Sentries of Camelot (Ruby Morgan Book 2)

by LJ Rivers

  The text underneath the uniformed policeman said he was ‘Thaddeus Bolton, Chief Superintendent, Westminster PD’.

  The image switched to a man outside an office building. He was sharply dressed in a white suit, his dark hair slicked back and sprinkled with silver. His brow was heavy over deep-set eyes, but his gaze was undeniably captivating.

  “First of all, our thoughts and prayers go to the family of the police officer. He is the last in a long line of heroes in the fight against the rogue Mags who seem to have started their final push.”

  Jarl Colburn was every bit as charismatic as ever, and although he was being interviewed, he spoke as if he stood looking out at his congregation.

  “What do you mean by final push?” asked the reporter.

  “Our church, the Children of Purity, has said this over and over for many years, Mindy: the Mags are not of this world. They aim to take over the Earth, forcing us humans out. I believe their war has begun.” He turned directly to the camera. “When I am elected prime minister next August, I can assure you that my party, the Coalition of Purity, and I will introduce legislation to ensure the safety of mankind. Humans in the United Kingdom and the rest of the world will be safe from the tyranny of Satan’s spawn.”

  “He’s a raving lunatic!” Jen snarled.

  I had no words as I gawked at his bright green eyes that seemed to jump out of the TV screen. I shuddered, while the camera panned to the news reporter.

  “We will return with more on the tragic events of last night, where a police officer was shot and killed, and another died of gruesome injuries too horrifying to describe. The police suspect one or two Magicals, possibly Shifters. Back to you, Jacob.”

  Jen muted the sound when the blonde news anchor switched to the ever-running Brexit chaos.

  “Tragic, my arse,” I said. “An innocent girl is in the morgue, probably next to that snake, and that’s the real tragedy.”

  “I agree,” Jen said. “But I think Paddock was right. At least I hope so.”

  I shrugged. “Tell that to the girl.”

  “I hope the boy you healed is ok,” Jen said.

  “Only one way to find out.” I retrieved the burner phone from my pocket. There was only one number stored in the calling log. I hit the dial button.

  “Have you seen the time?” said a very tired voice.

  I couldn’t care less. “How’s the boy? The one the bastards didn’t kill.”

  “I don’t know, Ruby.” Paddock yawned. “It really is way too early in the morning for me to know. He was taken to the ER, so I guess they have him under control.”

  “Who’s looking after him?”

  “The doctors, I presume. You know, those guys that work at a hosp—”

  “I mean, who’s protecting him at the hospital?” I snapped.

  “Listen, Ruby, that’s not how it works. I have no pull like that. He’ll be fine, though. Take it easy.”

  If I had been a bull in front of a matador, I couldn’t have been more provoked than by “take it easy”.

  Jen lay her arm on mine, shaking her head. “Don’t,” she whispered.

  Holding my breath, I shook myself, then expelled the air slowly. “Fine,” I ground out. “I just don’t want him to get hurt. Or his friend to have died in vain.”

  “I get that,” Paddock said. “And I want the same. But PSI Bolton has already concluded. Sure, there will be an internal investigation and all, but that’s a charade. It will be ruled as self-defence, with the dead girl holding the smoking gun.”

  I stopped breathing again. So that’s what cleaning up the mess meant.

  “Before you go ballistic again,” Paddock said, “there is nothing we can do about that now. The best thing to do is find whoever is behind it. Who’s instigating all these coppers’ raids against Mags. Travers is also in the loop.”

  “His task force?”

  “Not yet,” Paddock said, “but he’s looking into the shooting to see if they should engage. We’ll keep looking. Right now, we’ll have to wait.”

  “I guess you’re right,” I conceded. “It’s just not fair!”

  “Again, I agree. Now, if you could let me catch a couple more hours’ sleep?”

  “Hang on a second,” I said. “Could you check—after your beauty sleep, of course—and see if you can find anything about Mags being kidnapped?”

  He hesitated for a few seconds. “Ok, I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Great,” I said, but he had already disconnected.

