Rebellion baf-2

by Lou Morgan

  Kim scurried after her employer, weaving between bodies and trying to keep the back of Forfax’s head in sight. His oiled hair gleamed under the spotlights as they passed the dancers, heading for a narrow black door to the side of the stage marked ‘EMPLOYEES ONLY – STRICTLY NO ADMITTANCE.’ He punched a code into the numerical lock and kicked the door open, not bothering to check whether she was behind him. She lunged for the opening, just managing to get the toe of her shoe into the gap before the door swung shut. Something in her foot went crunch, but there wasn’t time to worry about it. Forfax was walking; and when Forfax walked, you followed.

  Behind the door lay a warren of passageways and storage areas, most of them hardly used. Back here, everything smelt damp and green, and stains crawled along the walls. The wiring had corroded in more places than it hadn’t, and rats scuttled along the corridor alongside her as she fought to keep the tray steady. The sound of their claws on the floor made her shudder.

  The footsteps ahead of her had stopped, and Kim almost dropped the tray as Forfax’s face loomed out of the darkness at her. “Is there a problem?” he asked, his pointed nose and pale skin making him look almost vampiric in the gloom.

  “No,” she said, her voice sounding small.

  “Good. I don’t want to keep him waiting.” And with that, he turned again and was off, whistling as he walked, his cane tap-tap-tapping on the bare concrete.

  Kim decided to hand in her notice tomorrow.

  Many twists, turns and rats later, the corridor came to an end at a doorway hung with a plastic strip curtain. The broad strips slapped at her bare shoulders as she pushed through them after him. She had never been this far behind the bar: the furthest she’d ever had to go, the furthest she’d ever been allowed to go, was to the storeroom where they kept the bottles. She hadn’t even known all this was back here, and the slightly sick feeling in the pit of her stomach suggested that might not have been such a bad thing.

  Striding ahead, Forfax was making his way through some sort of warehouse. Wooden crates and pallets were stacked ten feet high, towering above her head, and soon she had lost sight of her boss and could do little more than blindly follow the sound of his whistle through the maze.

  She emerged from the walls of crates to a scene which could only be described as ‘unexpected.’ The space opened up, the ceiling disappearing into the dark, and from somewhere high above came the sound of shuffling feathers and cooing pigeons. Directly in front of her were two high-backed leather armchairs, placed with their backs to her, and between them a small wooden table. There was also a standard lamp with an old-fashioned tasselled shade, which was lit, although she could quite clearly see the plug lying loose on the concrete.

  Seeing that Kim had stopped, Forfax snapped his fingers again and she hurried forward, carrying the tray as steadily as she could; picking her way between pigeon droppings and what looked like puddles of oil, seeping from the crates dotted around the floor.

  There was another man standing beside Forfax, his arms folded in front of him: he was dressed entirely in black, nowhere near as expensively as Forfax in his tuxedo, but there was something very deliberate about the way he was dressed, with the sleeves of his coat bunched up about his elbows, leaving his forearms bare and a bright white band visible around the skin of his wrist. At first, she thought it odd that anyone would be wearing a coat like that so late in the spring, but as the gap between them narrowed, she felt the chill in the air around her and saw her breath misting in front of her.

  The man in the black coat was watching her. He said nothing, his face all but expressionless as she drew closer. And then suddenly, he leaned forward to speak to someone in one of the chairs. From her position she couldn’t see them; the back of the chair was too high. The man in the black coat’s eyes flicked back up to her, and he nodded once, then straightened. Forfax simply pointed to the table.

  She set the tray down and every fibre of her being told her not to look at the occupant of the chair. So she didn’t. She lined up the three glasses, side by side, and opened the bottle with trembling hands, pouring the contents as carefully as she could. She could feel their eyes on her the whole time: all of them. Forfax nodded towards the chair, and she glanced up to see a hand extended towards her. She stared at it. It stayed there. Waiting. Around the wrist there was the same white band that she had seen on the man with the coat. It reminded her of something... horses, perhaps. Her uncle had bred horses, years ago. He had marked them, hadn’t he? With a brand.

