by T. K. Toppin
Trudi was Asian, or something close to Asian. These days, everyone seemed to be a mix of something, so it was difficult to be sure of their true ethnicity. If my dad was alive today, being a geneticist, I’m sure he would’ve been in chromosome heaven. Even John, at the oddest moments, looked a little Asian. But at this exact moment, he resembled a Neanderthal. Right down to the brutish way he held his face. I tried my best to ignore him.
Trudi scraped the high end of five foot one, was fit and toned, blindingly quick in her movements, and an excellent cook. She made the most wicked pastries you could imagine. My personal favorite was her jellied fruit custard tarts, which she usually kept in good supply for me. She said it was a family recipe dating back to way before my time, when her family had been humble bakers.
For a time, Trudi used to be my housekeeper and body-assistant—my minder. Now, when the times called for it, she was just my body-assistant, the modern term for bodyguard.
It was Trudi who initially taught me the basics of self-defense and combat. She still did, though John now insisted I use one of the specialized trainers or sparring droids. But every chance Trudi had, she would still give me pointers. We were good friends now more than anything else.
We were in Simon and Trudi’s home. It was just after eight in the evening, and their young daughter, Yumi, was already tucked into bed. Their home was like all the other houses in the presidential sector, where a select few, and close family of the president, resided. Our home, off to one corner, had a magnificent view of the Doucet Falls. Aline and Rand were across from us, while Simon and Trudi were tucked away in another corner. Dotted nearby were a few other residences, one of which was occupied by Vice President Sarah Tretyakova and her family. Most of the other residences were vacant. When I first got here, I had been given one of the vacant units.
John and I lived in a spartanly furnished house. Sleek and sterile with metal accents and masculine sharpness, a reflection of his bachelor days. I still hadn’t had a chance to remedy that. I may be an artist, but I’m hopeless at home decorating, not having inherited any of my mother’s aesthetic sensibilities. Simon and Trudi’s house was a home. It had the warm wood finishes, soft colors, feminine touches, the smell of food, and the scatter of toys. And faint traces of clean and freshly laundered clothes. Aline’s house, I noted, never smelled this way. It was homey but sterile, like disinfectant, like the clinic she managed—and immaculately ordered.
“Men are just such pains in the ass sometimes,” I grumbled under my breath.
After we broke transmission from Simon, John and I had another round of words, a few jabbing pokes into each other’s chests and arms, and finally installed the silent treatment.
Had I not been going with Simon, I knew John would never have let me walk out of the house—let alone live. That was one consolation, because I was determined to go one way or the other. I couldn’t explain it, but I just had to see Margeaux first-hand, for myself. It clawed at my insides. Yes, I was making it personal. I had to make it so.
Trudi supervised my dressing. She tucked weapons discreetly about my person, some visible, others not. Some were traceable if we were scanned, others not. It was hard to keep track, but I had to focus. My life could depend on being able to locate my weapons in a split second. She made sure I had only the weapons I was well versed in.
I wore dark combat gear: close-fitting trousers with secret multi-function pockets and compartments, a snug gray jersey over my body-shield, a weapons harness for the Snare Gun 3 across my mid-section, lightweight boots with steel-tipped points, heels, and ankle guards, and a specially-designed long black jacket that also functioned as a body-shield, also with many pockets and compartments. I had trouble remembering which pockets contained what, but after running it through a few times in my head, I thought I had it.
And of course, my krima, firmly attached to my wrist holster. I felt like a pack-mule but, despite the quantity of gear I had, my clothing was surprisingly light.
Simon was similarly attired, but I suspected he didn’t need the assistance of a dresser and no doubt knew exactly what each of his pockets carried.
John loitered in the background, on purpose. He watched, with microscopic inspection, every step and process of my dressing. His eyes were all but glittering with intensity. Every once in a while I’d cast him an aloof glance. He’d return it in the same manner.
