Even if her chance of obtaining Webster’s Guise was looking less feasible by the second.
“Yes, a spy. Scheming for one of the other families,” Mrs. Walker elaborated. The gaslight flickered, making her look even more like a barely preserved corpse than before. She was thin enough that, in her heavy black dress, she resembled a marionette from the sort of Punch and Judy show that ended in a zombie apocalypse. “Weren’t you listening? Personally I suspect you’re working for the Vale family in Leeds. You’ve been seen associating with Peregrine Vale in London. He’s supposed to be estranged from them, but that could be just a cover story. Or maybe I should look more closely at the Read family in Rotherham. I’ve been wondering about them for a while. They’d be delighted to have a spy within my walls.”
Irene had known, in a technical sense, that the north of England had its share of vampires. Vampirism wasn’t actually illegal in this Great Britain, though killing people by draining their blood was still classed as murder. She’d even been aware that this household she was visiting had some vampires in it. But she hadn’t expected quite such a convoluted nest of plotters or network of feuding families.
“Mrs. Walker,” she finally said, “you are completely wrong. I’m not some sort of spy or secret agent, or a minion of your enemies. I’m not involved with your family’s affairs. I just came here to make the exchange.” She indicated her briefcase. “And I have my share of the deal.”
“You’re wasting your time,” Mrs. Walker said. “We don’t have the Webster here, in any case.”
“Then I might as well leave,” Irene said coldly. She made a mental note to find out where they did keep the Webster, and then remove it. Without offering payment this time. She didn’t appreciate being jerked around on the end of a string, even if the bait was books.
Ignoring her statement, Mrs. Walker looked Irene up and down assessingly. “There are ways to bind you into the family, if you know too much. It might be the best option.”
Irene gave in. Sometimes it was easier to play along with conspiracy theorists than convince them they’d got it wrong. “And if, hypothetically, I was to decline this honour?”
“You are in a house full of vampires, several miles out of town, surrounded by countryside, and it isn’t even midnight yet.” Mrs. Walker’s lips curled in a thin smile. “The rain outside is getting worse. No tracks will be found. It’ll be days before anyone even realizes you’re missing.”
“Yes, they’ll probably assume I’ve locked myself away with a good book and didn’t want to be disturbed,” Irene agreed. “Might I ask what makes me particularly suitable as a member of your family? I’d honestly never seen myself in that sort of position.”
It would probably have been more truthful on her part to say No, thank you, not in a million years. Excuse me while I kick the door down and leave. But she was curious.
“You’re intelligent,” Mrs. Walker said. “You’ve proven your abilities—and we can’t allow you to leave now, anyway. You needn’t worry about your job either.”
“Really?” Irene said.
“Of course not. Once you swear loyalty to my family, you’ll be far too compromised to keep up your current job. You can leave it to the colleague with whom you share rooms. Incidentally, where is he?”
“Out of London,” Irene lied. Kai had gone to a family party. And given that he was a dragon—even if he was currently in human form, and working as Irene’s assistant—that party was in an alternate world. It was a relief to know he was out of reach. Mrs. Walker might appreciate an extra hostage in order to persuade Irene.
“I’m honoured to have been, um, invited into the family like this,” she dissembled. “But I have other responsibilities, which I need to discuss with my colleague—”
“Of course. After you’ve sworn an oath of loyalty in our basement chapel,” Mrs. Walker broke in. “And made the usual formal pledge of blood. I wouldn’t want you changing your mind between here and London.”
Awkward. Irene was quite capable of lying, but the “formal pledge of blood” sounded potentially dangerous. Besides, she didn’t want to see what sort of chapel a houseful of vampires had in the basement. “I’d like a few minutes to think,” she said. “It’s a very big decision for a young woman to make.”
Mrs. Walker didn’t look at all convinced, but she did nod. “Yes, Miss Winters. But I’d advise you not to wander around the house on your own. The inhabitants receive their food from the local hospital’s blood depository, but there is such a thing as provocation. Your wrists—” Irene looked at the lacy cuffs of her blouse. “Are what I would call indecently exposed.”
Irene decided to give reason one more try. “Let me ask you to reconsider before this goes any further. Please don’t put us both in a . . . difficult situation.”
“Begging will get you nowhere,” Mrs. Walker said coldly. “I will expect you downstairs in a few minutes. If not, we will be coming to look for you.”
She swept along to the head of the staircase, her watered silk skirts hissing against the thick carpet, then turned to give Irene the sort of measuring look that counted every drop of blood in her veins. “And that includes my husband.”
• • •
Irene watched Mrs. Walker glide down the stairs and considered her dwindling options.
The Webster had been her latest assignment from the Library, and this swap had been the quickest and easiest way to get hold of it. Losing this opportunity was inconvenient, but not disastrous. Her priority now was to get herself safely out of here. She put down her briefcase; it would only be a hindrance to her escape. She’d obtained the copy of the Marlowe play that it contained in an alternate world, where the play was commonplace. So that wasn’t a significant loss.
