by George Mann
“Stop!”
She reached the top of the landing to see Hargreaves brandishing his gun at the back of a man in a hooded robe. He appeared to be dressed in identical fashion to the others they’d encountered during the ambush the previous night. He was standing at the far end of the landing with his back to them, facing a door.
“Stay exactly where you are, or I’ll shoot.” Hargreaves glanced at her, a cocky smile on his lips. The hooded man did as Hargreaves had commanded, and remained still, not even turning his head to look at his assailants.
“Now raise your hands.”
The man did as ordered, raising both hands above his head. As he did so, however, the index finger of his right hand brushed the surface of the door, tracing a small circular pattern across the grain. Light flared, bright and obtrusive, as if the tip of his finger had somehow ignited the pattern in the wood. With a grunt of effort, he reached for the handle, trying to bundle himself through the door in one sudden, jerking movement.
Hargreaves was the quickest to react. His weapon bucked as he discharged a shot, and he launched himself forward, barreling after the hooded man, intent on bringing him down. Regina charged after him, gripping her borrowed wrench.
The shot had clearly struck home, and the man staggered, tumbling through the open door into the room beyond. Hargreaves reached the door seconds later and barreled through, kicking it aside as he rushed after the hooded man. It rebounded with a loud thud, swinging back at Regina just as she reached it. She threw her hand out, catching the edge of it, and used her momentum to shove it open again, bursting through into the small box room on the other side.
The room was empty.
Confused, Regina wheeled on the spot, the wrench still raised above her head like a primitive club. There was no sign of either Hargreaves or the Russian. The room was simply bare and unadorned—the scraps of an ancient maroon oilcloth on the floor, and yellowed paper on the walls that had once clearly been patterned with ostentatious peacock feathers.
“Hargreaves?”
No answer.
Had he succumbed to some kind of enchantment? Cautiously, Regina circled the room, testing the walls for a hidden panel or covered door. Nothing. There was no sign that anyone had ever been there. The two men had simply vanished into thin air.
She stepped back out onto the landing and pulled the door shut behind her. She studied the door for a moment. It certainly looked like an ordinary wooden door. Except… where the hooded man had described a circle of light with his finger, there was a rough groove cut into the wooden panel, as if someone had crudely scratched the design into the wood with a penknife. It was little more than a circle with three strange symbols inside of it, which looked to her like letters from a Slavic alphabet she’d never encountered before.
Slowly, she turned the handle and pushed the door open again. Still nothing. Just the same empty room beyond. She closed it again, tucking the wrench into the back of her trousers. What had she seen him do?
She reached up, mimicking the actions of the hooded man. Using the tip of her index finger, she followed the line of the circle on the door. As she did so, her finger seemed to leave a trail of fizzing, crackling light, as if live electricity was leaping from her body and imbuing the wood with energy. It tickled her skin, as if her body were somehow interacting with or reacting to the charge. She completed the circle, and started on the symbols. First one, then the second, watching them light up as she progressed… and then, without warning, the light seemed to sputter and fizz out. Within a moment there was nothing but a marked wooden door again.
Frustrated, she tried again, but the result was the same. Perhaps she was doing something wrong. She closed her eyes, trying to recall what the man had done. He’d definitely drawn the circle first, she was sure of that. But in what order had he marked the symbols? She couldn’t be sure. She decided to try again, this time altering the order. When the light petered out again, she kicked at the door in frustration, sending a thunderous bang echoing through the empty house.
Taking a deep breath, she tried again, and then a fourth time, and on the fifth, she finally appeared to hit on the correct order, as the sigils continued to glow, even after she’d lifted her finger away from the design.
With a deep breath, she stood back, peered up at her handiwork, and then opened the door.
This time, when she stepped over the threshold, everything was chaos.
