Reeve of Veils (Inheritance Book 4)

by Amelia Faulkner

  “Yeah. How’s that working out for you?” Wilson barked a short laugh and looked back to Laurence. “We’re just waiting for Mia and Sebastian to return. They’re off wrecking the yacht’s electronics as we speak. Communications, security, fire suppressors, navigation. You know, all those things a yacht tends to need when it has the city’s richest and most powerful politicians on board.”

  “How did you do it? How did you get her to make sure it was just the two of us?”

  “It takes more pawns than one to win a game,” Wilson scoffed. “I chose this event because you’d need Frederick’s help to get into it. You need an invitation, and you don’t have one, but I made sure that one was sent to Quentin. It would have overplayed my hand to have one sent directly to the Viscount here.”

  Laurence swiveled his eyes toward Frederick. “You’re a Viscount?”

  “It’s only a courtesy title,” he drawled.

  “Nobody cares.” Wilson patted his palms against his thighs. “I don’t have to use my power on every word I utter, you see. I can hide commands in plain sight, where people don’t expect to find them. I can bury them beneath layers of conversation, planting them like seeds until they bear fruit further down the line.” He grinned. “Kimberly has no idea that she’s betrayed you. She thinks I’ve specifically told her not to go to you, not to tell you about the gun.”

  “Except you simply didn’t use your gift on the word not,” Frederick murmured. “How infantile.”

  Wilson’s smile transformed into an ugly sneer.

  You entitled fucking asshole. You’re just as bad as Quentin.

  Too bad he’s dead now.

  Frederick highly doubted that. If Father hadn’t managed to kill Icky by now, Wilson wasn’t going to bloody manage it.

  “Laurence, get up.” Wilson barked his order in anger.

  Laurence jerked to his feet. “Kane—”

  “Shut up. Go into the bathroom.” Wilson gestured toward a door. “You know where the gun is. Go fetch it and bring it here, then sit again.”

  To his credit, Laurence resisted as best he could, but he had no training in such matters so it made no difference at all. Frederick picked up on the boy’s desperation as he walked right through to the bathroom and did as he was ordered.

  Frederick chose his words with care, intending to goad Wilson. “Honestly, whatever your intentions, I think you will find Icky far less likely to kill you if we are both alive by morning. Particularly Laurence. I fear he might pop your head off if you harm Laurence in any way.”

  “Quentin,” Wilson rasped, “is dead by now. He won’t give a damn what happens to either of you.”

  Laurence returned with the gun case, and a seething fury burning in his gaze.

  He can’t be dead. He can’t be!

  I will kill you.

  He eyed Laurence, then smirked at Wilson. “I see. Then apparently I’m an Earl now. If you could bump off my father too that would be ideal. That way I shall be a Duke, and you can keep your silly little house by the sea. Call it a gift, if you will.”

  “You think I’m fucking joking here?” Now Wilson’s anger was ramping up, too.

  Frederick laughed. “Well, really. Do you not watch any films at all? Do you honestly believe someone else has taken care of Icky for you when a bloody wildfire didn’t do it?” He rolled his eyes then looked to Laurence. “Would you believe the stupidity of this blithering fool?”

  Laurence stared at him in horror.

  Are you insane? Wait, he’s a d’Arcy. Of course he’s crazy.

  What’re you trying to do, Freddy?

  The door clicked behind him. Since he was supposed to be unable to move without Wilson’s say so, Frederick sat still and waited for the newcomers to approach.

  “Done,” Wagner grunted. “Mia’s just setting the charges. She’ll be done in a few minutes.”

  You asshole. People are gonna die here. Innocent civilians. How the hell’s that gonna help our goal in any way? You really think Lansky’s gonna be the only one who gets hurt tonight? I told you! Civilians don’t know how to react to an explosion. They’ll panic!

  Frederick took in Wagner’s thoughts with interest. The yacht was thoroughly doomed. Wagner and Torres had disabled all the emergency systems and now Torres was placing explosive charges against the hull to make sure the whole thing sank. With Wagner’s military experience, Frederick doubted that they would fail.

