by A. L. Knorr
“Tonight? Why tonight? We did just cover the fact that there is a pack of homicidal maniacs looking for the rings. Doesn’t going out there play into their hands?”
“That might be the case, but the reality is that we only have half the rings. Before my death, I found the complete set. Fearing the worst, I broke the rings in half, and I hid one half in the museum and the other in my office at the university. You found the ones in the museum, but the half in my office is still at risk. You need to get them.”
“Why do ‘I’ have to go? You’re the ghost, aren’t you? It’s not like they can kill you again. And who is this ‘they,’ anyway?” The words were barely out and I felt ashamed. “Lowe … James, I’m sorry that was rude, and cowardly … and …”
Lowe reached out and took my hand, giving my fingers a soft squeeze before withdrawing.
“Ibby, it’s all right. The simple answer is that I can’t. You have no idea how many times I’ve wished I could do more, but there are limits imposed on me by this incorporeal state. Just as you seem to be the only one that can see me, the rings are among those items which I cannot interact with. Further, in death I can only travel to the places I visited most in my life. I am in so many ways a prisoner of this unlife.”
I struggled to meet his eyes, and I was thankful when he cleared his throat and gestured towards the spiral staircase leading to the rail platform below.
“As to who these people are, I am not certain, but when they attempted to induct me, they indicated that they were an old and powerful society. The fact that they were able to react so quickly to the revelation of the rings seems to imply they weren’t lying.”
“How do we even know they are the same group?” I asked, adjusting my bag.
“Kezsarak’s presence seems good evidence. They hinted they could give me access to one of the Inconquo’s oldest enemies. Kezsarak is the only entity I know of whom they imprisoned rather than destroyed.” Lowe reached the stairs first and turned to me. “After you, madame.”
The stairs yawned in front of me, a reminder that once I went down, that phantom train would arrive to sweep me into a world of fear and danger. All of that risk for what? To stop some crusty old circle of maniacs from unleashing one more blight on mankind? Would anybody even notice? When was the last time the human race saw fit to look out for me? Why did it have to be me, Ibukun Bashir, to carry this?
Make it better by being better.
With Lowe standing there, arm outstretched to usher me to the platform, I hated my father’s words. Hated their truth, their weight, their burden. I didn’t want to make it better. I wanted it to be better for me, and I didn’t care how selfish that was. For a moment, I rejected everything my parents taught me, everything I knew, everything I believed.
Then that moment passed.
I allowed myself one more deep breath before marching down those stairs and onto the ghost train.
Chapter Fifteen
Night was falling as I arrived at Covent Garden, but if I was going to sneak onto university grounds, I was going to have to wait a bit. Loitering around campus itself wasn’t advisable, and besides that, I needed to sort a few things out.
First, was wardrobe.
A thrift shop near the station called Rokit seemed the best place to take my sooty self. I had a little money, enough to get some dark jeans and a black tank top. It had a garish, paint-spattered Union Jack, and it was hard to tell if the jeans were distressed or just badly worn, but at least, I was able to shed the ash-streaked clothes. Nipping into the loo before dressing, I did my best to scrub the ash from my body. Nearly three days without a shower, not to mention an afternoon running for my life, had left me in quite a state.
As scrubbed and polished as I could be, I trotted down to Monmouth Coffee. The place was heaving with customers, but the press of people made me feel safer. I hoped this group wouldn’t dare come after me with twenty witnesses in shouting distance.
I sat at one of the back tables, my phone plugged into the wall, watching the people shuffle in line to get coffee and a pastry. There wasn’t much seating so most would either take away or hang about outside, where a few benches sat against the building. Sometimes, I thought one of the patrons was paying too much attention to me, but when I looked away or gave a slight nod of my head, they all moved on.
All except the one standing in front of me now.
Lanky but for a thick neck and round face, he was not classically handsome, but he got full marks for determination.
“So, you come here often?” he asked as he took a sip of his latte.
Looking bored, I gazed past him. “Just needed a charge.” I gestured absently at my phone and craned my neck, not appreciating how he was blocking my view of the shop and the street.
“Yeah, isn’t that just the worst,” he said, chuckling, then took another sip before his eyes brightened. “Hey, if you need to use my phone, it’s no problem.” He began to dig into his trouser pocket.
I shook my head and waved him off. “Thank you, though.”
He smiled, somehow taking my gracious manner for interest. As the idiom went: hope springs eternal in lonely hearts.
“No problem. Do you mind if I sit with you while you wait for it to charge? Seems like there’s all sorts of things we could talk about while you wait.”
“Like what?” I raised an eyebrow, trying not to let suspicion sharpen my tongue too much. Low profile, Ibby. Low profile.
He shrugged and moved towards the seat across from me. “I mean, you like coffee, I like coffee. You have a phone, I have a phone. Great place to start, right?”
I just stared, irritated. He put his coffee down on the table.
“Look.” My tone was flat. “I’m not trying to be rude, but I would just like some time to myself.”