  None of us could be bothered with any cooking, so we broke our previous record of how early we could order pizza. At twenty past eleven, Jen answered the door. Charlie sat on the sofa with her new wizard’s cape flung over her shoulders. Jen put the two pizza boxes on the dining table, and I went to get plates and a carton of orange juice.

  “I’ll get fresh oranges next time, ok?” I said when Charlie came to the table and gave me a quizzical look.

  “Hey, this works for me. It was you who said you wanted the jungle feeling.”

  For the first ten minutes, no one said anything. Any outsiders would probably have been appalled at how we devoured the food. I hadn’t had time to think about it, but I was clearly famished. I could only imagine how Jen must have felt. Her animal metabolism meant she usually needed three times more food than Charlie and me.

  “Good stuff,” Jen said, gulping down half a glass of juice.

  “You know,” Charlie said, “if Mum had seen us, she would have freaked out. ‘Two pizzas for only três senhoras?’”

  Her impression of her mother made us laugh. Not that we had any idea if it was close to the original, but the Portuguese accent and the face she made was hilarious.

  “Dos senhoras and one beast.” Jen grabbed a big slice of the second pizza—the one with three extra helpings of beef.

  “It’s duas,” Charlie said. “We’re not Spanish. Anyway, I may have found something. On the coppers, I mean.”

  The mood changed in an instant.

  “It seems most of—well, all of the major incidents lately with these extreme levels of brutality towards Mags, stem from the same area. Richmond, in the Westminster Police borough.”

  “All in the same station, then. That’s not far from Richmond Park.” If that wasn’t suspicious, I didn’t know what was.

  “Yup. I did some digging into the officers. Some of them, at least. There are about five hundred at Richmond Station, so I didn’t have time to check them all, of course. But I’m running a bot right now, scanning the various social media appearances of the names I was able to extract from the database. It was a bit scary hacking into the police, I must admit.”

  “But you loved it,” Jen said.

  “I defo did.” Charlie grinned. “Not to make light of the tragedy last night, mind you. But yeah, it was a rush.”

  None of us blamed her. I, for one, was just happy she had stayed home.

  “Ever seen Goodfellas?” Charlie asked. “The mob film with de Niro and Joe Pesci, and that other guy?”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell,” I said.

  “Dude, it’s only the best mafia film ever.” She rolled her eyes. “Apart from the Godfather films, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Anyway, the point is that de Niro is the leader of this gang. They steal millions. And then he orders all the members to lie low. Don’t spend the money, as that will draw the attention of the cops, right?”

  Jen pointed a finger at her. “But someone did.”

  “Someone most certainly did.” Charlie nodded. “And de Niro had them whacked, of course.”

  “Really?” I grimaced. “Whacked?”

  She rolled her eyes at me. “Yeah, yeah, keep up, will you?”

  I raised my hands. “Go on.”

  “Seems a few of our uniformed friends have come into some serious money lately.” She lay her phone on the table, turning it so Jen and I could see the screen. “Not exactly lying low, would you say? This is PC Malcolm Su
mmers. And that’s his 1995 Aston Martin Coupe.”

  Jen leaned closer. “It looks expensive.”

  “He bought it three weeks ago. Asking price was forty smackers.” Charlie swiped to the next image. “And this goodfella is PC Ewan MacAllister. Now, it doesn’t show in this picture, but less than three weeks ago, he made an eighty grand down payment on an apartment in Malaga. Not bad for a guy who has yet to turn twenty-six, and banks a salary of eight pounds short of twenty grand. And these are only two of nine I have found so far who match the pattern.”

  I whistled. “Too many to write it off as good economic planning.”

  Charlie pointed at the screen. “These guys are dirty rotten. Now, all we need to do is find out if there is a de Niro at Richmond Station.”

  The last slice of pizza disappeared from the box, and Jen held it in front of her mouth. “You make it sound a bit easier than I suspect it is.” She shoved half of the slice into her mouth and bit into it.

  “Hopefully I can find more. Just have to dig deeper.” Charlie wiggled her eyebrows.

