Burning Yves (Benedicts #2.5)

by Joss Stirling

  Don’t think about Woodrow now, Yves told himself, but he couldn’t help it once the memories crawled out of the woodshed of his brain. His worst moment growing up had come seven years ago with their family dog, Woodrow. The Irish wolfhound had, with his usual sensitivity to when one of his pack was distressed, tracked Yves into the woods that surrounded their house on the mountainside. Yves wished he had never gone but temper had gotten the better of him. He had stormed out there to find a space away from nine-year-old Zed. Mom and Dad had just that day allowed Yves to take part in the family meeting to investigate a savant crime, leaving Zed outside the door. This hadn’t gone down well with the youngest boy so he had made Yves pay by being more annoying than ever. The casualty in their shared bedroom had been Yves’ science project which he had painstakingly worked on, producing a poster and model. The atomic model was in pieces, victim of a wonky baseball pitch, and the poster had a footprint in the middle. Uriel had said he would help fix it while Mom had put Zed on kitchen duty for the rest of the week, but Yves hated Zed right at that moment. Knowing he was in danger of setting his brother’s pants on fire for real, he had slammed the door, stomped off up the mountain and found a clearing to vent his emotions.

  A twig had begun to smoulder. Yves hadn’t stamped it out as he usually would; instead he had let the feelings pour from him. The dry wood of the fallen branch bloomed into flame. It felt good to send everything out of him and into the bark. Soon the blaze had spread and Yves realized he’d gone too far to call back the energy; it was no longer just his being released but all the stored energy packed in the timber. He did his best, clearing a firebreak around his bonfire, but it had been a hot dry summer so far and the sparks were drifting. He vividly remembered swearing and panicking, knowing he would have to confess and ask his dad to call the fire department. As he ran back to the house, he thought he heard a distant barking but he was too intent on reaching home and raising the alarm.

  It was only twenty-four hours later, after teams had managed to contain the fire and let it burn out naturally away from the chalets on the mountainside, that Woodrow limped back to the house. From the burns on his paws and distressed state, it was clear the hound had got cut off and been injured trying to escape the flames. Xav did his best to heal Woodrow but the dog had never been the same after that, dying later that summer with a rather confused look in his tired old eyes. Yves’ guilt had been acute. Distraught to see his canine playmate suffer, Zed had spent months blaming Yves, accusing him of hurting the dog on purpose to pay him back for damaging the model. He had picked fights with Yves and anyone at school who got in his way, the beginning of his bad-boy reputation. It had been a long time before the relationship between the two youngest Benedicts had healed—Yves asked for forgiveness and it had been granted. Zed confessed he had never really thought his brother did it deliberately, but still, Yves had learned a painful lesson about the harm he could do to innocents and to those he loved if he failed to control himself.

  After that he had reined in any sign of temper or even spontaneity, becoming the quietest and most understated of the brothers. He was used to being the last one people noticed and he liked it that way. If he could slip through life without making more hurtful mistakes, then he would count it a success. Aware that the volatile fire-raiser still lived inside him, he just hoped his soulfinder would be a calming balance to his hidden stormy side, someone to pour water on a situation, not chuck oil on his flames.

  Victor stirred. ‘Can I have a sip?’

  Yves passed him the iced water.

  ‘Can’t sleep?’

  ‘Don’t want to risk it.’

  Victor nodded, accepting that. ‘I could put some barricades up in your mind if you like.’

  Yves shook his head. ‘No thanks. It’s only three more hours to go. I’ll be fine. I’ll catch up on my sleep when we get to our hotel.’

  Victor got out his slim laptop. ‘Not a hotel. My contact at Scotland Yard has sorted out an apartment for us in a place called the Barbican. She thought we’d prefer to be able to come and go without too many people watching what we are doing.’

  ‘The Barbican? I think I’ve heard of it—a modern arts complex, isn’t it, built on more or less the site of the old Roman wall?’

  ‘You tell me. I just saw some pictures and thought it looked good—great views across the city. How are you getting on with the data trawl I asked you to run?’

