by Laura Powell
The idea of him was unbearable, and so was the hope. She knew it might already be too late. At any moment, she could be made to permanently ‘disappear’. And though they’d always wonder – Lucas, her dad, Troy, Uncle Charlie and the rest – they wouldn’t ever know what had really happened.
Yet in spite of everything, she didn’t believe this was her end. It was impossible, sitting here in her warm strong body, her beating mind, to imagine the absolute finality of death. Not this way. Not now.
The soldiers came for her about an hour after Rose left. A black hood was put over her face and her hands were tied behind her back. She was hustled up and down several stairs and round several corners at such speed she soon lost all sense of direction. The floor underfoot was polished stone and tiles. It added to her impression that she was being held in a house, rather than an institution.
When the hood came off, she found herself in a big bare room. The dark oak furniture was scuffed, but handsome, and the stucco walls were hung with moth-eaten tapestries. There was a fair-haired young man in a red military uniform at a desk. Rose was seated a little way behind him.
‘So it’s the Starling girl,’ the young man drawled. ‘I’m Lieutenant Hale. I’ve heard a lot about you.’
Before now, the most Glory had seen of Gideon Hale was a blurry photograph in a newspaper. She wasn’t as surprised to see him as she should have been. He and Lucas were connected in the same way that she and Rose were. It made a strange kind of sense that they should all come together, here at the ends of the earth.
‘Yeah, and I’ve heard about you and all.’ She spat ostentatiously on the floor.
Gideon’s lip curled. ‘Since I am the only British officer in the Red Knights, our Commander-in-Chief has delegated your interrogation to me. He and Senator Vargas agreed it would be appropriate, especially in light of our prior connection.’ His pale eyes flicked over her disdainfully. ‘By which I mean, the criminal plot formed by the Wednesday Coven and rogue elements of WICA to bring down the British Inquisition.’
‘Nice spin.’ Glory looked at Rose. She was in her smart office suit, poised to take notes. ‘Might be harder to whitewash your latest cock-up, though – the one about you recruiting an Endor witch into the militia. Or didn’t you know your girlfriend’s a hag?’
Gideon yawned. ‘Usually, prisoners save the wild accusations until a later stage in the interrogation.’
‘It’s not so much of a shocker,’ Glory continued, ‘when you take a look at the family tree. Bad blood runs deep. Yeah,’ she said to Rose, ‘turns out your old man’s Vince Morgan. That makes the two of us cousins of sorts. Small world, ain’t it?’
‘As far as I’m concerned,’ said Rose, all sorrow and solemnity, ‘my father was Lord Godfrey Merle. A great man, who died a tragic death. Mummy was already disturbed, but the fae sent her mad. Evil. And if it ever, God forbid, came to me, I’d cut it out.’ Her voice rose, throbbing. ‘I’d rather bleed to death than suffer that pollution.’
Glory wondered how she’d ever fallen for this woe-is-me act. It seemed ridiculous now. But Gideon, she was pleased to see, looked a little uncomfortable.
‘I’d watch me back, if I was you,’ she told him.
‘And if I were you, I’d hold my tongue. Else I’ll get a bridle to muzzle it.’
Glory shook her head. ‘I want to see the Senator. He’s the one who ordered my arrest. There’s some things he needs to hear –’
‘Well, he doesn’t want to see you,’ Gideon said crisply. ‘You disgust him. The next time you face him will be in court, after you’ve confessed. And you will confess. I’ll make sure of it.’
He paused for effect. He evidently had the same theatrical instincts as Rose.
‘The trial will be conducted behind closed doors, since we don’t want to give you a platform to promote your vile beliefs. Young blonde girls make such photogenic martyrs.’ He leaned forward, fixing Glory with those curiously pale eyes. ‘Because your time in public will come, of course. We’ll burn you in the Plaza de la República for all Cordoba to see.’
Even though she’d known this threat was coming, Glory’s vision was briefly dappled with unsteadiness and dark. For the meantime, at least, it gave her the courage of someone with nothing to lose.
She stared straight back at Gideon, and didn’t flinch.
