His speculation about me being a vet of the Great War gave me an idea. I said, “John Stephenson, officer.”
“Where do you live, Mr. Stephenson?”
“St. Pancras.” I gave him the old man’s address. Still knew it by heart; I’d been married there.
“Haven’t you got any ID on you? A billfold, perhaps?”
The sense of dread lifted, leaving behind a damp layer of sweat. I tried not to let my relief show. I’d been through this with the coppers enough times to know when I was off the hook. They might haul me to a hospital, but that wasn’t a problem. Any hospital was a damn sight better than jail.
“Yeah,” I told him. “I’ve got a billfold.”
“May I see it?”
I nodded, and reached for my coat pocket. I used one hand, moving slowly and deliberately so that I didn’t startle him. I dug out the billfold and offered it to him. He handed the torch to Francis, who kept the beam trained on me. He held the billfold in the edge of the torch beam and flipped through it. He frowned. Then he looked at me again.
Now it was his turn to hesitate.
“What did you say your name is?”
“Stephenson,” I repeated.
“Right. So you did.” He said it kindly, calmly. But his free hand fell gently to the truncheon hanging at his waist. Right then I knew I was well and truly buggered.
His eyes didn’t leave the billfold. “Thing is, if that’s the case, mind telling me who William Beauclerk is?”
“Shit,” I said.
Francis chuckled. “Well. You’ve already seen to that, haven’t you?”
Somewhere in the darkness, I heard the rattle of cuffs.
12 May 1940
Milkweed Headquarters, London, England
Blinding agony lanced through the stump of Will’s severed finger. He’d never known such pain, never could have imagined such pain, as when Marsh had snapped shut the gardening shears. But the cauterization was worse because it never seemed to end. Pain like white-hot lava erupted from his mangled hand. It filled his veins, reduced his heart to charcoal, his brain to ash.
Will flinched, hard enough to yank his hand from the doctor’s grasp. The doctor scowled.
“Sorry,” Will managed. It came out as a hoarse whisper. The ravages of Enochian, combined with mindless screaming through the wooden bit clenched in his teeth, had torn his throat raw. His teeth felt loose.
The doctor aimed a pointed look at Stephenson. Will didn’t know the man’s name. He was a naval medic, but probably attached to SIS rather than the Admiralty. That was a guess, but the doctor and Stephenson clearly knew each other. And the doc hadn’t asked about the cause of Will’s dismemberment, nor shown interest in anything other than treating the wound. Or so Will had gathered during the scant moments when pain wasn’t threatening to drive him mad. He’d passed out just after the ceremony and felt like he might again any moment.
Stephenson grumbled, “For God’s sake, Beauclerk. You’ve nothing to prove. Take the bloody morphine. Or at the very least let brandy dull the worst of it.”
He tried to push a full tumbler into Will’s free hand, but Will waved it away. The effort left his head spinning.
“No.” The pain threatened to make him sick up. But he’d endure anything to avoid the danger of becoming his grandfather. He’d never let himself follow in the footsteps of that wretched, twisted old drunk. Will had sworn off alcohol long ago. No amount of physical agony could make him relent. Not even this torture. He’d be a better man than grandfather, even if the effort destroyed him.
Will realized that sooner or later he’d have to explain the injury to Aubrey. Was it too severe for a plausible gardening mishap? That at least had a patina of truth to it. The shears had belonged to one of Bestwood’s gardeners, long ago. Back in their grandfather’s day.
Will almost passed out when he extended his arm to put his bad hand back within the doctor’s reach. He managed to say, “Please continue, doctor.”
The doctor sighed, looking wistfully at the morphine syrette lying unused on the desk. Stephenson leaned over Will’s chair and used his weight to pin Will’s forearm to the armrest. The one-armed man had a grip like bands of steel. The doctor hefted the iron again.
Will gritted his teeth. Yes, definitely loose.
A faint sizzle accompanied the wave of incandescent pain, hotter than the soul of the earth, that flooded Will’s body. Delicate curlicues of blue-black smoke wafted around the stump, tracing greasy tendrils across the back of his hand. The stink of burnt flesh filled the old man’s office.