  Yves drew out his iPad. ‘I’ve got the Savant Net database set up with some new searchable functions beyond the conception-date one that most of us seem interested in.’ The list of all known savants had been started so people could find likely matches for their soulfinder, but had run into serious problems. As with many early computer initiatives, it suffered from obsolete software, patchy upgrades and was comprehensively bug ridden. Yves had been giving the whole thing a complete makeover, trying to future proof it for the next generation of digital advances.

  ‘You’ve got protections on that thing, I trust? Our enemies would just love to get their hands on all of our names and addresses.’

  ‘You are talking to a security expert, you know.’

  Victor smiled wryly. ‘I know, but I can’t forget you’re my kid brother, too. I taught you to ride your first bike.’

  ‘Yeah, by persuading me that I still had the stabilizer wheels on when you’d taken them off. I have the scar on my knee to show for your teaching methods.’

  ‘You were way too cautious. It worked, didn’t it?’

  Yves laughed. ‘Yeah, I guess. And yes, big brother, I do have multiple layers of protection on it, not least because this iPad is running a new system. Apple has asked me to road test it for them and my reputation would be toast if I lost it. Now, are you going to tell me what you’re hoping to get from my work?’

  Victor’s grey eyes shuttered. He was one of the most private men Yves knew, which was a feat considering how being part of the Benedict clan was like living in a house with no doors and many windows. Zed and their mom could read minds and glimpse the future; Uriel could tell you the history of your things; Trace could track where you had been by touching you; Will and their dad knew when you were up to something risky. The only one who didn’t intrude was Xav, but even he was gifted with natural powers of empathy that he hid under a wise-cracking demeanour. He could usually make a shrewd guess as to what was really going on inside without a savant power to lever open your secrets. ‘You’re just supposed to have fun at that conference of yours, Yves. I’ll only ask you to help if I really can’t get anyone else.’

  ‘I’m not an idiot, Vick. I know that something big is going down in London or you wouldn’t be here.’

  Victor rubbed his face, trying to summon his usual sharpness, but it was hard to have all your barriers up when sleep deprived and hurtling across the Atlantic in close proximity to a brother who knew you well. ‘There’s a meeting in a couple of days’ time, or at least that’s the buzz. We think some of the savants who have opted to use their powers for criminal purposes are getting together to discuss their mutual business interests.’

  Yves had heard of these people, as Sky and Zed had run foul of one of the criminal families in Las Vegas. If the Savant Net was working for the good of others, this loose alliance was its dark reflection trying to maximize personal profit.

  ‘London would be a good place to make an arrest as they have an extradition agreement with us. Most of these guys avoid coming to the States because they know we’re waiting for them. We’re hoping they’ll make a mistake but so far they’ve played their cards close to their chests and we have only the barest information about them and their dealings. We could really do with some hard data about their activities.’

  ‘You’re going to spy on the meeting?’

  ‘Personally? No. I’m leaving that to Scotland Yard. I’m here to be the American liaison on the operation and help out if my skills are required.’

  ‘You mean if they have a mind-manipulator among them?�
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  ‘I’d say it was a sure bet that there will be more than one. My kind aren’t usually known for their good choices.’

  Yves didn’t like the way Victor branded himself a particular ‘kind’ of savant. It was true those who could influence the thoughts of others were the most feared, but his brother was a decent guy, nothing like the scum he was trying to catch. ‘I’d be happy to help out in any way I can, Vick, particularly on the data angle. Give me a door and I’ll get you in.’

  ‘Thanks, but you concentrate on updating the Savant Net database. You’ll be doing all of us soulfinderless savants a favour if you bring it into the twenty-first century.’

  The flight attendant was back. ‘Hot towel, sir?’ she asked Victor, holding out a white flannel with her tongs.

  ‘Perfect. Thank you.’ Victor rubbed his face and the back of his neck, mustering more of his defences. Yves took the fresh towel she handed to him, knowing that he wasn’t going to get any further details from his brother; but he could be patient. If he paid attention, he would get a better idea of how he could help his brother keep the Savant Net safe and put the bad guys away. Yves had long felt that his family underestimated him, still seeing the gawky little boy when they looked at him, being more protective of him than even his younger brother, Zed. Yves had changed, learned some hard lessons; he was ready to play in the big league, and now he might get a chance to prove it.