‘The president will light the balefire himself,’ he went on. ‘He knows the people are out of patience. You are the symptom of a wider disease – a foreign terrorist, taking advantage of their country’s tolerance. As your flesh melts from the bone, there’ll be dancing in the streets.’ He smiled. ‘Perhaps Lucas will come and watch. Lay a wreath on behalf of the British nation. Shed some discreet tears.’
Glory kept her face wooden. She knew her lack of reaction was annoying him. But she could feel the trembling starting up under her skin, and didn’t know for how long she could suppress it.
‘I’m curious about the two of you,’ Gideon continued. ‘I know Lucas spent some time undercover in your cesspit of a coven. So why is he in San Jerico? Government business? Or something personal? Could he be driven by missionary zeal to bring you to the ways of righteousness?’ He put his head to one side, considering. ‘Either way, I think he’s going to be very disappointed when he finds out what you’ve been up to.’
Again, no reaction. Gideon got up and came round to where Glory was standing, her hands cuffed behind her back.
‘We had to study the famous Starling Twins, back in the Inquisition’s training centre. They were a pair of deviant sluts, and you’re the same. Bringing you to the balefire will be the latest victory in a long crusade.’
She managed to laugh. ‘A crusader? Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve known rent-a-thugs like you me whole life. Paterson used you before, and Vargas is using you now. And so’s she.’ She jerked her head at Rose. ‘ ’Cept you’re too dumb to see it.’
Gideon hit her across the face, so hard her eyes watered.
‘No –’ Rose put her hands over her ears, her eyes screwed up tight. ‘I mustn’t – I can’t –’
Gideon ignored her. He took hold of Glory’s face by the chin and squeezed, hard.
‘Don’t cry, little witch-girl,’ he said softly. ‘Save it for the balefire.’
The strange thing was, if Glory hadn’t known better, she would have seen Gideon and Lucas as two sides of the same coin. They had the same kind of voice, the same kind of manner. There was even something familiar about the way Gideon wore his clothes and sat in his chair. But even if Lucas hadn’t got the fae, and had become the High Inquisitor he believed he was destined to be, he and Gideon would still have been poles apart. Different species. Glory knew that with certainty now.
Gideon only hit her once. Afterwards, she was taken back to her room and left to ‘consider her options’. A bit of mental softening-up before the main event. Rose had said nothing more, just blinked and quivered in the background.
She was put in a head-bridle. The effect of the iron was much stronger than when it was just the cuffs. A sleepy coldness flooded her veins. It took ice and water to drag out the stain of fae, fire to purge it. Fire and ice . . . It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been warned. Those dreams of the Burning Court had been a foreshadowing, after all.
Her mother had been in many of those dreams, yet during the long lonely wait that followed, Glory barely thought of Edie Starling. She wanted to think of flesh and blood people, not shadows or ghosts. The people who knew her and loved her, and had made a real difference to her life. The people who would remember her. She remembered them, and tried to be strong.
Chapter 28
Witchwork was all very well, thought Lucas, but what he really wanted was one of those cunning and sinister gadgets the agents in MI5 and 6 used. Something with poisoned needles and electroshock shooters, hidden lasers and blades.
They’re not going to kill her, he kept telling himself. They’ll want to keep her for a show-trial. I can still fix this. I will find her
and save her and make things right.
In the absence of hi-tech weaponry, he had to rely on another kind of asset: inside information. They knew Glory was being held in the grounds of an abandoned sugar cane plantation. The estate had changed owners many times in the past decades but had recently been bought by one of the Red Knights’ clients. He planned to turn the place into a luxury hotel, but in the meantime allowed the militia to use it as an unofficial base. The police knew about it thanks to a tip-off from the caretaker.
Raffi had told his family that he and Lucas were spending the day trying to get help for Glory at the British Embassy. But after an off-the-record chat with one of his dad’s lieutenants, he took Lucas to the caretaker’s dilapidated bungalow on the edge of the city. At first, the man was reluctant to talk, but the wad of cash – Troy Morgan’s cash that Lucas had brought – proved very persuasive.
