The Dark Archive (The Invisible Library Novel)

by Genevieve Cogman

  But as a reasonable man, I’m willing to propose a deal. If you hand yourself over, I will let the others live.

  Just how stupid did he think she was? Even if the Fae had to keep their given word, a statement like that offered all sorts of opportunities for evasion. There were a great many things that could be done to someone while still “letting them live.” Things that Irene didn’t particularly want to consider.

  I can hardly give you my address and expect you to turn up on my doorstep. But we both know you’ll think of some way to track me down. So my offer is this: if you find me and surrender yourself, I will call off the hunt. Otherwise . . . well, I won’t go into details. It would be a waste of good paper.

  And if you don’t find me, you will die in any case. But you will be taking your friends with you to an early grave. Their blood will be on your hands.

  Consider that, before you make any rash decisions.

  Guantes

  She didn’t think much of his attempt at emotional manipulation. Unfortunately, she was up against a melodramatic villain with no sense of proportion when it came to vengeance.

  Irene pocketed the letter and left the house through the secret entrance. At the moment she felt like a juggler with too many balls in the air—Kai, Catherine, Sterrington, Vale, Singh, and the rest of London besides. She needed to at least catch Catherine before things became any worse.

  * * *

  * * *

  The bottom of Irene’s empty tea cup stared up at her. After a very significant first stop, which had eased her mind a little, she was now staking out her target from an inexpensive tea-shop. It was the sort that served factory girls, underpaid secretaries, and teachers. She’d changed her clothing to fit the location, and she was reasonably confident that she’d lost anyone trailing her. This London might be foggy and wet, but its prevailing fashion for scarves and veils was convenient for escaping followers. And now she had a plan—at least where Catherine was concerned.

  She’d been looking at this from the wrong point of view. She didn’t want to follow Catherine. She wanted to get ahead of her. But she needed to do it before the young woman threw herself neck-deep into trouble.

  Catherine wanted to be useful, to show her worth to the Library. And Catherine had been in on the hunt for the Malory book. If Irene could work out their bookseller might have leaked information, so could Catherine. If only she’d broached this idea before Irene had left the hospital. Was it Irene’s fault Catherine was so desperate to prove herself?

  No. Irene wasn’t going to take the blame for this. But clearly better communication was needed. Possibly from six inches away, while reading Catherine a lecture on common sense.

  Irene would have to notify the Library of their findings so far, including Catherine’s disappearance. But she needed to find Catherine now, and Lord Guantes would be watching likely Library access points anyway. It was so inconvenient having an opponent who knew one’s capabilities. Although not quite as bad as going up against another Librarian. She thought of Alberich and shivered.

  The waitress was staring at Irene’s empty cup meaningfully. In a moment she’d be coming over to ask if madam would like anything else, with the implication that if madam didn’t want to order, then madam should be on her way.

  But Irene wasn’t going anywhere—because she was waiting.

  Bookshops crowded along Charing Cross Road in vertical stacks and horizontal huddles, and spread down the side streets and back alleys on either side. The ones on the main street drew tourists and casual wanderers, but the hidden ones were far more interesting.

  Irene’s vantage point had an excellent view of the entrance—the only entrance—to one particular alley. This was why she’d picked it. And a rapid change of clothing and a wig from her lodgings had left her looking plausibly dowdy, a visitor from the provinces without a sense of London fashion.

  She was about to order more tea when she glimpsed her target—a familiar gait and a glint of bronze hair underneath a cloak and heavy face-concealing hat. Irene made a mental note to go through basic principles of disguise with Catherine once this was all over. Voluminous clothing was not the best way to go unseen; it exposed you as someone who wanted to hide.

  The Fae wasn’t carrying anything more than a handbag; she must have left the Malory suitcase somewhere else. Somewhere safe, Irene devoutly hoped. While Catherine occasionally paused to look in shop windows as she drifted along Charing Cross Road, she wasn’t taking any measures to shake off pursuit either . . .

  . . . which was a mistake on her part, because two men were following her. They paused when she paused, and moved again when she moved. Both of them were burly types in bowler hats, with spotted kerchiefs wound round their necks—a flash of red against dark clothing. Both gave off an air of menace—the sort that made others get out of their way.

  As Irene watched their progress, she realized where she’d seen them before. She knew who those two were—or rather, what they were. This could be useful.

  Then Catherine turned into the side street Irene had been watching. The two men glanced at each other and quickened their pace.

  Just as Irene had expected. One of the buildings in that alley housed Kenneth and Ruthcomb, a “bookhound” agency. They tracked down rare books—whether for sale or not, by means fair and foul—and offered their services to anyone who could pay their rates. They’d been the first step in the chain that had taken Irene to Guernsey. And as both she and Catherine had diagnosed, they were the logical source of that information leak—whether maliciously or otherwise.

  Pragmatism warred with concern as Irene paid for her tea, then followed Catherine in turn. She didn’t want to use Catherine as bait, but these mysterious followers were the first real lead she’d found so far.

  And Catherine had wanted to make herself useful. Being a student was all about learning experiences.

