“It isn’t the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”
In the end, permission was granted, pending approval from the higher-ups. Rose left Bedlam’s office with something like a bounce in her step, and a lightness in her chest she hadn’t felt in years. She had a plan. Beck was coming back – no matter what it took.
Lance caught up with her around the next bend in the hall. He snagged her jacket sleeve and pulled her around to face him. “You’re bluffing,” he said, like an accusation.
Only a little. She said, “I told you the night Beck went under that I was going to get him back.”
He made a frustrated sound. “You were in shock. That was the grief talking. But after all this time, you can’t be serious right now.”
A small voice in the back of her mind informed her she should feel sympathetic here. She was talking about resurrecting her former lover, right in front of her current one. But most of her brain space was devoted to BECK, BECK, BECK, and she couldn’t find that softness she needed for this moment.
“You said yourself you had no idea how we were going to win this war. We needed something different, something we haven’t tried before.”
“Yeah, I meant a special kind of grenade, or a conduit-proof tank or something.” His eyes were wild. “Not your old boyfriend back from the dead!”
She took a breath. “He’s not dead.” She couldn’t bring herself to address old boyfriend without saying something terrible.
“You don’t know that! And even if he isn’t, he’s just one man!”
“You’re shouting.”
“And you’re being insane! I thought you’d gotten past this, Rose.” He wiped a hand down his face, and shook his head. “Jesus…this isn’t possible.”
“You fight angel-possessed people for a living, and you want to lecture me on what’s possible?”
His lips pressed into a tight line. “This is a stupid idea.”
“Duly noted,” she said, tonelessly, turned and walked off.
At the end of the hall, before she turned the corner, she heard him whisper, “Shit.”
She didn’t sulk. She went back to the research room, took out a whole box of files, and went to talk to Morgan.
Morgan took one look at the printed out, grainy, black and white illustration of Saint Derfel astride his stag, and her head snapped up, the movement quicker and more human than any Rose had ever seen from her. “Who are you trying to fetch back to the mortal plane?” Her voice even sounded human: strained and urgent.
Rose didn’t like the thought that even an immortal being thought she was being stupid. “You know Derfel, then.”
“I know that he was a knight of the Round Table.”
“If it existed.”
“It did,” Morgan said, seriously. “And I know that Derfel can achieve what you’re asking of him – if the offering, and your concentration, are great enough.”
Rose tried not to sigh. “If you knew he was a viable option, why didn’t you tell me before?”
Morgan didn’t evidence any contrition. She met Rose’s glare unblinking, eyes glowing blue. “Because I think it’s an incredibly reckless thing bringing a soul back from hell, and, frankly, I don’t think you’re ready for it.”
“Ready for it?” Rose bristled. “I’m sorry, is there a training course I missed?”
“There’s a number of ways to bring a soul back from hell, each riskier and uglier than the last. Derfel can fetch your Arthur, yes, but will his soul come with a body? Or will the soul already be corrupted? Will he even resemble the man you lost five years ago?”
“He will.” Rose stood, and paced away from the table where they’d been sitting with the files between them. She straightened her fingers to keep from balling her hands into fists; fought not to grind her teeth. “He’ll be the same. Beck’s strong.”
“There’s human strong, and then there’s hell strong.”
Rose whirled to face the conduit again, brought up momentarily by the innocent picture she made, in her soft white scrubs, with her white-blond hair – and by the contrast of the ancient gaze staring out of her baby face.
“He’ll be different,” she said, quiet, sure – certain. Not a human’s certainty, but the combined, first-hand knowledge of the ages. “I believe you’re strong enough to bring him back. But you should prepare yourself: he won’t be the Beck you knew before. No one could be, not after that.”
Rose didn’t nod, didn’t agree with her in any way, but disquiet shifted through her, because of course the conduit was right. No living creature could spend that long in hell without being deeply affected by it – not even Beck, in whom her faith was unshakeable.