He told them that the estate’s owner employed him to keep an eye on the place when it was unoccupied and to tidy up after the soldiers had been there. Yes, he knew ‘bad things’ happened at the house, and he didn’t like it, but he needed the money, and what was a poor widower to do? Yesterday evening, he saw they were getting the place ready for one of their ‘special visitors’, and was told not to come into work until further notice. After another helping of cash, he drew them a map of the place, including the room where the ‘visitor’ was going to be held. He was vague on the security details, but did warn them that bundles of barbed wire had been thrown on the roof to deter sky-leapers.
A plan was already forming in Lucas’s head. It was not a particularly sophisticated one, and the risks were substantial, but it was probably his – and Glory’s – best chance. It involved purchasing camouflage trousers and a jacket of the kind the Red Knights wore while on hacienda duty, as well as night-vision binoculars, a rope, a small sledgehammer, a chisel and a crowbar. And a knife.
Map secured and shopping done, he phoned Troy to break the news. It was a relief when the call went to voicemail. Then he paid a visit to Casa de la Armonia. Once the militia discovered Candice’s connection with Glory, she might be in trouble, and he felt it only right to warn her. He also wanted to get access to Glory’s things, preferably without having to root around in the rubbish.
He found Candice and Todd loading bags into a taxi.
‘Hi, you don’t know me but I’m a friend of Glor—’
‘We don’t know anything about her,’ Candice gabbled. At the same time, Todd said, ‘It was obvious she was trouble, right from the start.’
There was an embarrassed pause. ‘What’s Glory to you?’ Todd asked suspiciously.
‘We met at the club last week and had started to, well, hang out. Then I heard she’d been arrested. I just wondered if you’d –’
‘There’s rumours of a witch-hunt,’ said Candice, taking a swig from a hip flask. ‘We’ve gotta get out while we still can.’
‘You’re leaving the country?’
‘Too right.’ Todd slung a guitar case into the boot. ‘Place is a hole anyhow. Sooner we’re outta here the better.’
Candice hunched her shoulders defensively. ‘It’s not like there’s anything we can do. Not if Glory’s been messing with witch-crime. She’ll drag the rest of us down with her.’ Something about Lucas’s expression gave her pause. ‘Here,’ she said, fumbling around her neck. ‘Take it. I won’t be needing it any more.’
It was a charm, of the kind the hotel receptionist had tried to sell him.
‘I got Glory to craft it for me,’ Candice said distractedly. ‘Kept telling her she should make a business outta them. It’s the real deal – not like the rubbish they sell on the streets.’
‘Uh . . . thanks.’
She readjusted her oversized shades. Her hand shook a little. ‘We’ll be more help to her back in England. My family have connections, you know? Maybe we can send out a lawyer or whatever.’
‘C’mon, babe,’ called Todd, who was already sitting in the car. ‘Check-in closes in an hour.’
As their taxi sped off, Lucas looked at the little glass bottle in his hand. It was on a chain and looked pretty flashy: a dab of blood congealed at the base, a piece of mirrored glass, some dried fern. Glory would have only made it to please her cousin, for there was little evidence such trinkets worked. But the raw ingredients of another witch’s work could be useful – more useful than anything he might find in Casa de la Armonia’s rubbish bin. Candice’s parting gift was more precious than she knew.
Five minutes later, Raffi’s car drew up. ‘Hey, amigo!’ he hollered from the window, music blaring from the stereo. ‘Time to go kick some Red Knight ass!’
Glory lost track of time in that bright, empty room. She had no idea how long she’d been waiting before Rose came through the door and abruptly removed the bridle.
‘So it’s good cop, bad cop,’ she said. The bridle had a tongue-prong to prevent speech, and her mouth was sore. ‘Why bother? You know I ain’t got nothing to say. I’ve been stitched up good and proper.’
Rose was muttering to herself; shaking her head, pacing the floor.
Glory watched her disgustedly. ‘You was right to say your mum was a nutter. But you’re a different kind of crazy. Endor got to you in Wildings, didn’t they? Made you into a proper little fanatic –’
‘SHUT UP,’ Rose shouted, and put her hands round her ears. ‘I can’t even think. For God’s sake –’ Then she slumped down on the chair. ‘I’m just . . . so . . . tired,’ she said emptily.