He reddened and picked up his coffee again. “Sorry, just trying to make conversation.” His dogged determination become a whine. “Let me get you a fresh cup as an apology. Please, it is the least I can do.” He was actually reaching towards my cup, when someone placed a hand on his shoulder.
“You don’t have to do that,” came a warm, buttery voice. “But you do need to move on.”
The persistent coffee drinker turned around, and though I couldn’t see his face, his entire body seemed to deflate. Without looking back at me, he slumped away with a dull, “Sorry.”
Grinning like a skull, Dillon Sark stood in a leather jacket, leaning into one hip, hands tucked into his jeans pockets. One look at his sly expression confirmed every suspicion I’d ever had … well, perhaps not ‘every’ suspicion. Jackie has dated some real pieces of work.
My lips pulled back from my teeth, and something primal and furious rose in my chest. The rings answered my unspoken call. Several metal items — spoons, picture frames, metal caps on the sugar and creamer dispensers — shifted a little in Dillon’s direction. The handsome scoundrel never stopped smiling but caution flickered as his eyes widened.
Good, I thought with unabashed viciousness. I wanted him to know how easy it would be to blast him with metal.
“I know we are meeting for the first time, but I feel like we are past all of this, Ibukun.” He gave a suave, casual sweep at the waiting metal projectiles. “Jackie’s told me ‘so much’ about you. She’d be so happy we bumped into each other. Don’t you think?”
He fished a phone from inside his jacket, turned his back to me, held it up and snapped a selfie that put me sitting over his shoulder. I was glaring, and he was grinning.
It took significant focus to keep a spoon from scooping out his right eye.
“She’ll love it,” he said, chuckling, dropping his phone back into the pocket. Shucking his coat, he tossed it into the corner of the booth. “The two people she loves the most in one place.”
“What do you want?” I growled.
“May I sit?”
“No.”
He slid across from me with liquid ease, then reclined with one hand resting on the table.
I stared at him incredulously, knowing he was playing a game but not seeing the board.
“I never called you. You found me, and if you think I’m going quietly, you’re dumber than the brutes you sent to my flat.”
The mention of the flat tested his easy grin. He spoke in a low, controlled voice, the dazzling smile turning forced.
“Who called who are details that won’t matter when I’m talking to Jackie next. What will matter is whether or not we’ve started collaborating.” He leaned forwards, warming to his narrative. “Think of how happy you will make her if you’ve seen the error of your ways and help me. We’ll take a night off just to celebrate, and with Jackie and I, you know we’ll have a good time. If you thought she was wild before, just wait till I get that girl out. It’ll be legendary.” His expression slid into a lecherous, intimidating leer.
I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do more: vomit or send a picture frame through his perfect teeth.
“If we haven’t managed to put the past behind us and work together, she’ll be so sad to learn of all the hateful things you said about us before fleeing London in a cloud of scandal. It will break her heart,” he said with puppy dog eyes, before perking up. “But, I’ll be there with big, strong shoulders for her to cry on.”
He was like watching a commedia dell’arte, every expression mesmerisingly exaggerated. I realised I’d been spending so much time hatefully watching him, I hadn’t been paying attention to my surroundings. I dared a look across the shop and spotted three familiar faces scowling at me through the front window. They didn’t move to come in, and there was no way out of the front of the shop without passing them.
“Don’t worry about them.” Dillon waved cheerfully at the trio. “They’re only here in the unlikely event that I’m not able to win you over.”
My lip curled in a snarl. “I’m not feeling incredibly convinced, Mr Sark. Perhaps, you’re suffering some performance anxiety.”
Some honest emotion flickered across his face, an ugly spiteful thing. The hand on the table curled into a claw, and he opened his mouth to respond when a barista called his name.
“Be right back,” he said, hissing the words with a death’s-head grin.
Momentarily free from his scrutiny, I swept the room for another avenue of escape. I thought it utter arrogance on his part to assume he could just leave me sitting here while he fetched a coffee, but looking around, I understood.
The only other way out of the shop was a door beside the front counter. Dillon hadn’t left me unattended so much as blocked the other exit while picking up his drink. It would be difficult to shoulder my way through to that door in a hurry. Plus, it could lead to a dead end, a pantry or storage room.
Working with him was out of the question, but I was beginning to think getting out of here quietly was not possible either. If I was to escape, it was going to be loud.
I stretched out mentally, feeling the fixtures, espresso machines, utensils and even the nails in the framing. So many options. But what actually gave me the chance to get out of here without getting killed, captured or hurting anyone else, excluding Dillon and his crew?
The germ of a plan formed as I sensed something on the floor, right in the shadow of the shop counter. I’d just started mentally tugging when Dillon slid into the booth.
“Now where were we? Oh yes, performance.” He took a sip, his dark eyes glinting dangerously. “Sorry, I’m not living up to your expectations. Maybe I need to make things as clear as possible.”
I plastered a neutral look on my face as my mind prepared things. Sweat sprang out on my forehead, but I was glad he was feeling chatty. The more time he spent talking, the more time I had.