The portrait they’d been standing beneath seemed to frown at her, its imagined gaze a cold spot on her back. She turned to return the glare. The dim lighting and the picture’s age made it difficult to judge when it had been painted—or, indeed, what the figure was wearing, or even what the features were. There was an impression of swooping brow, beaky nose, dark mantled clothing, and terrifying eyes.
Like everything else in this household, it showed the signs of age. She crossed to the window and dragged back the heavy brocade curtains.
Behind the curtains, in front of the glass, were heavy iron bars.
Irene finally smiled. Cold iron could stop a human. It could seriously inconvenience a Fae. But it was nothing at all to a servant of the Library.
Rain slapped against the window from outside. It was night, it was raining, she was several miles from the nearest town, and she was probably going to be chased cross-country by vampires the moment they realized she’d left the house. And the river Ouse was flooding again—apparently a regular occurrence in these parts—so there wouldn’t be any traffic on the roads.
She should just stick to taking books in the future, rather than trying to make a fair exchange. Quicker, quieter, and less trouble with vampires.
She leaned close to the iron bars, keeping her voice low, and addressed them in the Language. “Iron bars, bend apart quietly, wide enough for me to pass through,” she murmured.
The bars quivered in their sockets for a moment, then slowly curved like warmed wax, dried paint flaking off them to rustle to the floor.
The windows were locked—but again, that wasn’t an issue for the Language. “Windows, unlock and open, as quietly as possible.”
The lock scraped as it released itself, the dry tumblers grating as they fell into the open position, and the hinge rasped as the window swung back.
There was no drainpipe, but the thick ivy running down the side of the house would do.
Irene bundled her skirts round her waist—quite indecently for this time period and culture—and climbed out of the second-floor window. The ivy was sodden wet, making it treacherous. She paused, hanging outside, to murmur,
“Iron bars, resume your former shape; window, close and lock,” before starting to climb down. The longer she had to make her getaway before they realized she was gone, the better.
Half a minute of heart-in-mouth scrambling later, she stepped on something wet and squishy, lost her balance, and sat down in the mud. Rain poured down on her. It was very dark.
The problem, Irene decided as she struggled through abandoned lavender bushes—she could tell by the scent—was that she’d become far too used to having backup. As a Librarian, she shouldn’t expect that. But oh, right this minute it would have been so useful.
Lightning flashed overhead, and thunder rumbled two seconds behind it. Irene listened for pursuit. Hopefully the weather would obscure her trail.
Something called in the darkness behind her. It was a hollow sort of call, somehow lungless, avid, thirsty. Another cry like it answered the first one, farther off. The hunt was up, and she was the quarry.
Rain soaked through her pinned-up hair and dribbled over her face, ran down her jacket and skirt, and did its best to get into her boots. North to a probably empty road, or south to a swollen river and more fields?
Right now the river was the fastest means of transport around. Her research on the house had mentioned a boathouse . . .
A convenient flash of lightning showed her a shed-like building, positioned on what would have been the riverbank. It was now a foot underwater.
It also showed her a dark shape crouched between it and her. “You’re not leaving,” Mr. Harper snarled, drawing himself up to his full height.
“Get out of my way,” Irene shouted, angry now, raising her voice to be heard over the wind. “I’m declining Mrs. Walker’s request.”
“I don’t think so.” The water trickled down the vampire’s long bony fingers and dripped from his nails, and his eyes glowed like coals as he gazed at her. “I don’t think so, Miss—”
“Earth, open and seize his feet and ankles, and hold him fast,” Irene ordered. “Boathouse door, unlock and open!”
The muddy ground beneath Mr. Harper’s feet gaped like animate jaws, and Irene felt the Language draw energy from her as the world adjusted itself to her words. As Mr. Harper sank shin-deep into the mud, she dodged past his furious grasp.
The boathouse opened onto the river, and there was just enough light to see by. Rowboats previously dry-docked on rails now balanced just a few inches above the shimmering flood-waters. Irene splashed towards the closest one.
Behind her, outside, Mr. Harper called, “She’s here! She’s here!”
A good solid shove had a boat off its rails and into the water. Irene grabbed an oar and clambered in, just as Mr. Harper came staggering through the door.
He grabbed for her. She swung with the oar. It cracked solidly into his chest, sending him staggering backwards. The force of the swing almost tipped her out of the boat as it skidded towards the open river. Then the current caught it.
Shrieks came from the shore. Through the rain and darkness, Irene could make out Mrs. Walker, and other shadows behind her, painted in whites and blacks by the lightning.
“You’ll regret this!” Mrs. Walker screamed after her.
“Enjoy the book!” Irene called cheerfully as the river carried her downstream towards York.
CHAPTER 2
It was nearly midnight when Irene walked into her hotel. Her skirts and boots left a sodden trail on the carpet. She’d expected to have to tip the desk clerk, but he merely shrugged and asked, “Caught in the floods, madam? They can take visitors a little by surprise.”
“It was annoying,” Irene agreed, glad to have a convenient excuse. The river had washed her all the way through the centre of town and out the other side. And then she’d been scolded by a policeman for going pleasure-boating by night during the floods. Explaining wouldn’t have helped, so she’d just looked stupid and apologized before getting directions back to her hotel. “I’ll have to be more careful next time,” she added, and headed towards the lifts.