She managed to excuse herself politely, left the cell…and then, with a sinking feeling in her gut, went to find Lance.
He didn’t have an office, because the base couldn’t accommodate one and provide private sleeping quarters for the Knights, too, but he kept his room door open in the evenings as a sign that he was willing to meet with whomever wished to speak with him. It was open tonight, but his manner was decidedly unwelcoming. He sat with his elbows braced on his small desk, a scowl marring his forehead, signing reports with so much force she thought the pen might go through the paper.
She knocked on the doorjamb, and waited for him to lift his head; when he did, the scowl deepened.
“What?”
She offered her empty palms in a show of peace. “I just wanted to talk.”
“Talk? Or refuse to listen to reason?”
Earlier, she would have snapped back at that, but she knew he wasn’t speaking from a practical place right now. Captain Bedlam had questioned her theory, but given in because her back was against a wall, and if one dumb Knight wanted to get herself killed attempting to raise a secret weapon, it was worth the risk.
But for Lance this was personal. This was her bringing Beck back, when he’d been the one warming her bed.
More than that, if she was honest, which she thought she had to be, now. “I’ll listen,” she said, keeping her voice calm – soft, even. “You aren’t going to dissuade me, but I will listen.”
He sat back in his chair and rubbed at his eyes, sighing deeply. “Of course I won’t. Who could ever?” He waved, still rubbing his eyes. “Come in. Close the door.”
She did, and sat on the edge of his bunk. After a moment, the line of his shoulders tense, bunching the back of his t-shirt, he spun the chair slowly around and faced her. He looked exhausted; apprehensive; defeated.
“You went to see Morgan?” he guessed.
“I did. She says it’s possible – that it will work. Derfel isn’t just a statue in Wales. He really can fetch souls out of hell.”
He studied her a moment, lips pressed thin. “What else did she tell you?”
She’d never given him credit for being brilliant, not like she had Beck, but he wasn’t an idiot. But she couldn’t tell him everything – not about Beck possibly coming back…changed.
She said, “It takes a generous offering, and a very strong will. The person who makes the request has to want the soul back very badly.”
The corners of his mouth twitched in an attempted smile. “Well, you won’t have any trouble with that.”
“Lance. I’m not trying to hurt you.”
“I’m not hurt.” He was a terrible liar.
“Still. I’m not trying to. Our backs are against the wall: you know that. Morgan will keep helping, but she has her limitations.”
He tilted his head. Come on. “Let’s not pretend this is about you being patriotic.”
“Have I ever denied that I wanted to find a way to save Beck?” she challenged.
He glanced away from her, throat jumping as he swallowed. “No.”
“That doesn’t mean that I don’t care about–”
He silenced her with a raised hand, one that trembled faintly. “Don’t,” he said, voice thick.
Rose knotted her fingers together in her lap, torn. She really didn’t want
to hurt him – but she wouldn’t bury the idea of saving Beck, not even for him.
Finally, she stood, crossed the small space between them, and carded a hand through his thick, dark hair.
He tipped forward so he could press his face into her stomach, breath rushing against her skin through the fabric of her shirt as he let out a gusty sigh.
She kept petting his hair. “You don’t have to come with me. No one does. Bedlam will send me on my own.”
“No,” he said, after a minute. “No, I’m coming. We’ll all come.”
They took a vote the next day, and everyone voted yea.
They left for Wales a week later.
~*~
The Present
“Where is Shubert now?” Beck asked. He paced slowly down and back the length of the table, tail twitching behind him, wings mantled above him with the little thumb claws hooked together.
“He’s taken over the top floors of one of the gardening high-rises,” Lance said. His voice was hard and flat, too-professional, and simmering with badly-disguised distaste. It had occurred to her more than once that, had they known one another as mortal men, they still wouldn’t have liked one another – Beck would still have had the upper hand, all sharp smiles and coy manipulation.
Manipulation. The thought shocked her. She’d never thought of Beck as manipulative. He certainly never had been with her.
