Game of Secrets

by Kim Foster

  As I make my way back to the street, the rain starts up again, shifting from heavy drops to sheets. My clothes are soaked and I shiver on the side of the road. Raising my hand, I wave down a passing carriage for hire.

  As the driver pulls on the reins and steers to the side of the road, an urge to run away comes over me again. It would be so much easier to flee.

  The driver stares at me as I hesitate, twisting in the rain, suddenly unsure what to do. The horse paws the cobbles, mist puffing from his nostrils.

  “Come on, love. Get inside. You’ll catch your death,” the driver says. I look into his kindly face. Deep smile lines crease the skin around his eyes.

  I climb inside the carriage. He bends down and glances inside. “Where are we off to?”

  I’m sorely tempted to tell him to take me as far away from here as he can, but through the small window I glimpse his hands as they hold the reins—workmen’s hands, rough from a lifetime of labor. If I don’t stop what the Huntsmen have planned, what will become of those who’ve lived lives of plain, honest, hard work?

  “To the British Museum.”

  Just outside the museum sits a newsstand, a small door cut into its side. When no one is watching, I slip inside and travel down a long, dark, narrow staircase that leads deep underneath the street to headquarters.

  I stop suddenly when I reach the door at the end of the passage. It’s slightly ajar, the lock and the handle smashed.

  The Huntsmen are already here.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  “‘Do you know where the wicked go after death?’

  ‘They go to hell,’ was my ready and orthodox answer.”

  —Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

  I creep across the threshold and into the secret tunnels. Water drips from a pipe up ahead. The echoes down here are strange, bouncing off walls that twist and turn. I must find the others somehow. If they’re here … and if the Huntsmen haven’t yet killed them.

  I hear the faint scrape of footfalls. Someone is just around the next bend, coming toward me. A patrol, perhaps? I’ve nowhere to hide. A tall, muscled Huntsman turns the corner, unhurried. My only advantage: I already have hold of Aristos before he knows he needs his own ability.

  I have no weapon—only my bare hands. They will have to be enough. Before he has a chance to react, I’ve leapt at him, using the tunnel’s wall as a springboard. Thank goodness for all those hours Isherwood forced me to train.

  I kick out, catching the Huntsman in the chest. He goes down slowly, to my Aristos eyes. As he falls, I reach out and snatch the long knife from his belt.

  As I leap over him, I can tell he’s channeled his own Aristos, because instead of crashing flat on his back, he back-somersaults and rolls straight up to his feet. Murder flashes in his eyes.

  But I’m already there, kneeling with his knife pointing up, and in a second, I’ve thrust the blade up under his ribs. It’s hard for me to imagine anything more horrifying than the feeling of biting into a man’s soft underbelly with a cold knife. Possibly worse is the sound—a squelching slice.

  We are now face-to-face, and his shock gives way to a slack dullness as I thrust deeper and the tip of the knife penetrates his heart. He collapses. It’s over.

  As I stand over his body, panting, I feel a spasm of triumph and relief. It makes me want to rip my own skin off. What kind of person feels such a thing?

  But there’s no going back now. Not now that I’ve killed one of them. The temptation to turn and escape—I push that down inside me. A black pit opens as I wonder how many more times I’ll have to do this before I reach the others. If I even have it in me.

  Then, a man’s voice enters my head. Felicity? Good lord. You’re here.

  I recognize the voice immediately, though I’ve never heard it inside my head before. Hawksmoor.

  So. It’s true. Everything Neville told me is true. Hawksmoor can get inside my head. He knew the truth about Nate, and it’s how he tricked me all along.

  My insides burn with the betrayal, but it doesn’t matter. Right now I need to push all that aside and focus on staying alive.

  Where are you? I try to say. But it’s too unfamiliar a task. I was able to talk to Nate because—I know now—I was imagining it. But truly using Sophos abilities? That I do not know how to do.

  Nate.

  Despair threatens to rise up, but I quash it as best I can.