Hargreaves was on his knees before the prone body of the hooded man, on the floor of what appeared to be the kitchen of a Georgian farmhouse. Through the window she could see golden fields of wheat and barley, stretching away into the distance. Hargreaves was bellowing something at the hooded man, and his hands were pressing on the man’s torso. They were covered in blood. She could smell it, rich and thick and tangy. The man was bleeding out from the gunshot wound.
“Hargreaves,” she said, unsure what else there was to say. Her mind was reeling. Was she really here, in this farmhouse in the middle of nowhere? One minute they’d been in a terraced house in Belgravia, the next they were… elsewhere.
The door had clearly been some sort of portal, similar to the ones she’d seen the Russians conjure during their ambush—but she’d activated it herself. It seemed so surreal. And now this…
“Regina? Oh, thank God.” Hargreaves looked up at her, the relief evident on his face. He glanced down at his blood-stained hands. “He won’t talk.”
Regina crossed the room and stooped over the body, placing two fingers to his throat. She felt for a pulse. The man’s eyes were open and staring up at her, and there was a wry smile fixed on his lips. Blood dribbled from his mouth, matting his beard. She felt his body convulse, and he expelled a long, burbling wheeze. “He’s gone.”
“Shit. I only wanted to wing him.”
“If it’s any consolation, I don’t think he would have talked.”
She straightened up, wiping her fingers on her sleeve. Beside her, Hargreaves was also getting to his feet.
“Where the hell are we? What happened back there? One minute I was running along the landing of that house… the next I was wrestling him to the floor in here.” He crossed to the sink and turned the creaking tap on, rinsing his hands. Blood swirled around the porcelain basin, bright and obscene. She could see it was matted in the hair of his forearms, trapped beneath his fingernails. The thought turned her stomach, and she looked away.
Hargreaves turned the tap off and dried his hands on a rag. He walked back to the door, opened it, and peered through. “It’s a store cupboard,” he said. “Filled with tinned food and grain. I just… I don’t understand.”
Regina walked over to join him. She peered over his shoulder for a moment, and then reached up and tapped her fingernail against the door. “Here. Look at this symbol. That’s what he was doing when you shot him. The door is a portal. Trace your fingertip around it like this…” she ran her finger around the outer edge of the circle until it began to glow, “…and suddenly it points to somewhere else.”
She stepped back, regarding Hargreaves. He was frowning, watching the fizzing light on the door as it slowly sputtered out. “How did you know how to do that?”
“I watched him do it, right before he went through the door. It took me a few goes to get it right, but that’s how I was able to follow you,” she said. A thought occurred to her, and she looked around the room. There were two further doors leading from the farmhouse kitchen. She walked over to one of them. Sure enough, there was a circle engraved here, too, but with a different configuration of symbols inside of it. “This one’s the same, too.” She began to trace the outline, watching it crackle to life. “They must have a whole network of them, leading them wherever they want to go.”
“So this place is a sort of hub?”
Regina shrugged. “Perhaps. Or a safe house; somewhere to escape to if things get too hot. Somewhere they’d never be found.”
“Well, we found it,” said Hargreaves. He looked thoughtful.
“Do you think more of them might come this way?”
“Hard to say, but we can’t take any chances.”
He nodded. “Help me hide the body, then.”
With a grimace, she took the dead man by the arms and helped to lift him over to the store cupboard. His dead, staring eyes seemed to follow her every move. Hurriedly, they bundled him in and closed the door. It wasn’t going to fool anyone for long, but it was something.
“We should get back to Absalom,” said Hargreaves. “This is huge.”
Regina nodded absently, as she returned to the other door. She opened it, peering into the small living room beyond. Then she closed the door again, and started tracing the Slavic symbols with her finger.
“What are you doing?”
“You’re right. We need to tell Absalom. But what do we really know at the moment? That a house in Belgravia contains some kind of energy portal to a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. But what if this door,” she stood back as the sigils began to glow, “leads somewhere else? What if we can find out more about what they’re up to? Where their real base is?”