Of course he hadn’t.
Of course.
“Hmm,” he said, stroking his chin thoughtfully with one claw. “Rooftop access?”
“For you, maybe,” Gavin said with a snort. “But there’s no scaling it, and we don’t have a helo at our disposal, not that deep in. He’d hear us coming a mile away.”
“Right, right.” More pacing. A pause. Beck turned to them with the air of a man who’d made a decision. “We’ll just have to walk in the front door, then.”
Lance made a rude, dismissive noise. “Right. Straight in the front door.”
Beck sent him an incalculable look, a pulse of gold in the gloom. “If you’re worried, you shouldn’t be.”
Lightning chose that moment to illuminate the window; thunder followed closely, a low rumble.
Gavin swore under his breath.
“I didn’t think kicking in doors was your style, back in the day,” Lance said. “I thought it was all about sneaking in the back way. Or was it through air shafts?”
Beck grinned. “An effective strategy. But I’m afraid my wings wouldn’t fit.” He spread them in demonstration, as lightning flashed again, blue limning the black, bat-like scallops of them. “Won’t you trust me, Sergeant? This is why you brought me back, after all. To solve your war.”
“Wars are won,” Lance gritted out. “Not solved.”
Beck shrugged eloquently. Then his brows lowered, his smile becoming more a baring of fangs. “What’ll it be?”
Lance studied him a moment; Rose saw the pulse of a vein in his temple, and the beading of sweat there, too. He was nervous – very nervous. More so about Beck than the mission he was proposing, she wagered. “Through the front door, then.”
“Excellent.”
~*~
“We still don’t know how he’s doing it,” Rose said, a few minutes later. Everyone had gone off for final, private preparations. She and Beck stood at the head of the dining table, the map still laid out before them. Beck was tracing city blocks with the tip of one claw. “He’s still sharing the body with his angel. Two voices.”
“Hm.” He was distracted, lips moving soundlessly as he recited street names to himself, nearly wondrous.
“Beck?”
He lifted his head, finally. “No worries, sweetheart.” He offered her a smile that was truer than the ones he’d given the others, but no less quick. “I can handle him.”
She worked not to frown. “You’re not being overconfident, are you?”
His expression froze. A split second, easily missed if she hadn’t been watching him so closely. “What’s this I hear? Doubt?”
Despite the crumbling mansion around them, his black hair, his horns, she was transported back to the basement of his townhouse, that day during their training, right near the end, when his obsession had become feverish. Right before they went after Castor.
Right before he was taken from her.
She felt that way – but he looked different. Not only the wings, and the eyes, but there was a steadiness, now. Not obsession, not the fevered madness of a goal nearly achieved. His energy was all very carefully contained; he looked nearly peaceful – save for the way he gazed at her now, assessing her faith in him.
She sucked in a breath, and couldn’t have said why.
“Beck, I just got you back,” she whispered. “I don’t want to walk into a shitshow and lose you again right away.”
The line of his mouth softened. He cupped her cheek, claws teasing at the soft skin behind her ear. “Sweetheart,” he purred. “You won’t lose me. Not ever again.”
~*~
The rain beat steadily on the pavement. Faint bluish-purple light glowed in the windows on the center floors of the building. Up top, white-gold light beamed out into the night, another sign of Shubert’s excesses.
Rose stood beneath the umbrella of Beck’s spread wing and took a steadying breath.
From Beck’s other side, Lance said, “If you’re trying to get us killed, there are easier ways to do it.”
“Nonsense,” Beck said lightly. He folded his wings up – the rain pattered on her helmet – and strode to the heavy, chained and bolted steel doors that allowed street-level entry to Times Gardens.
Gavin had bolt-cutters. He lifted them –
Just as Beck took the chain in his hand, and broke the links like they were nothing.
No, Rose saw, as she rushed up behind him – he’d sliced them. With his claws. The same claws that had brushed so gently across her skin less than an hour ago.
