He scrambled through his own bedroom window and burst into the corridor, picked up his own rifle from the umbrella stand beside the door, and pounded upon the door frame with the butt. The brass fixings sang a high-pitched ditty, and he heard the others burst from their beds throughout the farmhouse.
He called out one word, and it was enough to bring them running: “Malverston!”
Lincoln appeared first, brandishing his old hunting rifle, hair askance in a nest of salt-and-pepper thickets. His eyes were foggy with sleep, but they had all been drilling for attack so long that his body was moving on automatic, taking him away along the corridor at a tactical creep, pressed fast to the wall, finger ready on the trigger, disappearing away toward the roof space.
Agatha and Lucian were next, both fully awake and poised for action, their eyes darting amongst the shadows before looking on James and demanding to know the situation with the strength of their gazes.
“They’re here,” James breathed. Their eyes hardened across the hall from one another, and they slunk back out of sight for a moment before reappearing simultaneously, clad in boots and slickers, .9mm pistols at the ready.
James listened hard, straining against the roar of the background silence, and picked out distant voices outside. They sounded calm enough. He nodded to the others, and they in turn headed off to their own defence posts, vanishing into the stone and hardwood of the house.
Voices outside were growing louder. They should all be in position by now.
Last to appear were the Creeks.
No surprises there, he thought. Then he checked himself. It wasn’t fair to expect too much of them. It was no secret that Helen and Hector weren’t cut out for this world; they needed a little hand-holding. If he hadn’t been sure they needed the cover of an extra gun, he would have preferred they stay out of it.
But things might be about to get ugly, and never mind how jovial Malverston had been last time they had met. The man was sharp, and he’d had time to think—the biggest danger to them of all. He could always have changed his mind about gathering the Old World’s treasures by playing nice.
But why Beth? What could be the purpose of sending her?
His stomach crawled as a thought far worse occurred to him: maybe she had requested it, wheeled her way here, for him. Could she have been so stupid, just to be near him?
He had to think it might be so.
Embarrassment and unreasoning feckless anger burned his cheeks as Hector peered around the door at the end of the hall and caught his eye. James waved him on impatiently, and Hector fawningly dragged his way out in the direction of the library.
Where he won’t get in the way, James thought, fighting a sudden hysterical urge to laugh.
Hector had left the door ajar. James cursed and made to dive back for his own window, but a frightened whimper rippled along the corridor, and he hesitated, gazing at the Creeks’ bedroom door. Cursing the man, he crept along the corridor and peered in, pushing his finger to his lips. He caught sight of Helen upon the bed, doe-eyed, with her arms locked fast around the black shock of hair upon Norman’s head.
The boy looked afraid—an unreasoning kind of fear, aligning with his mother’s trembling. It was obvious he knew nothing of what was going on.
James did his best to inject as much calm and assurance as he could muster into a single nod, ignoring the unbroken, glassy sheen to Helen’s eyes, and closed the door.
He hurried back to his room, slithered out through the window, and returned to the crawlspace beside the stables, the acrid odour of fear crawling into his nostrils, wafting up from the folds under his shirt.
Alex’s voice had grown louder, but was still peaceable enough. He was standing his ground, just where James had left him, that same plastic, diplomatic smile on his face.
The band of mounted Mooners had come to a halt before the first cobbles of the square, lining up along the border between dirt and stone as though they had piled up against a solid wall.
James took a moment to pick out the others in their hiding places: Lincoln in the roof space just below the thatch-line, Lucian in the recess in the floor leading to the cellar, and Agatha amongst the water tank’s maze of pipes. Then he took a steadying breath, settling down to listen.
“What difference does it make if we’re early?” the closest of the Mooners bawled. He had a nasal, simpering voice; James guessed from having his nose broken a few times, probably from being such a greasy little worm.
He pulled a wide smile that was more like a silent snarl, showing a mouthful of yellow misaligned teeth.
“No problem, traveller,” Alex called. “You surprised us is all. Surely you know we can’t have just anyone approach our home without raising the alarm.”
“Don’t think me a fool, Cain. I see the guns pointed at us. I see them well.”
Alex was unperturbed. “Just as I see the revolver you have under your duffel there, traveller.” He let that sit for a moment, and James was satisfied to see the sneer drop from the man’s face. Then Alex said, “What do you say we get a little friendlier?”
The gathering of Mooners shifted upon their mounts, each puckered face squinting at the golden-haired man, calm as a monk before them, so effortlessly in command of the situation.
“Come now, surely Mayor Malverston would hate to hear our first meeting ended with any unpleasantness.”
“We’re here to learn, Cain. Learn the Old Ways. But don’t think for a second any one of us wants anything to do with you or your ilk,” the lead rider said, sneering.
Not the most diplomatic right-hand man.
This idiot was bound to start a firefight wherever he went.
Something of what Alex had said before came back to him now: Malverston was a cruel and greedy man, but Newquay’s Moon could have had far worse. Swathes of towns in the North that otherwise might have flourished had met sticky ends because of a handful of barbaric leaders. And it seemed that amongst Malverston’s inner circle of slithering serpents, there was no shortage of would-be tyrants.
