by Emma Newman
Will nodded slowly, remembering the sight of his sister, thinking of Cathy lying in hospital, needing to do something to channel the rage. “If I’m to go against the Tulipas directly I’m going to do it properly. I have to see my patron.”
The house smelled stale when Sam got home. He didn’t bother to turn the light on; the creeping twilight gave him enough to see by and matched his mood. It had taken almost an hour to walk home and whilst it had made his wounds complain he needed the exhaustion.
Leanne was dead.
He chucked the keys into the bowl in the hallway and looked at the picture of the two of them in the field, lit by an amber shard from the streetlight outside. He wished he could remember it being taken, wished it gave him something other than a sense of emptiness. He knew the album from their wedding day was on the bookshelf in the spare room upstairs, and that he wouldn’t be able to look at it for a long time. A part of him wanted to study the pictures and invite in pure grief in the hope that eventually the rock in his chest would be expelled, but more of him just wanted to switch off.
He went into the living room and saw nothing but the pictures she’d chosen, the furniture she’d picked out, the plants she’d bought. The only thing he’d really contributed was the TV and DVD player. He decided to put the house on the market the next day and move somewhere a long way away that was completely his.
Car doors slammed outside and he went to the window. The street was filled with parked cars now all the commuters were home. He saw neighbours from either side of the house and a couple of people he didn’t recognise all pull out and drive off at the same time, leaving the road outside his house and his neighbour’s completely free of parked cars.
Normally he wouldn’t have given it a second thought, but now he knew about the Fae-touched and Sorcerers he felt distinctly unsettled. He wondered if Cathy’s husband had found out about him or if Ekstrand was planning to do something that required easy access to his house. Then he realised neither party would want to do anything in the real world; they’d be sneaking through the Nether. He shivered and looked behind him at the empty room.
The sound of a car outside brought his attention back to the road. A stretch limousine was crawling down the narrow street and pulled into the space that had just been made. Sam went to the side of the window so he’d be out of sight from the road, fearing that Neugent would step out any moment. Once it was parked, a man got out of the front passenger seat dressed in a dark suit. He looked like a broad-shouldered security man or FBI mook from a silly American thriller. He even had an earpiece and a flesh-coloured curly wire reaching down beneath the collar of his white shirt.
The man looked the street up and down, spoke into a concealed mouthpiece and then moved to open the rear passenger door. Another burly guard got out, followed by another. Sam’s breath sped up as the adrenalin kicked in. He considered leaving by the back door, not wanting to find out who was inside, even if it was Neugent. Nobody brought blokes that big with them for a tea party. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the spectacle in his quiet suburban street.
The third man to get out was the one they were there to protect; his neck wasn’t as wide as his head and he was at least a foot shorter than the guards. His suit was well-cut and fitted perfectly. He buttoned his jacket when he got out. He had the air of confidence that the super-wealthy exude effortlessly and appeared to be of mixed-race descent, his hair black and cropped short. He was looking at Sam’s house.
He gave a nod to one of the men, who opened the garden gate and came up the path. Panicking, Sam dashed into the hallway and went into the kitchen only to see another suited guard posted at the end of the garden, so tall his head was visible despite the six-foot-high gate.
The doorbell rang. Sam jumped and then winced as the movement aggravated the wounds. He could pretend to be out; the lights were off, after all. But then he realised they’d arrived only minutes after he’d got home. They’d probably followed him or could already have been watching the house.
The doorbell rang again, followed by a loud knock. There was nowhere to run even if he had been fit enough to do so. If the events of recent weeks had taught him anything it was that when powerful people made him their business, there wasn’t much to be done about it.
Sam opened the door and looked up at the guard.
“Mr Samuel Westonville?” the man asked in a predictably deep voice.
“Yeah.” He tried not to sound nervous.
The man stepped aside and his boss walked up the path to the doorstep. “May I come in, Mr Westonville? I have something to discuss with you.”
“Who are you?”
“If I may?” He wanted to come in before anything else was said. Sam looked at the two mooks standing behind him and gestured for them all to come inside, leaving them to close the door.
Sam went into the living room and switched on the light. The guards came in before the boss, one sweeping the room with a trained eye, the other pulling down the blind and closing the curtains. “Clear, sir,” the curtain-closer said and the man entered.
Sam stood in front of the TV, trying to look as calm and capable as he could with an arm in a sling. After glancing around the room, the boss came in further but didn’t sit down.
“So who are you?”
“I imagine you’re already familiar with one of my names. I’m Lord Iron.”
Sam’s tongue felt like a piece of shoe leather. “Oh,” he finally said. “Yeah, I’ve heard of you.”
“May I sit down?”
“Um, yeah, sure. I’d offer you a drink but there isn’t anything in the house.”
“Not even water?”
“Well there’s water but—”
Sam fell silent when Lord Iron nodded to one of the guards, who left the room and headed to the kitchen.
“Firstly, I’d like to offer you my deepest condolences on the death of your wife, Mr Westonville.”
“You heard about that quick. Do you visit all spouses of your deceased employees on the same day?”