“I’m not so sure, Regina. We might not be so lucky next time. What if we find ourselves trapped, or worse, stumble right into the middle of one of their weird pagan rituals.”
“Then you’d better make sure you’ve still got that gun,” she said. She reached out, opened the door, and stepped through.
ELEVEN
Ginny sat at the bar, sipping at her martini, reading the labels on the serried ranks of bottles behind the burly barman. She didn’t recognize most of them. She’d had two already, just to steady her nerves. She’d have to pace herself.
Ginny had always had a liking for booze—a little too much—and she’d promised herself in the aftermath of the recent events in New York that she wouldn’t allow herself to fall back into the comforting spiral. And yet… it was so enticing; to numb everything, to banish the little voice at the back of her mind that seemed intent on reminding her of the violation she had suffered, the uninvited presence that had taken possession of her body, the confusion she still felt now that she’d rid herself of its influence, yet understanding that, hidden away inside of her, a shard of it lived on. She could feel it from time to time, stirring, wanting to come out and reveal itself to the world. Since the battle with Amaury, however, she’d held it in check, burying it deep inside, afraid not that it might seize control of her again, but instead that she might grow to like it, just like the booze.
She heard footsteps behind her and turned around on her stool, to glimpse a rotund woman in a fur stole marching past, glowering at a meek-looking man who was propped against the wall across the other side of the room, partially obscured behind a veil of cigarette smoke. He blew more smoke from the corner of his mouth and looked away, as if hoping she hadn’t seen him.
Ginny turned back to her drink. She wondered if the Glogauer woman was going to show. Rutherford had supposedly put word out in the right circles, circulating their concocted story: that a well-heeled but put-upon wife from Long Island was staying at the Hotel Cecil, and was looking for someone to help free her from her neglectful husband. More to the point, he’d been clear that she had plenty of money to spare.
She supposed it sounded plausible enough, as these things go—she’d met plenty of men and women back in the States thrown together after the war for fortune and security, and now feeling trapped and discontented with their lot. Many of them attended Gabriel’s parties on a regular basis, searching for some sort of escape through booze and oblivion and meaningless sex.
She’d half been expecting a line of ne’er-do-wells to form behind her at the bar, but in truth she’d sat there undisturbed for over an hour, and was beginning to think that she was wasting her time. Perhaps Donovan had been right, and the logical place to start their investigation was the house in Belgravia, after all. Rutherford had seemed confident, however, insisting that his contacts would ensure that word reached the right ears, and that knowing Sabine’s reputation, she’d find it impossible to resist.
Ginny drained the last of her martini and pushed the glass across the bar. “I’ll take another,” she said, catching the barman’s attention. He cocked a crooked smile and set about mixing the drink. One more, and if there was still no sign of the woman, she’d call it a night and go and find Gabriel.
“Is that a New York accent?”
Ginny turned to see a slim, dark-haired woman sliding onto the stool beside her. The newcomer was wearing a loose, short-sleeved blue blouse, flowing black culottes and boots, but even still, Ginny could see she had a wiry, toned physique. The muscles of her upper arms were well defined, but not unladylike. She was smiling, but there was no warmth reflected in her sharp green eyes, which flitted back and forth, regarding Ginny with a cool, calculated look. When she spoke, she had a clipped, slightly Germanic accent.
“Long Island,” said Ginny, with a smile. She accepted her drink from the barman, who peered inquisitively at the newcomer, anticipating an order. The woman waved him away.
“Now there’s a thing. Someone else mentioned Long Island to me earlier this very day.” She tapped out a nervous rhythm on the bar with her fingertips, drumming her nails against the polished lacquer.
“They did? Well I hope they were encouraging you to visit. It’s a lovely place, particularly in the summer.”
The woman cocked her head. “Ah, well, I suppose it depends on your perspective. I’ve heard it can be a lonely place, so far away from the bustle of the city.”
“Oh, that’s a bleak way of looking at it,” said Ginny. “But then we all have our crosses to bear.”