  “Finally.” Wilson clapped his hands together. “Laurence, open the case.”

  Laurence’s hands flit to the clasps either side of the handle on the little metal case. He thumbed them until they popped open, and pushed the lid back.

  Frederick eyed the contents of the case. A pistol, suppressor, and some bullets, all neatly stored in black foam.

  “Load it.”

  Laurence pulled the gun out, then turned it in his hands like he’d never handled one in his life.

  Wilson sighed. “Fine. You can speak now. Do you even know how to use a fucking gun?”

  “No,” Laurence growled. “Of course I don’t. I’m a florist!”

  Sebastian leaned over his shoulder and pointed to the magazine release. “Press that,” he said softly. Laurence did so, and the magazine slid into his palm. “Now press each round in, one at a time, facing forward. Don’t rush it.” Sebastian’s instruction was calm and measured.

  “Do it,” Wilson hissed.

  Laurence ground his teeth as he thumbed rounds into the spring-loaded magazine. “Why? Why not just get your people to do this?” He snarled as he pushed the magazine back into the gun. “You want my fingerprints all over it, don’t you?”

  “Very clever. Now, cock the gun, Laurence.”

  Laurence grabbed the top of the gun and snapped it back, and it rocked forward under its own steam with a horrible click.

  “Aim it at Frederick.”

  “No—” Laurence’s arm snapped out to his right, and the gun almost brushed against Frederick’s arm.

  Frederick narrowed his eyes.

  If Wilson so much as intended to give the order to kill Frederick, he would have no option but to step in and take control of the other psychic, and he would much prefer Wilson be hoisted by his own petard. There was more irony to it.

  “Here is what you are going to do, Laurence.” Wilson stood slowly and tucked his shirt into his waistband. “You are going to leave this room in a moment and enter the party, where you will seek Glen Lansky and, with a great deal of showmanship, you are going to shoot him. You are going to scream about the inequality of distribution of wealth. Think of something juicy. You will aim to kill, and if you do not kill on the first try you will continue shooting him until he is dead. Then, and only then, you will turn the gun on yourself. And as with our friend Glen, if you fail to kill yourself on the first try, go again until you get it right.” He raised his chin. “You won’t mention my name. You won’t mention any of us, in fact. Put the suppressor on.”

  “Why?” Laurence spat. He dug the suppressor out of the case and screwed it into the barrel. “Why are you doing any of this?”

  “Because one day,” Wilson answered calmly, “I will run this city. And both you and your beloved are a threat to every psychic in town. Two birds, one stone, all that.”

  “And the charges?” Laurence stared at him. “What’s that? Is that a bomb? Why? With Lansky dead, why do you need that?”

  Wilson smirked. “Because the media loves a good lone terrorist. Think of it.” He spread his hand out in front of himself as though painting a headline. “Mentally unstable young man, poor family, struggling to make ends meet, targets wealthy politicians who fiddle while Rome burns. Assassinates his target in cold blood, sets bomb to take out the rest of the one-percenters after he kills himself. All good mentally ill gunmen shoot themselves. It immediately tells the audience that they’ll never understand your brand of crazy, and they can move on to the next story without giving a shit.” He beckoned Frederick to stand. “Frederick, you’re
with me. Can’t leave the purse-strings laying around, can we?”

  Frederick rose to his feet, moving mechanically so as to maintain the ruse. He looked calmly toward Laurence.

  “Go, Laurence.” Wilson said. “Win an election for me.”

  “By killing the opposition?” Laurence’s feet jerked him toward the door.

  “Hey. Politics is a cutthroat business.” Wilson waved farewell. “Knock ‘em dead.” The door clicked again, and Wilson turned his attention to Frederick. “Tell me, how much did the house cost you?”

  Frederick grit his teeth as though he didn’t want to answer the question. “Eighteen million dollars.”

  “Mm. I bet that’s loose change to you, right?”

  He snorted. “Absolutely.” That too was a lie, of course. Not even Father had unlimited funds.

  “Excellent.” Wilson gestured to Wagner, and the former soldier twisted Frederick’s arm up behind his back.

