by Violet Grace
A weak smile tugs at my lips. We’ve become not-quite friends over the past few months. He’s even shown me photos of his kids. I’m hoping that will be enough for him to look the other way while a wanted felon is in his patrol area.
But he doesn’t return my smile.
My heart races. Tom tenses, readying for a fight. I hear Abby suck in a breath. Jules stares pointedly at Tony’s hand on my shoulder.
‘You shouldn’t have come back,’ Tony says, hastily removing his hand. ‘Princess,’ he adds after a pause. He scans the room to see if anyone is looking and then lowers his head in a discreet little bow. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was stifling a sneeze.
My mouth drops open. ‘You’re Fae?’
Another slow nod.
‘And you knew about me?’
‘I had a pretty good idea,’ he says. ‘The way you kept coming back to this room. It was like the Chalice was calling to you.’
‘You were spying on me?’
Tony stiffens. ‘My responsibility was to keep watch over the Luck of Edenhall,’ he says defensively.
‘Was?’
He nods towards the cabinet. ‘Gone. Stolen. Last night.’
I peer around Tony. Sure enough, the glass case is empty, replaced by a small sign that, even from this distance, I can read: ‘Exhibit temporarily being restored’.
‘Stolen? By who?’
His leathery brow crinkles. ‘You.’
He says it with such certainty that I don’t know how to respond. But before I can say another word, I sense a shift in the air, a change in the room’s energy.
It dawns on me what’s wrong.
Schoolchildren.
Normally at this time of day the V&A rings with the sounds of excited children yabbering and the not-so excited ones complaining that art is boring.
But not today. Today it’s only adults.
This is a trap.
‘We need to get out of here,’ I say. ‘Fast.’
I grab Tom’s hand and whirl around to retrace our steps towards the exit. We make it a few paces when an imposing figure emerges from the crowd that now seems to be deliberately blocking our path.
‘Hello again, Francesca.’
chapter 32
Agent Eight.
I turn to run but the middle-aged couple in front of the Luck of Edenhall cabinet step in front of us. Both reach into their jackets.
Guns. Automatic, I’d say. With a dull metal finish.
I recognise the floppy jowls and apologetic smile on one of the agents. Agent Weekes apparently still wants to make friends with me. But it’s a little late for that, especially when he’s pointing a gun at my head.
I scan the room as every single person draws a weapon of some kind. Thirty, possibly forty weapons are trained on us. Agent Westerfield holds a taser. Probably the same one he zapped me with in the hospital. Tony steps back and pulls his gun as well. I look him in the eye but he avoids my gaze, confirming his betrayal.
Agent Eight stares at Jules, her Lego hair unmoving as she looks my bodyguard up and down, appraising her from head to toe. It’s like she’s sizing her up before a fight. Jules’s face remains impassive, but I can see the tension in her body. She’s ready for anything. Agent Eight wouldn’t stand a chance, gun or no gun.
Agent Eight whips her piercing stare to me and stalks closer. Each clack of her heeled stilettos on the marbled floor tightens the knot in my gut.
But the knot unravels as the Art awakens in my veins. A warm calmness pervades my being. It’s a relief to be free from the anxiety but I have no idea what I’m going to do with the power that’s building in me. I don’t want to unleash the full fury of what I know I possess. Now would not be a good time to incinerate myself. And since I’m in Volgaris, I’m not sure I could withstand the pain of using so much magic anyway. After Tom’s warning about my memories being essential to who I am, I’d only be willing to trade pain for magic.
But I refuse to let Agent Eight lay one manicured talon on my friends.
And I won’t be caged like an animal again.
Ever.
‘Where is it?’ Agent Eight demands, invading my space.
I roll my eyes. ‘Haven’t we had this conversation before?’
She sighs. ‘Let me explain how this works, you little delinquent.’ She’s standing so close to me that I can smell the stale coffee on the hiss of her breath. ‘You’re going to give me what I want, or you and lover boy and your new gal pals are going to spend the rest of your lives wishing you’d learned how to cooperate.’