  Forfax sighed loudly and snapped his fingers again, and Kim realised that she was supposed to be putting a glass into the hand. So she did. Her own hand shook so violently that she almost spilled the drink, but she took a deep breath and steadied her grip, passing the glass safely to the occupant of the chair.

  The hand’s fingers curled around the glass, removing it from her grasp. And as they did, she was startled to see the surface of the glass frost over, feathers of ice creeping out from beneath each of the fingers.

  “Thank you,” said a silky voice from the chair; one which was used to being obeyed. “That will be all.”

  This was not directed at her, she realised, but at the man with the coat, who nodded to Forfax.

  Forfax, in turn, handed the other man his cane before beckoning her to come closer. She backed away from the table and the chairs and the odd lamp and the voice, and turned towards her employer, who was impatiently tapping his cane against the side of his foot.

  “Is there anything else?” Kim asked, hoping more and more that she could get out of the warehouse and back to the relative comfort of the bar.

  That’s if she could find her way back...

  Forfax looked her up and down.

  “I have no further need of you,” he muttered, and before she had completely registered what he said, he had clamped his hand down on her shoulder and was pulling her alongside him. She lost her balance, but it didn’t seem to matter: he wound his hand into her hair and pulled. The pain brought tears to her eyes and she threw her hands up to grab hold of his wrist. The man in the coat smirked as she was dragged kicking past him, past the chair, whose occupant leaned forward and smiled at her with bright red eyes that glowed... dragged screaming and uncomprehending across the floor.

  She was still trying to process the face of the man in the chair with the eyes like hot coals, but then she was falling. Falling, and landing hard. The world went bright white, then red, then grey... slowly fading out.

  LUCIFER DRAINED HIS glass as Forfax settled in the chair beside him.

  “I shouldn’t have to come to you, Forfax.”

  “I understand. It won’t happen again.”

  “When I ask you to keep me updated, remember, I’m not asking.” He held out his hand for another drink, and Rimmon refilled his glass. Apparently satisfied, he sat back in the chair. “Make the move. And this time, keep – me – updated,” he said, and turned his attention to the crumpled form of the semi-conscious woman on the floor of the pit below. Something moved in the shadows at the base of the walls.

  Something growled.

  “Fifty says she doesn’t last five minutes,” he said, holding a folded note out to Forfax.

  And as the growling grew louder, he smiled.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Sub Rosa

  “FRANCE?” ALICE WAS well aware that her voice sounded an octave higher than usual. She thought it was pretty justified, given the circumstances.

  “France,” said Mallory, tapping his finger on the map.

  “You have got to be kidding me.”

  “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

  He very much didn’t. Not even slightly. Blowing out a deep breath, she looked from Mallory to the map, and back to Mallory. “But France? Really?”

  “Can’t you just picture Michael in a nice little beret?”

  “Stop it.”

  “Sorry.” Mallory was still tapping his finger on the map, slightly absentmindedly. Alice kept on starin
g at it.

  When they had said Michael had a fortress, she believed them. When they had said it wasn’t exactly discreet, she had raised an eyebrow. When they had said that actually, Michael was hiding in plain sight of several million people who passed by each year, she had laughed.

  Until Mallory had finally lost his temper and slapped a crumpled map on the table, jabbing at a spot on the coastline of northern France. “There. Believe me now?”

  He was pointing at Mont Saint-Michel.

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Not ridiculous. Clever.” He squinted at the map some more. “It’s Michael all over.”

  “So, what, he’s just hanging out there? Getting photos with the tourists?”

  “Not exactly. Well. The photos part, maybe. You know what he’s like...” The twinkle in Mallory’s eyes suggested he might not be entirely serious.

