There was no one there to meet him.
An old fax machine sat at the centre of the room, like a shrine to offices past, disconnected and partly dismantled. The device Pax claimed the blue screens had used to control the MEE, with faxes supposedly from Lord Asquith. Now, a husk of ancient electronics, dissected and abandoned.
Everything else was gone, as though it had fled from the taint of this shameful object. Not even the reception desk remained. Unattached cables stuck out of the floor, dents dotted the carpet where desks and chairs had sat, and discoloured squares showed where monitors once hung.
Casaria frowned into the unlit gloom. He wandered towards one of the side offices. Through the partition, he saw it was empty too, but went in anyway. In the middle of her office, Casaria considered simply calling Sam Ward. He had failed to force a chance encounter outside her apartment, most likely because she was working all night, and now he had missed her packing up and leaving. But calling reeked of desperation. It was her place to call him. She knew he was an asset.
Casaria inhaled deeply, searching for inspiration.
He could call someone else. Landon, or the Ministry hotline. Merely ask for the new location. But those lower-level minions would delight in thwarting him. He could hear their remarks: no one told you the new address? No, thanks.
Hands back in his pockets, he considered another option. He belonged in the field. That’s where he’d find his people.
Buzzing from the drama of Letty’s call, and the prospect of tracking down this Palleday, Pax had slept poorly. Then she’d woken up too late to go after the Fae before the WPT resumed. She hated putting it off, but she couldn’t throw away her tournament. Her chance at creating a life for when this drama blew over. A mansion for her and Letty? She settled into the game with her chips low and a niggling itch to be elsewhere. The lunch break was already closing in when a chance to make a stand came: she hit bottom two pair on the flop, tens and nines – good enough to throw her meagre chips at. Except the opponent ahead, another odorous online player with buck teeth, bet first.
And then she felt them.
For the first time since encountering the grugulochs, Pax was hit by the movements of the screens. She winced and put a hand to her head, pretending she was struggling with the decision to call the bet. But something throbbed under her skin, a pulse of shifting energy, somewhere far away. Beneath the city. Underground, all together – clustered as one. There could be a handful of them, thirty or a hundred.
South of the city.
But – something else – directly north –
The feeling passed and Pax sat back with relief. She needed to tell Ward, the Bartons, anyone. Buck-teeth goaded, “Don’t faint on us, yeah?”
Pax tuned him out, searching for the screens. Ignoring arrogant men of all ages was something she’d mastered years ago. She wasn’t so used to picking up on disturbances in the world’s energy. It had to be something she could use. A sense, an understanding, that could open a gate to the Fae. If she could tap into this, she could do something useful.
But they were gone.
“You got top pair,” the man guessed. “Not enough to call, not for your tournament.”
Blinking to reality, she quickly reconsidered her cards. They were good enough to push in on a bet, if not to call. Sensing the screens made it tempting to just go with the bad move and get away from here, to figure her mad feelings out. Throw away her shot at a big cash injection.
“Do I need to call the clock on her?” her opponent asked, and Pax shoved her chips in, already half out of her seat. Get this done, go find Letty’s friend, call Ward, something. Murmurs of interest rushed through the crowd. The internet guy looked disgusted as he turned over top pair himself – with an ace kicker. The other players gave agonised groans or impressed gasps at Pax’s hand: good, but at risk. The dealer brought out an ace on the turn. The hotshot laughed like he’d planned that sick luck and the audience’s heart broke, but Pax was ready to run. A miracle ten came next. Full House. She’d doubled up.
Buck-teeth jumped up, demanding to know how in hell she could make that call – he could’ve had trips, a better two pair, anything. Pax stared in disbelief. Twice the chance, now, to win big. She shook herself out of it, and let people congratulate her as she left anyway. The extra chips would buy her time. She needed to move.
In the hall, trying to calm herself, she brought up Sam Ward’s number. At the very least she could get a handle on what had just happened. But she stopped dead as a man caught her eye. Walked out of one bad feeling right into a monumentally worse one. Him? Now?
