Lynne Connolly

by The Chemistry Of Evil (Triskelion) (lit)

  Sofie felt she was expected to ask, and she saw no reason not to. “Who?”

  Mrs. Bull’s grin became triumphant. “Arthur. Or Evan.”

  Sofie felt dizzy. Whether it was the after effects of the drug they’d given her or the information she didn’t know. “How can he be? He knows nothing about all this, doesn’t even believe it!”

  “Somewhere inside that delicious body is Arthur. Mordred was imprisoned, to be released when someone blew on that whistle, in the presence of Arthur. Yes, that’s what these runes say.” She tapped the instrument against her lip. “Who else was there? Mordred was incorporeal, but he took the body of your fiancé. Archie died then. Only Mordred remains, and the mechanical parts of the mind he needed to survive. Two spirits cannot exist inside one body.”

  “What?” Sofie concentrated hard. “You mean if you call Arthur you’ll kill Evan?”

  “Precisely.”

  This was becoming more bizarre by the minute.

  “The whistle wouldn’t have worked had Arthur not been there. We’ve looked at the others, and none of them fit. But Evan Howell does. He has power, too. Doesn’t he. Doesn’t he?”

  In an instant Sofie realized what they were doing, why they didn’t just kill her and have done with it. Desperately she sent out a message. Evan, it’s you, they want you! Don’t come, stay away!

  Mrs. Bull watched her, saw the words sink into unresisting space. “No, you won’t send any more messages. That is something we can stop, or at least I can. This room is secure. Lead lined, my dear. Lead defeats everything, and unless I allow it, won’t let anything through.”

  “No!”

  Mrs. Bull circled her, nudging her with her stillettoed shoe. “Did you think we wanted you? Dear me, you must think a great deal of yourself! No, you are merely bait. You have no part in this story, nothing to offer us, except the whistle, which we now have. You would have died, except Arthur will be able to sense it.”

  “I thought you said – “

  “He’s a being like us. He can sense that. He could reach you, if he tries. You cannot reach him, so don’t even try.”

  A trap. She was leading Evan into a trap. And neither of them would escape.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Bull Gallery was closed to the public. While Harry Bent had recourse to his cell phone, calling urgently for back-up, Evan watched Cristos ply his skeleton keys, praying the locks were the old fashioned, mechanical kind.

  They were. The door opened with a silent swing of well-oiled steel hinges, the hush inside a violent contrast to the busy streets. Cristos glanced at Bent, who put his hand over the receiver. “We’ll go in.”

  Bent nodded. “Here.” He drew out his weapon, a serviceable 9-mm pistol and tossed it to Evan. “The clip’s full.” Evan wasn’t allowed to carry firearms, as a condition of his parole. They’d work something out. He shoved it into his back waistband, grimacing at the unfamiliar feel of hard metal. He’d always hated firearms.

  Following Cristos into the gallery he had to give his eyes a moment to get used to the murk. He saw his boss crouched over something at the back of the gallery. Hurrying to his side, he saw a tumble of glossy black hair, wide, sightless dark eyes. Anna. She’d killed her own daughter, or allowed Archie to kill her. There was none of the careful mutilation about her. Either they’d been in a hurry or Anna was a pawn, and worthless. He remembered the sophisticated, yet strangely vulnerable woman and allowed himself a moment of grief. She didn’t deserve this. Very few people did.

  Evan set his mind to the people who richly deserved to die. Anyone who laid hands on his Sofie deserved it, and if they’d hurt her, there would be no doubt in his mind. He had the pistol, and a couple of knives about him. One of them would do the job.

  Cristos straightened up after smoothing the lids over Anna’s dead eyes. She lay on her side, in tumbled disarray. “We need to stay together, but we need to be quick. Can you sense anything?”

  Evan shook his head. Nothing. He couldn’t reach her past that first, frantic cry for help. It was as though she had stopped. He would have felt the void if she was dead. Sofie was so far entrenched into his heart, he’d know if she ceased to be. But she had just – stopped. As though she’d never been there to start with. Perhaps they’d drugged her, sent her into a sleep so deep she wasn’t dreaming.