  He handed back the used towel, and got a shock when it was to him that the flight attendant slipped her phone number, written on a serviette. She walked away with a coy smile over her shoulder.

  Victor just raised a brow, managing to be mocking and amused all in the same little shift in expression. ‘Looks like you could be very busy in London, Yves.’

  Yves folded up the serviette and tucked it in a pocket. He wasn’t planning to call but he didn’t want to hurt her feelings by throwing it away where she might see. He had a science conference and a bunch of criminals to catch; there was no time for a holiday romance.

  Xav woke up as the plane descended to Heathrow.

  ‘You missed out on all the fun,’ said Victor, putting his laptop away. ‘Little bro here scored while you were asleep.’

  ‘Really?’ Xav stretched. The tallest of the Benedicts, he found plane seats particularly torturous. ‘I suppose some girls go for the nerdy type. Looks aren’t everything.’

  Yves knew he would have to put up with a lot more of this before they let it drop. He was watching the city pass beneath as the flight path followed the Thames. He had never been to England before and his images of it were heavily influenced by the books he had read, mainly Dickens and Orwell. Their depictions had been more powerful in his imagination than the modern novelists, the Ali Smiths and the Ian McEwans, so he was a little surprised to see the shiny skyscrapers and green gem-like parks. London was buffed up to a fine shine.

  ‘Looks good in the sunshine,’ he said, gesturing to the London Eye and Westminster.

  ‘It’s had a facelift for the Olympics,’ said Victor, ‘but London’s improved a lot in the last ten years. I really like it—my second-favourite European city.’

  ‘The first being … ?’

  ‘Prague, though if I were going to live in one of them, I’d pick London. Great cultural life, interesting crimes.’

  That was Victor summed up: a mixture of the highbrow and the darker side of life. Yves envied his brother his widely travelled experience. He felt very parochial, having never spent much time out of the States. A trip to Paris with the school a few years ago was the sum total of his voyaging and there he had hardly made contact with any French people, wandering round in a flock of yellow-T-shirted classmates, shepherded by an anxious teacher. He wondered if the other students at the conference would mock him if he admitted his limited knowledge of other parts of the world.

  They took the Heathrow Express to Paddington then changed on to the rickety Underground to the Barbican. Every fresh sight was like a shot of caffeine to Yves’ tired body, pushing him beyond exhaustion and into an over-bright awareness, with a slight side effect of feeling punch drunk.

  ‘Did you know this was the first ever metro system, built about a hundred and fifty years ago?’ Yves told a yawning Xav as their Tube train pulled into Baker Street.

  ‘No. And do I care right now? No.’ Xav closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the window.

  Yves could tell Victor was listening even if Xav wasn’t, and couldn’t seem to stop himself babbling. ‘They built it by digging down and back-filling rather than tunnelling. Steam trains were the first engines—you can tell by the vents and the size of the stations, giving room for the smoke and steam to escape.’

  ‘That’s cool.’ Victor’s eyes were taking in every detail. ‘Uriel would enjoy being here. You should tell him.’ Uriel would be able to see the trains if he touched the tiled walls. ‘When does this conference kick off?’

  ‘Later this afternoon. I’ll sleep, shower, change then head out for orientation. Then tomorrow I’ve chosen the trip to the Olympic Park to look at the practical implementation of some new materials in the construction and environmental landscaping.’

  ‘And here I was thinking the park was about sport,’ murmured Xav.

  Their apartment was near the top of one of the residential blocks linked by the concrete walkways of the Barbican. Short by New York or Chicago standards, it still gave the impression of soaring height thanks to its slender structure and the relative absence of other skyscrapers. Though it was called the Shakespeare Tower, Yves couldn’t imagine anything less like his idea of the playwright: too many hard edges and lacking in humanity.

  ‘OK, pick a bedroom. I’ve got a few calls to make,’ said Victor.