“Excuse me. Are you Miss Winters?”
Irene’s only excuse for turning, without checking the lobby mirrors to see who was asking, was that she was wet and tired. She’d heard a young female voice, rather than an elderly vampire’s, but it was still rank carelessness for an agent of her experience.
The woman rising from one of the lobby armchairs almost glowed under the ether lamps. Her hair was a rich gold—not the sort of bleached yellow that was considered fashionable at the moment in this alternate world, nor even the ash-blonde shade that looked golden under moonlight, but a heavy warm gold as bright as buttercups. Her dark coat was subtly out of fashion: it was expensive, of good quality, but the collar was cut too high and the waist too low. Her gloves were silk rather than wool or velvet, and the veil pinned to her hat was clearly an afterthought, rather than designed as part of the outfit. But most of all, it was her face that gave her away: its beautiful serenity was unconcerned by what lesser beings might think of her.
She was a dragon in human form.
She began to walk across the lobby towards Irene, as casually as if they already knew each other. The fact that they were representatives of two factions, whose actions could influence the many worlds of the multiverse, seemed a mere afterthought. Her power ran ahead of her, an invisible thrill in the air that Irene could feel against her skin. She wasn’t as dangerous as some dragons Irene had met—but she wasn’t a lightweight either. “I don’t think we’ve met,” the dragon said. “But I’ve been told a little about you.”
“I’m afraid you have the advantage of me, madam,” Irene said politely.
“Well, at least I know what you do for a living.” The woman smiled graciously and extended her hand.
Irene manufactured a smile of her own. She rejected the offered hand. She could sense the other woman’s leashed energy beneath her human appearance, and it made Irene distinctly wary. “I’m so sorry,” Irene said. “I really don’t know who you are or what you want. Under these conditions . . .”
The woman withdrew her hand. For a moment her lips pursed, but she smoothed them into another smile. “That’s very sensible of you. Perhaps we should talk for a bit—I have something important I’d like to ask you. I think this establishment’s bar is still open?” And even if it isn’t, it soon will be, her tone implied.
Irene reminded herself that she didn’t need more enemies. “I’d be delighted to sit down and chat, but perhaps the nearby tea-room might be more welcoming? And if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to change my clothing . . .” She gestured at her dripping skirts. “And if I might ask your name?”
“Of course,” the woman said. Her smile widened a little. “I’m called Jin Zhi.”
• • •
Unfortunately Kai had never mentioned a Jin Zhi. Nor had the grand total of two other dragons (his uncle, Ao Shun, and said uncle’s personal assistant, Li Ming) whom Irene knew personally. And Irene couldn’t get at the Library’s files from here, which meant she had no way of checking up on this Jin Zhi (assuming it was the dragon’s real name) and whether she was dangerous.
It wasn’t as if the Library and the dragons were hostile. They were generally on polite terms, with the worst disagreements being over the ownership of particular texts. But the dragons, representing the forces of order and reality, and the Fae, representing chaos and fiction and unreality, were enemies—constantly and violently so. Irene had wandered into the fringes of that conflict, having a dragon as her personal apprentice and student, and didn’t want to get more involved.
The Library didn’t ally itself with either side. Librarians weren’t supposed to get involved. Being the allies of one side would mean being the enemies of the other side. The Library survived as neutrals; any other position would be far more dangerous.
So why was Jin Zhi here, and how did she know who Irene was? And what did she want from her?
/> Irene changed her clothing and towelled her hair dry as she considered possible implications. She didn’t mind making new friends—allies, whatever—and she had no objection to drinking tea with dragons. Yet if this particular dragon thought Irene was going to follow her orders, or that Irene’s loyalties were for sale, then matters were about to become . . . awkward. And what was this important thing that she wanted to ask Irene about? The words hung in Irene’s mind, more of a threat than a promise.
She sighed. She would just have to go and find out what the dragon wanted. So much for a nice quiet evening with a good book.
• • •
Jin Zhi was waiting for Irene in the tea-room, already seated at a table. She had a small notebook open and was writing something, but when she caught sight of Irene she slipped it into her handbag.
The tea-room was well lit, and its ether lamps glared out onto the dark wet pavement outside. Mirrors faced every wall that wasn’t already set with a window, and the overall impression was one of bright clarity edged with expensive dark wooden flooring. Waiters and waitresses glided silently around in plain white and black clothing, as blank-faced as dolls. Vale had mentioned the restaurant as a place where most of the local spies met up for off-the-record conversation. Vale knew the most interesting facts. It was to do with being London’s greatest detective. What Vale didn’t know, he had absolutely no idea about, but what he did know was usually fascinating.
Irene let the waiter pull out her chair, and sat down opposite Jin Zhi. The two women studied each other across the menu. Again, Irene felt that touch of underlying power. She tried to decide whether she was meant to perceive it and be afraid, or whether Jin Zhi simply lacked practice at keeping it under control.
The Lost Plot Page 2