“Ah, men,” Trudi let out a chuckle. “Don’t you know they’re still little boys. It’s so hard to give it up. They just pretend to be grown-ups. They don’t know how to play fair, and believe that everyone wants to play by their rules. It’s a genetic flaw all men carry. That’s why us girls are so much stronger than they are.” She cast a none-too-discreet stare at Simon, who was entering information into his personal unit. “Take The Mister, for instance.” That was Trudi’s term for Simon. “He thinks he’s a know-it-all. Thinks the entire world rotates around his reasoning. What an idiot.”
“I’d like to rip John’s face off right now. How dare he speak to me like that! Like I’m some silly little kid who doesn’t know any better,” I muttered under my breath. I felt John’s glower burn the back of my neck, making it itch. “I need to know if this girl is my niece, you know what I mean?”
“Of course. Connection. Bonding. The need to be a unit. You see, men don’t get it. It’s because they don’t have a uterus.”
“What?”
Trudi’s comment brought me out of the prickly red haze I’d been in. I let out a howl of a laugh, which made Simon lift his head and frown with suspicion. A quick glance at John told me he was burning a hole in the floor with his eyes, his lips were non-existent; the furrow between his brows deep enough to look like a ravine.
“Nearly done?” Simon quirked up a red brow and looked at his wife.
“In a minute.” Trudi waved him off like a fly. “Now Josie,” she leaned in with a serious expression. “You follow Simon’s lead, okay? And here,” she gave me an elastic hair clasp, “tie the hair back in case of combat. The last thing you need is to be wasting time spitting out hair.”
I nodded. Determined as I was to meet this so-called niece of mine, I wasn’t keen to get myself killed in the process. “Don’t worry. Going is the only foolish thing I’ll be doing. Don’t tell John that.”
I made ready to turn and follow Simon, who, I noticed, reassuringly touched John’s shoulder on the way out the door.
As I walked past, John spoke without raising his head. “Wait.” It came out so quiet, so calm, and it made me freeze. He snaked out his hand and grasped my arm, none too gently, and turned me to him.
I was ready for anything, to punch him, to hiss insults, anything. With a purposely-placed scowl on my face, I glowered at him. His face, close to mine, was bowed and staring me down. I could tell he was trying hard to compose some words with care.
“Come back safe,” he said at last. He sounded strained, nasal.
In an instant, I softened and leaned into his face, our foreheads touching. “I’m with Simon.” His breath warmed my face as he let out a shaky sigh. “I have to do this.”
He nodded and managed a small, crooked smile. “Just…don’t be a fucking hero.”
I grinned easily and kissed the tip of his nose. So long as he managed to stoop low enough to use expletives, I knew his anger had gone, his mood changed. “You know, if we killed Ho, the problem would be solved.”
“Josie,” he warned.
“Just kidding.” With a final nudge of foreheads, I turned and joined Simon in the foyer. Then a thought occurred to me. “By the way, Simon. Where the fuck are we meant to meet with Ho?”
“You’re going to love this,” he said, looking up from his personal unit. “Your ex-boyfriend’s house in North Yorkshire.”
“What?”
Chapter 11
Lorcan Wellesley, when he was still alive, had resided in an old English country manor house in North Yorkshire. His mother, the dazzling and talented Terry Wellesley, had be
en an actress before deciding to enter a stasis pod and hide during the latter part of the first Lancaster regime. Fifteen years later, when she was resuscitated, she lived with Lorcan and his family until the mentally scarred woman was pushed off the roof one day by her own grandson, Max.
The two-story house stood square and homely in its grounds. Welcoming, despite the fact its owner had been dead for almost eight months. Glancing across at the lawn, shrouded now in darkness and shadows, I remembered the big giant tree in the middle of the back yard, the gardens with brambles of hedges and flowering vines, the lawns covered with endless stretches of grass, and the stepping-stones that curved and meandered throughout the gardens. I longed to see it once more, in full daylight.
This was a place I had enjoyed living in, where I’d recovered and recuperated. I loved this place, the quietness, the seclusion, and the romantic, wistful appeal. Being in the gardens, it felt as if time had stood still, that the future I now lived in had never happened. And everywhere, the rich smell of flowering shrubs, cut grass and fresh, clean country air.