The woman laughed, and held out her hand. “Sabine,” she said.
Ginny felt her heart skip a beat. “Ginny,” she said, taking the woman’s hand in her own. Sabine shook it firmly.
“What brings you to London?”
“A vacation. Look—can I get you a drink?”
Sabine shook her head. “No, thanks. I don’t touch the stuff.” She smiled, but again, Ginny noticed that the woman’s eyes told a different story. She was sizing Ginny up, watching her every move.
Ginny swallowed, and then took another sip of her drink. Her mouth was dry.
“So, a vacation. Have you taken in the sights?”
Ginny shrugged, trying to keep things casual. “Not yet. We only arrived a couple of days ago, so we’re just getting our bearings, really.”
“We?”
“My husband.” Ginny was careful to inject an inflection of venom into the word.
“Ah,” said Sabine. “Is he here? I hope I haven’t taken his seat?”
Ginny laughed. “Oh, no. To be honest, I have no idea where he is. He’d find all this a bit prosaic. He’s probably off somewhere in town, making a fool of himself at some jazz club or other.” She shrugged. “He gets about. I prefer the quiet life.” She raised her glass and took a sip.
Sabine offered her a wry smile. “I understand. Men are all the same. They don’t know how to appreciate what’s under their noses.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” said Ginny. “Are you married? You sound as if you speak from experience.”
Sabine laughed. “Me? No. But let’s just say that I know what men are like. It always begins with romance and devotion, but it ends with loneliness and despair.”
Ginny swilled the liquid around in her glass. “You make it sound so fatalistic.”
“It’s in their nature. Men are like animals—cage them at your peril.”
“In my case, it’s not the man who’s been caged,” said Ginny. She allowed her shoulders to slump, as if she were suddenly letting her guard down. “You’re right about Long Island. In many ways it’s nothing but a beautiful prison. I mean, in many ways, I’m lucky. I want for nothing. Nothing at all. Except, perhaps, for the man I thought I married. But I don’t suppose things will ever change.”
Sabine leaned forward on her stool, until her face was only a few inches from Ginny’s. Ginny
could smell fresh mint on the woman’s breath. “You know, I may be able to help you find your freedom, if that is what you’re looking for?”
Ginny swallowed. She took another swig of her drink. This was it, the moment she’d been waiting for. It had taken only minutes to reel Sabine in, and she had to be careful not to blow it now. She had to seem interested, but not too enthusiastic. “Freedom? I’m not sure I know what you mean,” she said, with a half smile.
Sabine grinned. “Perhaps we should take this conversation somewhere a little more private? Do you have a room here, at the hotel?”
Ginny nodded. “A suite.”
“And your husband isn’t expected back?”
“Not for some hours,” said Ginny.
“Very well. Perhaps I can tell you a little more about the options available to you. I happen to be something of a specialist in this area.”
Ginny nodded, and drained the last of her drink. She placed the glass on the bar. “Well, I don’t suppose I’ve anything to lose by hearing you out,” she said. She hopped down from the bar stool, beckoning for Sabine to follow her toward the elevators.
* * *
Sabine issued an impressed whistle as Ginny opened the door to her suite—which Gabriel had rented for the day—and beckoned her in. The plush surroundings were clearly having the desired effect, continuing to reel Sabine further into their little charade. Ginny could see from the look on Sabine’s face that the woman thought she’d struck gold—that making a large amount of money out of the impending transaction was going to be a relatively easy matter.
“Are you sure I can’t get you a drink?” said Ginny, closing the door behind them and strolling over to the drinks cabinet. She poured a large measure of neat vodka into a glass. The lights were off in the adjoining bedroom, and the door was closed.
Sabine crossed to the bedroom door, opened it, and peered in. “No, thanks,” she said, apparently satisfied they were alone. “In my line of work it pays to keep a clear head.”
“And what exactly is that line of work?” said Ginny.