  “Speaking of cars.” I reached into my pocket. “I may have a lead on Oliver’s kidnappers. Make and model of the car that took him. It’s not much, but a tiny step closer, maybe?”

  Charlie grabbed the note. “Where did you get this?”

  “I watched a film,” I said.

  Thirteen

  On average, I clocked in about ten to twelve hours a week at the cinema, and mostly the work consisted of selling tickets, popcorn and soft drinks, and sweeping the gallery between showings. Tom, the manager, said I could work more if I wanted to, but although I could use the extra money, I had trouble enough already juggling school, the Whisper, and the cinema. And Brendan, luckily.

  On quiet nights at the cinema, I’d usually be able to sneak in at least a couple of hours studying. This week, however, had drained my batteries, to use Professor Kaine’s metaphor. Studies, the problems with Brendan—and they weren’t any easier when I learned about Teagan and Oliver—and of course the stakeout on Friday night.

  We were doing a special exam preparation feature in the Whisper for the weekend. I had three pieces in it, including an interview with a memory champion—apparently, that’s an actual thing to be a champion of.

  After our pizza feast yesterday, I spent a couple of hours working on the Whisper stuff before my shift at the cinema in the evening. Even though the turnout was low—the Russian drama on the screen could have had something to do with it—I was in no condition to sneak in my usual studying. I was barely able to keep my eyes open. When I came home from work at half past midnight, I collapsed on my bed without even considering taking my clothes off.

  I killed the alarm and slept until 2.20 on Sunday afternoon. Charlie had made pancakes for breakfast—about five hours earlier, she made that abundantly clear—and I reheated three of them in the microwave. Charlie was in her room, fighting Gwen Stefani for the centre stage spot by the sound of it. I had asked if she wanted to join me for breakfast—or late lunch—but she was digging a hole in the dark web and wanted to see where it might lead her.

  Three pancakes proved one too many. Miss wannabe-Stefani had been out shopping yesterday and blessed me with a large jug of orange juice, freshly squeezed from the actual fruits. This could be an issue, I thought, as there was no way I could return to the concentrated carton version after this.

  I scrolled through the headlines of The Whisper on my phone. Raelynn had been to the O2 Arena last night, and titled her review: ‘Madame X? More like Madame Ex’. In Raelynn’s eyes, the old icon looked exactly the part of an old icon. Raelynn, or Rae as we all called her, had eased into the role of interim editor since Diane Cooper died so tragically. I shuddered from the memory of Diane’s dead eyes staring up at me from the dusty floor in the old boiler room.

  Rae was a good writer, no doubt about it. And although I didn’t share her celebrity fixation, she knew how important such pieces were to attract readers. As had Diane. Clickbait pieces like the concert review Rae had posted also gave us something to show the advertisers when we needed more money.

  It gave us the freedom to tell the truth that mattered, Diane had said. “I want our pieces to expose the misuse of power. Old school ‘stick it to the man’ articles.” I hadn’t known her very long, and I had even been jealous of her, and yet I found myself missing her. A lot.

  I closed the browser and called Brendan instead.

  “Ruby Ruby Morgan,” he said brightly, elevating my mood five notches by the mere sound of his voice. “What can I do for milady today?”

  “I just wanted to hear your voice,” I said and meant every syllable. “I’m off to work in a little while. How’s your day?”

  “Just started, I’m a bit embarrassed to admit. I wish I could say it was because I spent half the night writing my term paper, but that would be a wee lie.”

  I laughed. “Why, Mr O’Callaghan, are you saying you went partying instead? Without your lady?”

  “Without any ladies, in my defence,” he said.

  I could hear him stretching as he spoke and envisioned him on the sofa, legs on the table and with that glacier-melting smile of his while he talked to me. For a second, I wanted to end the call, ring Tom and tell him I was sick, only to run over to Ealing to see Brendan. Was I really falling that hard?

  “So, boys’ night out, then. Sounds like you had fun.”

