“I wish you could,” Edwing said, earnestly. “But the borders are sealed. And after a break-in at the vats, it’ll surely get worse. But Valoria accepts that some neutral, important Fae, like Palleday, may be persuaded to move on without coercion. Under the guise of seeing him, I can go to Pax. While you two,” Edwing told Smark and Deidre, “start a public conversation. Raise the questions our people need to hear. How can we truly justify exclusion from the humans?”
Deidre deferred to Smark, and he gave Letty a stony look, not happy even having her in the room. He said, “If it means sticking it to Governor Magnus, I’ll do it.”
“A true hero,” Letty said. “Reluctantly standing up for what’s best for everyone.”
“Anyone would think you want a fight,” Smark sneered.
“Yes I fucking do, isn’t that why you need me?” Letty turned to Edwing. “And while you’re making friends, we’re supposed to wait and leave Val with the Dispenser?”
“The Council meets tomorrow afternoon,” Edwing said. “Give me until then. I beg your patience – don’t rock the boat, and I promise you we’ll be ready to act.”
Letty wanted to say fuck that. To hell with subtle plans and talking and her being trapped here. But she caught Flynt’s eye again. Asking her to stop, to have faith. She huffed. “Tomorrow afternoon. Then, if you don’t fuck shit up, I will.”
12
One by one, the Bartons climbed out of a manhole in New Thornton, exhausted. Barton was vaguely aware that he should’ve stopped a few hours ago, when his ankle started aching, but the draw of the Sunken City was hard to ignore. When the women asked, he said he was fine. The place kept him awake. Rufaizu’s enthusiasm even brought a smile to his face. The boy hopped about recounting adventures that never really happened, reminding Barton of Apothel, the cheery loon who’d drawn him into this world. It disarmed Holly and Ward, too. Their walk through the tunnels stretched into hours as Ward’s worries faded, taking them away from the warehouse district into New Thornton. There were signs of creatures, but not recently. Claw marks left from sickles, scorch marks from helluvian hounds. Just like old times, with the added beeping confusion of the Ministry’s scanner informing them things were unstable.
They ran into no more errant beasts, but Ward’s analysis, and occasional calls back to her office (her phone worked down there), suggested other problems. Her people were reassessing everything they thought they understood of the underground lair. Same as Barton. Hard to believe he’d been so naïve, believing what those blue screens told him . . .
Out on the street, Holly called Grace while they waited for someone from Ward’s office to ferry them home. Rufaizu slumped a few paces away. Finally spent. Barton heaved the manhole cover into place as Ward double-checked her readings.
“How messed up is it?” Barton asked.
“Well,” Ward said, “the bulk of the horde has evidently stuck together, which is both good and bad. It’s not a widespread problem, but it suggests the screens can direct strays to targeted locations. A dreadhorn might’ve done a lot of damage, unchecked.”
“The way we had it,” Barton said, “nothing controlled those creatures. The screens needed us to report their whereabouts. Needed you to do the same. We were their eyes and ears, weren’t we?”
“That’s the theory. But if we’re looking at them manipulating energy, who’s to say what control that gave them. Even if they couldn’t necessarily track the creatures themselves, perhaps they still had some ability to influence their movements. It might be peripheral, uncontrolled.”
“Like a lucky dip. They drop a defence and we see what slips out.”
Ward hummed uncomfortably to say it was perfectly possible. “Not to worry; we’ll start pinpointing the problem areas very soon.”
“The problem is clear enough already,” Barton said. “This novisan energy is more complicated than any of us thought. The tunnels themselves could be pooling it or something – if the screens can manipulate where the monsters travel. Makes me wonder if drinking glo hid stuff from us – what are the effects of just being down there?”
“You feel any effects now?” Ward replied. Checking over his body, he wasn’t sure. Mostly he felt tired. She continued, “No, if we absorbed any of what’s down there, it was too minimal to affect us much. But your glo, our novisan scans, they were blinkers. The blue screens didn’t want us to understand anything fully.”
