by Ward,Matthew
"You didn't. This is Templeton's phone."
"John?" I sit upright with enough force to dislodge one of the shoes from my feet. It tumbles towards the water. I barely notice. "Where is he?"
"A private room at the Royal London. He met with an accident below ground. We found him just in time."
Mary keeps talking, but I don't hear her.
I should have gone with him. This is my fault. I should have gone with him. I'm not my father's daughter, and I'm not ready for John to leave me. I'll never be ready. I realise that's why I keep pretending otherwise.
"I'm heading there now."
I snap the phone shut, cutting Mary off. My remaining shoe teeters, and falls. I'm sure there's a metaphor there, though I'm too distracted to figure out exactly what it is. I look up at Ralston, still standing on the parapet.
"You can get down now." I pause, knowing the next words won't make me feel any better, any more than they'll stop him dreaming of this moment. "I'm sorry."
Ralston's dismount isn't any more graceful than his ascent. In fact, it's far worse. He loses his balance as he turns around. A small wobble, but it's enough. I reach out. He's already gone. Just a thin cry in the dark.
I plunge over the rail after him. I don't even think about it. I've time for a lungful of air on the way down. Then my body shudders with the whip-crack of impact, and freezing water closes over my head.
I surface, buoyed along by the current. Ralston's a dark shape on the waters a few metres ahead of me. He's already past the bridge. He's not fighting the current. The impact must have struck his wits clean away.
I swim after him, praying I'm not too late. With every stroke, I plead with Grandfather Thames to speed me on my way, and keep Ralston afloat. He gives his aid grudgingly, but he gives it. The waters no longer drag at my clothes. Instead, they pick me up and spirit me forwards. The gap between us shortens, then vanishes completely. I hook my hands under Ralston's arms, keeping his head above water. He's unconscious, but alive. I've been lucky. Not that I deserve it.
Grandfather Thames keeps us both afloat until we reach the shore. A woman rushes to join us from the nearest river steps. Goodness knows what she's doing out so late – or so early. She helps me get Ralston away from the river and tip him into the recovery position. He's breathing, so there's that.
"I saw what you did." The woman's almost breathless with praise. "You saved him."
She produces a phone, and stabs a thumb onto the keypad. I wait until she's lost in the details of the emergency call. Then I slip away into the nearby street, river water trailing behind me.
Crowe
Blackwood's already in the observation chamber when I arrive. She stands, arms folded, peering through the one-way glass into the interview room. She puts me in mind of an owl. It's a rare occasion when she doesn't.
On the other side of the window, the object of Blackwood's attention shifts in her chair. Pale skin, ashen hair. She sits quietly, hands folded in her lap. Jess LaRoquette. If I'm honest, I didn't expect to see her again, not after that business at King William Street. I note she's not chained up. That's an interesting choice. I'm sure the boss has her reasons. At least, I hope she does. The professor's been a bit unpredictable of late.
I set the door to. Blackwood turns from the window, and peers at me over her glasses. Auburn hair glints in the darkness.
"Marcus."
"Professor."
A frown dances across her face. She's been on at me to call her Mary. Says we're as close to equals as makes no difference. That it helps present a united front to the troops. I can't bring myself to do it. Familiarity makes for a fuzzy command structure, and God knows ours doesn't need any help in that direction.
"You look like hell," she says.
I touch a hand to the butterfly stitches on my left cheek – the most obvious of the lanthorn-fetch's parting gifts. "It'll heal."
An eyebrow arches. "That's not what I meant. When did you last sleep?"
I turn away, and stare at the woman in the interview room. She can't see us, can't hear us, but I've the peculiar feeling she's knows we're here. "Caught a couple of hours this morning. What about you?"
"Hm? Oh, about the same." A wry tone dances through the words. Does it count as lying if neither of us was ever going to believe the other?
I nod at the window. "What's she doing here?"
"Templeton suggested she come. He also gave her the codes to the Duncannon Street entrance, which I'm not happy about. I'm not happy that he knew them at all. I've had Carrie cycle them, but it's probably a waste of time. Templeton only cracks them to irritate me."