“These are difficult times, but surely not so difficult that one cannot maintain one’s manners?”
Sam cleared his throat and sat down in one of the armchairs. “Sorry. It’s not the best time. And I don’t usually get the secret service over for tea, you know?”
Lord Iron glanced at the remaining guard. “Take no notice of them.” The other one returned with a glass of water. Lord Iron took it, thanked him and sipped. “Hard water in this area.”
“I don’t want to be rude…” Sam said.
“I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m here. Well, it’s a rather delicate topic. I wanted to see how you were coping first. How are your injuries?”
Sam frowned. “Sore.”
Lord Iron nodded. “They could have been much worse. Mr Westonville—may I call you Samuel?”
“I prefer Sam.”
“Sam, whilst I appreciate good manners, I like to get to the point. Your wife died prematurely.”
“I know.” Sam clenched his teeth.
“And I believe one of my employees is responsible, a Mr Neugent. Are you aware of him?”
Sam’s heart began to race for a different reason. “Yes. Do you know what he’s been doing?”
“I know there’s a worrying pattern. And I know you and I could work well together. You’ve already demonstrated a remarkable ability to act under pressure.”
“Look, just tell me straight, what do you want?”
“I want you to come and work for me Sam. And I want your first assignment to be dealing with Neugent.”
“You own CoFerrum Inc?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re his über-boss, you can sort him out better than I possibly can.”
“There are many things I can and will do. I just thought you’d want to be personally involved.” Lord Iron put the glass down. “You’ve been wronged. I’m offering you the chance to put it right yourself. If you’re not interested, then, by all me
ans, grieve and put your life back together in whatever way you wish. But if you want to make sure that what happened to you doesn’t happen to anyone else, I’m the best person to help you.”
“I’m not sure we have the same ideas about putting things right.”
Lord Iron laughed. No one else in the room did. “Perhaps not.”
“Right now, I want to fucking kill him.”
“We can discuss that.”
Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “You want me to be your hitman?”
“Sam, this isn’t a computer game. The way I see it is this: your wife was under my protection.”
“Yeah, we need to talk about what that means.”
Lord Iron raised a hand. “Indeed, we do, but suffice to say I’m deeply disturbed by what happened to your wife whilst under my protection, and I feel a personal responsibility to see this matter dealt with. I think you have a certain…affinity for things that could result in a very different life for you. One that’s satisfying and would prevent other parties taking advantage of your talents.”
Sam thought of Ekstrand. “I’m not very talented by all accounts.”
“Nonsense. You just haven’t been given the right opportunities. I’m not waving a magic wand here, Sam. I’m not promising anything other than the chance to address an injustice against you. And a salaried position, should you be in need of one.”
“Do you know anyone called Mr Ekstrand?”
Lord Iron nodded. “You’re concerned about how he’d react should you accept my offer?”
“Something like that.”
“There’s no need to worry. He and I have an understanding. Besides, you’re not his property.”
“I’m not yours either.”
“I’m sorry if I gave that impression at any point.”
Sam wondered whether to ask if he knew about Lord Poppy too but decided it would be best not to speak his name. If they knew each other, Iron would want to know why Sam did and he didn’t want to have that conversation.
“Don’t be intimidated by all this, Sam.” He waved a hand at the guards flanking the sofa, misinterpreting Sam’s silence. “These men are here to protect me, not threaten you. If you want me to leave and never seek you out again, just say the word. If you need time to think, I can give that to you, but I do want to deal with Neugent sooner rather than later. If you’d rather take the time to grieve and leave him to me, I can return in a few months’ time. It’s all up to you.”
“And what would happen if I said yes?”
“I would invite you to come with me to my home. It’s safer there and more relaxed. We’ll discuss a salary, any needs you have and I’ll answer your questions. Should you wish to accept my offer you’d be welcome to stay there as a guest, have company accommodation or funding to purchase a new house.”
“I already have a house.”
“Bath isn’t a convenient location. I’d give you a generous relocation package.”
Sam looked around the room. He’d already decided he wanted to sell the house. He had no job, no prospects and all he knew he wanted was to ruin Neugent’s life. The man sitting in front of him was offering the chance to do that and whilst a part of him was worried about what that would entail, he mostly didn’t care what happened after Neugent had been dealt with. There was very little else in his life now.
“All right,” Sam said. “I’ll come with you, just to talk about how this could work. I’m not promising anything. And I’m not agreeing to anything until we’ve had a serious conversation. OK?”
“Fine by me.” Lord Iron smiled. “I think this could be the beginning of a most mutually beneficial relationship.”
We’ll see about that, Sam thought, but still shook his hand and managed a noncommittal smile.
27
“Mr Ekstrand, you’ll be late!” Petra was at the doorway to the sitting room and smiled at Max when she noticed him.
“I’m not going to the Moot,” Ekstrand said, arms folded.
“It looks like the Sorcerer of Essex made a deal with Lady Rose,” Max said.
“You got that from Thorn?” Petra asked
“Thorn was angry with the Prince for not protecting them, so he was remarkably cooperative,” Ekstrand said.