Barton heard his own instinctive growl. Those bloody screens, with their broken English and cryptic messages. “If I could just get my hands on one . . .” He’d what? Punch a wall? Rufaizu caught his eye with a tired but encouraging look.
“Never met a foe the Citizen couldn’t beat,” the young man said. “But might not meet them again. Might never see them.”
“We’ll keep at it,” Barton insisted. “We’ll find them.”
“I’ll have more agents in tomorrow,” Ward said. “You can take a break.”
Barton watched Holly, across the road, with her back to them. Having overcome her initial reservations, she’d want to keep at it, the same as him. “It’s fine. We’re ready for more.”
Holly briskly returned, sighting on Ward like a hawk. “Where’s this pick-up?”
“Something wrong?” Barton asked.
“Indeed. Not that I don’t appreciate your people’s help, but I’d rather Grace not be left alone with any of you. Least of all Mr Casaria.”
“What?” Ward and Barton voiced alarm together. Ward added, “Is he there now?”
“A fleeting visit, apparently,” Holly said, icily. “But not a good start, is it?”
“I’ll handle it!” Ward insisted, marching aside to make a call of her own. Barton met Holly’s fuming eyes. What were they thinking, leaving Grace alone so soon after what she’d been through?
“Where are you?” Ward barked into the phone, equally incensed. “You’ve got no damn right, Cano. How dare you?” Her assault stalled with whatever he said. “That’s because you’re suspended, we’re not hiding –” She stopped again. Swallowed it. “I’ll send you the address. Come in at once. You’re on your last warning. Understand?”
She hung up and offered an apologetic, worried look.
“If he touched –” Barton started.
“He wouldn’t,” Ward said. “I’m sure in his head he was doing something right. I’ll take care of it – this shouldn’t have happened.”
Holly was staring at Barton, imploring him to do more. He didn’t know what. He could throttle that smarmy agent. He couldn’t shout at Ward, though; she looked as troubled as them. He said, “You . . . you’ll handle it. We need to go home to our daughter?” It came out as a question, directed at Holly.
She held her indignation high, but said no more.
The Baudelaire Club sat in an upper-floor suite of an old converted bank, south of the River Gader. Its pillars and triangular pediment recalled a grandiose government building, the clubrooms harking back to colonial times, interiors framed in dark, expensive wood interrupted by deep green wallpaper and ornate carpeting. The furniture was big, heavy and sculpted, and every hint of metal was polished to a brass shine. Cigar boxes sat between crystal decanters, and the terrace looked down on a private park.
Pax had been once before, for a game out of her league. Being a token female player was good for opening most doors once, but it took real work to get invited back to the Baudelaire Club. Its members had old money and old values, expecting their women to show flesh, not intelligence. Pax had earned modest winnings on a hefty buy-in, but offended a member who offered her his number to arrange a dress fitting for her next visit. She’d suggested he didn’t have the figure for it.
It wasn’t something she regretted. But now she’d been invited back, with the many trials the last week had dumped on her, she came in wary of burning more bridges. Her single all-purpose dress wasn’t classy enough for the Baudelaire, so she’d opted for a pair of black trousers and the sweater she’d acquired while on the run,
striped and inoffensively slim. She’d also tied her hair back in a short ponytail, going for discreet over any attempt to make it look classy. She didn’t expect to turn heads, but she could avoid turned-up noses. Quite aside from a chance at money and security, it was important, after all, that she stayed long enough to meet any lingering Fae.
A doorman in a burgundy suit led her to the game, past suits sipping cocktails. The poker room held eight men, the locals in their finery, the foreigners notable for their lack of it. The big Americans were near the balcony terrace, as was the pro Yannick (had Monroe approached him after seeing him at Pax’s tournament table?). And there by the bar was Monroe, talking to a tall, slim gentleman in a tuxedo. There was something familiar about him. His angular features and narrow, judging eyes exuded power, definitely a few stations above most people. Even his jet-black hair, barely a centimetre long, likely cost a fortune to cut.
