Rings of the Inconquo Trilogy

by A. L. Knorr

  I’d commandeered one of the station restrooms for a quick sponge bath, trying not to think about Lowe’s loos. I’d glammed up with make-up, then fought to get my hair into order. It had all come together.

  Then my bravado faded. I was about to go on a covert operation with a partner of dubious allegiance, to deceive and steal from a man who worked with the Group of Winterthür. The thought made my chest tight.

  There were two raps on the restroom door, and I heard Uncle Iry’s muffled voice.

  “Ibby? Um … are you decent enough to talk to?”

  I looked at my bared cleavage and stuck out a leg through the open side of the dress.

  “Doubtful,” I muttered. “Yes, come on in.”

  In the mirror, I watched my uncle step into the ladies’ room, looking thoroughly uncomfortable. I turned towards him with a flutter of lashes.

  “How do I look?”

  Uncle Iry gaped, but he didn’t say anything. After what felt like forever, I lost my nerve and looked away, embarrassed. He probably thought I looked like some kind of streetwalker or bar crawling tramp.

  “I know; it’s too much.” My arms folded over my chest. I felt more naked than when I was bathing.

  “Ibukin, ya binti,” he said softly and stepped forward to rest his hands on my shoulders. “You look lovely, just like your mother.”

  Tears glistened in his eyes.

  “If only they could have seen,” he breathed heavily, his voice thick, “what an incredible woman you’ve become. Fearless, intelligent, strong, and beautiful.”

  I sniffed, willing my eyes not to surrender to tears for fear of what it might do to the make-up.

  “You – oh, excuse me.” I turned to face the mirror and compose myself. “You said you needed to talk?”

  He took a step back and crossed his arms. “I am not sure about this plan.”

  I had to fight a growl of irritation. Why had everybody decided that they had a problem with the plan after it was too bloody late to matter?

  “You are going to this Pierre Gwafa’s home, outside the city, where he will no doubt have security, to steal information you only think he has. Then you hope to escape in a newly purchased car driven by Jackie, who hasn’t driven in years. This is the plan?”

  I shook my head, and Iry frowned.

  “It is not?”

  “You are forgetting your part,” I said. “Halfway through our escape, you are going to have things in place for quick cosmetic changes to the vehicle. That way, if they contact the police about the car, we’ll be more likely to avoid their attention. See, everyone has a part to play.”

  Uncle Iry’s frown deepened. “Ibukin,” he said in that same stern way that my father had mastered just to infuriate me. “I am being serious. You need to consider what is at stake here. The information you are looking for, what is on the ledger Sark spoke of, may not be there, and even if it is, you may not be able to escape with it. If this man Gwafa truly works for the likes of the Winterthür, you can be certain he will keep many dangerous men around him. Facing them alone will be …” he paused, “perilous.”

  I sighed and turned back to meet Uncle Iry’s gaze with an undaunted stare.

  “If I can tangle with an ancient evil like Kezsarak, then a few meathead muppets shouldn’t be much trouble. Besides, I won’t be alone: Sark is going with me.”

  He looked more dubious at this response and shook his head slowly. I turned back to the mirror, adjusting a few hairs that weren’t out of place. I tried to ignore Iry’s disapproving scowl, but my eyes kept drifting over towards him, and each time I felt an angry twitch. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore.

  Slapping the comb down on the sink, I whirled to face him, words bubbling up to eject in a caustic spray.

  “What do you want me to do? No one else had a better plan, and we needed to act now. Every day, hell every hour we don’t act is one more chance for Winterthür to offer up another innocent. Hiding is not an option.”

  Uncle Iry’s expression was one of stone. “I am not telling you to do nothing. I’m telling you that I don’t like this plan, but if you need to do it, please, be careful. Careful of your enemies, careful of your ally, and most important careful of yourself.”

  That should have been the end of it, but my blood was up, and all the anxieties, fears, and frustrations of the past few days came bubbling to the surface.