  It was just as well: Alice had had about as much serious as she could take. Castor had left Pollux in charge of Xaphan and Florence and had taken up a sentry post by the door, while Vin had sloped back into the sacristy and perched on the narrow cupboard beside the sink, with a face like thunder. He was angry: she could feel it. Angry with himself, angry with Florence. Angry with just about everybody. But there was more than anger there: there was guilt, too. So much of it. She was about to go over to him, but Mallory’s eyes grew serious again and he shook his head.

  “Leave him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he needs time.”

  “Is he alright?”

  “No. But he will be. He’s been through worse. He just needs to get his head straight.”

  “He looks...”

  “He looks like he’s trying to work out what he did wrong. And rightly so.”

  “What?”

  “You know how this works, Alice. It’s Vin’s choices which have put him – us – here.”

  “And it’s my choice not to leave him to deal with this alone.”

  “And that’s a good choice. A kind choice. But it’s not the right one.” He met her gaze and held it, and he looked sad. Sadder than she’d seen him.

  “You know something, don’t you? Something’s going to happen...”

  “I have my suspicions. That’s all they are, though: suspicions. I think Michael’s planning on doing something with Lucifer – something monumentally stupid – but I don’t know for sure. I don’t know, and I don’t like it.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “Well, the first thing we should do is nothing. We’ve got more important things to worry about than a half-born – no offence, but you see what I mean.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Do you know what’s happening? Out there?” Mallory sat forward.

  “War.”

  “Wh... Yes, actually.” Mallory looked taken aback. “That’s exactly what’s happening. We’ve got riots... everywhere. And I do mean everywhere. The things I’ve seen, Alice. Cults to the Fallen, cults to angels. Angels! Riots, murder... There are people walling themselves into their houses. They’d rather starve to death than face... this.” He waved a hand at the door. “And it’s only going to get worse. They’re in control now. It’s their game board.”

  “Only the beginning...” Alice whispered, and Mallory frowned at her. She cleared her head. “Xaphan. He said that to me. In the street.”

  “Oh, he knows something. Which is why he’s coming with us to see Michael.”

  “But what if he does something?”

  “He wouldn’t be Xaph if he didn’t try.” He lowered his voice, keeping one eye on Vin across the room. “If there’s anyone we need to watch right now, it’s Florence. The Fallen have lost hell: there’s nowhere for them to run to. They’re stranded, and they die a lot more easily than they’d like. But Florence... she’s not branded. That tricky little gift of hers is still active and she’s used it against us before. All of us,” he added, seeing Alice’s discomfort.

  She didn’t like the way he was talking. Everything sounded far too serious again, far too bleak. Far too dark. Even Vin, who was normally the most light-hearted of them all, seemed like someone else. “Things really have changed, haven’t they?” she asked Mallory.

  He half-smiled at her. “Only on the outside. Vin’s still Vin. He’s just learning that everything has consequences.”

  “Like you did?”

  “Me? Oh, you know me. The consequences are always the best part.” He spun his gun around the palm of his hand.

  Standing up, he stretched and raised his voice again. “What we need to do now is work out how we’re going to get to Mont Saint-Michel without Michael handing our arses to us on a plate first. I can’t imagine he’ll be pleased to see us; particularly not if he’s planning what I think he is. And if he’s got his pit-bull with him...”

  “Zadkiel?”

  “Zadkiel. I doubt we’re among his favourites, either, and that’s doubly true of Vin and Florence.”

  “He didn’t seem that bad to me...” Alice began, but tailed off. He had made a street full of people forget what they had seen. He had hidden an army of angels using nothing more than his will. He might not have seemed bad, exactly, but she didn’t want to see him when he lost his temper.

  “Zadkiel won’t be a problem,” said Castor from the doorway. “Leave him to me.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Mallory, fixing Castor with a steely gaze.

  Castor cracked a cryptic smile. “I know where he’ll be looking.”

