Sixty-One Nails cotf-1

by Mike Shevdon

  "But you can make me believe whatever you want."

  "The further it gets from reality, the harder it becomes. Small changes are easy. That is what glamour does. It alters the perceptions of those around us to make them see us differently. It makes them perceive us as we want to be perceived. What I do is an extension to that, but it is fundamentally the same."

  "So how do I know I'm not dreaming?"

  "You don't. None of us ever do. All that we see or seem–"

  "Shakespeare?"

  "He knew what he was talking about. Everyone creates their own reality, Niall. It's just that the Feyre are better at it."

  The lift jerked and shook and then halted, the doors sliding open on a hallway.

  She strolled out, her power sweeping before her, making us unremarkable. It was late and all the visitors were gone for the night, but the nurses and medical staff didn't look at us twice. There were porters with trolleys and cleaners polishing the floors. None of them gave us a second glance.

  At a hallway junction, a lone police officer watched where the three corridors converged. Blackbird smiled at him as we passed and he nodded distractedly in acknowledgment. The way he casually glanced away told me he wouldn't have any recollection of our passing.

  The hospital had helpfully numbered all of the rooms, so finding suite four fifty-two was just a matter of following the sequence until we reached our goal. When the numbers came close it was obvious we had found it, because of the two policemen hanging around the nursing station at the junction where the corridor to the private suites branched off from the main walkway. They were engaged in casual conversation with the medical staff, but instead of facing the people they were talking to, they watched the corridors.

  These officers were more vigilant, since the one facing us was taking notice of our approach. As we came nearer, though, a breeze sprang out of nowhere, flipping papers from the desk and strewing them around. The officer went to hold down a pile of sheets next to him only to have them whirl up around him. In a moment, they were all engaged in trying to hold down the flying sheets. We walked on past and I waited for one of them to call us back, but no one did.

  "You could get anywhere like that," I told her. "You could steal the crown jewels or raid the Bank of England."

  "And why," she asked me, "would I want to do that?"

  "But you could have anything you wanted."

  She turned in front of me and brought me to a halt, her hand resting on my chest. The numbers on the doors showed we were close, now.

  She looked up into my face. "I have what I need, Niall, and I don't want for much more than that. The things I do want, though, can't be bought or stolen. They must be given freely."

  For a moment there was something in her eyes that reminded me of the conversation we'd had over breakfast that morning and, for once, it was she who looked away.

  "Blackbird?" I asked. "What are we going to do?"

  She chose to interpret my question in the immediate, rather than the general sense.

  "We're going to find the Remembrancer and see if we can help. What else can we do?"

  She turned back to the doors and counted down the numbers towards room four fifty-two.

  When I realised she wasn't going to wait for me, I followed.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Blackbird led the way down the corridor towards the suite that held the Queen's Remembrancer. She stopped at a door half-glazed with frosted glass.

  "Here it is."

  She turned the knob and eased the door open, peeking around the jamb, and then opened it more fully to allow us both into the room.

  There was a white-framed hospital bed, head against one wall. A heart monitor sat silent on the far side, a jagged green line tracing the pulse of the man on the bed. He looked sallow, eyes closed, the lines on his face etched into the skin. Beside the bed, a thin young woman with tied back auburn hair looked as if she'd been startled awake by our entrance. She pushed loose strands of hair back from her face in an unconscious gesture. Another woman, sitting with her back to us, much older than the first, turned to us, her worried expression turning to mistrust when she realised we were not medical staff.

  She stood up. "Can I help you?" She glanced from Blackbird to me.

  Her hair was grey, but her fair skin and the way she brushed her hair from her cheek spoke of the close relationship between her and the younger woman. They had the same thin-boned frame that left the tendons stark on the backs of their hands, the same carved cheek-bones leaving no doubt that they were mother and daughter. She had the determined look of a woman who would do something, if only she knew what to do.

  "We're looking for Claire," said Blackbird.