  I can feel you trying to communicate, Felicity. Don’t waste your energy. You’re going to need it.

  He’s right. I turn to the task of plundering weapons from the Huntsman I just killed and listening to Hawksmoor as he details the situation.

  There are eleven Huntsmen. They have locked us inside the cargo hold. They tell us they’ll soon begin pulling us out, one by one, to execute us.

  Hawksmoor doesn’t say who is locked there with him. He doesn’t say whether anyone has been killed yet, and I have no way of asking. I think of Julian and an icy hand grips my stomach.

  Me against eleven. I glance at the dead sentry. Ten. I squeeze my eyes shut at the thought of killing again. But I have no choice. It’s me, or them.

  Somehow, I will have to divide the Huntsmen so I can take them on one or two at a time.

  Hawksmoor gives me further instructions: Warwick is here. Eight of them are guarding us, and two are out in the tunnels. Take those two out first.

  He seems to have a lot more confidence in my skills than I do. I tuck myself into an alcove and piece together a plan.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  “Terror made me cruel …”

  —Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

  It doesn’t take me long to set up the contraption that will serve as my trip alarm. I have to be careful—if it falls before I’m ready, I won’t have time to hide. With steady fingers I work, ears pricked for unexpected arrivals.

  I’ve gathered sconces from the corridors and now attach them up so they are balanced, held in place by a cord suspending them from the ceiling. I remember seeing a haberdasher do this once in Whitechapel—stringing together a collection of jars so they stayed together, making it impossible for thieves to pilfer one without toppling the lot.

  Then I position the string over a gas lamp fixed to the wall. I estimate how long it will take for the string to burn through. I dash away and tuck myself into a crevice and begin silently counting in my head.

  A loud crash echoes through the tunnels as my contraption falls. I smile with triumph. At least something has gone right.

  Within moments, I hear footsteps approaching. I’ll intercept them as they pass by, or at least I hope to.

  There is no shouting. They are not so artless. The footsteps slow and become hard to distinguish. If only I knew more. Will it just be one guard, as Hawksmoor said, or will they have sent out more? Are they armed? But I’m not a mind reader.

  Except … maybe I am.

  I reach out with my thoughts, probing the void, groping in the darkness, searching for something that feels … human. Then it’s like I bump into something with my mind. It feels alive. It somehow seems as though it has warmth.

  The connection comes in fragments like kaleidoscope shards, splintered and distorted, but I can still get a general sense—one man and one woman. Is it the Black Spider? I can’t tell.

  I can, however, distinguish that the man is far stronger and faster than the woman, but also more apprehensive. She is … angrier. And better trained, with a tighter grip on her fear. She’s carrying a knife; the man has a gun.

  They are ready to kill. Just like the sentry was. And unless I want to die today, I’m going to have to eliminate them first.

  I’ll need to disarm the man first. But I’ll only have time to ambush one of them.

  I need Aristos now. But, to my horror, when I reach for it, it’s not there. Instinctively, I let go of my hold on Sophos. And there, waiting for me, is Aristos. I try to reach back for Sophos, but now it has disappeared.

  Holding both abilities proves im
possible, like trying to hold on to sand. The tighter I grip, the more it crumbles in my fingers.

  I’m out of time. The Huntsmen arrive.

  I grasp for Aristos and lunge like a viper from my hiding spot just as the male Huntsman steps before me. In one swift movement, I’ve wrapped my arms around him and dragged the knife across his throat. His gun fires, but it goes off into the tunnels, harming no one.

  The woman rushes me—a blonde, not the Black Spider after all. Her knife is out, and I have a single heartbeat in which to retrieve the Huntsman’s gun. And though I am able to grasp the metal, it costs me dearly—the woman leaps on top of me.

  I roll away, just before she plunges her blade into my heart, but not before she manages to graze my shoulder. I’m up, scaling the wall, using a shelf as a foothold, gripping tightly to Aristos. Pushing back with my feet, I spring back and land a second before she does. I aim and fire the pistol. Right into her chest.