Will cast about for a mental diversion lest the pain overwhelm him again. The few threads of his mind capable of conscious thought flailed for something upon which to focus. How did he get here?
The gypsy waif. Eidolons. Marsh.
What was she? What could she do? Why did she have wires implanted in her skull? What had von Westarp done to her? And how could the men and women on the Tarragona film perform such blatantly unnatural feats without appealing to the Eidolons? It was impossible. Yet the Eidolon’s answer had been as unambiguous at its rage. The waif was not their handiwork.
What a straightforward answer. And all it had cost was a fingertip. This had been the height of foolishness, thinking he possessed skill enough to negotiate with the Eidolons. He had been fortunate. The blood price might have been far worse.
Stranger still … why would the Eidolons bestow a name upon somebody? What did it mean? And why had they chosen Marsh? It was as though they knew him. Acknowledged him. But the Eidolons didn’t recognize individual humans. They perceived humanity as a stain upon the cosmos, an abomination, an infestation to be eradicated. Nothing more.
It was too disturbing to contemplate. Will forced his attention toward less chilling mysteries.
He had warned the others to expect strangeness. Though nothing could truly prepare a person for the way the world tended to warp and sag around the Eidolons like candles on the mantel of a burning house. Even seasoned warlocks had been known to go mad from time to time. Will remembered the servants’ tales of his own father.
Tonight’s negotiation hadn’t been any different. Phantom scents, mysterious noises, alien sensations. Effects without causes. There had been a thump, as though something heavy had landed on the floorboards. And then Will’s own voice, crying out in abject terror and mindless panic. More strident even than the scream that escaped him when Marsh severed his fingertip. The relentless pain made rational thought impossible. Was there another William Beauclerk somewhere, one who had experienced something worse than a severed finger? Witnessed something more dreadful than a Third Reich with superhuman soldiers?
Surely that was impossible.
12 May 1940
Walworth, London, England
Agnes’s wrinkled red face traced drool on Marsh’s shirt as he held her to his chest. He pressed his nose to her soft scalp and inhaled her scent, tickling himself with wisps of silken baby hair. She smelled so clean. So fresh, so wonderful. Like family.
“Our poor daughter will never know proper sleep,” Liv whispered, “if you keep taking her from the bassinet.”
She came up behind him, slid an arm around his waist. A swollen breast brushed against his elbow. She winced.
“I’m making up for lost time,” he said. “I’m so sorry I missed this.”
He’d been in France when Liv had gone into labor. Based on the time listed on Agnes’s birth certificate, he’d been crossing the Channel with the Frankensteined gypsy girl when Agnes was born. He’d been doing his job. So why did serving the country feel like infidelity? The guilt clung to him tighter than a second skin.
Congratulations. It’s a girl.
He’d rushed to the hospital as soon as he found Liv’s note. But not before indulging in a fair bit of panic after finding the front door open, Liv gone, and the bedroom in disarray. The prisoner had found her way under his skin.
What was she? What were those hideous wires for? And how o
n God’s earth did she know about Liv and the baby?
Liv said, “Agnes might forgive you. Someday.”
“Someday?”
“Depends on how stubborn she is. Whether she takes after her father.”
“I’m not stubborn.”
Liv laughed into his shoulder. Long auburn hair draped across her face, tickling his arm. She hadn’t put her hair up since returning from the hospital. “Mulish, then.”
“That’s better. And you? Am I forgiven?”
“There’s nothing to forgive, love. You’re here now.”
He said, “I’ll do everything I can not to leave again. I promise.”
“I know.”
Marsh brushed his lips across Agnes’s scalp. He leaned over, gently cradling his daughter’s head as he set her down. Her arm twitched, and her face scrunched into a new pattern of wrinkles while he covered her with the baby blanket. It was pink and embroidered with jolly elephants.
Liv laid her head against his shoulder. They stood together, quietly watching their daughter sleep.
“You should be resting,” he said. He took her hand, led her to the den.
“I’m not infirm, Raybould.” She clicked her tongue. “You men. I had to tell Will the very same thing.”