  "She's just stepped out for a moment. She went to meet someone."

  "She was expecting us," Blackbird confirmed. "Do you mind if we wait for her?"

  The hardening of her mouth and the slight stiffening of the shoulders said she did.

  "There's a rest room across the hall," she said. "You can wait there."

  "Has there been any change?" Blackbird asked.

  "My husband is seriously ill." She emphasised the word "husband", confirming her place at his side and our place away from it.

  Blackbird started to move towards the bed, but she stepped in front of her. "I think you had better wait outside," she said firmly.

  Voices from the corridor distracted them both and there was movement outside. I stepped sideways, out of the way of the door, as vague outlines appeared on the other side of the glass.

  Claire's voice was clear, speaking to a companion.

  "…doesn't work like that. They'll come when they're ready and not before," a male voice replied in low tones as she pushed the door open, still looking back at the person in the corridor.

  "They're not that sort of people–" She came to a halt at the sight of us standing in the room.

  "What's the matter?" The male voice in the corridor was joined by a face over Claire's shoulder. The ruffled sandy hair over grey eyes regarded us with suspicion. "Who the hell are you?"

  Claire pushed into the room, followed by the man.

  "How did you get in here?" he asked, looking at Blackbird and me, then glancing back towards the corridor. "Elizabeth, are you OK?" he asked the woman standing in front of the bed. She nodded.

  "They said they were friends of yours," she said to Claire.

  "How did you…?" Claire trailed off, glancing back at the man in the doorway. Then she stepped sideways, taking his sleeve and drawing him into the room so she could push the door closed behind him.

  Blackbird and I moved away from the door to give them some room. It was getting crowded.

  "Claire? Who are these people?" Elizabeth wanted an explanation.

  "And how did they get in here?" the man asked.

  Claire took a deep breath. "These are the people I told you about, the ones we were to meet downstairs."

  "There are two men at the end of the corridor that are supposed to be turning visitors away," he said. "What? They just walked past them?"

  "It's not their fault," said Claire.

  "Of course it's their fault," he blustered. "They'll get their ears bent for this, I can tell you."

  "We came to see if we could help," Blackbird said quietly.

  "The doctors are already doing everything possible," Elizabeth told her. "There's nothing anyone can do except wait."

  The younger woman, who had been watching this exchange, took the limp hand of the man on the bed in hers, watching her mother.

  "Perhaps I could take a look at him?" Blackbird suggested.

  "As I said," Elizabeth spoke more firmly, "the doctors are doing everything possible."

  "Perhaps if Veronica were to take a look?" Claire suggested. "She might see something the doctors have missed?"

  "The tests were very thorough, Claire." Elizabeth glanced towards the bed. "It's down to him now."

  "Not necessarily," said Blackbird.

  "I think M
rs Checkland would like you to leave now," the man said.

  "Very well," said Blackbird. "Claire, we need the nails. It's what we came for. Can you get them for us?"

  "Please help him," Claire said. "You can see how he is. I can't leave him like this."

  "You must," Blackbird said. "You must, because if you don't, there will be more of this and worse besides. You know it and we know it. Soon enough, they'll all know it unless we get the nails and you find another Remembrancer, someone alive enough to carry out the ceremony."

  At her words, Elizabeth's expression hardened, her lips blanching to a fine line. Her hand lifted to cover her mouth.

  "Oh that was uncalled for," said the man. "How insensitive can you get?"

  "It's the truth," Blackbird stated. "Let me see, how does it go? His breathing is shallow, but there's nothing wrong with his lungs. His heartbeat is weak, and yet there is no trace of cardiac problems. He has no indication of disease; in fact his body temperature is low, not high as you would expect with an infection. He appears to be asleep, but he's not."

  Elizabeth nodded. "They did a brain scan. They said it could be a shallow coma; he could wake up any time."