‘Does it look like I’m hiding anything in this bodysuit?’ I say, tapping my waist and thighs.
Her hand flicks upwards as she moves to strike me across the face.
With my powers cascading through me, it’s as if she’s moving in slow motion. I grab her hand mid-air and crush her fingers back into the palm of her own hand.
Wincing in agony, she wrenches her hand back. I tighten my grip. Her knees buckle but she manages to stay on her feet, an icy stare boring into me.
The surrounding agents glance sideways at one another, seemingly uncertain of what to do next. Muzzles of guns are readjusted against shoulders, readying to fire.
I release Agent Eight’s hand. She shudders in relief and massages her crushed fingers. Straightening up, she shifts her hair out of her face.
‘Nice trick,’ she says, taking a step back from me. ‘But you’re surrounded. And you already know I won’t hesitate to use lethal force. Let’s start again, shall we? We know you have the Chalice and we’ve already established that you have the key. Give me both. Now. Or your horsey boyfriend over there pays.’
She levels Tom with a dead stare. I’m guessing his escape made her look bad.
‘I didn’t take the Luck of Edenhall,’ I say.
‘Wrong answer.’ Nodding to the agent nearest to her, she says, ‘Finish them. Make sure the Princess is unharmed.’
In an instant, Jules takes out three guards with a series of kicks and I don’t know what. Tom knocks the guard closest to him to the ground with a fist to his jaw. Abby ducks behind a statue.
But it’s not enough to contain the situation. Not even close.
My senses burst into overdrive as all hell breaks loose.
The air around us explodes with energy pulses and bullets. I can pinpoint the explosion of each gun barrel, distinguish them from one another. I see the air warp, can trace the tiny heat signature tailing behind each bullet. They’re coming from all directions, converging on my friends.
I don’t think.
I do.
I clasp my mother’s amulet, holding it out in front of me.
An image of me as a child snuggling into a soft, warm body flashes into my mind. A memory of my mother. It’s the price of my magic. A price I will not pay. I choose pain instead and grit my teeth for the onslaught.
Power pours out of me and into the amulet.
Blue light fills the room and connects with laser precision on each individual blast.
The bullets stop, hovering in mid-air on their trajectories like lethal insects buzzing in front of my friends’ heads and over their hearts, before bursting into clouds of simmering dust.
I cry out; I’m burning up from the inside. But I can’t stop. The agents reload their weapons and prepare to take more shots.
I push through the agony. Just one more burst of power and this will end.
I conjure the spell for heating metal. Agents gasp and swear as their weapons turn to molten metal and drip onto the floor in scorching puddles.
My legs are jelly and I stumble to the ground. I try to get up but my head’s spinning and I’m having trouble focusing.
Heavy boots slam into artefacts and bodies. I see Jules deliver a series of roundhouse kicks and karate chops, flooring more agents stupid enough to come near her.
From behind, an agent lifts a marble statue above her head.
‘Jules!’ I manage to cry out.
> Tony, the security guard, lands a huge hand across the back of the man’s neck and knocks him to the floor. He turns to me and winks.
Westerfield rushes towards me but Tom blocks his path, trading blows in a pub brawl.
Abby pushes over the marble statue she’s been hiding behind, taking out two agents.
I wipe the trickle of blood coming from my nose. But it it’s not a trickle, it’s a stream.
Over the sounds of shouts and groans, glass and marble smashing, I feel, then hear, vibrations.
The Art.
The veil between the realms is being rent apart. A pack of unicorns dressed in armour emblazoned with the Protectorate’s insignia tear through the arched entrance.
The four unicorns leading the attack break away and run directly towards me, jumping over smashed masterpieces and pushing agents from their path. I put up my hands to defend myself, weakened but not prepared to give up.
But the unicorns surround me protectively. The rest of them fill the room’s perimeter. A group of around twenty female Protectorate officers, led by General Sewell, strides into the room after the unicorns. Sewell scans the scene with the authority and invincibility of a commander leading an advance party against a smaller, weaker opponent.