  He denied the panic that rose, unbidden, into his mind and kept himself open. The moment she stirred he would know.

  Methodically they searched the gallery, looking for a secret opening where Sofie might be concealed. It wasn’t a large building. The gallery itself and an office on the ground floor, living accommodation above. Evan kept the pistol in his hand, but there was no opposition, nothing to impede their search.

  It was like the Mary Celeste, as though the place had been abandoned in mid-life. Cases and bags resided, empty, on the top shelves of wardrobes, a pot of coffee sat warm on the hob. Nothing.

  They went back downstairs and searched the gallery more thoroughly, taking the paintings down from their carefully arranged ‘invisible’ hooks, kicking at the wood floor for a different sound.

  “Ah!”

  Under a painting, one of the gaudy abstracts Evan had noticed on his previous visit, a control panel lurked. A small one, with a keypad. Evan wished for his laptop, but after punching a few buttons Cristos got lucky.

  By the side of the panel, hidden by the spare décor, a door swung silently open. “Shit!” Evan went forward, but Cristos stopped him by raising one arm to impede his progress. “We don’t want it slamming shut behind us.”

  Together they heaved the large reception desk across the floor, heedless of the scraping noise and the raw scratches it left on the expensive floor. Wedging the shorter side in the opening Cristos leapt across it in a rare display of athleticism. Evan followed, and heard the unmistakable sounds of cracking wood. Cristos had been right. The door was primed to close behind them, perhaps after an interval of time. He wondered how long the desk would hold, and decided he didn’t care. Not at the moment, anyway, though it might become important later.

  Stairs led down. Stone steps, surprisingly old looking. And another door. Cristos gripped the handle. It opened easily.

  “Do come in, gentlemen,” Mrs. Bull purred.

  *

  Evan let out a sigh of relief when he saw Sofie, tied up with silk scarves but unhurt. Her mouth was covered by another scarf. Gucci, his mind chanted. He felt her now, felt her mind and her presence. In other circumstances he would have bathed in it, just for the pleasure of her presence. Now there was no time.

  The door closed with a boom he wouldn’t have expected from the look of it, and turning, he saw the reason why. The whole of the chamber was lined in metal, gleaming dully in the light of the overhead fluorescent light. Lead, most likely.

  He’d expected a trap. He drew out a knife and slashed through the scarves, wondering wryly exactly how much in value he’d destroyed with that savage cut. He cut through the gag. “They didn’t want me to call out,” she gasped. “They said lead would stop me communicating any other way.”

  Evan cursed viciously and pulled her into his arms. Only then did he feel a measure of relief. He turned to face the people who had undoubtedly murdered his sister. “Backup’s on its way.”

  Cristos stood perfectly still, and Evan saw why. His weapon, a slim but deadly firearm, was now in the big hands of Archie Hamilton, trained at his head. Evan forced a smile of superiority. “What can you achieve? You can kill us all, but you’ll only die yourselves.”

  “No we won’t. And we don’t want you dead. At least, not all of you. We want you back.”

  Archie gave him a cocky grin, a parody of the one Evan had seen him use when they’d first met. It was only then he realized. “You’re not Archie, are you?”

  Slowly, Archie shook his head. “No. I’m your son, reborn. I’m back, and this time I’ll take what is mine.”

  “And what is yours?”

  “Power.”


  “Enough!” Mrs. Bull stepped between them, holding something small and silver. “Let’s get on with it.”

  She put the whistle to her lips and blew two blasts.

  They echoed through the small room, the shrill shrieks bouncing off the walls. Evan stood perfectly still, holding Sofie close. When he felt her stiffen against him he knew something was happening.

  A stirring in his mind, becoming louder. He turned to Sofie, seeing her face through a mist of blue. “What’s this?” he managed. A wind rushed through the room, stirring not clothes, but minds.

  “They say you’re Arthur. They want to call the sword back, Excalibur, and the only one that can do that is Arthur.”

  It was as though she was shouting down a tunnel at him, her voice came from such a distance. “Excalibur?”

  “It’s the only thing that can kill Mordred and keep him dead. They want it destroyed.”