  "He won't wake up," Blackbird told her. "I'm sorry for your husband, Mrs. Checkland, but he won't wake up because he isn't asleep. He's lost."

  "What do you mean, 'lost'?" said the man.

  "Can you help him?" Claire asked, cutting across the question.

  "There may be a price to pay," Blackbird told her.

  "We have money," Elizabeth said. "We can afford the best." The sliver of hope was enough to push back the tears from her eyes.

  "I wasn't talking about money. There are higher prices than money can afford."

  "What are you suggesting?" Elizabeth said.

  "Let me see if I can help him first. Then we can discuss what it may cost you."

  "Does anyone else here see that she's talking nonsense?" protested the man. "She's just exploiting your worst fears and taking advantage of your vulnerability at a bad time. It's the oldest con-trick in the book."

  I edged closer to the door, intending to seal it if he tried to raise the alarm at our presence. Claire noticed my movement and held up her hand to me, her mute expression asking me to pause a moment.

  "Sam, I asked you here to help. I know you think you're protecting us, but Veronica is possibly the only person who can help us. Don't ask me how I know this because I could never tell you, but I do know it. There have been plenty of times when you've been on assignment that you couldn't talk about and you've told me I just had to trust you. Now I'm asking you to trust me."

  "But this is ridiculous," he protested.

  "Is it? You have this place wrapped up tight yet they walked in without a soul seeing them. How do you explain that?"

  "I'm about to ask that question myself."

  "Please don't. I'll do my best to explain later, but you have to accept there are things I can't tell you. You're used to secrets in your job. It shouldn't be too hard to accept that I have them too."

  Something in her words stung him. His face registered shock and surprise.

  "If you'll allow them to help Jerry," she continued, "then I'll try and explain later. In the meantime I need you to accept this. In fact I need you to do your best to conceal the fact that these people were ever here at all. Sam, I need your help. You have to trust me on this."

  "This is crazy, you must see that."

  "Please, Sam?"

  For a moment, he was debating within himself, then his shoulders fell. "OK," he lifted his hands in a gesture of uselessness. "I just hope you know what you're doing."

  "Elizabeth?" she asked, turning to the woman standing between us and the bed.

  "What are you intending to do?" she asked.

  "Initially I just want to see how bad it is," Blackbird told her. "If I can't help him then I'll tell you. I won't lie to you."

  "It won't hurt him, will it?"

  "Not this part. Bringing him back, though, may not be as easy."

  She stood aside. "You can take a look."

  Blackbird walked around the side of the bed, looking across at Sam, standing with his arms folded in challenge.

  She paused. "What do they call you, Sam-who-keeps-secrets?" Blackbird asked him.

  "Veldon. Sam Veldon." He looked at Claire's crestfallen expression. "What?"

  Blackbird smiled. "Are you a policeman?"

  "No," he said, the lie in his tone apparent immediately to me as it must have been to Blackbird.

  "Something similar?" she asked.

  "What's it to you?" he challenged.

  "Will you have to write a report of this?"

  "That depends what you do," he said.

  "Claire said you know how to keep secrets. Is she right?"

  "I have kept secrets, yes."

  "You must promise me," she said to him quietly and evenly, "you will tell no one outside this room what transpires here, by whatever means. Are you willing to make that promise?"

  "I don't have to promise you anything." His stance was rigid, arms crossed, feet square.

  "Then I must ask you to leave," she said.

  "On whose say-so?" he challenged.

  "She's right, Sam. You have to promise," Claire insisted. "This must never be spoken of."

  "What are you?" he asked Blackbird. "Some kind of witch?"

  The intake of breath through my teeth drew everyone's attention, rather than Blackbird, so they missed seeing Blackbirds eyes narrow and her chin come up at the use of that word. The temperature in the room dropped and I could feel the magic prickling across my skin as she directed her anger back at Sam.

  "Use that word again, Sam Veldon, and you will regret it for the rest of your short little life." She was moving slowly around the bed, stalking towards him, each tread increasing the pent-up tension building in the room.