Which is exactly what the Agency is, I guess.
Some agents stand in awed wonder. Others whip their heads from right to left, panicking like cornered animals. A few bolts of magic from me and some hand-to-hand combat is one thing. Being hemmed in on all sides by unicorns and warriors is completely out of their league.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ Agent Eight says to Sewell with a steely gaze. ‘This is an illegal occupation, in gross violation of the Treaty. What’s more, you are interfering with a legitimate policing operation.’
Credit where it’s due – either Agent Eight’s a natural actor, or she really believes what she’s saying.
‘This Fae’ – she spits in my direction – ‘and her accomplices have been engaged in a series of unauthorised operations.’
General Sewell looks her up and down. ‘Spare me the legalities,’ she says. ‘As you well know, your Agency has perpetrated many more and far graver breaches of the Treaty between our two peoples, not the least of which is the incarceration of the Queen in the Ascendant. We are here merely to protect her and ensure her safe passage.’
‘I know no such thing,’ Agent Eight lies through her teeth, a picture of calm. ‘What I do know is that these Fae have stolen the Luck of Edenhall. King James himself stipulated that the Chalice must remain within the care of humans at all times. By taking it, they have put the status of the Treaty in question.’
‘You would question the proprietary of the Queen in the Ascendant?’ counters Sewell without so much as a glance in my direction. ‘Have you evidence of this theft?’
Agent Eight clearly has nothing, and I consider the possibility that this was all a setup. If the Agency could pin the theft of the Luck of Edenahll on me, they could legally detain me and, under the Treaty, the Fae would be powerless to stop it.
‘I thought as much,’ says Sewell. ‘As you are obviously incapable of ensuring her safety – in fact, you’re endangering it – our presence is entirely legitimate.’ She turns to me and says, ‘Come now, Your Highness.’
I should be cheering at the General kicking Agent Eight’s butt like this. But instead I’m pissed off. At both of them.
General Sewell’s treating me as if I’m an incorrigible child who needs to keep quiet, get in the car and do as I’m told. It’s like every meeting with a social worker, doctor or lawyer I’ve ever had. They don’t even pretend to care about what you think; they talk about you as if you’re not there.
‘Do I get a say in any of this?’ I say. ‘I know I’m just the Princess and “Queen in the Ascendant”, or whatever.’
Both Agent Eight and General Sewell stare at me. Behind them, a mischievous smile creases Abby’s face. Jules examines her feet, looking uncomfortable. Tom is somewhere in the middle. Pride shines in his eyes but I can tell he’s concerned about where this will lead.
General Sewell walks towards me and, in hushed tones, says, ‘Your Highness, there are your duties to consider.’
‘I was given until twilight to stop senseless carnage,’ I say, with the confidence and authority of my title. ‘I expected the Council to honour its word.’
‘That was before you were attacked, Your Highness,’ she says, gesturing to the assembled agents. ‘My orders are to secure your person and return you safely to Albion at once.’
She turns and gives a nod to the unicorns flanking me. Apparently the matter is decided.
‘Whose orders?’ I challenge.
Her eyes widen at my resistance. ‘The Supreme Executor’s.’
‘The Supreme Executor can overrule the Queen in the Ascendant?’
‘No, of course not. But when it comes to the protection of the Crown …’ She reconsiders. ‘If I may, Your Highness, this conversation would be best had far from prying ears.’ Lowering her voice, she says, ‘Yours is a precarious position. Your safety and duties are paramount.’
‘I’m not finished here,’ I say, stepping in front of the unicorns guarding me. General Sewell opens her mouth, but I push past her to where Agent Eight stands, her arms folded.
‘You know I don’t have the Chalice. So you can stop using that to threaten the Treaty and to justify your little vendetta against me.’
She opens her mouth to speak but I cut her off.
‘Let’s talk about my uncle, shall we?’
The colour leaches from Agent Eight’s face and, for the slightest moment, her features crumble into panic. She darts a guilty sideways glance at Westerfield.