What had Alex agreed to? They were getting involved in a situation that could get bad fast. When Malverston met his end—and he would, soon—these were the men who would fight over his corpse. And the worst part of it was that none of them were the kind to fight tooth and nail; that would have been over in seconds, and a single victor would emerge to claim his prize, if only to play King of the Hill.
But these men were of the weasel variety, pale-faced and insidious. Their battle would be one of backhanded politics, multi-layered schemes, and subterfuge. In their bid for power, these men would poison that quaint little town like an oil slick poured over an ocean reef.
“To learn the Old Ways you’ll need a civil tongue for starters. Any leader worth his salt doesn’t ride up to an ally’s—nay, a teacher’s—home with a loaded gun pointed at him. I’m sure you’re not one of those people, are you, traveller?”
That sneer appeared on the pallid rider’s face once more, but it was faded now, on the brink of embarrassed anger. He was quiet a moment, then a barely-audible click rang out from under his duffel, and he relaxed back a tad in his saddle. “Renner,” he said.
Alex nodded. “Mr Renner, it’s a pleasure to receive the scholars of Newquay’s Moon. If you’ll dismount and follow me, we’ll get you settled.”
All was silent for an absurd, awkward stretch. James momentarily wondered whether everyone would start shooting then, and the courtyard would vanish in a hail of shrapnel. His finger tightened on the trigger, and a single rivulet of sweat danced down the groove of his spine.
Then Renner slithered down from his mount, waxen face tight and ugly. He stepped out on to the cobbles and extended his hand. James was sure he could see a slick of dark slimy something clinging to his fingers, even from this far away.
Alex nodded, that same plastic smile on his lips even now, and took the hand in his.
Renner flicked his head, and the other riders trotted forward into the courtyard, eyeing the pl
ace as though it were a gold mine ripe for the plundering, their piggy eyes eating up every detail with predatory relish.
James took a deep breath and, though it felt wrong, eased the safety catch back on his rifle, and stepped out slowly from the crawlspace. None of them expressed surprise at his appearance, and he made a note not to underestimate them. Seconds later, Lucian, Agatha, Lincoln, and Hector made their appearances, and in moments they were all united in the middle of the courtyard.
He tried not to focus on Beth, and she in turn was making a noble effort to ignore his existence. Keeping his face rigid and eyes devoid of emotion, standing in line with the others, he gestured toward the stables.
A medley of emotions raved in his guts. On one hand, his escape to Radden had been foiled, and a bizarre sickening itch in his legs was begging for him to break away and sprint for the fences. On the other, there was this whole mess Alex had gotten them into. On any other day, the snivelling group of men would have brought his stomach out in blooms of butterflies all on its own. He wasn’t fooled by the peace talks; these men were bile-spawn.
Then there was Beth. She was here, really here—now, amongst everything else. It was too much. The idea of her getting caught up in any of it, of her being hurt, was too much to bear. And the fact that he sincerely had to resist the urge to run the other way for the sake of some vision hurt the most of all.
He suppressed a tired sigh, one not of physical exhaustion, but a soul sigh.
Why did things always have to go to hell together?
Once the Mooners had disappeared into the stables, and Lucian had gone to stand watch over them, Agatha, Lincoln and Alex all ducked their heads together.
“Anything sensitive, anything valuable, anything we don’t want them seeing—hide it!” Alex hissed.
The other two, each twenty years his senior, nodded without hesitation and made haste towards the farmhouse. Alex was left standing with a hand buried in his beard, fingers stroking and pulling at knotted strands. He spotted James, and his eyes flickered. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’ll have to wait.”
James nodded. He couldn’t muster the energy for anything else, not even a scowl. His face felt as if it had turned to stone.
He slouched back toward the house, slinging his rifle up onto his shoulder. He didn’t see the boy until he had almost stepped on him, lurking in the shadows.
Norman had been standing in the doorway, clutching the frame with both hands, watching owl-eyed as the stoop-backed sallow men loped past one by one. Now he fixed his gaze on James and whispered timidly, “Does this mean I can get teached too, now?”
*
The Mooners had made themselves at home and were lounging on the benches of the kitchen table by the time James was done helping Agatha and Lincoln. Between them, they had successfully hidden every scrap of paper, every weapon, every map and shred of the Old World under their roof. All of it was pushed under floorboards, behind cupboards and into crannies in the cellar; anywhere the sly serpents wouldn’t be able to get their grimy hands on it.
They were honour bound to teach these men the very knowledge they had hidden, in time. But they would do it in their own way, and they would do it slowly. With luck, they could do it slow enough to keep from teaching them much of anything at all before Malverston’s time came to an end.
Then this sham of a school could end, and the scrabble for power could be allowed to play out. Then, finally, they might just get what they had wanted in the first place—free reign to carry out the mission’s work in the South-West without fear of the noose.
Lincoln and Agatha cornered him in the cellar, and in harsh whispers he laid everything out straight.
“What’s going on with you and Alex?” Lincoln said. “Come on, now, lad, there’s no sense hiding what’s in plain sight.”
“He’s not hiding anything,” Agatha hissed. “He was going. North.” She turned her gaze upon him, glazed with the thinness of coming old age, and sighed. “Radden?”