  “And Arthur has it?” He felt stupid, as though his mind was trying to understand something just beyond its reach.

  The wind abruptly stilled, and Cristos’s voice echoed sharply in the sudden silence. “Fools!”

  It was so unexpected Evan turned to him, and saw Mrs. Bull, eyes wide, staring at him. Her gaze was avid, expectant.

  Then a crack of sound, like thunder, or an explosion, and one wall just – wasn’t there any more. It seemed dissolved into mist, the lead a dull sheen like a sheer curtain. It rent in two and something Evan couldn’t believe stepped through.

  A knight. A knight of old, straight out of Malory. Beardless, with a breastplate dull with dust, but a tall man, nearly seven feet as far as Evan could tell. He bore a sword, an ordinary looking sword until he twisted it in his hand and the gleam of gold showed through the dust of ages.

  A vision? Some sort of mass illusion? The mists clearing from his head Evan saw the knight was staring straight at him, the dark blue eyes as amazed as he must be. “I thought never to see you again, my friend,” the man said in perfect English. “It’s good to see you.”

  Evan bowed his head, and glanced across at Cristos. Still as a rock Cristos stared at him, before breathing, “Arthur.”

  “Maybe,” the man replied. “Or maybe the spirit of him. Someone called me?” His question was almost mild, until he swung around the room and saw Mrs. Bull, her son standing by her side. Even Archie was dwarfed by this man, his sheer presence too much for this small room. “Well? You thought to get this maybe?” He swung the sword in a long arc, sweeping through the hypnotized air with a glittering stirring of dust motes.

  “How is it possible?” she muttered.

  “Still plotting, Morgause?” The man seemed amused. “I hope no one’s come to harm this time, but knowing you, I much fear there has been evil done.” He lowered his weapon until it came to rest, point down, on the floor. “You called me. You should have known better. Where is Merlin? Did you call him, too?” His attention left the woman to roam the room, resting thoughtfully on Cristos before returning to her. “Ah.”

  Evan felt frozen. The visions, the pictures running through his head couldn’t possibly be real. He saw battles, blood, and many men, all weary and ready to rest. A hall full of them, swords by their sides.

  “Enough.” Arthur seemed impatient now. “This is not the time. You called me for your own ends, did you not, not because I was needed? What?” He stood as if listening, great head cocked slightly. “You thought to kill me?”

  “Dear Lord,” Sofie breathed.

  “No, not so,” he said instantly. “Child, you should not be here.” Evan felt warmed when he swung his gaze to him once more. “Best you stay asleep,” he murmured, soft as a kitten’s breath. He paused, and if Evan had not seen him move he would have mistaken him for a statue. “That thing must be destroyed. Mordred will sleep without it, disembodied, as he was before. Morgause will be destroyed with the whistle. I sent Morgan to you, and you killed the vessel that held her, but you did not kill her. You killed others, friends, and tried to prevent their resurrection. You will do this no more. No more, I say.”

  Lifting the sword he swung it with both hands. Evan ducked as the blade swept over his head and, with no lessening of the power of the swing, took Mrs. Bull’s head off. The angle steepened and powered upwards, catching Archie in the same way. Dull thumps sounded when the heads fell to the floor.

  Evan dragged Sofie into the shelter of his body, his only instinct to protect her, to prevent her seeing this terrible thing. He saw Arthur address Cristos who stood, calmly waiting. “It is done. Destroy the pipe. They will not rise again.”

  Cristos nodded, and then did a remarkable thing. Going down on one knee he bowed his head, the silver hairs glinting in the harsh light. “It was good to see you, my lord. Rest well, until you are called.”

  There was no other sound. Evan tucked Sofie into the shelter of his arms, taking deep, dragging breaths. The only sound was the steady, glutinous drip of rapidly congealing blood.

  Chapter Twenty

  There were times better forgotten, and this was one of them. The FBI surged into the tiny room, and took charge. Evan and Sofie did what they were told to do, going to the office to make statements. Sofie lied, and said she’d been drugged into unconsciousness. They took some of her blood and confirmed she’d been drugged, and left her alone. Evan and Cristos were subjected to more rigorous examination. For the hundredth time that day Evan recited his story. Eventually the FBI gave up and led them to the featureless office where Sofie waited for them.

