“I’m looking forward to getting a little more time to look at that in my workshop,” he said watching the guard leave with a jolly chuckle. “Well, I best get back to the Stewart twins. They get bored so easily, and then they get vicious.”
He gave me a wry smile and turned to rejoin his female companions standing over near the wall. He took two steps toward them before he turned back to me.
“Come join me here in the library to study any time you like, Wedd,” Gladstone said, “but in the case of the real import of your scars, my dear, I suspect you’ll best learn the implications by experiencing them.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Resurrection
June 22, 2012
I was exhausted by the time I was able to return to my flat and overwhelmed with all the things that had happened in the last 24 hours, even though it was only mid-afternoon. The streets were swarming with people—all the new recruits come to Ealdwic, I suspected—and I kept my head down as I trudged home.
Gladstone’s vague ruminations on the meaning of the scars on my hands left me feeling more unhinged than ever. Back on Solomon Island, things were very cut and dried. It had seemed to me a month ago that by leaving the island, I could leave the things of the island behind.
My hip twinged suddenly where it had been scored with the Illuminati fist weapon as I walked down Antiqua Way past the entrance to the Lostbrooke Close tunnel. It was fully healed thanks to the triage efforts by the clean-up team down in the Mithraeum, but the memory of receiving it hadn’t yet faded.
That seemed like a good metaphor for my pondering as I headed home. I was learning that there was no casting off of experiences. I might be effectively immortal now but, for good or otherwise, I carried the scars of my adventures—mental, emotional, and sometimes physical—with me.
I dodged a crowd gathered in front of the Ealdwic Station and headed up May Queen Market, through the blue door and up the flights of stairs to my third-floor flat, tromping my feet in lassitude.
The rusted old key squawked in the lock as I turned it and opened my front door. I latched it behind me, walked over to my futon, and plopped down in a heap, kicking off my black pumps. My feet sang with relief, and I pulled my right foot up into my lap to rub my toes.
I was dirty and tired from the day. Pulling off my business attire, I jumped in the shower to clean up then threw on some comfortable clothes.
So much had happened that I’d barely had a chance to contemplate the implications of the Secret War and celebrate our victory before I found myself dragged before the panel, then embroiled in the mission to protect the gladius. I felt like I needed to think it all through to catalog the information, but I didn’t even know where to start.
Dear Gaia. My mother was missing.
I felt the sharp burn of adrenaline as this information clicked home, and I stifled a shriek of horror and shame that I was just now tracking to this information I’d gotten hours ago. I started to hyperventilate a little as I imagined dozens of terrible scenarios that she could be in.
But my fear was too big to stay focused on, and I had many years of practice coping with my mother being out of reach on dangerous missions. She was smart and capable, and she had been doing this for a long time. The more I thought about it, the more confident I was that she would report in soon.
As I calmed down a little, my mind wandered over the other things that had happened. I was excited about the panel’s decision to once again consider me a candidate for initiation, but disturbed by the experience of fighting agents from other factions in real action. Stonehenge was one thing, but to set up mines and turrets with the intent of wounding and maiming them sat very poorly in my gut. I thought about the combat and wondered what had become of the assailants who had experienced anima exhaustion. Were they sitting in a pub now, in New York or Seoul, nursing their loss of the artifact over a beer? I let my eyes lose focus as I imagined them commiserating with their other faction members.
Without asking my permission, my brain immediately served up the image of dark hair and green eyes firing the pistol at me and limping out the archway of the Mithraeum with the other sword.
The muscles of my chest clenched tight. Renee.
I covered my face with my hands.
What was I going to do about Renee? Hadad. Whatever his damn name really was. My heart broke anew as I tried to reconcile the man I’d gotten to know and begun to care for at Innsmouth Academy holding a gun on me. Throwing me down and holding my throat to keep me from breathing. Trying to steal the blade from the Templars.
I shook my head. I still couldn’t believe it. My heart didn’t care that he was a Dragon, while my brain launched into a thousand recriminations about how naive I’d been. I had believed the difference in our factions wouldn’t matter when I became a Templar.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
I felt sick from all the emotional upheaval, and I swallowed bile in the back of my throat as I wandered into my kitchenette to get a glass of water and some aspirin. Turning on the faucet, I filled a glass and gulped it down.
Oh, shit.
I put the empty glass down on the counter, my heart sinking. The Dragon wasn’t the only enemy of the Templars. Someday, I might have to face off against my best friend, Gypcie.
Leaning over the sink, I covered my face with my hands and wept. I couldn’t bear it. This had all been a terrible mistake. I should have never come to London after all.
I stumbled back to the futon, where I laid down and cried until I drifted off to sleep.
Knock, knock.
I looked up groggily. I felt nauseated, woken from my exhausted nap. Who the hell was at my door?
“Who is it?” I growled from where I was laying.
“Wedd, open the door. What are you doing in there?” Sevenoir’s voice drifted into my flat.
“Go away.” I groaned.
“Come on, Wedd,” Zamira said. “Let us in.”
“I’m tired. Please leave me alone.” I rolled over on the futon and put my arms over my head to try to block their voices.
“Dear?”
Now Plimmy?
I grumbled and rolled off the futon and stumbled to the door. I unlatched and threw it open. The three of them stood in my doorway looking vaguely chagrined.