Stacey Monroe was flanked by two big guys in American football jerseys. With his shaved head, thick woollen suit and heavy gold rings, he belonged in a garage peddling boxes of contraband. Not here, reminding Pax he’d almost made her witness to a homicide four days ago. Monroe’s men had captured and tortured Casaria, a government agent, pursuing an interest in Ordshaw’s tunnels. She didn’t know exactly what Monroe did, but she knew it was nothing good. His head didn’t reach the other men’s shoulders, but he was dominating their conversation, rough accent audible from a distance. “Trust me, I’ll take care of you.”
Monroe and his men weren’t on the tournament roster, Pax had checked. But there had always been a chance they’d show up. She had a plan: back slowly, discreetly into the shadows. As she took one step back, he saw her and his round face stretched into a lurid grin. Who was she kidding. He might’ve come deliberately for her. His hands went up to pat his companions. “Here’s a local legend you might get a chance to play with.”
He sauntered towards her with the men, square-headed Americans of the most cliched variety. Pax stood rooted to the spot.
“The inimitable Pax Kuranes, one of Ordshaw’s finest. Sits on all the best games in town. I heard you made fast friends with Dutch McRory, you planning on bringing him to the Baudelaire Club once you’re crowned champ here?”
Pax opened her mouth but no words came out. Just as well, because the words were: last time I saw you was in a torture chamber.
“Meet Hugh and Brutus,” Monroe continued, like she wasn’t frozen in awkwardness. “Brothers outta Houston, you believe that? Flew all the way over for this. I’m reckoning they’ll make back some of that airfare in the big game. You will be there, won’t you, love?”
It didn’t sound like a threat, but it wasn’t a request either. Monroe’s eyes said we’ve got unfinished business. And it stank because if he’d ingratiated himself with brutes like this – one even called Brutus, for crying out loud – then whatever game Monroe was peddling would be worth her while. A clear hustle.
“Sure she’ll be there,” Monroe decided for her, when she still hadn’t spoken. “Make a bloody party of it, won’t we.”
The Americans were confused by her silence, but she pulled just enough sense together to hold out a hand to shake. “Hope to see you there.”
Satisfied, the pair let themselves be dismissed by Monroe and wandered off talking at an unapologetic volume. “A chance to play with Dutch McRory? Are you kidding me?”
Monroe watched with amusement, like he’d just given tourists the wrong directions, before turning to Pax. He said, with no indication that it was a compliment, “Well, don’t you look a picture. You know I got a monkey riding on you?”
“What?” Pax replied, a weird image springing to mind. But he meant money. A lot of money.
“Ton on you reaching the final table,” he elaborated. “The rest to say you’ll cash.”
She said, weakly, “Why?”
“It’s nothing.” Monroe patted his chest, like she’d touched his heart somehow. “I got faith in you, darling, that’s all. Placed the bet with Lorenzo when you were two above the fold, got great odds. Lorenzo out of Ripton, know him? Didn’t believe in you like I do.”
“You probably should’ve listened to him.”
“Bollocks.” Monroe jabbed an authoritative finger towards her, “There’s only two of
our own left in the field, you know? Yourself and Wonky Gunry, and we both know Gunry used up all his luck standing out of bed this morning. You’re going all the way, my girl. Make Ordshaw proud.”
“And if I don’t?” Pax heard the question before she’d thought it.
“You will,” Monroe shrugged. “No question.”
Pax gave him a conceding smile. Why not add the prospect of being accountable to a criminal’s losing bet to her worries. Desperately wanting to get away, or at least change the subject, she searched the hall for inspiration. At least there was no sign of Bees or Jones, his hired goons. Last seen trying to stab Cano Casaria. She said, “Your men weren’t interested in playing?”
“Ah,” Monroe said. “Those boys chewed my ear off for a month about sponsoring them. But we know where the smart money’s at, don’t we? Come by the Baudelaire Club this evening, there’s gonna be stacks on the table, substantial buy-in. Bring McRory and I’ll stake you. Gratis.”