“I made sure he was telling the truth,” Max added.
“Is that why the gargoyle is hiding in the cupboard under the stairs?” Petra asked. “I heard whimpering. Shouldn’t you check on it?”
“There are more important things to deal with.”
“It’s all an infernal mess.” Ekstrand left his spot by the fireplace to pace the room. “The Prince is involved in all of the business with the Master of Ceremonies, and Thorn said Rose made a deal with the Sorcerer of Essex. If Dante truly has made a deal with her, it could explain the stone hearts. I don’t know how, exactly, but that’s what my instincts are telling me. If Dante has created a foul hybrid sorcery my personal wards may not protect me at the Moot. The castle’s wards only keep every living thing that’s not one of the seven outside, which is useless when one of them may try to kill me. So I’m not going.”
“But you called everyone together, Mr Ekstrand. If they convene and nothing happens, they’ll be very angry with you.”
“Petra, I would rather have a heart heavy with the need to write a few apology letters than one made of stone, wouldn’t you?”
She nodded. “Well, I have something new to bring to the table. Whoever or whatever killed the people in the cloister damaged the building. I found hairline cracks in the four towers. I’m assuming they weren’t there before.”
“They weren’t,” Max replied. “What made you look for them?”
“I wasn’t looking, to be honest. I needed a break, I went for a walk around the perimeter and noticed them then.”
Ekstrand nodded. “Everyone was killed at the same time…cracks in the building they were inside…Max, meet me here in three hours. We’ll go to the Moot then.”
“When it’s over?”
“Yes. And not a moment before.” Ekstrand left the room.
Petra looked at Max. “Could Dante have really made a deal with a Fae?”
“According to Thorn he did. We don’t know why or what the details are, but it explains why the Rosas were ignored by the Arbiters in North London—that’s in Essex territory. Dante probably offered immunity for the Rosas in return for knowledge of Rose Charms.”
“But why would a Sorcerer ever want to truck with the Fae?”
“I’m sure Mr Ekstrand is asking the same question,” Max said, struggling to his feet. “I’m going to get some sleep whilst I can.”
She touched his arm as he hobbled past. “You’ll check on the gargoyle, won’t you?”
“I wasn’t planning to,” he replied and went up to his room.
Max had just got comfortable when the door opened. He didn’t bother to open his eyes, he already knew what it was.
The gargoyle came to the bedside, still silent thanks to the new formulae. “I want to make sure Cathy is all right. I want us to go to Mundanus and find out whether she made it.”
“No.”
“But—”
“Either she died or she’s just badly injured. Either way there’s nothing to be done about it.”
The gargoyle couldn’t argue with that. “What will the Sorcerer do with Thorn?”
“Probably post him back to Exilium when he’s sure we don’t need him anymore.”
“It was awful, what you did.”
Max opened his eyes and turned to face the stone frown. “It was a means to an end.” The gargoyle said nothing. Max closed his eyes again. “I’m going to sleep. If you want to be upset go somewhere else.”
“Easy for you to say.” The gargoyle left him to sleep.
Will inspected his finery and checked that his hair and close shave were perfect and his sword and scabbard positioned correctly. He briefly fingered the elegant pommel, remembering the day it was presented to him by his father. A week later he�
��d set off on his Grand Tour with it secreted in his luggage, protected by a Charm to ensure no mundane saw it. He wore it in various Maharajas’ courts in India, in the great Salon at São Paulo, at the costumed ball in New York and in the Parisian Court. He’d never had to actually use it and he’d never worn it to Exilium before, but his instinct told him he needed to make a point, and he was prepared to do whatever it took to see justice done.
On the Tour he’d seen examples of mundane justice, from people being arrested for drunken behaviour in Crete to people being beaten by a local drug lord in South America. Whilst Oliver had been laid up with a dreadful cold, Will had spent a rather interesting evening chatting to a man released from prison after a ten-year sentence in the American Midwest. The stories the man had told him would stay with Will for the rest of his life. They made him glad he was only visiting their world and not actually living in it.
In Society justice was dispensed in a variety of ways, depending on the city one lived in and the family one belonged to, and was settled by duels more often than not. The situation with Bartholomew was complicated by the fact that there was no Duke in Londinium to address the grievance. It was of such severity that Will didn’t feel he could approach the Marquis of Westminster, and besides, he wanted to deal with it directly. If he was going to confront a man two hundred and twenty-five years his senior, one who was likely to be the next Duke of Londinium, Will wanted to be sure he had the blessing of his patron.
When he was satisfied his appearance was acceptable Will took a deep breath and said to the mirror, “Lord Iris, I beg an audience with you.”
The glass rippled immediately, suggesting his request had been expected, and rapidly shifted from a wavering reflection of his dressing room to a view into Exilium. Will stepped through.
He’d been to Exilium twice before and even though he was expecting it the beauty of the place still amazed him. He could see the copse of trees ahead and a blue iris bobbing in the gentle breeze. The air was fresh and filled with fragrance. Will permitted himself one moment to appreciate it before moving forwards, remembering to keep the desire to speak to his patron foremost in his mind.