  “What do we do now?”

  Cristos shrugged. “They’ll hush this up as they have many other incidents. You needn’t worry, none of it will come out and you won’t be locked up as mad. Best to let them do what they’ve done before.”

  *

  Sofie hadn’t quite believed it, but when she saw the news bulletin the next day she had to. “The bodies of three people were taken out of this fashionable art gallery today,” the commentator said. This was another sharply suited, beautifully coiffured New York professional, one that reminded her poignantly of Anna. She sat next to Evan on the large sofa, holding on to his hand like grim death. “They were discovered yesterday, after a siege which nearly cost an FBI agent her life, and the life of her CIA boyfriend who went in to negotiate her release.” The commentator paused for effect as two agents came out of the open door of the Bull Gallery. “The first body was the daughter of the owner, Anna Bull, who seems to have been strangled by Dr. Archibald Hamilton, a curator from the Metropolitan Museum. Dr. Hamilton lodged here. The bodies of Mrs. Bull and Dr. Hamilton were in a small cellar below the main floor. There has not yet been a statement but it appears these bodies are connected with the recent series of murders that has shocked the previously unshockable New York.” She paused and spoke to someone off camera, then came back, her eyes sparkling with barely suppressed excitement. “We believe the agent in charge of the case, Assistant Director Bent of the FBI is about to make a statement.”

  She stood aside and Sofie saw her erstwhile boss, standing by the door of the gallery. Newsmen jostled to gain a place at the front of the queue and the camera abruptly switched to one that had managed to get a focus on Harry Bent’s careworn, cynical face. He waited until there was a relative hush. Sofie felt Evan move closer to her, and put his arm around her shoulders.

  “It is with regret that I have to announce the death of Dr. Archibald Hamilton after a siege in which he took hostage one of my agents.” Sofie had never been an agent, but it warmed her to hear Harry describe her so. “Her fiancé, CIA agent Evan Howell, and his boss, Assistant Director Florenz Cristos, called for back up and came to rescue her. They, too, were taken hostage. We were left with no alternative but to attempt a rescue.” He paused while Sofie pondered the new snippet of knowledge she’d just been handed. Bent continued, flatly describing the horrors of the previous day, or those the Bureau felt the public should know. “All three captives were rescued unharmed, but Mrs. Bull, her daughter and Dr. Hamilton were kill
ed in the assault.” He turned as if to go back in the gallery, but was prevented by the expected barrage of questions from the assembled pressmen. “Did this have anything to do with the Symbol Murders?” They’d put a name to them already.

  Bent turned back, his expression giving nothing away. “We have discovered certain items that appear to link Dr. Hamilton to the murders, but it is too early to come to any definite conclusions. When our investigation has ended we’ll let you know.”

  With that tantalizing snippet he did turn and enter the gallery, leaving another agent to close the door firmly behind him.

  Sofie drew breath, pulling it deep into her lungs. “What now?”

  Evan held her firmly in his arms, the only place she felt safe. “They’ll find the evidence they need to put the case to bed. We’ll be called to give the minimum of evidence.”

  “What happened yesterday?” She stared up at him. How had he become so dear to her?

  He smiled as though he could hear her words. Of course he could. That ability hadn’t deserted them. “What do you think happened?”

  “Arthur returned, and destroyed his enemies.” Her lips quirked in a small smile. “How could it?”

  “Stuff happens.” His fond smile melted her heart.

  “They thought you were Arthur.”

  “They were wrong, weren’t they? Thank God. I’m not sure holding the spirit of Arthur inside me would be a comfortable thing to do.” He bent to kiss the tip of her nose. “He seemed to know me though, didn’t he? Do you think I was one of his knights? Lancelot, maybe?”

  Sofie chuckled and reached up to kiss his mouth. “Which makes me Guinevere.”

  He returned the kiss, gently caressing her with lips and tongue before he replied. “I don’t think so. You’re Sofie, and I can’t imagine you being anything else. We’ll be under siege for real if we stay here.”