That sounds like John. "How's he doing?" I'd meant to get out to Royal London, check in on him. Then that business with Mason went south, and I didn't have the chance.
"Better than he's any right to. He's off the critical list, and sleeping."
"Good." I don't have many friends. Not alive. John's one of the few that remain, even if he infuriates me. I've never known a man with a mind so ordered, so logical, and yet all that goes out the window when a mystery catches his interest. He's like child chasing a balloon through a minefield. And as for that protégé of his... "What's she want?"
"She says something's coming."
"No shit. It's been hell on the Piccadilly these last couple of weeks. We'd never have kept it quiet if the strike wasn't on. That barghest was the worst. Don't know about you, but I don't fancy the task of convincing a train full of commuters they got caught up in some Hound of the Baskervilles performance art." I shake away the memories of glowing fur and ragged teeth. "She say what it is?"
"She doesn't know. She can feel it coming, that's all."
"That's all?"
"That's all."
"Then why's she still here?"
Blackwood hesitates. It doesn't happen often, and I never enjoy the aftermath. "Because she needs our help."
I think of Mason, fidgeting away in a room similar to the one in front of me. "Lot of that going around. What's she done?"
"It's more about what she's afraid she'll do. She's losing herself."
"You might want to explain that."
Blackwood unfolds her arms, and presses a palm against the glass. "She's immortal, or as near as makes no difference. It's hard to keep your focus under those circumstances. She needs something to cling to, a purpose. Otherwise... Well, you know the saying about idle hands."
"She tell you all this?"
"Some of it. The rest's informed guesswork."
I've known Blackwood too long to take that one at face value. I've seen her at her best, and I've had moments when I've wanted to choke the life right out of her. You share times like those with a person, you get a glimpse into their soul. There's more to this than she's saying. "I thought we didn't have secrets now, you and me."
An eyebrow flickers. "Hm. I don't recall agreeing to that."
"Back when I resigned." It's a waste of breath. If Blackwood wants to play her games, she'll play them.
"But you didn't resign. You're still here."
"And why's that? Oh yeah, I remember. It's because someone begged me to stay. Said she couldn't run the place without me. She looked a lot like you, now I think about it."
A flash of irritation crosses Blackwood's face. "If it was important, Marcus, I'd tell you."
"I've heard that before."
"I know." She shrugs. Her expression softens. "I suppose you'll have to trust me."
"I do trust you." That's not true. Not entirely. The memories of last year are too raw. Blackwood knows that. "It's her I don't trust."
"Hm? I'm afraid you'll have to learn."
I sigh. I think I knew this was coming from the moment I entered the room. "No. Not on your life."
"Why not? We're short-handed, and she's offering to help. I don't have to tell you what an asset she'd be. A Daughter of the Black River." A distant tone creeps into Blackwood's voice. "More than a daughter."
I stare into Blackwood's eyes, se
arching for any trace of a joke. Like I said, she's been unpredictable of late. There's no trace of levity, more's the pity. "She tossed Holman around like a doll. She half-drowned me..."
Blackwood cuts me off. "I've read the report. That only happened because you let yourself fall into the clutches of another rusalka. Jess saved your life, Marcus."
I have to take her word for that, or rather that of Lizzy Holman. There's a whole patch of that night I don't remember. I get flashes, sometimes, normally just as I'm falling asleep. Black weed around my arms and legs. The tidal wave of river water crashing along the overflow tunnel, with me in its path. Like I needed another reason to stay awake. Thank God for coffee. "King William Street's still underwater."
"It's not like anyone was using it. Better that way than what the rusalka had planned." She shrugs. "Who was it who keeps lecturing me about letting pride get in the way of decisions?"
That one hurts, mostly because it's true. "And if she gets out of hand? If she even tries to get inside my head..."
"That's up to you."
The answer surprises me. "I thought she was a friend of yours."