  Frederick scowled and arched appropriately even as he turned the dial down a notch on Wagner’s response so that he could still move without tearing his own shoulder apart.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Wilson said. “I hear this place is going down.”

  Wagner was every bit as unimpressed with that god-awful pun as Frederick was, but it didn’t stop him propelling Frederick toward the exit.

  All things considered, today was turning out to be immensely entertaining.

  39

  FREDERICK

  Wagner shoved him out through the doors he and Laurence had entered through, and Wilson followed them.

  “Honestly,” Frederick commented idly, “don’t you think eye witnesses will find it at all peculiar that they saw me being strong-armed off the boat moments before it blew up?”

  “Nobody’s going to care.”

  Frederick rolled his eyes as Wagner propelled him alongside the saloon and toward the deck. Hopefully Wilson’s sloppy reliance on his own powers would prove his downfall before too terribly long.

  He heard yelling up ahead, and glanced to the dock in time to see Icky launch himself across what had to be a six foot gap between dockside and swim deck, and Frederick allowed himself to indulge in his resultant sense of satisfaction.

  Dead, my arse.

  Icky disappeared from view as he landed on the swim deck, and security staff began to swarm up the gangplank.

  Frederick drew a deep breath and bellowed for all he was worth. “Icky!”

  The response from Wagner was immediate. He slammed Frederick against the saloon’s outer wall so fast that Frederick barely had time to rein him in, and he felt blood trickle down his nose. Wagner’s arm coiled around his throat in a chokehold.

  It was as good an order to shut up as any, but he would have vastly preferred a verbal command.

  Icky appeared at the far end of the saloon, looking for all the world like he was dead set on murder. His clothing was in one hell of a state, with dried blood encrusted down one arm. If Frederick could get his hands on that shirt, that would solve his biggest remaining problem, but the likelihood of that occurring at this very instant was slim.

  His own irritation mounted.

  Someone had hurt Icky, and it was Wilson’s fault.

  “Get him out of here,” Wilson breathed. “If Quentin comes after you, kill him.”

  “You—” Icky began.

  Wagner began to haul Frederick backwards past Wilson, so Frederick jabbed a finger frantically toward the saloon.

  “What’ll it be,” Wilson spat. “Are you going to save the brother, or the lover?”

  Icky looked past Wilson and made eye contact, so Frederick mouthed go at him. That should be enough to let Icky know that he could take care of himself.

  Wilson tapped his watch. “Tick. Tock.”

  The doors swung inward as Wagner backed into them, but then Frederick heard a scream which cut off abruptly.

  Sounded an awful lot like Wilson.

  Frederick grinned as the doors swung shut. “Where exactly do you think we’re going to go?”

  “Right here is fine,” Wagner growled. His grip eased, but Frederick heard the cocking of a gun and felt the barrel to the back of his head. He reached past Frederick’s face with his other hand.

  Which became wreathed in fire.

  Frederick glanced around the corridor while he idly forced Wagner to put the safety on without the man noticing it. Between the Lalique glass inserts and the distinctive carpet he could make out very little of use to him right this very moment. But with any luck, Icky would arrive shortly and be irked enough to actually attack Wagner. With both Laurence and Frederick endangered, and Icky already injured, surely the pacifism would begin to slip.

  This was as best a situation as Frederick could hope for in that regard, and from the sound of it Icky had already tossed Wilson overboard.

  The milieu of thoughts from the saloon began to shift. There was a disruption which caused alarm and concern, but as yet nobody was in panic, which suggested that Laurence had thus far failed to shoot anyone.

  Then the yelling began, and Icky burst out of the saloon doors. He slid to a halt.

  “Let him go, Sebastian.” Icky spread his hands slowly. “It’s over.”

  “You know none of us have any choice,” Sebastian spat. “I don’t even know whether we’ll be free of him once he’s dead. It runs deep. He’s had us for years!”

  Behind Icky, Torres slipped into the corridor from a stairwell.

  “Icky—” Frederick eyed her in warning.

  Icky span on his heels and shoved Torres back telekinetically, but without any intent to harm.