  Yves took one that looked east towards the Olympic Park and crashed out on the firm mattress. Waking from a deep sleep at three, he bagged first use of the bathroom. Dried off and freshly shaved, he stood looking into his suitcase wondering what he should wear. He picked a plain T-shirt and jeans, then worried that he should put on something more formal. He swapped the jeans for chinos.

  Xav walked in and flopped on the bed. ‘Problem?’

  ‘Do you think I look too, I dunno, geeky like this?’ Yves squinted at the mirror, trying to imagine how others would see him.

  ‘You are a geek, Yves.’

  ‘Thanks, Xav, that’s really helpful. I just want to look OK, you know?’

  ‘Haven’t you heard that geek is the new cool? Blessed are the geeks, for they shall inherit the earth.’

  ‘I’d prefer “intellectual” to “geek”.’ Yves scowled at his round glasses. Perhaps he should get contacts? It was OK for Xav with his natural dress sense and ease with himself. Yves just wasn’t so confident that he would pass inspection.

  ‘Blessed are the intellectuals—nope, doesn’t scan and is way too European a concept for me. If you start wearing one of those black turtleneck sweaters and speaking French, then I’m disowning you.’

  ‘That’s a bit of a 1950s cliché.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it past you if you felt it would attract birds of a feather to flock together. Some girls really dig all that stuff.’

  ‘Just because the flight attendant gave me her number and not you.’

  ‘No accounting for taste.’

  ‘Yeah, some women have it and some go out with you.’

  Xav laughed, enjoying their verbal sparring. ‘You’d better run if you’re going to make the welcome party.’

  Yves grabbed a house key and his wallet. ‘Don’t wait up!’

  The minibus pulled up at the entrance of the Olympic Park, and the ten science-conference students who had signed up for the trip filed out. Yves was the last. Putting on his sunglasses, he stood for a moment taking in the vast stadium with its white superstructure and the red viewing tower a little further off by the railway line. The tower reminded him of the double helix model of DNA, which was apt: the successes that would come in and around the park were partly de
cided by genetic inheritance. Not that even Usain Bolt could do what he did without the hard graft of training and dedication, despite having some ancestor to thank for super long legs. Savants were the same: you could be born with a gift but you needed to hone it to make it effective and safe to use.

  ‘This place is amazing,’ said Ingrid, one of a pair of girls who had made an effort to get friendly with him the night before at the introductory party. He had been grateful to them for taking him under their wing. Neither had acted as though he lacked sophistication or was too geeky to be seen with them, even Ingrid who, like most Swedish people Yves had met, was incredibly well travelled and spoke three foreign languages fluently. He was coming round to the view that maybe people didn’t see him the same way he saw himself, which was a relief.

  ‘Yeah, amazing. But maybe the most remarkable aspect is that it’s being delivered on time.’ He smiled at her. ‘I’ve read somewhere that the paint’s still wet on most Olympic projects when the sportsmen and women arrive. This looks to be well in hand.’

  ‘Good on the Brits for that,’ said Jo, an American student from Georgia. ‘I’d be worried all that same if I were coming to the games. I hear they’ve stationed rocket launchers on nearby skyscrapers to deter terrorist attacks.’

  Yves wondered if his own tower was part of the defence. It would be like Victor to choose a building with a lethal weapon on the top. ‘It would be a bit late to stop catastrophe if they’re firing rockets from here.’

  ‘Good morning, everyone.’ The woman who was to be their guide arrived carrying a rolled umbrella. Yves guessed this was a marker for them to follow rather than in anticipation of rain. London was disappointingly not like its cliché of fog and drizzle, presenting him with a cloudless sky. He, like many of the other students, had opted to wear shorts, sandals and T-shirt. ‘Welcome to Lee Valley. Where you are standing used to be one of the most polluted brown field sites in London; thanks to the Olympic investment, we’ve now turned it into this.’ She swept her hand at the green lawns and warm-up running tracks. ‘If you follow me, I’d like first to show you our wildflower meadow. It’s just coming into its own. We’ll then go on into the stadium itself.’