We stood in the driveway, waiting. We were a few minutes early. I was on edge and, to ease the tension, bickered with Simon. I think he sensed my discomfort and played along. He had driven us from the private landing strip, flanked by two outriders in unassuming vehicles. I had no clue where they were, exactly, noticing only the endless winding country roads and lanes in the black night. When the familiar wrought-iron gate and gravel driveway neared, emotions had punched me in the gut. Something inside me tugged and dipped to settle like bilious medicine in my stomach. It ached as well. In a strange way, it was like coming home.
Almost a year had passed since I’d lived here, but it still gave me a warm sensation. A wistful smile brushed my lips. I rarely thought about the place anymore, refused to think about it. But here it was, still warm and welcoming. Homey.
A light was on over the large wooden front doors, and more lights inside the house to indicate someone still lived there, keeping the house alive. Or perhaps it was all automated. The curtains were drawn open, letting the light spill out onto the stark gravel. The warm yellow light mingled with the unusually balmy air of the late summer evening in a comforting glow. The sweet scent of flowers filled the air. I inhaled deeply, remembering the smell with a smile.
“All right?” Simon murmured from next to me. His brow was crinkled with concern. He sensed my hesitation and, thankfully, refrained from giving me a bolstering hug. We both knew it would mortify us. Instead, he offered a tight smile that came off looking like a grimace.
I nodded, shifting my shoulders and neck to ease some of the tension building there. “Let’s get this done. Quick, right? In and out?”
Nodding once, Simon strode up the wide steps and pressed the old-fashioned doorbell. The clamorous ding-dong sound resonated like church bells from inside. The door opened about five seconds later, creaking in a familiar way as it strained the ancient hinges. A terrified face peeked out.
“Josie!” the face squeaked, and its owner rushed forward, pushing the door farther open in the process.
Simon whipped his arm out and barred the short and stout form of Mrs. Patel from moving any closer. She squeaked out again in surprise, craned back her thick neck to look up at him, and took a frightened step backward.
“Mrs. Patel.” I grabbed Simon’s arm and tugged it away. Simon tilted his head at me, his small eyes widening with an incredulous gawk, but he stepped aside stiffly.
“You know this woman? This will be the cook?” Simon barked. He snapped his attention back to the cowering Mrs. Patel, looking her up and down in nanoseconds. Deeming her safe enough, he relaxed a smidgen.
“Yes, she is. Now leave her alone. Can’t you see she’s scared out of her mind.” And that in itself was a feat. I recalled that nothing fazed the indomitable Mrs. Patel—or her meat cleaver, which she usually kept close at hand. Something horrible must be happening.
Of East Indian descent, Mrs. Patel spoke with the broadest London inner-city accent. Her graying hair was bundled up in a thick wad behind her head, while her meaty hands clutched an ample bosom. The mark of fear was very evident in the round, caramel-colored face.
I touched Mrs. Patel’s arm. “You’re still here? I didn’t know. I never bothered to—if I’d known… Are you all right?” Why had I never bothered to find out about her? How could I have forgotten? Shame rushed to my face, heating it.
“Oh, Josie!” Mrs. Patel all but wailed, bringing her hands to her cheeks, then dropping them down to slap loud against her plump thighs. “It’s been such madness. I wish I could tell you more. There’s so much to tell you. But that man,” her voice dropped low even as her eyes swiveled to the side as if expecting to see him, “he’s waiting for you in the living room.”
“It’s okay, it’s okay.”
“Josie, I need to speak with you. I’m just so happy you’re all right. So glad you’ve found happiness after everything that’s happened. Oh, Josie, I need to tell you—”
“Not now.” Simon pushed forward and leaned down to the cook. “Where is he?”
“Oh.” Frazzled, Mrs. Patel turned, gave Simon another fearful glance, and waddled inside.
I slapped Simon’s arm. “You’re such a fucking pig sometimes, you know that? Do you have to scare the living shit out of everyone?”
Simon gave me a withering look and strode through the door. I followed him in.
It hadn’t changed at all. The couch was still in the same place, dead center in the room. The large fireplace gaped before it, and a scatter of richly upholstered furniture sat around the room in a semi-circle. Over the mantel stood ornaments and framed pictures of the Wellesley family. Shelves and small tables were neatly arranged throughout the room with more ornaments, lamps, and books. The smell of a recent fire hung in the air, giving the space warmth. A coziness.