  She followed at a discreet distance. Fortunately there were enough people around for her to merge with the crowd, and the two men didn’t notice her. As expected, Catherine headed directly towards the agency. Irene hung back long enough to watch the two men follow her before entering the building herself, using the Language to silence the doorbell. A narrow, musty hallway led to a flight of stairs that ran up to the first-floor landing.

  Catherine paused there, about to knock on the bookhounds’ office door, when she noticed the two men closing in. “Is there some reason you two are following me?” she demanded. “Because I have business here.”

  “Your business is with us now,” the larger man said. “You’re Catherine, aren’t you?”

  “Of course not,” Catherine said quickly, failing to suppress a betraying start.

  The office door opened, and a bespectacled man glanced round it. He saw the confrontation in progress and quickly shut the door again.

  “Now, we can do this the easy way,” the smaller man said, “or we can do this the hard way. But either way, you’re coming with us.”

  “Don’t be so silly,” Catherine said contemptuously. “You can’t just drag me through the streets in broad daylight like that. This is London. It’s a civilised city.”

  “There’s lots of ways round that,” the larger man said, his right hand clenching.

  Irene decided it was time to step in. “Gentlemen, I’m sure there’s no need for that,” she said, stepping out of the shadows and looking up the stairs.

  “You don’t want to get involved, miss,” the larger man said. “Just turn around and walk away.”

  “Young man, I’m a teacher back at home, and when I see some poor girl being lured into sin—”

  “You’ve got it wrong, miss,” the smaller man said, hastily changing his approach. “This young madam here’s run away from her family. Took all the family money, she did. Broke her poor mother’s heart.”

  “I didn’t!” Catherine said indign
antly. Funnily enough, she didn’t seem to have recognized Irene either. “These men are lying!”

  “Right, that’s enough.” The bigger man grabbed her arm and began hauling her towards the stairs, ignoring her attempts to pummel him. “Stop that messing around, or I’ll clout you one.”

  The smaller man trotted down the stairs towards Irene, trying to smile in a friendly way. “We’ve got this under control, miss, so you can leave her to us.” And get out of the way or you’ll get hurt was the unspoken message.

  Irene plucked a heavy umbrella from the hat stand beside the door, swinging it to get a feel for its weight. “On the contrary,” she said, her voice sharpening, “you’ll release the girl.”

  Catherine gasped in belated recognition and Irene sighed. They’d definitely have words after this. But the two men didn’t make the connection. “Fred, deal with her,” the larger man ordered.

  “Shoes, slip,” Irene said.

  It was unfortunate for the smaller man that he was still heading down the stairs. His shoes lost their grip on the boards and slid out from under him, and he crashed headlong down the stairwell. Irene placed the metal tip of her umbrella in the hollow of his throat.

  “I know what you are,” she said. She looked at the bigger man, who had a firm grip on the struggling Catherine. Like her, he’d been stationary when she’d used the Language, so he’d been unaffected. A pity. “You’re both werewolves. Are you in the London Underground pack? The one that follows Mr. Dawkins?”

  “How come you know the boss?” the one on the floor whimpered, trying to avoid the umbrella’s cold tip. Silver might have a permanent effect on werewolves, but other physical objects could still do damage.

  “Because we’ve met,” Irene said. She met the eyes of the larger man. “I think he’ll understand if I dispose of you two.”

  There were too many teeth in the man’s mouth as he grinned at her. “I’m getting the feeling you’re not a teacher.”

  “I’ve had many jobs,” Irene said. “Who sent you to grab the girl?”

  The back of her mind was processing this information. If Mr. Dawkins was knowingly involved in the assassination attempts, London’s werewolves would be an active force in this fight. And it wasn’t just their lethality that worried Irene—it was their ability to track people. It’d be much harder to hide if the werewolves were on their tail.

  “None of your business who sent us,” the larger man snarled. “Now move. If you were going to stab Fred, you’d have done it already.”

  Threats clearly wouldn’t work here. Irene mentally sighed and went for her trusty second option. “You perceive that I’m someone Mr. Dawkins trusts,” she said, before adding, “I think we’ve been sent on the same errand. I’m here for the girl too.”

  The man at her feet blinked. “You are?”

  “I am.” Irene removed the umbrella from his throat. “They’ve changed the drop-off. I’m supposed to hand her over at the east entrance of King’s Cross station. Or did you get told that too?”

  The sharp teeth receded within the larger man’s mouth, and his face looked normal again. “Nah, we were told Flower and Dean Street in Spitalfields, at the Crown and Anchor pub. Why the change?”

  Irene kept her face impassive, but inwardly she winced. Spitalfields was one of the nastier parts of London. It was where Jack the Ripper operated in some alternate worlds—though not this one, thank goodness—and was the sort of place where policemen went around in pairs because it wasn’t safe alone. “I think they want to get her out of London,” she invented. “It’s too risky to keep her here.”

  Both men snorted with suppressed laughter. “Even Peregrine Vale’s not going to find her if the Professor puts her away,” Fred said.