  “Be careful?” I snarled. “Oh, I’m brave, strong, and all that nonsense two seconds ago, but now you want to tell me to be careful? We are past careful, Uncle, and heading straight for desperate. We need to get to Ninurta and take him out, and this gets us one step closer to that goal, end of story.”

  Uncle Iry gave his head one forceful shake, and though he didn’t raise his voice, he spoke with a firmness that shocked me.

  “My brother’s daughter is no assassin,” he rumbled. “Stopping Winterthür from hurting others, yes, keeping Ninurta from rising, yes, but if you allow yourself to think like Sark, you will make a poor guardian to those who need you most.”

  I wanted to scream in his face, to tell him that maybe being a guardian and an assassin were one and the same – that he was being naively thick-headed. I didn’t need or want his concern, only his support. My whole body trembled as I turned away from him, internally railing at the fact that he couldn’t see what was at stake.

  I gripped the sides of the sink until my fingers ached, breathing hard. Then I looked up into the mirror and was brought up short.

  My face was still the beautiful mask that I’d painted on, my features locked into a cold, hard expression, but staring back at me from the spectral glass were a pair of eyes hauntingly akin to those I’d seen when Jackie nearly beat Sark to death on the floor of our flat. I’d thought they were the eyes of uncontrollable vengeance, but now staring into them and feeling the empty darkness behind my anger, I knew better.

  These were the eyes of fear.

  I was afraid. Afraid of how I’d failed already, afraid of what was happening right now, and afraid of what would happen tonight. I wanted to feel that, with all this insanity and pain, I could do something, that I wasn’t powerless. I knew every reason why Sark’s plan was risky, foolish, and probably futile, but at least it was doing something, and that was what I wanted more than anything right now. I wanted to do something.

  “I need to finish getting ready, a’am,” I said softly, looking at his reflection in the mirror. I reached out and called my bangles over to me. They didn’t quite go with my outfit as is, but I could work on that.

  “I get your coat,” he said. “I love you, ya habibti. Always.”

  ---

  “Should they not be here?” Iry asked out the side of his mouth as he rocked back and forth on the sidewalk, looking as suspicious as hell. “When did they say they were coming?”

  I shrugged without looking up, knowing I was behaving like a sulky teenager but not really caring. I was trying to get my head on straight, and he’d already done enough damage as far as I was concerned.

  “I hope we won’t be late,” Iry muttered looking up and down the street before running a hand over his face to scratch his scalp. “We need to budget time to drop me off so I can get ready–”

  He cut off mid-sentence as something buzzed in his coat pocket.

  I looked up sharply at what sounded like a phone vibrating, but Uncle Iry didn’t have a phone. “What’s that?”

  Uncle Iry pawed around in his coat, finally drawing out the buzzing phone, Daria’s phone.

  “Why do you have that?” I asked, my throat so tight the words came out raspy.

  Uncle Iry shifted from foot to foot, the phone still buzzing in his hand. He looked sheepishly at me, an embarrassed smile curling the corners of his mouth.

  “I picked it up as we left the flat because I thought you just forgot it,” he explained. “We were in such a hurry and yelling about Real McDonald.”

  “McCoy, and fine, but why do you have it now?” My gaze darted rapi
dly between the insistent phone and my uncle.

  “I have no phone, and I thought if I were separated from the group or something happened, having one would help.”

  It made a kind of sense, but as the phone continued to buzz, the sinking feeling in my stomach kept me from admitting the idea wasn’t half bad, except for the fact that Daria could probably use the phone to track us. We still didn’t know her goals, so the closer to the chest we played things, the better.

  “Are you going to answer it?” Iry asked, holding the phone out to me. “I imagine it is that Daria woman.”

  It most certainly was, but for a moment, I thought it wouldn’t be worth letting her into my headspace. Did I really need one more thing to stress over this evening?

  But last time her warning had saved us from being ambushed in our flat, and I decided I’d be a fool not to take the call.

  Shaking my head furiously I drew a deep breath in through my nose. After I’d let it out slowly through my artfully lip-sticked mouth, I took the phone and pressed the talk button.