Everything was the same as I remembered, except for the man standing callously before the fireplace.
“Who are you?” Simon’s tone was icy.
“Good evening. You must be Simon.” The man inclined his head, his voice accented lightly. He was dressed in a black suit, immaculate in cut and style. A gleaming white shirt peeked from under it, open at the top to reveal a small flash of his chest. I guessed him to be about mid-thirties, tall and athletic, with soft, sable-colored hair tied back in a ponytail. A light tan blushed his skin, suggesting a mixed-race heritage. It suited his square, strong face. His eyebrows were elegant, curving over clear, startling amber eyes. He had a long straight nose and a firm mouth, wide and sensuous, over a proud and sculpted chin. So like an old Grecian statue, I had to blink to make sure he was real.
Simon didn’t reply. His left arm dipped behind him like an antenna to make sure I stood within reach. The way he held his body taut, I knew he sensed great danger exuding off this man.
“I am James. I represent Michael Ho.” James didn’t smile, nor did his expression change from the calm and smirking manner with which he’d first greeted us. He tilted his head to one side, registering me. “Madam Lancaster.”
I didn’t acknowledge. I stood where I was, safe, behind Simon and a solid brick wall at my back. With my hands clasped before me, I fingered the krima at my wrist.
“My instructions are to deal directly with you. Should you not cooperate or prove not to be who you appear to be, I am to kill the cook and anyone who interferes.”
“Leave her out of this. She has nothing to do with any of it.” I spoke for the first time, steel in my voice. I flicked a glance to Mrs. Patel, who stood rooted in a corner, pressed up against a bookcase to our right, staring wide-eyed at the man.
“That is the point. Innocence sometimes can be such a burden.”
I glowered at James, who stood aloof and composed. He looked dangerous, lethal. I’d seen that look many times on Simon.
“Madam Lancaster, I am to ask you a question, which you will answer correctly,” James continued with a bored look.
“G
o on, then.” Riddles and guessing games seemed to be the norm in this particular situation. I made a face to show my impatience.
“While you resided here, what was the preferred beverage of Mr. Ho?”
With a bold snort, I edged forward one step and stared at James with menace. “Rosehip tea.” I annunciated each word.
“Thank you.” James inclined his head again.
“Where is the girl?”
“She is safe.”
“Is she here?”
“She is safe.” James gave me a curious glance, almost like a wild beast sniffing the air for some appealing scent.
Simon stepped forward. “It was our understanding that the girl would be handed over to us in exchange for the code.”
“That is still the understanding,” James replied, his eyes still on me.
Pushing the discomfort aside, I returned James’ bold inspection of me with one of my own. He continued staring, seemingly mesmerized by my face. I narrowed my eyes, hoping they looked dangerous. Lowering my head, I clenched my teeth. He twitched a corner of his mouth as if he wanted to smile, but warred with some internal conflict. Instead, he pursed his lips.
I judged him to be at least six-four, which meant he could cross the room in less than two seconds. Simon, no doubt, could match that time or maybe beat it, if he didn’t have to first push me to safety. To be courteous, I broke off the staring match and retreated a step back, pretending to lean against the wall behind me. I changed my stance and inclined more to my left, the quicker to dip my other hand to my chest holster.
Simon seemed tuned in to me and shifted as well. He turned his body deliberately and placed his left foot forward.
James, seeing the moves, altered his own body to suit. A small smile twisted his mouth.
Like the pieces on a chessboard, we shifted and moved to gain a better angle for attack. James glanced at Simon. The man obviously knew who he was and how dangerous he could be. Simon, after all, was a legend. If it came to a fight, Simon would have to be dealt with first. He probably thought I could wait, deeming me not to be a major threat. He flicked his amber eyes at me again, and something glittered in them. No doubt he’d heard of me, of my so-called skills. I had, after all, helped bring down Uron Koh. The talk was I had ridden Uron’s back like a wild Arena-rider, stabbing him repeatedly with my krima until he was felled to the ground, where I then ripped his face open to expose his grinning skull. It was all true.