  The Professor—that name again. Lord Guantes had said, “The man behind the Professor knows you, and he wants you.” More confirmation that this was all tied in with the Guanteses and the murder attempts on Guernsey. Irene desperately wanted more information, but she was on a timetable and the Language’s influence might wear off at any moment. That was the problem with the you perceive trick. Once it stopped working, the people afflicted would remember exactly what they’d said and done—and chances were they wouldn’t like it. “Tell you what,” she suggested, starting to climb the stairs. “You two go ahead to the drop-off point—we’ll meet you there. It’ll be too obvious if we travel together. But first I have some unfinished business to deal with here.”

  “You want us to hold on to the girl for you?”

  “No, I’ll take her with me. I’m not letting her out of my sight.” Irene took hold of Catherine’s arm, her ruthless tone backed by a very real urgency. She had to get Catherine away before this turned violent. She glared at Catherine in her most cold-blooded manner and felt a mean satisfaction when the other woman flinched.

  The werewolf released Catherine. “You could have said who you are earlier,” he complained.

  Irene sniffed. “It’s not like anyone told me what you two looked like, any more than they told you about me,” she said. “I’ll meet you soon—I don’t expect to be long.”

  They both nodded and headed outside.

  The werewolves dealt with, Irene banged on the office door with her umbrella. “Kenneth and Ruthcomb? I’m here on business.”

  There was a pause on the other side of the door, and then the noise of someone dragging away heavy furniture, before it creaked open. The bespectacled man from earlier peered out nervously. “You are?”

  Irene jammed her foot against the door before he could close it again. “I am,” she said. “Good business. Book business.”

  His eyes widened as he recognized her. “You’d better come in,” he said.

  Irene suppressed a sigh of relief as she drew Catherine into the office and closed the door behind them.

  CHAPTER 9

  Kai burst from the space between worlds, a rolling blueness of endless waves, and out into cold, empty air. The mountain winds ripped at his wings, and he automatically curved his body to rise above them into calmer currents.

  The Swiss Alps lay spread below him, untouched white snow on grey mountain ranges, with occasional markers of human habitation or flashes of colour from fields and lakes. The world itself felt calm with the settled flow of order, as reassuring to his draconic senses as the cadence of a marching army or the pulse of a lover. And beyond that, like a superimposed melody, he could sense the presence of other dragons. Much as he enjoyed Irene’s and Vale’s company—and, though he might not admit it, the excitements of Vale’s world—it was good to be away from the constant aftertaste of chaos, back where things were right. Orderly. As they should be.

  And he knew the person he was searching for lay somewhere below.

  Cuifen had always been one of Kai’s favourite cousins, but their connection was on his more low-born mother’s side rather than his royal father’s. As a result, he didn’t see her as much as he’d like. However, Cuifen still treated Kai with more generosity and affection than many of his siblings—and she was an expert in computers and data analysis.

  She was one of several dragons who specialised in the field, working under Lord Zhang Yi, an undisputed expert. Zhang Yi was a dragon of such genius that it eclipsed his low birth and minor family. Kai certainly wouldn’t be granted an audience with Zhang Yi. But Cuifen might be willing to do him a favour.

  He drew his wings against his body and stooped towards a small cluster of buildings. Zhang Yi’s headquarters were deceptively pastoral, with a central compound surrounded by lesser structures. But Kai knew power lines led here from the nearby waterfall, and the classically simplistic roofs housed solar panels. Lord Zhang Yi needed the electricity, even if style demanded that everything appear natural.

  Half a dozen human servants hurried out to greet Kai, their footprints marring the untouched snow. They bowed as Kai settled to the ground and assumed
human form, and one approached. “Good afternoon, sir. My name is Hans Baumann, and this is the establishment of Lord Zhang Yi. May we know your name and family?”

  “My name is Kai, son of His Majesty Ao Guang, King of the Eastern Ocean,” Kai said. “I am here to visit my cousin, the lady Cuifen, but I would be honoured to meet Lord Zhang Yi himself. I bear a small present which I hope may not displease him.” He offered one of two parcels he was holding—a Han Feizi text from Vale’s world, which he’d been saving for such an occasion.

  “Unfortunately Lord Zhang Yi is occupied,” Hans Baumann said, as Kai expected. But custom demanded that both sides go through the motions. “But we will be glad to pass on your gift. If you follow my colleague Anna, she will escort you to the lady Cuifen’s quarters.”

  Perfect. Kai followed Anna—a brisk young woman with blonde braids curled into a bun—as she led him into one of the side compounds. “This way, Your Highness,” she said.

  The décor within was classically draconic in style—with bold red tiles, white walls, and dark wood pillars. But the aesthetic had been subverted by personal tastes. Sheepskin rugs were scattered on the floor like irregular islands, and paintings of vivid flowers and desert landscapes hung on the walls, gaudy and impossible to ignore.

  The inner door swung open. “I’ve told you, I’m still working on it,” a female dragon said as she emerged. “I’ll . . . Heaven and earth, cousin Kai!”

  Cuifen ignored propriety and gathered him into an embrace, her hug as strong as ever. She appeared almost human but hadn’t bothered to fully transform; she was as green as fresh grass, from her shoulder-length hair to the tiny scales that covered her flesh. Kai assumed a similar form in politeness, his skin and hair turning dark sapphire blue and small horns sprouting from his brow.