Blackwood fixes me with a glare. "I never said that." She sighs. "And if she becomes a problem, then she becomes a problem. We can give her a purpose. We can't make her embrace it."
Poetic as the words are, I know I've just heard Blackwood pass a death sentence – if one currently in abeyance. Maybe LaRoquette's a friend of hers, maybe she isn't. Doesn't matter. The job comes first. Always has with Blackwood. I reckon I'm as close to her as she's let anyone come in recent years, but I don't have any illusions. If I become a problem...? Well, let's just say nightmares'll be the least of my worries. It almost happened once. Still not sure how I came through it, but we've passed through a crucible, her and I, and our bond's the stronger for it.
I think that's why I stayed, in the end. In a lot of ways, Coldharbour's not so different from the army. You keep the civvies safe, and get as many of your lot as you can out alive. Sometimes, that doesn't mean everyone. Sometimes, it means no one at all. But that's the job. I know what I signed on for.
I just wish more of our agents felt the same way. Blackwood takes who she can get: coppers, civil servants – even tourists who survive a close encounter in the Dark Tube. I keep telling her she needs to be more selective. Put pressure on the government to get more professionals assigned: regular military, special forces, whatever. Every time, she insists that character's more important than background. Maybe she's right. I've seen enough tough guys come apart below ground. Some things, all the training in the world can't prepare you for.
She's right about something else, too. LaRoquette could be a real asset, if she works out.
If. I bloody hate that word.
I shrug my agreement, and set my shoulder against the wall. "You win. I'll keep an eye on her."
Blackwood's smile comes and goes so quickly that I'd not have caught it unless I'd been looking. I decide it's a sign she'd have backed down, if I'd held my ground. That's new.
"So what's next?"
She withdraws a piece of folded paper from her pocket. "Templeton gave me this."
I frown. "What is that, a napkin?"
I take it from her and open it out. The inner face is covered with John's spidery handwriting. Names. Words. Question marks. All going off at different angles. I can't read most of it. The words Andrasta and Morwynnyr appear in several places, sometimes ringed, sometimes underlined. I turn the napkin round so that the words 'Chancery Lane' are upright. As I do so, a series of lines and circles take on new significance. It's a map of London, give or take. Other stations are marked. Liverpool Street. Aldgate. Bank. King's Cross. Cannon Street's written in capitals, as is York Road.
"I thought you said John was sleeping?"
Blackwood removes her glasses and rubs at her brow. "He is now. I had the nurse sedate him. It was the only way to make him stop."
"So what is this?"
"I spoke to Terrance. He's not certain..."
"He never bloody is."
"...but he's convinced the Roman connection's no coincidence. Andrasta's one of the goddesses Boudicca invoked during her uprising. He can't find a literal translation for Morwynnyr. Says it's more like modern Welsh than ancient Celtic, whatever that means. The best guess Terrance has is that it means handmaiden or shieldmaiden, or something like that. He started to drift a bit at the end."
I turn the paper over in my hands. I don't follow much of the technical stuff – its only purpose is to tell me what to shoot, and where I can find it – but even I can see where Blackwood's heading with this. "No one knows what happened to Boudicca, do they?"
"Hm? It's more accurate to say no one really knows anything about her. Between the Romans peddling propaganda after the uprising, and Victorians conflating her with the myth of Britannia, there's not much fact to go on. Never trust a historian..."
"Says the history professor."
She ignores me. "But let's say you're Boudicca. You're leading a rebellion against the greatest Empire the world has ever known. They're better armed. They're better organised. They've even brought most of the population over to their side..."
"So you start petitioning aid from wherever you can."
Blackwood nods. "Probably from places and entities you really shouldn't." She glances through the glass. "We've done it, from time to time. And it would explain why the Chancery Lane site was buried so deep. Someone didn't want it getting out. And if there's one..."
"There's probably more. And this 'something' LaRoquette thinks is coming...?"
"Is either one of them, or something much, much worse." She smiles without humour. "They've got to be handmaidens to something."