  “Dary,” I said, adopting the airy tone she’d used previously. “How lovely to hear from you again.”

  “Finally decided to take my call I see,” came Daria’s throaty voice, devoid of false cheer. “Or were you underground this whole time?”

  Her voice sounded tired, her words dragging just a hint, and there was an edge of irritation. I shifted my stance on the street, going for a nonchalance that I hoped transferred into my voice. I felt Iry’s eyes on me.

  “Oh, I’d rather not talk about us, darling, it’s so dull. I’m more interested in what you’ve been up to? It seems so much has changed since we had to move.”

  “Ibby, I …” she began, and there was a silence broken by a shivering breath. I waited, but when she still said nothing, I couldn’t fight a twinge of concern.

  “Daria?” I asked, the mocking flippancy gone. “Daria, are you there?”

  There was another breath, just as shaky as the last.

  “I’m here,” she answered, the words dropping like lead weights. “I know you’ve every reason to suspect me, but I’ve been trying to get in touch with you. I felt it was important to … to …”

  “To explain?” I offered, acid creeping into my tone. “Explain why you turned everything on its head? To explain why you couldn’t have a conversation about your plans to fight Winterthür instead of siccing them on us? Or to explain why you gave Sark the key to a doomsday weapon and sent him scampering back to the bad guys?”

  Another silent stretch greeted my little rant, but this time I waited her out.

  “No,” she said slowly, as though the single syllable weighed a ton. “I’m not going to explain, Ibby. I can’t for several reasons, and I won’t for a few more.”

  “Then why call?” I demanded.

  “Because I wanted to … assure you,” she said, the word spoken as though foreign to her tongue. “I want to promise you that everything I’ve done, everything I’m going to do, it’s all for a purpose. I just wanted you to know that.”

  My fingers trembled as I clenched the phone. “That’s it? That’s the great reveal.”

  She sighed, a regret-laden sound. “Yes. That’s it. I have a very good reason for why I’m doing all this. Maybe the best reason.”

  I laughed – an ugly, cutting sound that tore its way out of me. “I’m so glad to hear that. Any chance you’re going to let me in on what that reason is?”

  “No, I can–”

  “You can’t because that would be an explanation,” I cut in, venom hot on my tongue. “Yes, that would be helpful, and it would be a shame if you were helpful, wouldn’t it?”

  “I know this is hard for you to understand,” she pressed with forced patience. “I know I’m not giving you what you want, but please believe me that I am doing what I think is best. Even after all these years and all the shadow games I’ve played, it hurts my heart that things had to work out this way. I just want you to know that it will be worth it.”

  Anger closed my throat so all I could manage was a bitter snort.

  “Some things are more important than friendship, Ibby, even more important than love. Maybe you won’t understand that until you’ve lived as long as I have.”

  “Well, I’ll have to survive the mess you’ve made first, won’t I?”

  The line was quiet briefly, but when Daria spoke, I could hear a smile in her voice. “You’ll survive this Ibby,” she said softly. “That at least, I know.”

  The line went dead. I lowered the phone, breaking it apart in my hands, molars clenched.

  “Ibby,” Uncle Iry said warningly, taking a step closer before I did anything rash. It was a good thing he did as well because I was trying to decide whether to pitch the phone bits into a storm drain or smash it beneath my feet. I took a long, steadying breath. With an immense effort of will, I handed the phone pieces to my uncle, who took them without comment.

  “Don’t put the phone back together,” I warned. “Not unless you really need it.”

  “Okay.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Our car is here.”

  I hadn’t noticed the purr of a finely tuned engine sliding up to the curb. A sleek, sexy Maserati, glistening black, awaited us. I’d never been much of a car person, partly because a car was a luxury I couldn’t afford, and partly because I’d never driven a day in my life, a true Londoner. Jackie had learned how to drive, and I could only imagine she was enjoying her new ride. I suspected that she’d missed riding in expensive cars since she gave up fast boys and wild parties.