Will’s scream kept echoing in his ears. He couldn’t forget the feel of the shears, the sensation of the handles in his fists as the blades crunched through flesh and bone.
But the Eidolon had been so much worse: the way it studied him like an insect under a magnifying glass, the intangible pressure of its presence, the titanic sense of malevolence, the skin-crawling dread. Marsh wondered if he’d ever sleep again. He drew a long, shuddery breath.
Christ. What a bloody wretched evening.
“Just because Will is Agnes’s father,” said Liv, “doesn’t entitle you to be so jealous of him. You should be bigger than that.”
“Yes, you’re right,” Marsh murmured. Then something she’d said snapped him back to the present. He frowned. “Wait. What was that about Will?”
Liv tipped her head back and filled the room with melodious laughter. “You went somewhere just now. I can always tell. It’s in your eyes. But when you crack your knuckles…” She touched the back of one slender hand to her face, pantomiming his habit. “That’s when I know you’re entertaining particularly deep thoughts.”
She eased herself to the sofa. Marsh tried to help her, but she swatted his hands away. He sat beside her. Yawned. Rubbed his burning eyes.
Marsh said, “Speaking of Will.” He pointed toward the entryway. “Did you know he left the door open when he took you to the hospital?”
“I do believe you’ve mentioned it. Once or twice.”
Congratulations. It’s a girl.
“Liv, has anybody come around lately? While I was away?”
She shook her head. “Just auntie. And Will.”
“Nobody at all?” Marsh thought about all the means the Jerries might be using to keep tabs on him and Liv. There were so many. How long had they been watched? It was the only explanation. He stood, paced around the room, double-checking the blackout curtains. “What about ARP wardens?”
“No wardens.”
“You’d tell me if there had been, wouldn’t you?”
A frown creased the space between her eyebrows. “You know I would.”
“Has Will mentioned anything unusual? Strange visitors?”
“Raybould. Sit.” She patted the sofa cushion beside her. “What is this about?”
He sighed. “I worry about you and Agnes being alone while I’m at work all day.”
“And you’re a dear for it. Now do stop before you smother us.”
He assumed a new tack. “Perhaps the two of you could take a vacation in Williton. Go visit your aunt, rather than making her come to London.”
Liv said, “We’ve already discussed this. I’m not leaving.” Her voice was tight with irritation. “The first evacuation of mothers and toddlers was an utter waste of time. They all came back. It’ll be the same again.”
“What if the Germans start bombing in earnest?”
“Stop it! You’re frightening me.” She narrowed her eyes, looked him up and down. “Did something happen while you were visiting the Yanks?”
Liv didn’t know her husband was a spy for His Majesty’s Government. As far as she knew, Marsh was a mid-level bureaucrat in the Office of the Foreign Secretary. Before Stephenson had sent him to the Continent to scrounge up information about von Westarp, they’d concocted an appropriate cover story. Marsh had told Liv that he was being sent to America, as part of a delegation hoping to procure aid from the Yanks. He’d worried that Will, who had no background in tradecraft and showed little facility for it, would inadvertently contradict that.
“Nothing. The entire outing was a loss, I’m afraid.”
That didn’t allay her suspicions. “Is something happening in France they haven’t reported on the wireless?”
“I don’t know any more than you,” he lied.
“They say the BEF is regrouping.”
Scrambling was more like it. Marsh had been just a few miles from the German advance. He’d seen firsthand the utter disarray of the British Expeditionary Forces as the Jerries sidestepped them on their lightning-fast incursions across the border. The Germans have burned through Ardennes. France would fall. Not immediately, but sooner than later. He knew it in his bones.
But he didn’t want to alarm Liv more than he already had. So he said, “They’ll sort the Jerries out soon enough.”
“Then we have no reason to worry.”
“No. But I would feel better if you’d discuss the possibility of a visit with Margaret.” Liv answered silently with a scowl and a cocked eyebrow. The eyebrow meant she was sharpening the verbal barbs. Marsh quickly added, “Tell you what. Things get bad here, we’ll stay put, but send Agnes safely out of the city.”
