by Rosie Best
The pigeons were right on my tail, but the tunnel wasn’t wide enough for them to flap their wings, so they were reduced to a bobbing hop, and I gained ground quickly. The tunnel grew cold and damp, and the scent of rats grew stronger, and I pressed on until suddenly I could see an orange glow. Literally, a light at the end of the tunnel. I put on a burst of speed and stumbled out into a vast space. I’d come out in the curved side wall of a tunnel with dim electric lights strung on the walls and metal rails along the ground that stank of electricity and grease and a black, sticky kind of dust.
This was a tube tunnel. Some deep-down part of my brain that apparently didn’t have enough to worry about supplied: probably the District and Circle lines. I turned right and scampered up the tracks as fast as my aching muscles would take me.
CHAPTER TWELVE
It was dark when I finally climbed out of Tower Hill tube station. I slipped between the feet of puzzled commuters and under the Oystercard barriers before the staff could react, and huddled in the bushes outside the station for a few minutes, catching my breath and hoping that nobody had called the RSPCA. The last thing I needed right now would be to be snatched up and imprisoned in some wildlife centre with a bunch of actual foxes.
I made my way to the Tower in short sprints, darting my way from shadow to shadow across the road and down the slope towards the gate and the drawbridge. A few straggling groups of tourists were still hanging around outside the entrance to the Tower, but the gate itself was shut. I hopped over the low wall around the moat and trotted down the blessedly soft, damp, grassy slope. I could circle the tower and get in through the holes in the portcullis across Traitor’s Gate. It was a bit of a tight squeeze and I hissed in pain as the metal of the gate scraped over the wounds on my back, but then I was in.
It was obvious why Blackwell had smelled the way he did. Every corner of this place gave off the scent of old stone, old, wet wood and new varnish. If history itself had a smell, this place reeked of it.
I climbed the steep steps and slipped through the wooden gate that kept tourists from going down to the moat level. The stone was smooth and cool under my sore paws, dented by time and millions of visiting shoes. I was limping, one paw pad still stinging from the shattered glass, but even that felt better on the stone.
The raven cages were in the centre, near the base of the White Tower. I padded up to them with a growing sense of dread. I could see a group of dark shapes inside, pecking at their feed.
This didn’t feel right. Why would a shifter live like that? But I couldn’t see any Warders around, and I couldn’t dismiss the idea that one of them might be able to help me.
Feeling self-conscious, I crossed the courtyard and slipped under the metal chain onto the patch of grass, passed an enormous black iron cannon and drew near the cages.
“Um, excuse me,” I said.
The ravens ignored me.
“Excuse me? I need to talk to someone – I need to talk to Blackwell, is he here?” I took another step forward and one of the ravens flapped over to the front of the cage. It tipped its head and opened its beak, but all that came out was a long, loud caw.
Suddenly, as if at its signal, the cages came alive with flapping, cawing and croaking. I stumbled away, my heart racing, my fur prickling all along my back. I heard a door slam behind me and I tried to spin around, but put too much weight on my wounded paw and fell onto my side, blinded by pain for a moment.
When my vision cleared I saw a tall human shape hurrying towards me, thick woollen overcoat unbuttoned and flapping in the wind. The ravens quieted to an anxious background flap as the man hopped the metal chain and skidded to a halt a few feet away.
It was a Yeoman Warder. Deep blue coat that looked black in the darkness, dim brown trimming I knew was really red, flat cap in the same colours.
“Meg?” said the man. He leaned down and the shadows under his hat shifted so I could see his face.
It was the strangest feeling, like meeting a close relative of someone you know well – there was a shock of recognition along with the certain knowledge that I’d never seen this face before.
He had a thin face and pale, wrinkled skin, with a short ginger beard and small, light grey eyes.
“Margaret Banks? It’s Arthur Blackwell,” he said. He had a soft voice and a Scottish accent.
I twitched as the door behind him banged open again. But Blackwell twitched too, threw a glance over his shoulder, then turned back to me with urgency in his eyes.
