’t face that. At least if I could get the knife back then we’d have some kind of bargaining tool.
And that gave me an idea. I started across the square. I needed a cab.
I was aware of Marcus struggling to catch up. He looked terrible.
“I think you need to see a doctor,” I said.
“I feel fine, there’s nothing wrong with me.”
“He hit you pretty hard with that chair.”
“Lucky I’ve got such a thick skull.”
He looked uncomfortable in his hoodie, like it was suddenly too small for him.
I said, “I want to take another look at Brodsky’s gallery.”
“Bronte,” he snagged my arm, pulling me up short. “You’re grasping at straws.”
“And you’re concussed.”
“What do you expect to find at Brodsky’s?” he asked. “The Iron of Fortitude?”
“Don’t bother,” I wasn’t going to win this one. “I’ll go on my own.”
I stepped into the road and signalled to a taxi stopped at a set of lights.
He came up behind me, grabbing me by the waist, “Can’t you see that I’m worried about you?”
He spun me around, the blow hadn’t diminished his strength any.
That was when he kissed me.
It wasn’t a long kiss but it was a good one. It started off warm and soft and ended up hot and deep. I sort of surrendered myself to the moment.
It felt weird doing it but it made sense of a lot of things. Marcus wasn’t trying to assert his opinions over me, he was simply concerned about my safety. He just had an odd way of showing it.
When the kiss was over I had to catch my breath. The whole thing had been so frantic and confused. I had no idea where that had come from and, by the look of things, neither did he.
I wanted to say something but realised that this wasn’t the time or the place to talk about our feelings. The taxi pulled up alongside us.
“Bronte, look, I’m sorry.”
I didn’t know what he was sorry about. I hoped that it wasn’t the kiss. I grabbed his head and kissed him again. His mouth seemed familiar yet strange.
I opened the door to the cab and he scrambled inside.
I went round to the driver’s window and handed him an outrageous sum of money.
“Can you take him to the nearest Accident and Emergency? He’s hit his head.”
The driver nodded. I banged on Marcus’ window and got a good look at his face just as the taxi pulled away.
I was walking back along the line of traffic, trying to hail a cab for myself but they all appeared to be taken.
Which was when my phone rang.
Marcus wasn’t going to be happy that I’d tricked him.
But when I looked at the screen I realised that it wasn’t him.
“Is that Miss Fellows?”
“Yes, who is this?”
“I’m the chap you met on the Tube this morning.”
“Macrory?”
“That’s the feller. Are you still interested in tracking down the Iron?”
Did everyone know about it?
“What if I am?”
“Greenwich Park in an hour. But come alone.”
*
Greenwich Park was on the other side of the river and we kept coming across different sets of road-works so
that it took nearly an hour to get there. I used the time to ring the hospital and inquire about Helena’s condition. The nurse told me that her condition had stabilised enough that her respirator had been removed. That, at least was good news.
The cab dropped me at the park’s bottom gate and it was only when I went to pay him that I realised just how little money I had left.
I went through the gate and started my search. It was a much bigger park than I’d anticipated and I considered ringing Macrory back to get more precise directions but I hesitated.
He hadn’t been particularly forthcoming about how he’d gotten my number and I didn’t know how I felt about that. Should I trust him?
Macrory was a member of the Fae regardless of what he might have to say on the matter. As such, he was someone that I should be wary of, yet I couldn’t bring myself to feel even the least bit apprehensive about meeting him. I suppose, in the back of my mind, I was hoping that he’d be able to give me some information about the possible whereabouts of the Seelie Blade.
I’d found it and then I’d lost it so, technically, I was responsible for re-locating it. Macrory might be able to point me in the right direction.
There were a lot of people exercising their dogs in the park and Macrory was one of them. He was throwing an old rubber ball down a steep slope and his dog was bounding away after it.
“He’s a lively little chap,” I said.
“He’s a Jack Russell/ terrier cross. Bags of energy.”
The dog raced back towards us, whipping around our ankles. He didn’t have the ball so we set off in search of it.
“Is this your local park, then?”
Macrory gave me a pained look.
“We go all over. We were on Hampstead Heath the other day.”
I got the message. Macrory knew far more about me than I would ever know about him, despite knowing his full name.
It took us a while to find the ball. Although it was still only mid-afternoon it was already starting to get dark. As I picked the ball up I made to pass it to Macrory who encouraged me instead to throw it.
The ball was sodden but I threw it as far as I could. The dog looked at me as if I’d failed to grasp some vital component of the game and, when he failed to move, we were obliged to set off in search of it together.
“Been here long,” I asked.
“Not long,” he said.
“Things are getting heated,” he located the ball in a clump of grass and gave it a little kick. “I thought that we might trade information.”
The dog snatched the ball up and ran back to us.
I felt conflicted. Kinsella trusted no one and had pointedly warned me off confiding in Silas but the landscape was changing rapidly.
“How do I know I can trust you?”
“You don’t have to trust me,” Macrory took the ball back and weighed it in his hand. “The important question is: do I trust you?”
“And do you?”
“You did what you said you’d do: you came alone. I think we can work with that.”
A light rain had started up and a number of people who’d come out without coats had started to move off.
“Fetch!” Macrory threw the ball and the little dog raced after it only to veer off at the last moment in pursuit of a large Labrador.
“What’s his name,” I asked.
“Oh, we’re not starting all that again, are we.”
Macrory retrieved the ball himself, his dog having developed a keen interest in the Labrador.
“Would you like to accompany me to my van?”
“Is it far?”
“Just over here.”