It gave Pax pause. This was all wrong. He should’ve been angry at her for upsetting his stabby plans. Paranoid about her snitching on him, at least. But he was cheery, offering her a place at a game worth a small fortune. If he wanted to lure the world-class players, they’d be looking at five-figure buy-ins. Four-figure hands. “You’re serious?”
“As a nun’s drawers, you’ve earned it.” Monroe put his hand on his heart again, making Pax frown. “Least I can do. And it’s good business, besides.”
“Mr Monroe,” Pax said, carefully. Again, the words didn’t come: shouldn’t we talk about what happened? You vicious bastard.
“Apologies my dear,” he said. “I’m distracting you from the tourney. Don’t worry, alright? We’re good, Pax. Two locals shooting at the moon, rolling over foreigners come to take advantage of our town. Kind of noble, I reckon.”
Pax merely nodded, sure this was a not-so-subtle reference to his business dispute with Jamaican gangs coming into Ordshaw. Monroe, she had learnt, was patriotic in a murderous way.
He finished, like a proud uncle. “That’s my girl. You’re gonna play some great cards, aren’t you? In there, at the Baudelaire. What do you say?”
Fuck, is what Pax thought. Already preparing to face psycho fairies and ethereal screens, now she had to weigh the patronage of a gangster against a good business opportunity. Would he even let her say no? Her eyes picked out a brass-rimmed clock above the reception counter, the second hand ticking away all the time she had for these huge problems.
“Pax.” Monroe brought her attention back to him. “You know the sort of figures I’m talking, right? Your stake in this. Don’t that sound good to you?”
She frowned again. Was this something else? His way of buying her silence, or even apologising? Hell. She could work with that. “Sure, Mr Monroe. I’ll be at your game.”
6
Sam marvelled at how the new Ministry chamber had come to life. Though she couldn’t quite call it an office yet. Removal men and technicians had swept in overnight, and desks, computers and monitors now lined the underground lair. Tall pot plants had added colour, and a ventilation system somehow kept the air moving. Everyone was in early, along with a couple of tough-looking men in dark suits: Obrington’s new hires, who were being briefed on something by their resident tech expert, Dr Galler. Sam also had the very promising prospect of taking Darren Barton into the Sunken City today, to expand her surveying – which Obrington showed little interest in observing: “Your people, your problem.”
In general, Obrington ignored everything to lean against his desk, thumbing through his phone and making calls. That suited Sam fine; he genuinely didn’t look like he intended to stay. She might yet get the chief’s chair for herself. The Support team were already turning to her for leadership, things were running smoothly. Mid-morning, there was a flurry of excited activity when the praelucente created a surge in novisan. The team checked for fluctuations across the city, to be sure the energy wasn’t being transferred, and settled into a congratulatory atmosphere, concluding the surge was localised.
When Sam’s phone rang and Pax’s name came up, it felt like the cherry on the morning’s cake. Besides their rather abortive visit to a handful of reported blue screen locations, during which Pax had been notably quiet, they’d had less contact than Sam hoped. But with time and space, Pax would surely come around to throw herself into the Ministry’s work. Sam answered cheerily, “Pax, how’s the tournament going?”
“Yeah fine,” Pax replied a little shortly, sounding rushed. “About a half-hour ago, maybe more, was there a surge?”
“Yes!” Sam said. Too enthusiastic. She tried to contain the excitement, lowering her voice. “You felt it?” Overcompensated, sounding like a posh gentleman. “I mean – gosh – so it’s working?”
“My magic power?” Pax said. “Did you just say gosh?”
Sam fumbled her phone to adopt a casual posture, even if Pax couldn’t see it. “It was south of the river, between Broadplain and Tupsom, is that where you felt it?”
“I don’t know exactly but they were all in one place. And they did something. You caught that? Right in the opposite direction.”
“What? No.” Sam scanned her colleagues, relaxed at their screens, obliviously continuing their tasks. “Our scan goes citywide now, showing the fluctuation was localised.”
“Okay. Except it wasn’t.”