“Please, hide,” he hissed. “Get under the cannon and don’t come out till I say. Please, it’s very important.”
I hesitated a split second. Then I did what I was told.
I wormed my way under the huge iron cannon with my belly flat to the grass. The underside of the gun was deep in shadow, and it smelled of paint and a far-off, possibly imaginary echo of blood and gunpowder. All I could see was Blackwell’s boots, polished and gleaming in the damp grass. They turned and shuffled to attention, and a few minutes later another pair of boots – identical, but slightly larger – stepped into view.
“What’s the alarm, Blackwell?” said a man’s deep voice. I smelled cigarettes and expensive brandy, and wet wool and leather from both their uniforms.
“False alarm, sir,” said Blackwell. “A cat. Just a stray. It spooked when the ravens sounded the alarm and ran off.”
“They’re a little sensitive this week,” said the other voice.
“Yes, sir. Perhaps it’s the weather.”
Even from here, I could tell the other man was sceptical. He shifted his weight and made a “hrm” noise in his throat. “Old wives’ tale. You should be careful what you believe, Blackwell – you sound like you’ve been talking to the Rabble.”
So this was the leader of the Conspiracy. Why did Blackwell need me to hide from him? I wished I could’ve seen his face.
“Is there anything else?” said the man.
“No, sir. All’s well, sir.”
I frowned. All was not within a hundred miles of well.
“All right,” he said. “Carry on, Blackwell.”
Blackwell’s boots slid together and his knees locked. I was pretty sure he’d saluted.
“Yes, sir.”
I waited, breathing in the cool fumes from the cannon, until Blackwell’s stance relaxed.
“Come on out, Meg,” he said. I slunk out of my hiding place and looked up at him. He took off his hat and wiped his sleeve across his forehead. “We need to talk.”
The inside of the Yeoman Warders’ accommodation – part exclusive apartments, part barracks – smelled of varnished wood, tradition, leather and polished swords. Its scent was overwhelmingly male, though I was pretty sure there were a few female Warders nowadays. It was so thoroughly steeped in routine I could almost have traced the criss-crossing paths of the different Warders through the air.
Blackwell sneaked me inside at his heels and let me into his apartment, disappeared for a few nerve-shredding minutes and came back with a pile of clothes in his arms. He put them down in the bathroom – a neat, gleaming place with lots of wood panels, gold taps and polished mirrors – and said we could talk properly when I’d changed.
The change hurt.
I crouched in the gap between Blackwell’s bath and his toilet, pressing my head into the wall and groaning. My legs splayed out on the cold tiles. I flung a still-fuzzy arm over the cool white bath and clung on while the change flowed through me.
The wounds on my back and my paw were changing with me, stretching out along with my skin. Each one stung like – well, like a rough hand stretching an open wound. Tears sprang to my eyes and I twisted my unhurt hand in my hair as it cascaded out of my head and settled on my shoulders.
When it was over, I struggled to my feet and turned, wrapping my arms around myself, to look at the damage in the bathroom mirror. Three small cuts on my back – much, much smaller than they felt from the inside – a scrape on my elbow and one puncture wound on my hip. Ther
e was a thin layer of caked-on gore around each one. The one on my left shoulder-blade was oozing fresh, red blood when I moved.
My parents did this.
I scraped my hair back from my face, as if I could brush the thought away.
No. Victoria did this.
The cut on my hand was longer, but not deep. I ran it under the cold tap and bit back my moans until the flesh went numb.
I picked through the pile of clothes Blackwell had brought me. There was a pair of pants and a bra that were slightly too small, but not so much they were painful – except where the bra strap ran over the open wound. I wondered where he’d got them, as I adjusted the straps to be as loose as possible. Maybe they were his girlfriend’s. Giving me his girlfriend’s underwear was kind of creepy. Then again, I was bleeding on another woman’s bra. That was pretty creepy too.
The other clothes fit pretty well. I slipped into the pair of black trousers – cotton-nylon blend, with no pockets, a white T-shirt screenprinted with a picture of the crown jewels, and a large hooded jumper with the Historic Royal Palaces logo stitched on the breast.