  “Then that’s settled. We go, we hope Michael’s in a mood to listen, we cross our fingers and pray we come back out in the same number of pieces we went in.”

  “And if Michael’s not in a mood to listen...?” asked Alice. She knew what was coming.

  “Then you have to convince him, Alice. You’re the only one who’ll stand a chance. The last thing we need right now is him thinking we’re part of the problem.”

  For a moment, Alice felt like she was looking down on them from somewhere above herself. She could see herself on the sofa, Mallory standing beside her, Vin still sitting glumly beside the sink and Castor leaning in the doorway. Her stomach felt heavy, as though she had swallowed a handful of stones, and everything was wrong.

  “Are they going to be trouble?” Mallory meant Xaphan and Florence, and although he sounded calm enough, there was an edge to his voice that Alice didn’t like.

  “Relax,” said Castor. “They’re waiting in the confessionals. I thought it might be an idea to separate them while we secured them properly. Pollux is handling it.”

  “It might help with her, but the only thing that’s going to help with Xaph is if we separate his head from his neck.”

  “I’m surprised you haven’t.”

  “So am I.” Mallory sighed. “But, you know. Big picture. Besides, I don’t think it’s me he’s got to worry about.” He jerked his thumb towards Alice, who did her best to look offended. “I think I should probably go and give Pollux a hand. Not that I have any idea why I’m going along with this...”

  “I want to speak to Florence before we go. Alone.” Alice said. She saw both Vin and Mallory tense, and held up her hands. “I’ll be nice. I promise.”

  “You’d better be. And Alice? That temper of yours. Put a lid on it, you hear me?”

  “Is that an order, Mallory?”

  “You bet your life it is. If we’re going to get into this insanity, we’re going to do it right.”

  ACROSS THE CHURCH from the sacristy, a row of wooden booths stood against the wall. Built from dark, stained wood, they resembled glorified cupboards with ornate patterns cut into the doors and brass grilles fitted in their sides. Each booth was divided in two by a screen, with a small seat built into each side.

  Xaphan was sitting in the first booth, where Pollux was locking what looked alarmingly like a collar around his neck – and attached to it was a chain. The chain trailed along the ground outside the booth before finally tracking back up to Pollux’s hand, where it finished;
wrapped around his fist. At regular intervals, the links of the chain were punctuated by what looked like large metal beads.

  Xaphan must have heard her; as she passed, he tipped his head forward and looked at her, holding up his wrists to Pollux.

  “Don’t look so sour, Alice. Haven’t you always wanted to see me in chains?” he said, licking his lips. Alice stopped, trying to think of a smart answer – and he lunged forward, trying to loop his chain around her neck. She darted back as Xaphan was jerked back into his seat: yet another chain fastened the collar to the back of the booth.

  “No you don’t. Not again.” Her throat throbbed at the sudden movement, but it was worth it. She could see the frustration in his eyes, and that was all she could see. No Lucifer. Not this time.

  He raised his chained hands and slid a finger underneath the collar, rubbing at the skin of his neck.

  “Oh, did that hurt?” asked Alice. He glared at her, but said nothing. “Good.” She turned and walked away, leaving him with his guard.

  There were two other booths in the row, their backs to the wall of the church. The middle one was empty, but Florence had been restrained in the furthest. Pollux had secured her first, presumably thinking she was less likely to misbehave... particularly once she was separated from Xaphan. From this angle, the screen dividing the two halves of the confessional hid everything but her feet.

  Alice took a deep breath. The air tasted of dust, of incense and ever so slightly of damp. And then she stepped into the other side of the booth and sat down.

  Through the screen, she saw Florence twitch.

  “Why d’you do it?” Alice asked.

  “Alice...”

  “It’s a simple question. And don’t pretend you weren’t expecting it.”

  “Because.”

  “Because what, exactly?”

  “Because I love him.” There was more than a hint of defiance in Florence’s voice.

  “He’s one of the Fallen, Florence. The only person he loves is himself.”