  “We did. It was nice to get away from the gloom around here.” He whispered the last part. “I love Teagan to the moon and back, but I just needed to breathe for a few hours. She really paints the whole flat black and grey, Ru.”

  I half expected him to add “For missing a Mag”, which of course he didn’t.

  “I wish I could tell you some news about Ollie,” I said. “We’re doing—well, Charlie’s doing her best trying to find any clues as to where he might be.” I desperately wanted to tell him about the Vauxhall and the weathervane, but then I’d have to explain how I knew about those details. The risk of him knowing about my Fae heritage was too high. And what good would it do at this point? He couldn’t possibly do anything with the information—it was too fractioned and scarce. All I’d achieve by telling him about my powers was risk him dumping me. If I was close enough to his heart that he could dump me, that is.

  “I’ll let you guys know if we find anything useful,” I said, hoping the nuance justified my lying. “I’d better get going, so I don’t miss my bus.”

  “I wish you didn’t have to work today,” he said, underlining my yearning for him.

  Get a grip, girl!

  “Me too, Brendan. Me too.”

  Neither of us said anything for a few seconds. Or a minute. I couldn’t tell.

  “Still there?” he whispered.

  “Still here.”

  “Hang up.”

  “No, you hang up.” I bit my lip not to laugh. What a silly and absolutely wonderful cliché.

  “Ok, we both hang up on three.”

  “Ok,” I replied, well aware that I had no intention of hanging up on three.

  “One. Two. Three.”

  Silence. I tried to up the volume. Was he breathing in the background? “B?”

  “Ru?”

  “This is way cheesy,” I said, thoroughly enjoying it.

  “I’ll hang up first,” he said. “That way, you don’t have to, and I’ll make you miss me.”

  “I already do. A lot.”

  “Run, milady, run for your carriage. I bid you farewell.”

  I looked at my screen. He had ended the call, and the clock showed me I was in trouble. Four minutes later, at half past five, I left the flat, not at all looking awake or ready for anything. The chat with Brendan, however, was worth it.

  As I walked towards the large iron-wrought gates, I recalled the day I saw them for the first time. That Wednesday morning in September seemed ages ago, with all that had happened since then. A quick glance at my phone confirmed today was 1st of December, two and a half m
onths later—and a lifetime of new experiences.

  I looked up at the ornate letters at the top of the gate. Scientia, amicitia et virtus. The first two words of the motto—knowledge and friendship—had so far come true for me, at least. Judging by what I had seen, with MagX dealers, Harvesters, and even a murderer, I had to leave judgment on the last one—virtue. Still, I had met virtuous people, so there was hope for this Fae yet.

  As I stood at the bus stop, my phone chimed. A text from Charlie.

  Found a bit more on the coppers. Seems they have a secret society of sorts. ‘Sentries of Camelot’. Very hush-hush, and buried in a chat room on ‘UnderState’. Will dig some more into it, but I’m telling you—it’s shady stuff. ttyl xx

  Shady stuff indeed. ‘UnderState’ was a forum on the dark web, a fact I only knew because Charlie had shown it to me when poor Ilyana went missing. My stomach churned at the memory of the police tent covering her body, which had been completely drained of all blood. Or exsanguinated, as I’d heard a student correct his friend when they walked away from the crime scene. Of all places to learn new words.

  I read Charlie’s text again. What in the world drove a group of police officers to run a secret society in an underground chat room? I wanted to alert Paddock but figured I’d give Charlie some time to find out more first.

  I sent her a quick reply, with a shocked emoji.

  Great work! Keep digging, digiwitch.

  I finished it with the same two kisses she had sent me. The swooshing sound of the text flying towards her phone was replaced by the roar of the bus’s engine a couple of blocks down the street.

  I fished my Oyster card from the small pocket in the phone case. As I jumped onto the platform and swiped my card, I smiled at the driver.

  “Quiet shift?” I asked.

  “Lazy Sundays, love.” She smiled. “I quite like them. Beats listening to my fella shouting at the rugby on the telly.” She let out a laugh that turned into a coughing frenzy, bearing witness to a life of at least twenty a day.