I glanced at myself in the mirror before I went out. I was bleeding, my parents were pigeons, I was wearing another woman’s pants, and the rest of my clothing had clearly been stolen from the Tower of London souvenir shop. But I was alive. And I was going to get help.
I opened the door and stepped out into Blackwell’s apartment. Even though I’d spent a few minutes in there as a fox, I’d not really taken it in – it had just been a blur of scents and textures under my paws.
The corridor was painted in plain cream, with a couple of pictures hanging on the walls – a painting of a heather-covered mountainside, a framed photograph of him with the Queen and another of a group of young men with Seventies moustaches and regulation hair. They were gathered around a regimental banner with thistles on it. One of them had to be Blackwell, but I couldn’t spot him in the sea of gingers. The sitting room beyond was oak-panelled and warm, with a large brown leather sofa taking up most of the floor-space. There were bookshelves on most of the walls. One of them was full of medals and certificates. I was crossing the room to get a better look when Blackwell emerged from another door, carrying two mugs.
He’d made tea. I could have hugged him. Instead I sat on his sofa, sipping at the sweet, hot caffeine while I told him everything that’d happened since he’d flown away last night.
He listened and nodded, and when I’d finished he put his mug down on the coffee table beside the sofa, and said “I’m very sorry.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“But…” he sighed and ran his hand over his eyes. “I’m not sure how much I can help you.”
I stared at him for several seconds.
“But you’ve got to,” I said. “I’ve got nowhere else to go,” I added, trying to keep my voice level. “We have to help my parents. We have to stop her getting the stone, don’t we? I thought that was what we were for.”
“I’m sorry,” said Blackwell. He scratched his ginger beard and shook his head. “You have no idea – you don’t know what I might have done, bringing you here.”
“What have you done?”
Blackwell stood up and walked away from me. He stood in front of the bookcase with all the medals in it, then gazed out through the thick, warped glass in the small window.
“I’m giving you the stone,” I pressed. “If the Skulk can’t keep it safe then you take it, keep it in the Tower. I’m telling you, it’s at my school, in the back garden.”
He raised his hands to stop me, too late, and groaned. “I wish you hadn’t told me that.”
“You just have to dig it up,” I went on. “All I’m asking you to do is tell me how I can fix this so Victoria will turn my parents back and leave me alone.”
“Oh, Meg, I wish it was as simple as that.”
“Simple.” I put my mug down hard on the coffee table. The loud noise made Blackwell glance out of the window again. “How is any of this simple?”
“The Skulk stone is Skulk business,” Blackwell said, as if every word was being twisted out of him like a cork out of a wine bottle. “The Conspiracy cannot officially get involved in Skulk business. That’s what Chief Warder Phillips says. He believes the other weards have forgotten their purpose and let their stones get lost, but he says we can’t get involved, not even to help the others keep their stones safe. None of the Conspiracy knows that I’ve been investigating this sorcerer – this Victoria. I’d be punished for letting you bring us into this.”
“You brought me into this,” I snapped. “You’re the one who turned up at my house in the middle of the night first, remember?” I twisted the edge of the Palace hoodie between my fingers.
“I know,” Blackwell sighed.
“Also, I don’t think it’s particularly fair to compare a scrubby bit of land near Willesden Junction to the Tower of Fricking London when it comes to keeping things safe!”
“It’s not just the Tower. There’s something the weard can do to keep their stone safe from outsiders.”
“Well, what is it?”
“I don’t know,” said Blackwell, and I rolled my eyes dramatically at him. “I’m sorry, the Conspiracy stone’s never been out of the Tower, so the protection hasn’t been broken. I haven’t even been up to the vault since I came here.”
“It doesn’t make any sense.” I shook my head, boggling at his strange leaps of logic. “If we’ve all forgotten our purpose, your duty has to be to help us remember it. What about the apprentice from your story? I can’t remember the word…”
“The leodweard,” Blackwell said.
“The metashift. Didn’t that pass down like the shift? Isn’t there still one of those out there? If the Conspiracy won’t come down out of their tower and help the rest of us, isn’t it the metashifter’s job?”