There were some cars parked towards the top of the hill just down from the Royal Observatory and we started towards them.
“Don’t worry,” he turned and clapped his hands to encourage his dog. “You’re perfectly safe with me. It’s all these other buggers you have to watch out for.”
Eventually, we arrived at his van which had “House Clearances” written along the side. The rain had intensified.
“Nice van,” I said, scathingly.
“It’s not mine,” he scooped his dog up and kissed it. The animal nestled itself against his chest. It all felt very odd, I was half expecting someone to spring out and put a sack over my head.
Macrory unlocked the back of the van and pulled both doors open to provide us with some shelter from the rain. The dog jumped inside and made his way to a little basket hidden amongst the press of old furniture. He looked very much at home.
There was an odd smell reminiscent of lilies. It wasn’t unpleasant, just a little cloying. “What’s that?”
“Oh, that. That’s me,” Macrory volunteered. “Been having problems with a boil in my armpit. So, I fixed myself up with a poultice.”
I sniffed his jacket and then wished I hadn’t.
“Don’t hold with these antibiotics. Poultice does a much better job.”
“Alright,” I tried to sound upbeat but I wasn’t feeling it. My hair was getting wet and rain was starting to drip down the back of my neck.
“What was it that was so desperate that you had to phone me?”
Macrory checked the car park. Only when he was certain that there was no one listening did he reach into his jacket and take out a pile of photographs.
“What have you got there?” I asked impatiently.
“What I have here is proof – if proof be needed - that Lindqvist had the Iron in his possession.”
He had slipped a single photograph out of the little pile and held it out for my inspection. The photograph showed a man standing behind a table, his arms spread wide. A simple black pentagram had been burnt into the table’s surface.
“That’s Lindqvist, see.”
My heart beat with a ragged thump, bile rose in my throat.
Mr Bluesuit.
He was dressed differently, of course: an archaeologist’s hat, casual t-shirt and cargo pants. But still, it was unmistakeably him.
“Are you alright?” Macrory asked. “Do you want to sit down?”
To my surprise, I found that that was exactly what I wanted to do.
Chapter 20
I quickly relayed the events of that morning’s attack leaving out any mention of the Seelie Blade. I told him that we’d gone down to the cafeteria after checking out the surveillance footage.
I don’t know what I expected Macrory to say. Wasn’t sure whether I wanted his approval or some kind of judgement but in the end all I got was a dumbfounded silence.
“And you’re sure it was Lindqvist?”
I squeezed my eyes together, attempting to hold back the tears.
“I’m pretty sure it was him. Not just the face – his build, everything. I’m so sorry.”
Macrory shook his head. “It’s not your fault. He knew the risks. He obviously thought that he could pull off this one big deal and then retire. Looks like he was wrong.”
“But I killed him.”
Macrory sat down beside me, his jacket was soaked. “Whoever was behind this had already decided to get rid of Lindqvist. If he was Enchanted, like you say, he probably didn’t know a thing about it.”
He gave me a moment to let that sink in. I didn’t know whether I believed him, although I did feel a little better.
I pointed at the photo which he still held. “What does that prove?”
Macrory looked at the picture again. “You know that it was the Spanish Inquisition who linked the pentagram to evil. They said that it represented the goat’s head. They were the ones who lumped it all in with the devil who, as you know, is a Christian figure.”
“Witches see the pentagram as the opposite of evil. It’s a sign of the earth mother.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Keep forgetting you’re a witch,” he produced a watch-mender’s glass from his pocket and scrutinised the picture further.
“I don’t get it,” I said. “If he’s spent so long looking for the Iron why just brand the table? Why not have h
is picture taken with it if he wanted proof?”
“That wouldn’t have been wise,” Macrory admonished. “A photo of him holding the Iron would be seen as a sacrilegious act by members of The Coven. That would be like issuing his own death warrant. He knew that they were closing in on him and so he had to off-load the Iron as quickly as possible. This photo was meant to act as proof to those in the trade that he had the Iron in his possession.”
“How did Brodsky get hold of it?”
“Brodsky stole it from him. He managed to get to Lindqvist’s assistant. A bright lad: Anders Stackholm. Convinced him that The Coven was closing in. That their lives were in danger. Set up a trade-off so that they could avoid the inevitable.”
“Let me guess: he arranged to meet at Brodsky’s home?”
The dog barked, startling me.
“Apologies,” Macrory said. Reaching into his pocket he retrieved two treats which he threw at the dog. They were quickly snaffled up.
“Problem was that Brodsky was right. The Coven were closing in. They killed Anders but made it look like the work of a shapeshifter. Brodsky escaped with the Iron.”
No matter how much I wanted to deny it this had all the hallmarks of The Coven’s work.
“And then what happened?”
Macrory arched his eyebrows. “You know the rest.”
“Okay, let’s see. Helena knew that the body at Brodsky’s place wasn’t Brodsky. But it suited her purposes to let everyone think that it was while she tracked him down herself. Then she tried to make him an offer for The Iron.”
Macrory nodded. “Brodsky needed to ditch The Iron but your friend couldn’t afford his price. She thought that she could frighten him into surrendering it. Anyone, other than a witch, caught with it in their possession would be as good as dead.”
“So she bargained with him,” I said. This was the side to Helena I hadn’t been privy to. The ruthless side. “But he didn’t want cash. He wanted something more portable. But how did he even know where the Blade was being kept?”
“He’d had his suspicions for years. Not everyone at The Ministry is whiter than white.”
“Then he convinced her to steal the Blade from the Ptolemy using my ID. But she had no intention of giving him the real blade.”
Urban Witch Page 21