“Now that we have found you, we’re not going to lose you a second time. We know you were investigating Lowe at the Hall of Records, so we began to pick at that old scab again. Thanks for the lead. We’re looking at it all with new eyes. If there is anything more to find, we’ll find it.”
I gave him a saccharine smile. “Jackie picks the low hanging fruit yet again.”
His smile became a grimace of bared teeth, and his eyes stopped twinkling and started burning. I could feel his desire to reach across the table and strangle me. It was chilling to think this wolf in expensive clothing prowling around my best friend.
He growled, his fingers digging at the tabletop. “Working with us is preferable to not, because — as Lowe learned — not working with us leads to people vanishing. I’m sure you understand.” He cocked a fine brow. “We are just being thorough.”
And there it was. What he wanted, and what would happen if he didn’t get it. I didn’t let the cold rage show. “Your sales pitch could use some work, Sark,” I said. “I’m not sure I can take a boy-band reject seriously.”
“You little bi — ” He never got to finish as a pastry fork flew into his groin, stopping short of penetrating his jeans. His eyes widened and darted to his lap as he jumped, then focused back up at me. He started to get up but stopped when I wagged a finger at him.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I warned and shifted back in the booth. “You see, I’ve spent the last few days practising. Honing my skills, one might say. It’s amazing what I can do with metal.”
I mentally nudged the fork and got an appreciable wince in return. Sweat began to bead on his smooth brow, and he became very still.
“Metal is such a beautiful thing. Much more pliable and willing to change than people realise. I can make all manner of things.” I smiled at him. “That fork for instance. The handle is now a compressed steel spring, shaped with a catch. Any quick movements, and you’ll be singing with the ladies for the rest of your days.”
Dillon’s face paled. His lips drew into a tight, ugly line. His gaze darted to the window, but he didn’t signal his cronies.
“I’m going to go now.” I got to my feet when I spied his coat. “It’s a touch chilly, so I’m sure, as Jackie’s mon chou, you won’t mind it I take this.”
He gave a thin hiss as I snatched up the coat, feeling his phone in the interior breast pocket. I put my own phone and charging cable into my bag.
“Best part about it? I don’t even have to be here for it to stay in place.” I threw on his jacket and looked down. “This fits surprisingly well. Those shoulders aren’t as big and strong as you thought.”
Dillon continued to seethe, and I felt him shift against the fork. With a mental flex, the fork tines scooted forwards. Dillon squirmed backwards. I kept the fork digging at him the whole way. He gasped.
“Don’t test me, Mr Sark.” I hooked a thumb towards the door. “Unless one of your lads is a medic.”
The brutes outside had their noses plastered to the glass. I waved and blew a kiss to the hulking one who’d smashed me against the wall.
“I’m just a mouthpiece, you stupid bint,” Dillon said, growling the words. “I’m a messenger. The message is: partnership or execution. Walk away now, and you know which one you’re signing. Hurting me won’t change the outcome.”
I winked, hoping I looked unaffected by his threat. “But it’ll make me feel better.”
He snarled some decidedly ungentlemanly things. More than one coffee house patron looked over in alarm, but I was done. The board was set. Though I couldn’t see all the pieces, I now knew what the game was. I reminded myself I held an enemy hostage by his testicles, so these enemies, at least, were only men. Wicked, vicious men, but still just human beings.
And I, for better or worse, was more than that now.
I stood over by the shop counter halfway between the booths and the front window.
Dillon’s thugs were inching closer to the door, but their wide frames still filled the shopfront. I waved at them, and then held up a finger, mouthing the words, “One second.”
All three paused, confused, and watched as I fished out the last of my cash and placed it on the counter.
“What would you like?” asked a barista with long, straight hair as she eyed the crumpled bills.
“An exit,” I answered. “But I don’t think this will cover it. It’s all I have. Sorry.”
“What?”
I unleashed my powers into the plan, hurling slivers of willpower in several directions. The edges of my vision blurred as the effort of it nearly knocked me out. I’d never tried to manipulate so much at once. Clinging to consciousness with mental fingernails, I watched my handiwork through bright flickering holes.
A trio of metal serving trays flew off the countertop, where I’d aligned them for the purpose. They struck the window, sending an explosion of shattered glass raining down on the three thugs. An instant later, each of them were broadsided by the trays. As those missiles were mid-flight, I yanked on the espresso machine — hard. It came free with a rip and a hiss, and I held it in mid-air for a moment, though the effort made my head throb.
Pulling the hissing, bubbling machine like a pet on a leash, I moved towards the door. Patrons screamed and scrambled out of the way. The brutes at the shattered window were slow at getting up, but by the time I’d forged a path to the door, the big one with the jutting jaw had risen. One bandaged hand made to bring a large, black pistol to bear. I hurled the espresso machine at him.
It hit him square in the chest as it spun end over end. Sprays of steam and gouts of boiling water erupted in every direction. The men on either side of the poleaxed companion screamed and pawed at their blistering skin. The big one hit the pavement like a sack of wet cement, and he didn’t stir even as his face was blasted with scalding liquid.
The cost of the effort hit me.