Glory eyed the door. There would be soldiers outside it, but if she jumped Rose now, and if the girl was carrying a weapon, then maybe –
‘I’m going to help you,’ Rose announced. ‘I have to . . . I can’t stand this any more.’ She got to her feet again, resumed her quivery pacing. ‘I’ll try . . . try to show you the way. The odds, though . . . it’s bad . . . Dangerous.’ Her head twitched. ‘Should you – could you – risk it?’
Glory felt that if she made any sudden movement, or said the wrong thing, then the chance would be gone. She nodded, very slowly, forcing herself to be calm.
‘I ain’t got nothing to lose.’
Raffi and Lucas aimed to get to the hacienda by early evening, as the light was fading. Every minute of delay was another minute where Glory was at the mercy of Gideon, but Lucas had to be practical. Staging a break-in in broad daylight was not an option.
They drove out of the city, past the shanty towns with children selling fruit on the side of the road, and into a grassy open landscape. As the miles slipped by, the scrubby bushes and small twisted trees began to grow denser and taller.
Finally, they came to a sprawl of evergreen forest not far from the hacienda. Raffi parked deep within the trees. If the car was found and he was questioned, he’d say he’d got lost and was waiting for a friend to come and collect him. Lucas hoped Raffi’s identity would be protection enough. Even the militia couldn’t afford to have the Chief of Police on the warpath.
For his own safety, he was wearing a personal alarm. If he got into trouble, he could send a signal to Raffi’s monitoring device. Raffi would then call for back-up. He would be scrying on Lucas too; although they knew that much of the house would be iron-proofed.
I can still fix this. I will find her and save her and make things right.
He knew very well that the odds were against him. All he had was the white-hot certainty that he would do whatever it took.
The hacienda’s grounds were enclosed by a high wall, whose top was lined with decorative yet vicious iron barbs. In the gathering darkness, Lucas prowled the perimeter, looking for an access point. He found one to the east of the property, where a tree’s lower bough, thick and solid, overhung the top of the wall. He sky-leaped on to it, and then down into the greenish-black gloom. The ground was swampy, the undergrowth matted with brambles.
Trying to be as quiet as possible, he struggled through the thicket until the main property was in view. A weed-green drive wound round to the hous
e, whose vaulted arcades and mottled mustard-coloured walls might have been romantic in other circumstances. All the windows were shuttered, and the doors hung with rust-spotted iron bells. The paved terrace was patrolled by militiamen.
A good place for someone to disappear, thought Lucas, lowering his binoculars.
At least it didn’t have the defences of a purpose-built prison. The caretaker had said that only the ground and first floor were in use. Lucas also knew which entrance to target: a service yard at the back of the house, where an outside set of stairs led to the former servants’ quarters. Shrinking back into the cover of the thicket, he began to work his way round. A guard was stationed in the doorway to the enclosure, but he had expected that. It helped that the man looked distracted and fidgety, his thoughts elsewhere.
Crouched behind a mass of rubbery ferns, Lucas took out one of the two coins he had been holding in his mouth and flicked it towards the soft mud by the guard’s feet. The coin had been cleaned and polished to a bright silver. The shine drew the guard’s eye and then, irresistibly, he was drawn to pick it up. Gotcha, thought Lucas. He took the other coin out of his mouth, slick with spit, and began to flip it from finger to finger. The tingle of fae sparked from his fingertips, turning both coins’ gleam to a dazzle, a fleck of light that danced in the guard’s eyes. The man stared at the silver in his hands, entranced.
When Lucas judged the guard’s face to have sufficiently slackened, and his eyes sufficiently dulled, he got up from his hiding place and quickly and smoothly moved past the man and through the entryway. The longer he played with the coin, the longer the guard’s trance would last, but he only needed a few minutes. It helped, of course, that he was wearing an elusion. If someone did get a glimpse of him in the dark, chances were that it would be too smeared and uncertain to make an impression.
Lucas ignored the door into the main house. There would be a guard the other side, and in any case, he wanted access to the deserted upper storey. The door at the top of the stairs was locked, but he’d been practising his lock-picking since Wildings. Just over a minute after leaving his hiding place among the ferns, Lucas was in the building. The guard, meanwhile, was blinking and shaking his head. He put the coin in his pocket, conscious of a moment’s inattention; that was all.