  Claire bustled past me and pulled the door open, bustling him out of the room and pushing him out into the corridor. "No," she insisted. "It's for your own good. Go and wait in the rest-room; have a cup of coffee, start smoking again, anything. Just don't say anything. At all. Do you understand? Nothing."

  He looked into her face, frustration written across his features and then made a noise between a grunt and a sigh, turned suddenly and stalked away, leaving her standing in the doorway. She retreated and closed the door again.

  "I'm sorry, Veronica, he can be so stubborn. He won't tell anyone, though. It's not in his nature."

  Blackbird appeared unconcerned now that the object of her anger had left, dismissing it with a wave of her hand as the sudden cold dispersed.

  "What's his given name?" she asked, looking at the figure on the bed.

  Claire shot another warning glance to Elizabeth.

  Blackbird spoke gently to Claire. "If I'm going to help him, I will need his name."

  She looked uncomfortable and then said, "I know," earning a puzzled look from Elizabeth.

  "It's Jerome David Checkland. Jerry for short," Elizabeth said.

  Blackbird moved back around the bed, bypassing Elizabeth and focusing instead on the young woman beside the bed.

  "And you are his daughter, yes?" she asked.

  The young woman nodded. "Deborah Checkland," she confirmed.

  "May I? I need to hold his hand."

  Blackbird moved to sit on the edge of the bed and Deborah released her father's hand. Blackbird lifted it from the covers, cradling it in her own. She closed her eyes and the room warmed, taking on the heaviness that comes on long languid days. For a moment, the air over the bed shimmered like heat haze.

  "Jerry?" Her voice sounded muffled, suppressed by the heavy air. "Jerome David Checkland, can you hear me?"

  The silence deepened, so the background noise of the hospital faded, replaced by a summer day's laden stillness. The figure on the bed lost some of his pinched expression. His face relaxed and the lines smoothed on his forehead.

  "Jerome David Checkland, I summon you to m
e. Be called."

  The heaviness deepened and then relaxed. Blackbird opened her eyes again.

  "Well, that would have been too easy, wouldn't it?" she told us.

  "What's wrong with him?" asked Deborah.

  "He's trying to return, but he is either being prevented or he doesn't know the way. I suspect he is being held against his will. If he is to break free then he will need our help."

  "What can we do?" asked Elizabeth.

  "I can bring him here, but only for a few moments. If we are to release him then we must persuade the one who holds him to let go, and they have every reason to keep him." She stood again.

  "What will persuade them?" Elizabeth said.

  "We need to offer them something sweeter, something to tempt them."

  "Like what?"

  "Like your daughter."

  Deborah looked at Blackbird, and then at her mother, who was standing with her mouth open.

  "No!" Elizabeth said. "I am already losing my husband. I will not lose my daughter as well. Deborah doesn't need to be involved in this," Elizabeth said firmly, walking around to join her and finding Blackbird positioned between them.

  "On the contrary," Blackbird replied. "She may be just the lever we need."

  "I'll do whatever needs to be done," said Deborah.

  "Wait, child, until you know what the price may be," Blackbird told her.

  Deborah stood up and it became suddenly apparent how tall she was. She stood a head-height above Blackbird. "I am not a child and I won't be treated like one. I'm twenty-two and quite capable of making my own decisions, thank you."

  "Stay out of this, Deborah," said her mother.

  "He's my father," she told them.

  "Unfortunately, she has the right of it," said Blackbird, "and I called you child, not because you are childish but because you are his child and his bloodline. Blood calls to blood, and the ties of marriage mean that you are not of his bloodline, are you, Elizabeth?"

  "No, well, obviously not," Elizabeth admitted, stepping forward to take Deborah's arm. She shrugged free of it, turning away to stand alone with her back to the wall. Elizabeth looked hurt by the snub but stayed by the bed.