Monroe waved Pax over. About to say hello, Pax looked past the two men into the beaming face of the barman. Monroe’s big henchman, Howling Jowls Jones, was polishing a glass, dressed in shirtsleeves and braces. A large square block of a man with the chiselled jaw and curly blond locks of a model, offset by a wonky smile and Pax’s memories of him stabbing Casaria. Out of character, he said nothing, leaving the introductions to Monroe.
“Pax, our local champion,” Monroe said merrily, lightly tapping her arm to break the look of uncomfortable recognition she gave Jones. “You know the most eminent Mr Tycho Duvalier?”
Recognising the name with surprise, Pax took in Monroe’s companion again. This game was even bigger than she’d anticipated, and a response slipped out to alienate herself from it: “No, Mr Monroe, playing cards in dark alleys and above Chinese restaurants doesn’t often bring me into contact with the 1%.”
“You’re a pro?” Tycho asked politely, as he held out a hand. His enunciation was so crisp she wouldn’t have been able to place the accent if she didn’t already know he was American. Pax shook his hand – ridiculously smooth skin – and wondered if her peasant fingers just rubbed off thousands of pounds’ worth of manicure treatment.
“Yeah, I’m a pro in the loosest sense of the word,” Pax said, part of her screaming to stop talking before she ruined everything. Tycho was heir to the monstrous fortune of Duvcorp, richer than a Byzatine emperor. Ward had name-dropped the company earlier, she recalled with a flash of unease. Pax tried to push the feeling away with humour. “I sometimes make enough to buy a takeaway.”
“Modest and charming,” Monroe said. Charming, about as glowing as homely. He was putting on an act for Tycho, reining in his broad Farling accent. “Pax did Ordshaw proud today, didn’t she? Queen of the World Poker Tour. Plenty of pros out of Vegas didn’t come close to her.”
“They’ll write history books about it, the 68th Place Champion,” Pax said.
Monroe laughed. “Did better than Dave ‘the Cave’ Spencer, didn’t you?”
“Did I?” Spencer was a two-times WPT champion. Between scheming over how best to stretch out her £4,238 win and her anxieties over the Fae and underground monsters, Pax had paid little attention to who was still in or out.
“And she’s bringing us Dutch McRory,” Monroe continued. “Legend, ask anyone.”
“I know the name,” Tycho said, then asked Pax, “He’s a friend of yours?”
“About as deep as my friendships go.” Pax smiled. True enough.
“Oh for sure,” Monroe said. “I’m surprised you didn’t come together.”
She kept her smile, holding his gaze. Of course, her stake here depended not just on her winning personality but that pro’s presence, too. She’d texted McRory the address; seeing the clientele, she wondered if it was even necessary. “I’m sure he’ll be here.”
Monroe betrayed no aggravation, and said, “Drinks, then, Pax. You’re a Scotch girl, aren’t you? Jones, whip her up something special.”
Something special, Pax saw without looking closely, was a whisky that would’ve been locked in a safe in most places she drank. It would help ease her nerves. She might even enjoy this. A mediocre prize in a tournament, a seat at the Baudelaire, making herself difficult in front of the world’s richest men. A quiet hope of seeing an anonymous Fae. However uneasy she felt, things were on track.
13
Following the club’s activity through the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto the terrace, Fresko wished he could see the players’ cards. It was obvious who was in charge of each hand – he could pick out the winners from the losers without fail – but it was dull as hell. He shouldn’t have let Mix off, even if the man was a drunk liability. Some company would’ve been nice, waiting in a tree, trying to decide exactly how to handle this situation with Lightgate.
The Baudelaire Club brought back memories. Three years back they’d plotted a raid here. Bigwigs swilled brandies you could trade for cars; even their tiepins were worth a fortune. And they insisted on privacy that kept even the Ministry at bay. Letty’s gang had sneaked in, taking trinkets for about a month until it got noticed and was pinned on three long-standing members of the staff. A concierge with decades of spotless service took the main blame. They’d laughed like hell about it, and it still made Fresko smile. But watching the building, waiting for the lummox to step out of the game, he got grim again. Was he gonna chat with the woman who’d torn their gang apart, or what? She was enjoying herself at this big poker table, drinking, chatting with some slick prick, now introducing some old fart who everyone seemed eager to suck off. Her granddad?