My first thought is that we've been lucky. The possessed woman who attacked John was almost certainly Mason's contact at Crossrail, though we won't know for sure until he gives up the name. It's a sobering reminder of why we've let him keep operating so long. If Mason hadn't sold the brooch on – I don't believe his crap about pickpockets for a moment – Isra would never have crossed paths with the gnawbones, John wouldn't have gone down into Chancery Lane, and we'd be two steps behind. 'Course, most of this wouldn't have happened if Crossrail had told us about the tomb, like they're supposed to. No one ever bloody listens.
Dumb luck. I never want to rely on it, but I'll take it when it comes my way.
Blackwood puts her glasses back on. She looks every bit as tired as I feel. "Terrance is down in the tomb now, giddy as a kid in a sweetshop. He'll call in if he finds anything else."
I slip the napkin into my pocket. "At least Templeton's given me a few places to start looking."
"No." The tone invites no argument. "You're not going anywhere until you've six hours of sleep under your belt."
"I'm fine. We don't have time for this."
"You're not, and we do. Six hours, Marcus. Don't fight me on this. I need you firing on all cylinders. You're no good to me otherwise."
"What about you?"
"If you sleep, I'll sleep. That's the deal. Jackson can mind the store in the meantime. Your team'll be waiting for you at noon."
She's too tired to disguise her tone. She's hiding something. "My team?" I jerk a thumb at the glass. "Let me guess...?"
"You agreed." I don't like that much. I like what follows even less. "I'm also deputising Mason and Samara."
What? "Please tell me this is a joke. No, a dream. Mason..."
"Needs our help. That should keep his loyalty, at least for the time being. Whether he knows it or not, he's been one of us for a while now...."
"Another lost soul in need of purpose?" I can't believe she's really contemplating this.
"Maybe. We've let him run free long enough." She shrugs. "As for Samara..."
"She's practically still a kid."
"And handled herself brilliantly yesterday afternoon. Templeton speaks highly of her, and goodness knows she's no stranger to our business. She's even looking forward to it.
Would that everyone were so enthusiastic." She pulls up short, and props a hand on her hip. "I know this isn't ideal, but we're short-handed. You know that. We're still not over... Well, you know what. And recruitment takes time."
"We're not that short-handed," I growl. "What about Dragaud? I know you've got reservations, but..."
"She and Holman are still in Nottingham, chasing down leads on that golem Terrance set loose." Blackwood narrows her eyes. "Which you'd remember, if you weren't dead on your feet." She raises a hand, ticking each name off on her fingers. "Walken's on leave. I've recalled him, but it's a long flight back from Australia. Lang's still comatose. Dixon's still on crutches. Volaine..."
I hold up a hand in surrender. "You've made your point."
She grinds on without remorse. "Still, I'm sure Mister Black would love to get out into the field. I bet he'd jump at the chance."
Now I know she's joking. At least, I damn well hope so. "You trying to drive me mad?"
Blackwood hangs her head, lips twisting into a lopsided smile. "You agree, then?"
I hesitate, but I've already decided. "Yes, I bloody agree."
"Good." The smile spreads. "Get some sleep, Marcus."
"If Mason sticks a knife in my heart, I'm coming back for you. You know that, right?" There's no answer. I turn to leave, but halt as a thought strikes me. "Mason... Have you told him about Carrie?"
"Not a word. I've asked her to keep clear of him, at least for the moment." The smile turns wintery. "After all, you never know when we'll need a little more leverage, do you?"
And just like that, I'm reminded of the time I'd have happily wrung Blackwood's neck. Sometimes I think we're all chess pieces to her. Even me. But like I said, I know what I signed on for.
I glance through the one-way glass at LaRoquette, and wonder if she knows what she's getting into. Then I key the door release, and stumble away towards the bunkroom, and six hours of nightmares.
About the Author
Frequently accused of living in worlds of his own, Matthew now spends his days writing most of them down so others can visit. He lives near Nottingham with his extremely patient wife, and three attention-seeking cats.