  The rear door opened, and Sark stepped out, his arm resting on the open door. He’d spruced up with a sport coat and an expensive-looking watch. Classic new money hipster: someone who had money but didn’t quite know how to spend it.

  “You blokes ready to rock’n’roll,” Sark asked throwing a heavy dose of pure Jagger mockney into his speech.

  “This is a very nice car,” Uncle Iry said stepping to the boot with his bag. “Very nice.”

  I gave Sark a wry look, noticing his outthrust hip and the way his hands dangled from his wrists.

  “How did you swing this, Mick?” I stepped towards the car.

  “Connections luv,” he crooned as he stepped aside to let me slide in. “Af’er all, when you’re goin’ on a suicide mission, you can always afford to do it in style, babe.”

  14

  Pierre Gwaffu had purchased and refurbished Castle Bromwich Hall, just outside of Birmingham, and tonight was the grand open house. After dropping off Iry at the hideaway, Sark, still sticking to his florid accent, explained that Gwaffu claimed to be an Algerian of a-Mazigh, Berber descent, who’d come to the UK years ago. He posed as an art aficionado in blue-blood circles, and as an art smuggler in less high-browed, but equally wealthy, company.

  “Of course, all that is a front too.” Sark shrugged as he slouched against the window. “He’s a fixer for Winterthür, arranging dirty deeds wherever and whenever they need ’em.”

  The countryside rolled by, the russet hills glimmering in the dying light. I’d only been outside of London proper a handful of times, and it always amazed me how verdant and rural the land was, even a few miles from the city limits.

  “... but the real thing is that Gwaffu is about as human as Daria.”

  I sat up. “What?”

  Sark’s expression was grave. “Whatever ungodly thing Daria is, Pierre is something like her.”

  Pressure behind my eyes was building; I had to fight the urge to knead my temples.

  “Like I said, I’m no demonologist, and he’s never, you know, let it all out around me, but I’ve seen the eye thing and heard stories.”

  I knew what he was talking about. I’d seen Daria’s eyes reflect light, along with taking on a cruel, bright light of their own when she was losing her temper.

  “What stories?” I said through my teeth.

  “Spooky stuff, boogeyman stories.” Sark lolled his head to look out the window. “He walked
into an IRA ambush, and not a minute later, there are seven dead Irishmen. Brokering a deal with some Azawad general and reps from Ansar Dine, and being able to cow both men with a look.”

  The fact that Gwaffu was inhuman wasn’t enough; he had to be scary enough that terrorist groups had stories about him. And here we were, one burnt-out operative and three civilians. Admittedly, I was an Inconquo, but the idea was for this to be a covert operation not a supernatural slug out. My chest felt tight. I looked out the window trying to control my breathing.

  I jumped when Sark touched my hand.

  “Ibby,” he said in a tender, warm voice I’d never heard him use. “You are ready for this. You are going to be great.”

  My gaze bounced from our interlocked hands to his soulful expression, eyes sparkling behind his glasses. The care and encouragement implicit was a surprise and felt good. The tension in my nerves and the bands around my chest began to relax until the Maserati’s speed climbed, and I saw Jackie’s narrowed eyes in the rear-view mirror.

  “Please,” I pulled my hand away, “don’t touch me like that again.”

  Sark sat back nodding. “Sorry.” He turned to look out his window.

  We didn’t speak the rest of the way to Bromwich Hall.

  ---

  “Easy, easy,” Sark cooed, his hands raised, palms out as the security guard shoved him up against a wall.

  When we’d first arrived, we’d been ushered through the manor front doors by two huge silverbacks in suits. A few steps in, we’d been asked to step into a side room for a quick security inspection by a blonde woman in severe but not unflattering pantsuit. Sark had winked, implying this was routine, but two men in black suits had moved from behind the cover of the open door. One had checked Sark into a wall, while the other had taken me by the arm.

  “No worries, dear.” Sark grunted as the rough handed brute flipped him around so his face was against the wall. “They just care about our safety.”