It’s all I need to confirm my suspicions that she’s a double agent.
Damius isn’t ancient history; he’s not some past assignment that didn’t work out. My bet is that she fell in love with the monster she was sent to manipulate.
She collects herself and steps forward, examining me, inspecting me. ‘We have been keeping busy, haven’t we?’ she taunts. ‘I see you haven’t learned from your mistakes. Still snooping around in things that don’t concern you. Poking your nose in where it’s not welcome.’ And then, from behind me, she whispers in my ear, ‘If we’re going to make it personal, let’s talk about your mother.’
I spin around to face her. It might just be her clumsy attempt to change the subject from Damius, but I don’t care. If she knows anything about my mother I have to find out.
‘What do you know about my mother?’
Agent Eight laughs. It sounds more like relief than amusement.
‘You really don’t know, do you?’ Nodding towards the General, she adds, ‘I bet she knows all about your mother. But why would anybody rush to save such a – how shall I put it? – problematic queen. No, better to wait for her daughter, her stupid, compliant daughter who can be made to dance at the end of a string.’
General Sewell shakes her head defiantly. I’m not sure what charge she’s denying – that she knows something about my mother or that she conspired not to tell me. But I don’t call her on it because I need to know what Agent Eight knows of my mother.
‘All this time your own mother’s life force has been right here in the V&A and you had no idea,’ Agent Eight says.
My heart stops. ‘Where?’
‘Follow me, and perhaps we can come to an arrangement. You give me what I’ve always wanted and I’ll let you in on a few secrets,’ she says, looking malevolently at General Sewell.
Jules and Tom step towards me; so do my unicorn guards and General Sewell’s officers.
‘Uh-uh,’ Agent Eight says. ‘The Princess comes alone or not at all.’
‘Your Highness, I must advise —’ General Sewell starts.
‘No,’ I say, holding up my hand. ‘I go alone.’
‘It’s a trap,’ Tom says under his breath.
‘I know,’ I mouth. But no sound comes out.
&nb
sp; chapter 33
I follow Agent Eight out of the Medieval and Renaissance Room and along the corridor, a trail of my blood falling behind me.
‘Where are you taking me?’ I demand.
‘You’ll see.’
We walk out of the building and across the grassy internal courtyard. There’s a bounce in her step that makes my chest pound.
I can no longer feel pain for casting the heating spell, but from my unsteady feet and the blood still gushing from my nose, I’m sure it hasn’t gone. I’m just too busy focusing on my mother to register it.
‘The Poynter Room?’ I ask as Agent Eight leads me towards the cafe.
I take her silence as a ‘yes’ and push past her, running towards the door.
The Poynter Room is cordoned off with orange tape and a sign that reads ‘Closed for Restoration Work’. The room itself is shrouded in gloom, the windows replaced with boards. But aside from the windows, it’s as if the attack of ravens never happened. The tables and chairs have been pushed neatly to one side, the broken glass and plaster swept away. I can make out a thin crack in the ceiling but, for all I know, that could have been there before.
‘Where is she?’ I say to Agent Eight, who’s standing in the doorway with a grin that I want to rip off her face.
But it’s not her who speaks.
‘Are you ready to stop playing games now?’
I slowly turn towards the voice that uttered those exact words to me a few days ago.
‘Marshall?’
He’s seated at a lone table on the far side of the room, a bottle of wine and one glass in front of him.
‘You’ve come to your senses,’ he says.
‘What? No,’ I say, looking at him closely. There’s something different about him. His navy pinstripe suit and red tie are impeccable as usual, but the boyish glint in his eye has gone, replaced by something harsh. He looks tired, distracted. A vein pulses in his neck. The little finger on his left hand quivers.
He points to the chair opposite. It’s a command rather than an invitation.
I stay standing.
‘You’ve been far less forthcoming than I’d hoped. It’s time we talked openly.’ His mouth twitches at the corner. The tremor in his little finger has spread to the rest of his fingers.