  Before her body even hits the ground, I’m sprinting away. The struggle was anything but discreet; other Huntsmen will be coming. But at least now I’m armed.

  I double back toward the cargo hold, releasing Aristos and gripping onto Sophos, feeling out in the darkness for the other eight opponents. Pausing, I take stock.

  For the next group, I’ll need to use a different strategy. They aren’t stupid. And I’d prefer to not use the gun again—it will draw too much attention.

  The ceiling is crossed with rafters—all the better for an ambush.

  I swiftly pull myself up, hiding in the shadows of the ceiling. And wait. Someone will come along to investigate.

  Once I’m hidden, I let Aristos go and grasp Sophos. I feel for the nearby Huntsmen. It’s not long before I bump up against that same feeling of humanity. This time, there’s only one person, a man.

  I’m ready. And I’m confident after my last two encounters. As I wait for my mark to pass beneath me, my mind spools forward to the next Huntsman and my next plan.

  It’s due to this brief distraction that I move a second too early. My landing is slightly off, giving the Huntsman a fraction of a second’s warning.

  Suddenly I’m on my back, pinned, and he’s looming above me. His eyes are fire.

  The flash of a blade arcs overhead.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  “An animal may be ferocious and cunning enough, but it takes a real man to tell a lie.”

  —H. G. Wells, The Island of Doctor Moreau

  I grab on to Aristos as hard as I can. Time slows even further; a drop of sweat from the Huntsman hovers over me. My knee thrusts up to meet his groin. He grunts and his knife misses its mark. Still, he recovers almost instantly, taking another slash at my chest.

  But, unfortunately for him, he’s loosened his grip. My arm comes up and blocks his hand. With a surge of strength, I flip him off me. He regains his feet quickly as I struggle to my knees, and comes at me again. But I shift to the side just in time. He loses balance, just slightly. And before he can stumble forward, I move behind him, catch his head, and wrench. His neck snaps and he drops instantly.

  I fall to my knees, trembling, catching my breath.

  I won’t make that mistake again.

  Over the next thirty minutes, I systematically take down two more Huntsmen without incident. I hold my focus tight, switching from Sophos and Aristos to locate, then eliminate, each opponent.

  Felicity. Hawksmoor’s voice penetrates my focus. I can tell you’re doing an excellent job out there—

  I wait for the “but” that’s sure to come.

  They’re getting agitated as their numbers dwindle. They’re preparing to begin their executions. If you could get here more quickly …

  I whittle their group down by two more. I know the Huntsmen have discovered some of the bodies from the shouts that echo through the tunnels and the panic seeping into the ether. I put a knife into the chest of the next Huntsman; they’re down to three.

  There is a single guard watching us now, Felicity. The other two, including Warwick, are out hunting for you.

  It’s time. I turn toward the center of the labyrinth and head for the cargo hold.

  There’s a cell inside headquarters, designed to hold prisoners who might need interrogation. I’m sure Hawksmoor never imagined being imprisoned there himself. The question is how am I going to get close enough to the guard without him detecting me?

  The iron-barred prison sits in the center of a cavernous room with a guard mezzanine all the way around the perimeter. Multiple tunnels feed into the mezzanine. I approach slowly, knowing the guard is on the lower level, pacing outside the prison cell, though he can’t yet see me. As I grow closer the faint smell of geraniums reaches me. Where have I smelled that before? The scent triggers something in my memory but it flits away.

  I lower down to my stomach and slither forward. There, in the cell, are five of the Morgana: Hawksmoor, Charlie, Isherwood, Julian. And Jane. Why would they take Jane? I frown. There has to be a reason.

  My friends don’t look good. Hawksmoor, particularly, has been badly beaten. But Isherwood looks worse—she’s lying down on the floor, and appears to be unconscious. They are restrained in iron shackles. They do nothing to signal they are aware of my arrival. Nothing, except the barest flicker of an eyebrow, from Hawksmoor.

  Where is everyone else? I wonder. Are they dead? I try once more to send a thought to Hawksmoor.