He nodded, his throat too tight to form words.
The two of them looked at each other. A bolt of concern passed between their eyes. There was no mistaking it; they thought he was crazy.
Hell, who wouldn’t? He would have thought the same if the roles had been reversed.
“Listen,” he said. “You have to hold things together here while we’re gone.”
Lincoln laughed. “Hah! Surely you’re not still going, boy?”
James said nothing, waiting until both their faces had grown graver still, then become incredulous.
“I have to,” he said. There was nothing to add. He had no more to give.
It was that simple.
And, to their eternal credit, they both started nodding. The incredulity had faded to something altogether deeper, as though they had both remembered something—or, rather, admitted something to themselves that they had buried long ago.
“Well,” Lincoln spat with a haggard sigh, “s’pose it was always going to be you. Always were different. Just fits that you’re the one to get some crazy spirit call.”
James swallowed. In truth, he would have liked either one of them to lunge forward and seize him, to rain parental scorn down upon him and forbid him from going, to save him from this madness. But instead, they both nodded quietly, over and over, until finally they went back to their work in silence.
Lucian accepted it without a trace of resistance at all, just gave the usual grunt, and muttered in resigned agitation, “Just another day in the life of the Chosen One.” He spared a moment to lay a hand on his shoulder, and leaned close enough for their foreheads to touch, even though they were alone, as though he were afraid of his sentimentality being overheard, and muttered, “Be careful.”
After that, he needed only to make a moment’s eye contact with Alex in the corridor. It was settled. They would turn tail, and ride north, away from the very thing that would decide the future of their life’s work in pursuit of a vision.
Vision.
Urgh. Even the word made him feel fake. It was thin, absurd. It was just too crazy.
But that didn’t change a damn thing. He had to go.
Now, standing in the kitchen among the wolves who had entered their den, the strange itch in his legs was no fainter. He was being called, and it was time to go. Even if it meant hating himself for evermore.
The men talked constantly, bickering and hissing at one another, forming ever-shifting tenuous alliances, double-crossing without a moment’s notice. Each face was twisted by a malice not born of hardship or loss or sorrow, but of an inner ugliness—the kind that made every bit of them seem green and translucent and sticky, clean-shaven and decked out in finery befitting Malverston’s inner circle.
Sitting to one side, staring ahead at the wall and sipping from a cup of water as though she were the only person in the room, was Beth. She didn’t clock James as he entered from the hallway, but he knew she had seen him, sensed a tightness grow about her, some inaudible buzz hanging over her head.
For a moment he was paralysed by fear and anger and bewildered helplessness, then he noticed that all of the men, especially Renner, were staring at him with slanted eyes.
Mustering every shred of energy left in him, he clapped his hands together and addressed the room. “If you’d like to follow me this way, we’ll get you all set up!”
“We’re waitin’ on your woman to fix a brew,” one of them drawled, casting a calloused talon in the direction of the stove, where Helen was clutching the sideboard as though it alone was keeping the men from devouring her. Her eyes watched the kettle as though begging it to boil faster.
“They’ll be time for that later,” James said, squashing a swell of hatred. “We’d like to get started as soon as possible.”
Grumbling, but canny enough not to be seen to be unwilling, they all followed him to Alex’s classroom.
Before leaving the kitchen, Renner took a moment to halt the group and turn to Beth, grumbling down at her as though
she were a whipped dog. “Stay, girly,” he said, a sick glint in his eye. “We’ll be back for you later.”
“S’right,” said the man directly to his right. “Back for you all night. Maybe you’ll get lucky and we’ll all give you a little attention.”
They all roared with laughter and filed into the corridor.
James stood frozen on the threshold. What he felt was beyond anger. The look on Beth’s face, stony and resigned, was enough to convince him that she hadn’t volunteered for this. Far from it. He couldn’t tell what the reason was, but he knew it was something far worse than that.
Her veil broke for a single instant in which her eyes flicked to his, and it was enough to solidify a single unbreakable certainty.
Before all this was over, he was going to strangle the life from each and every one of those men.
He ached to swoop down on her, to take her into his arms and shield her from their hungry stares. But now wasn’t the time; not now, not in front of either Malverston’s men, or the others. For now, at least, their secret was secure, and with that came at least some semblance of safety.
If they didn’t know they were involved, at least they couldn’t use her as leverage against him.
Through sheer force of will, he turned away from her and followed the procession of men into the corridor, leaving Beth alone with Helen in the kitchen.
They reached the classroom, which was large but still nowhere near fit to accommodate a dozen grown men. The men each sneered visibly, as though they had caught their hosts out in some act of great incompetence. In short order they were seated on the floor, cross-legged like infants, staring up and waiting in silence for the lessons to begin.
James was pleased that neither Lucian nor Lincoln was visible, though they were both hiding only inches out of sight beyond the window, weapons at the ready. At the slightest sign of trouble, all dozen men would be lying in a heap on the floor.
Agatha was ready at the blackboard and was about to begin when Renner spat, “What’s this old biddy doing, staindin’ up there like she’s Queen of the Hill?”
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