“Holy shit,” Gavin breathed, joining them.
The chain slithered through the door handles and hit the ground. Beck gripped one handle, and tugged – Rose heard the lock give with a grind, and a squeal, and the door opened, a steamy, botanical scent rolling out to greet them.
Beck opened the door wide with a gallant motion. “Ladies first.”
Lance barred her way with a hand – Beck grinned in amusement – and swept in first. Rose followed.
The ground floor housed generators and servers: the electrical and mechanical guts of the hydroponic greenhouses above.
“Should we take the stairs?” Gallo asked.
“No.” The door crashed shut behind Beck. “The elevator is more practical.”
“They’ll know we’re coming, then,” Lance pointed out.
“They already know. Why tire yourselves climbing twelve stories?”
They piled in the elevator, Beck’s wings carefully folded, though it was still a tight squeeze.
Rose leaned forward and ran her hand down the button panel, lighting all of them up. “They won’t know which floor we get off on,” she reasoned.
Beck chuckled. “Clever as ever.”
Lance muttered something she couldn’t make out.
The glided up smoothly, the elevator as well-maintained as everything else in the building. It came to a polite halt on floor two, on three, on four…Each time, the doors slid apart to reveal wide, open spaces bathed in blue and purple UV light, the air swirling with mist, plants hanging from the ceiling, white roots trailing down toward the floor like balloon strings at a party. Row after row after row.
When they stopped on the eighth floor, Beck said, “Let’s get off here.”
The misters were actively going, angled jets spraying the exposed roots of the bean and squash and lettuce plants dangling from racks attached to the ceiling. Visibility was low. The drone of the UV bulbs and the hiss of the misters beat down all other sound. Rose couldn’t hear her own footfalls, or the creak of her gear as she advanced slowly down a row, knives drawn, already
beading with moisture. She didn’t want to start firing rounds like crazy in here: for the noise, yes, but also because she didn’t know where the pressurized tanks were for the misters, and hitting one with a stray round would be a very bad idea.
Lance was behind her, crowding her, really. She didn’t see Beck. Glimpsed Tris as only a shadow on the next row.
“Why are we here?” Lance hissed behind her. “Why this floor?”
The answer came boiling out of the mist in front of them: a thick-necked guard all in black, gun catching the light as it fell toward them.
Rose lunged forward, low and fast, and surged up, quicker than the guard had expected. She got inside his guard, inside the reach of his big arms, and she saw a fast, white flash of startled eyes before she drove her knife up to the hilt into the soft flesh below his chin.
She had to twist her wrist to pull it out as he toppled backward, spluttering and dying. His gun clattered to the floor.
Around her, she heard grunts and impacts. A shout somewhere farther ahead.
She turned to find Lance grappling with another guard, just in time to see Lance get a grip on his jaw and snap his neck. He let go, and the body fell with a heavy thud. When Lance turned, her eyes went straight to the shiny patch down low on his jacket, below the reach of his Kevlar.
The dead man held a knife dark with blood.
“You got stabbed,” she said, reaching for him, flooded with horror.
“Bastard got the drop on me. I’m fine, it’s fine.” He gripped her shoulders and spun her back around, but not before she saw the lines of pain etched in his face. “Keep moving.”
She swallowed down a surge of fear-sickness – fear for him, for the damage, fear she couldn’t allow herself right now, in the thick of things – and pressed onward, knives at the ready.
She expected to encounter more guards, all down the long length of the row, roots catching at their elbows, trailing over their shoulders. But they didn’t, and when they reached the end of the row, and the open lab space there, she realized why.
Beck stood amid a tableau of bodies. Seven, she counted quickly, all heavy, black-clad hired muscle. All dead. One’s head looked to be on backward, and a black tide of blood was rapidly spreading from beneath the twist of limbs and newly-slack faces. Eyes stared sightless; fingers twitched open around unused weapons.
Night In A Waste Land (Hell Theory Book 2) Page 21