  The rest of the Morgana … ? I’m not sure it worked. But then Hawksmoor’s voice comes back to me. Some of them made it out before we were ambushed. And some were already at the Jubilee banquet. Of course, I can’t be certain which agents are on our side. Some of our ranks may have been working for Neville all along.

  I don’t know what to say. I can only think about my next steps. Moving along the mezzanine, I get as close to the spot over the guard as I dare. I will have one chance and I need to use it to its best effect. I consider using the pistol. But Warwick would hear and come for me right away. I’m not sure I’d be able to release the others from the prison cell before he gets here.

  No, I need to take this one down silently if I can.

  I wish I were better with knife throwing. I need to be down there. Hand to hand. I carefully withdraw the knife and grip it tightly. If I can jump down behind him, I can cut into his neck before he has a chance to react. It will be the quickest and quietest method.

  I drop down. At the last second, just before I land on the ground, he moves away easily, spinning to face me.

  A smile spreads across his face.

  Did you think I didn’t know you were there? A new voice slices through my thoughts—the voice of the man in front of me.

  He has Sophos, too. My blood turns to ice as I realize I’ve walked into a trap.

  He levels his pistol and fires.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  “The tyrant grinds down his slaves and they don’t turn against him; they crush those beneath them.”

  —Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

  The Huntsman doesn’t fire at me. He shoots straight through the bars at the Morgana standing closest: Charlie.

  I scream as Charlie’s chest blooms dark red. He falls back, and Julian catches him.

  “Warwick has changed his mind,” the Huntsman says to me. “He wants you alive, after all, Miss Cole. Lucky for you. Not so lucky for them. I will shoot them all if you don’t comply.”

  I gingerly place my knife on the ground before he can harm anyone else.

  “Felicity! Behind you,” Julian calls out, still cradling Charlie’s head.

  I spin just as the second Huntsman arrives—the Black Spider. She must have been waiting just outside the cargo hold.

  “Come nicely,” she says, holding out a pair of handcuffs.

  I set my jaw against the frustration. I’m so close. A part of me wonders where Warwick is, how long it will be before he arrives, whether he really would honor his word to keep me alive?

  “Do I really need to explain the situation again?
” asks the Huntsman. He raises his pistol toward the prison cell again.

  I shut Sophos down—it can’t help me now. The Huntsman fires in Julian’s direction.

  Julian twists to duck under the bullet, but with my time-slowed vision I can see it’s not going to be fast enough. Panic grips my belly. Then a blur comes from his left, knocking him out of the bullet’s path. He collapses on the ground, safe from the shot. Jane sprawls unharmed beside him.

  Jane. She pulled him down. Of course she did. I can’t believe it hasn’t occurred to me before now—she may not have made the cut as a Morgana agent, but she still has abilities.

  “Lucky,” mutters the Huntsman.

  His momentary distraction gives me the opportunity I need. I lunge, knocking his gun away. We grapple and I try to remember every single thing I’ve learned in combat training. In my peripheral vision, I’m aware of the Black Spider raising her weapon.

  I spin the Huntsman between me and Black Spider, who fires her pistol at that instant. The shot hits the Huntsman in the chest and he drops.

  An angry scream rips from Black Widow’s throat. She lunges at me, but I whirl away and back handspring right over her, coming down behind her. I’m moving faster than I ever have before.

  “Felicity, you can do this. Take them.” I am vaguely aware of Julian’s ragged, desperate voice coming from behind the bars.

  Before the Black Spider can so much as turn, I’ve wrapped her head firmly in my hands—wrench and … snap!—she crumples to the ground.

  I struggle to a stand. Warwick will be here any second.

  I race to the bars. Where are the keys?

  They must still be on the Huntsman guard, the one with Sophos. I push him over, ignoring his cold, vacant eyes, and find them tucked in his waistcoat. I fumble with the ring as blood pounds in my ears. My hand is shaking as I slide the iron key into the lock and turn. It releases with a clunk.