Liv sighed. “Well, that’s a start.” She snuggled against him. “It’s settled, then. The Tommies agree to deal with Hitler. The Foreign Office agrees it won’t send you away again. And Agnes agrees to go to Williton if she absolutely must.”
two
12–13 May 1940
Westminster, London, England
The coppers chivvied me into their car. It had been modified per the blackout regs. The slitted headlamps provided meager illumination for Francis, who drove.
I’d forgotten just how effective the blackout had been. It was one thing to stand in pastoral St. James’ surrounded by a dark city, but the effect was altogether different when speeding through Trafalgar Square and realizing the night had swallowed Nelson’s Column whole. London was a giant trying to hide in plain sight. It had seemed logical and effective the first time I lived through it. But the passage of time had changed my perspective; now I could see the ostrich for what it was. I knew, as nobody else could, that in the long run the blackout was ultimately pointless.
There was no hiding from the Eidolons. Even Gretel had managed to throw them off her trail just long enough to get what she wanted out of me.
But I hadn’t spent a full hour back in 1940 before getting nabbed by the coppers. Did that mean I’d just tossed her entire scheme into a cocked hat?
Good. Fuck her.
All I cared about was saving my family. Agnes’s death had been the thin end of the wedge that broke our marriage. But she wouldn’t die this time around. I’d see to that if it was the only thing I did. None of this mattered a good goddamn if I couldn’t save my girl. What point in saving the world if I couldn’t save Agnes?
I’d lived with loneliness for so long that I didn’t realize its extent until I returned to a world where my wife didn’t despise me. All my failures of the past twenty-three years had been erased. The prospect of recovering my self-respect made me want to weep.
Things would change once I saved Agnes. But I’d have to keep a watchful eye. Make certain the Eidolons didn’t steal John’s soul again, leaving us with another hol
low, howling monster. If there was a John this time around. Perhaps it wasn’t fair, but I didn’t know if I wanted a son after what had happened the last time.
One of the worst things I’d ever seen was my son’s body put to use as a vessel for the Eidolons. His sightless eyes … their legion voice … Ill and exhausted as I was, I found myself dreading sleep because it would leave me defenseless against the memories seared into my mind.
I’d save Agnes. Everything would be right again. And Gretel could fend for herself.
That’s what I told myself while the coppers motored carefully through the dark streets of Westminster. But I didn’t share Will’s capacity for self-delusion, meaning Nelson wasn’t more than two or three streets behind us before the glaring flaw in my plan grew too large to ignore.
If I saved Agnes, but did nothing more, I’d be leaving her at the mercy of the Eidolons. Best case? She’d die as a young woman in her twenties. Gretel couldn’t postpone the apocalypse beyond the early 1960s. When she’d laid it all out for me and Will, there at the end of the world, she’d told us that most of the time lines she’d studied had ended with the Eidolons much sooner. Meaning I could save Agnes from the Luftwaffe, but she’d still die as an infant.
I had to face the facts. Saving my family wasn’t simply a matter of keeping Agnes out of Williton. Truly saving my family meant sealing off the Eidolons. And that meant eradicating the warlocks. But I wouldn’t let Agnes grow up with Hitler’s boot on her neck. Meaning I couldn’t deal with the warlocks as long as Doctor von Westarp was merrily churning out Übermenschen for the SS.
The world was caught between Scylla and Charybdis: twin perils poised to devour those who veered too closely. Milkweed on one side, the Reichsbehörde für die Erweiterung germanischen Potenzials on the other. Or perhaps it was better to say they were the Symplegades, the deadly clashing rocks of antiquity.
I reckoned that made me the dove. I sure as hell wasn’t Jason—he had a loyal crew behind him. Not me. I was all alone.
Unless … A new idea took root. I tucked it away for later.
Unconsciously, I made to crack my knuckles against my jaw. Most of the time I don’t realize I’m doing it. Wouldn’t have noticed it there in the coppers’ car, either, but the cuffs made it cumbersome.
Necessary Evil (Milkweed Triptych) Page 3