  Bloody hell, what did it take?

  The fire which surrounded Sebastian’s fist flared, and Frederick found himself yanked forward. It was the strangest thing. Icky hadn’t moved toward him, and the hold which wrapped around him was like a cocoon. He sped toward Icky without taking a single step, and Icky stepped forward to place himself between Frederick and Sebastian.

  Wagner unleashed the flame in a jet which sped toward Icky, who batted it aside as though he were merely swatting a fly.

  “Bloody hell,” Frederick gasped as the cocoon released him. “Go easy, Icky. They’ve wrecked the yacht’s electronics. I think they mean to scuttle it.”

  “Head ashore,” Icky muttered. “Take as many with you as you can.”

  Frederick gave a slight nod and delved into the saloon.

  It was utter chaos in here. One of the windows was utterly shattered, and a couple of tables had been knocked askew to spill their petits fours onto the floor. Dockside security looked lost, and after picking their brains Frederick soon discovered why. They’d just watched Laurence strip his clothes off and dive overboard with a knife in his teeth.

  At least someone here was willing to do what needed, apparently.

  “All right,” Frederick bellowed. “Fire. There’s a fire. The yacht’s on fire, everyone. Leave now or be burned to a crisp.”

  The shouting was purely for show, of course. He pushed out a modicum of calm and got the partygoers to file toward the rear of the saloon.

  “That’s right. Everyone off! Jolly good!”

  There was a dull crump from below. It reverberated through the very deck itself, and the yacht rocked slightly.

  Then it began to list.

  “Told you there was a bloody fire,” he said idly as partygoers began to scream, and the screaming only intensified as gunshots broke out behind him.

  Icky had to defend himself against that sort of nonsense.

  Surely?

  Frederick frowned and glanced back that way while he continued to push people out of the saloon. He felt for Torres and Wagner, and there was certainly no sense from them that they had finished their task, but they had a confidence about them which troubled him, so he dug deeper.

  God damn it, Icky wasn’t bloody fighting, and they knew it.

  “Oh come on,” he muttered. “Pull your bloody finger out, Icky.”

  H
e reached beyond, seeking out the yacht’s crew. A few of them were still below decks, trying to wrestle with the sabotaged emergency systems, so he pushed them into giving up on that task and getting the hell off the yacht.

  Another gunshot. Bright flame flared across the frosted glass of the saloon doors.

  Frederick turned his back on it and shoved through the remaining crowd until he was out on deck. People were useless, and he wasn’t surprised to find them all being just as useless out here as they had been inside.

  On the dock, those who had already escaped were milling around by the gangplank and almost pointedly not making way for other people to reach safety.

  The yacht jolted, and its listing became far more pronounced. The gangplank was jammed full of yelling bodies. Sooner or later this would turn into a crush, so Frederick bounded up stairs to the upper deck to get a better view and enable him to direct the foot traffic more reliably. He orchestrated a slightly safer retreat, forcing the most obstinate of dock loiterers further away from the gangplank to enable more people to get off the bloody thing.

  A streak of flesh caught his eye, and he turned his attention toward it.

  Laurence sprang from the water like a salmon, and snaked his way up a rusty ladder embedded into the dock. A member of staff helped haul him up onto it, and Laurence looked very apologetic.

  But within, he burned with triumph.

  Frederick lifted an eyebrow faintly. Laurence had killed Wilson. He’d relished it, too.

  He watched as Laurence clawed his way along the outer edge of the gangplank then dove off onto a cushioned couch. The man looked like he fully intended to go murder Wagner and Torres next, and he soon disappeared from Frederick’s line of sight as he ran along the outer edge of the deck.

  Frederick stuck with him. It was the best way to know whether Icky had got his act together at last, since he couldn’t get inside Icky’s own head. With half his attention on continuing the evacuation without it looking too orchestrated, the other was free to linger in Laurence’s thoughts.

  He’s dead.

  Goddess, he can’t be dead!

  Frederick blinked. For one absurd moment he thought that Laurence had to be wrong, but the sheer mindless rage which flooded the florist was so violent that it ejected Frederick right out of his mind.