“You’re right,” he said, “It should be. I heard whispers… gossip that there was a shifter out there with the power to be any one of the weards. I heard they’d been seen with the Cluster. But I was never able to find them, and if the knowledge of the elements has been forgotten, they wouldn’t know there was anything they were supposed to do.”
I threw my hands in the air and slumped back into the sofa, wincing as my clothes rubbed across the scrapes on my back. “Well then, you have the knowledge, you have to do it, don’t you?”
Blackwell didn’t answer for a second. He looked at the medals and certificates again. I peered at them over his shoulder. There was a red military cap in there, propped up at a rakish angle against the back of the bookcase.
“You’re right,” he said, very softly. “I have to share what I know.” He turned away from the bookcase and sat back down in the chair opposite me, leaning forward. I sat up involuntarily and bent my head towards him. “I used to be military police,” he said, meeting my eyes, speaking deliberately. “I know corruption when I see it.” He shook his head. “I never expected to find it here.”
Corruption? “How can a group of shifters be corrupt?”
“Power corrupts, doesn’t it? We’re sitting on one fifth of what may have been the greatest weapon the world has ever seen. And the elements are powerful enough by themselves – this Victoria has conjured killer fog and transformed your parents. And others, by the sound of it. We don’t know which stones she’s got, but we know it’s no more than three out of the five.”
He paused to let this sink in, and I shuddered. “But, are you saying the Conspiracy are letting her get the other stones? Why?”
“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I don’t know what’s in it for them. Maybe she’s paid them off or she has some leverage with Phillips. Maybe it’s not even that simple.”
I took a long breath, putting it all together in my mind. “So, if they find out that you know there’s something going on…”
“Or if they find out I’ve been disobeying my direct orders by trying to track down the other weards’ stones,” Blackwell continued. “I don’
t know what they’ll do. Removing me from my position won’t be enough. The only way to take away someone’s shift is to kill them. I don’t know yet exactly what I’m dealing with.”
“God. Maybe I shouldn’t have come here,” I said. A cold lump of sadness settled in the bottom of my stomach. “I just – I had nowhere else to go.” I looked down at my nails. They were torn. And one of them had dried blood underneath it. “My parents,” I said. My voice had gone weak, almost mousy. I sort of hated it. “I don’t even like them and now they’re... gone.” I dragged my hand across my eyes, roughly, as if I could deny the tears welling up if I wiped them away with flair.
“No, I told you that you should come. Perhaps I should have trusted you with this yesterday. Either way, you see why I cannae get the Conspiracy involved with this, not yet.”
“So what am I supposed to do now?” I demanded.
“Maybe if you go and get the stone?”
I shook my head. “Oh no, no, no, I’m not going back there by myself. I just can’t.”
“Can’t another member of the Skulk go with you?” Blackwell asked.
“I’ve only ever met them once – how can I ask them to come and maybe get killed with me? Plus I don’t know where any of them live.”
Blackwell went quiet, thoughtful, for a few seconds.
“I do,” he said.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I stepped off the bus underneath the Westway flyover, the small change from the tenner Blackwell had given me to get here jingling in the front pocket of my hoodie.
“Go to the traveller site,” he’d said, “And you should be able to sniff her out.”
I knew where that site was. Right underneath the Westway roundabout, next to the stables and the sports centre, there was a big scrap metal yard and the only genuine trailer park I’d ever seen outside American television.
I pulled the hood up over my hair and hurried down the street. The quickest way to get there would be to change into a fox and slip through behind the houses, through the apocalyptic wasteland of concrete and gravel right underneath the flyover. I followed the advice Blackwell had given me and skulked around the backs of the houses, as close to their backyards as I could get without actually breaking and entering, looking for somewhere I could take off my clothes and leave them stashed somewhere safe. I finally found a dim corner where I could be alone, with a wheelie bin to hide the clothes under. I disrobed as quickly as I could, the chill night air and the fact that I was committing indecent exposure under the Westway roundabout competing to see which could make me shiver hardest.