A moment of dread swept over Sam. She picked out Obrington, breathing through his mouth with an expression like his phone was insulting him. He wouldn’t want to hear that their expanded surveys might be flawed. No one would want to hear that. And how could she tell him, short of subjecting Pax to a hefty Ministry investigation? But even without having proved Pax’s esoteric abilities, Sam trusted there was something in it. She asked, “Where was it? This other . . . thing?”
“I don’t know.”
“But – are you tracking it now?”
“No. I’m in the middle of something else.”
Not the poker; she would’ve said if it was that. “What sort of something?”
“I’ll tell you about it later, best you not get involved yet. Look, all I know is those screens were together with the minotaur when it fed, all of them.” The minotaur, her word for the praelucente, borrowed from the long-dead civilian, Apothel. “That’s a good thing – we can round them up if we can catch it feeding. But they used that energy, and that’s bad. At best, they’ve still got a screen roving separately. There’s plenty worse options, though.”
“But you can’t pinpoint it . . .”
“North. I was in the casino, it was north of that, I can’t say for sure.” Pax gave it a moment’s thought. “Relative to the surge? I’d guess roughly the same distance in the opposite direction. Roughly.”
“I can work with that.” Sam waved at a Support tech. “Pax, I’d like you to come in –”
“Not now. Not today.”
“Why? At least tell me what you’re doing?”
“Hanging up.” And the line went dead.
Sam cursed, but put it aside, with the tech already waiting for orders. She instructed him to recheck the novisan scans to the north, then crossed the office to Obrington. Those scans wouldn’t show anything; they needed to get someone out there. Obrington lowered his phone, pushed off from the desk and stared at her to ask the question: what?
“Could we spare a couple of agents to investigate an anomaly?” Sam asked, keeping her voice quiet so the rest of the staff wouldn’t hear her meek request.
“You tell me,” Obrington answered, as loud as she was soft. “We’ve got Vinton and Bolton sealing doors in Farling, and Marks and Lungen getting ready to hit Nothicker. Or there’s your civilians, you want them investigating anomalies? Your initiative, your choice.”
He made it sound condescending, but it was her call. “I think the –”
“Wrong answer.”
“But you don’t know –”
“Ward,” he said, “that creature manipulated your office
for a long time. There’s gonna be plenty of anomalies. Want to hear one I discovered? Some bright spark had your pulse pistols set to the wrong frequency. Deadly, but not the quietest shot. Presumably based on faulty advice from your faxes. Why do you suppose that would be?”
Sam considered it. “To make us less effective culling the creatures?”
Obrington shook his head. “Guess again.”
Unable to answer him correctly, Sam merely went quiet. Another Management figure appearing to know everything. If you’d care to share with the rest of us, instead of using information to puff up your own chest, perhaps we could make progress?
“What’s that?” He raised an eyebrow and Sam froze.
Did she say that out loud? She shook her head to indicate she hadn’t spoken.
“My guess,” Obrington said, “is it made you visible. Your master manipulator was using faxes to communicate, right? It didn’t have access to our computers. Didn’t necessarily see all that was going on. But it could’ve picked up on specific signals, like the right energy gun frequencies, to watch your men at work. What do you think?”
That suggested the blue screens sensed energy in a different way to them. Beyond their understanding. About par for the course. Sam said, “Well. We’re doing a full review to avoid mistakes like that. But it’s not enough.”
“No. Good thing I’m here, isn’t it? Come with me, there’s someone we’ve got to meet –”
“Can it wait a moment, sir?” Sam blurted out. “This anomaly, it’s a specific hunch. Related to the recent surge. It’s time-sensitive.”
Obrington gave her his usual open-mouthed glare, inviting an explanation. She wasn’t sure what to say. Without revealing Pax’s connection to the screens, and risking more interference, how could she explain why they needed to search an area their equipment showed to be inactive? Her eyes wandered to the office’s rear door. That was it. “That ravisher didn’t show on our scanners,” Sam said. “I’m concerned we might have similar strays, and want to do a sweep to be sure the surge didn’t unsettle anything we’re not seeing.”
The Violent Fae Page 4