“Dutch McRory,” a voice said. “He wrote the book on human poker.”
Fresko’s heart jumped but he didn’t flinch, calmly looking up from his rifle scope to find Lightgate had crept up on him. She could’ve just arrived or could’ve been there an hour, for the calm way she sat on the branch beside him. How the fuck did she find him?
Keeping his voice neutral, like he’d been expecting her, Fresko said, “The girl doesn’t belong in there. Not her class of people at all.”
“I have decided,” Lightgate said, with tired deliberation, “not to underestimate her. Notice anything strange about this place? It’s . . .” She trailed off, eyes narrowing, scanning up and down. She sniffed, too. There was a good hundred metres of unlit grass and trees between them and the building. No way this woman could see nor smell anything of note.
“Wanna borrow the rifle?” Fresko suggested.
Lightgate shook her head, and put a hand into her sling. Rather than produce her own scope, she pulled out a hip flask and took a sip. The fumes burnt Fresko’s nostrils.
“What is that shit?”
She held it towards him, silently studying the building.
From the way she’d settled into position, he guessed he wasn’t in her shit-book. She must’ve figured he was scouting out an opportunity. There was no way she could know the plan; she hadn’t followed them to Palleday’s, had she? To appear helpful, Fresko said, “You wanted a chat with her, this could work. Assuming you don’t just wanna put one in her from here. Wait till someone steps outside, with the door open, it’ll look like an aneurysm.”
“You probably don’t remember working with me before,” Lightgate said, taking another swig. He gave her a disbelieving look. How could anyone forget the ill-advised times they’d flown together? “I remember you guys. You were supposed to be the smart one. I don’t want her dead. You moron.” She said it so blandly it took a moment for Fresko to take offence. “We’ll take our time. See what opportunities arise.”
He frowned, dreading whatever plans she might concoct. She definitely hadn’t been following them earlier, though, or she’d already know Pax was expecting a meeting.
Pax considered how far she could push Tycho Duvalier. He was a tight player, only getting involved when he had the best hands. And right now, her read said he thought he had a good hand, but not the best. A bet before the flop, barely big enough to drive everyone else out. A bigger bet when an ace came with a seven and a
three. Then a hesitant call when she raised him.
It was just the two of them going into the turn, when a king came. Perfect. Tycho mulled it over before betting again. A dutiful one, less than a third of the pot. Pax had drunk just enough whisky not to overthink this; she called and let the river come. A nine. No straights or flushes available. Tycho made one last stabbing bet and Pax pushed in big without hesitation. Doubling the pot. He stared at the chips and she knew she had him. Absolutely. It didn’t matter that she held Shit All. Or that there was close to three grand sitting there. Almost as much as she’d made after two days grafting in a tournament she’d waited her whole life for.
Well, she couldn’t quite ignore that. It was a fucklot of money.
But this was her work. Waiting, needling, studying people and picking her moments with craft, unlike the tournament that forced panicking, blundering heroics. This felt right.
The room was silent. The only people remotely relaxed were McRory and Yannick, who likely read the hand exactly as Pax did. Monroe greedily salivated by the bar; the bigger the pot, the bigger his rake, as host.
Pax had Tycho’s measure after only an hour at the table. Moneyed types usually bullied their way through pots – three grand was nothing to them – but Tycho valued being seen to make the right decisions. His family didn’t become billionaires by throwing money away; that was written all over him.
“You put me in a difficult position,” Tycho said.
“That’s the idea,” Pax replied, desperately waiting for him to make the right move. He had to believe she had his ace-queen beat. For sure, those were his cards: good when opening the hand, but not good enough to go mad with. Worried by that king, reminding him of at least one obviously better possibility. His thin eyes ran over the cards and chips multiple times. He had to fold, Pax must have ace-king at worst. Possibly a set.
The Violent Fae Page 9