Zamira cleared her throat and braved a start. “We’re here to check on you, yeah? It’s been a lot for you in the last couple of days. We thought you could use a friend or two.” She held up two bottles of St. Swithin’s as a peace offering. Behind her, Plimmy wiggled a bottle of Scotch.
“I haven’t got enough glasses,” I mumbled lamely.
Sevenoir held up four teacups, which he held by the dainty handles. “We’ve got you covered,” he said gruffly. “Let us in. Trust me, you need to debrief about everything that’s happened, and there’s no better way to do that than with a glass of, er, tea. We’ll order in a pizza and have a good cry. This area has a great delivery service, and I’m hungry.”
I choked back a laugh and opened the door wider for them to enter. Plimmy and I sat down on the futon while Sev and Z made themselves as comfortable as they could on the floor. Plimmy cracked the bottle and poured out generous libations of Scotch in the teacups, which Sev handed around. Z wandered into the kitchen looking for a church key in my drawers to open the beer. She returned triumphant with two open bottles and plopped them down on the coffee table. We clinked our teacups, and everyone had a deep sip. Sev pulled out his cell phone and ordered a pizza.
“OK, dear. Start from the beginning and tell us what’s been happening,” Plimmy said as she set her teacup down on the coffee table.
I looked at the three of them, sitting there for the sole purpose of supporting me, their familiar faces in expressions of sincere interest, and something in me that was broken mended. I had been wrong. Moving to London hadn’t been a mistake. In the past week, I had started a new life and made new friends, friends I could count on.
Between the thre
e of them, they listened while I talked about everything that had happened to me in the last week, about my hopes for the future, and my fears for my mother, my sorrows about Hadad and Gypcie.
“I can’t believe you let him get away,” Sev said, shaking his head. “Julia will have your hide for that if she ever finds out.”
“I didn’t let him ‘get away,’” I protested. “He ran away as I was trying to get enough air to breathe. What does it matter anyway? We got the sword.”
“I certainly hope so,” he said. “Based on what you said about the chimera, I’m not so sure. We’ll have to be creative in our mission report.”
“Give it a rest,” Z held her hand up. “I thought our plan here was to cheer Wedd up, not drag her through a hostile debriefing.”
Sev shook his head, ruefully. “You’re right, Z. Wedd, you fought well, all things considered. It was crazy down there.”
“What are you going to do about your young man, Wedd?” Plimmy asked, empathy for me evident in her eyes.
I choked back tears. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t even know what to think about it right now.” I wanted to be angry with Hadad for hurting me, but this past week had shown me that as an agent for a faction, you didn’t get to choose your fights.
Plimmy made a comforting noise, and pulled me into a hug, patting my back. “You’ll work it out, dear. The politics of the secret world make for some strange bedfellows, there’s no doubt. There’s nothing that says you can’t have relationships within the other factions, but you have to remember where your loyalties lie when it comes down to a fight.”
“Yeah, I see Dragon and Illuminati in The Horned God pretty regularly,” Z agreed. “I’m friendly with some. Doesn’t mean I won’t put my boot on their heads when I need to.”
Sevenoir nodded. “I have friends of my own who turn up regularly to the matches wearing the wrong colors. We have good fun fighting to see who’s the best.”
Plimmy watched us all with a sad smile. “I’m glad I’m not a Bee,” she sighed. “The choices you three have to make are so much more difficult because they’re so long-term. I’m not saying it wouldn’t be nice to stay young. Julia and I are getting older—and that brings its own sorrows, to be sure.”
“Surely she’ll retire someday,” Z said.
“That stubborn old bird will never retire,” Plimmy muttered under her breath in response, then added, “Well, that’s a topic for another time. We are here to lighten your load, Wedd, not to dwell on things that can’t be helped or changed.”
There was a brisk knock on the door, and Sev got up to answer it, saying, “That will be the pizza.” When the transaction was completed, he turned back to us, placing the box on the low coffee table. We all dug in, reveling in the taste of the hot, cheesy slices. I was famished, and the pizza was a comforting reminder of home. Plus, I was glad for a little food to help absorb the alcohol that was warming my belly.
While we enjoyed our meal and drinks, Z regaled us with Council of Venice conspiracy theories from Konrad Engel and shared her tales about the various grudge matches of the Secret War. Plimmy told stories about her days as an agent partnered with Dame Julia that had us in stitches as the drinks flowed.
Even Sev got into the act, reciting from memory some of the lesser known works of Thomas Payne. That was some funny stuff if you’d had enough tea.
“The harder the conflict…wait! Hic!” he said, punctuating a story from Z while spilling Scotch and his bunny ears onto the floor. “The harder the conflict…the more glorious the triumph.”
I bent over at the waist laughing inexplicably, my face red, at the sight of the ears next to the puddle on the floor.
“Awww, party foul,” Z said with a pout, holding up the nearly empty bottle. “Quit wasting the liquor, Sev.”
“S’not liquor, it’s Scotch,” he said while Plimmy simultaneously said, “Tea!” and the two of them cracked up.
“Ah, brilliant. And here I thought you were a bit of fluff, Sev.” Zamira said with a smirk.
“Nah. I’m a hopen book,” he added. “Ashk me anything…”
“Did we tip the pizza guy?”
Sev scowled at Z. “Of coursh. That’s a ridiculoush thing to ask.”
We all laughed at his look of affront.
“I got one,” I said, wiping the tears of laughter from my eyes as I sat up.
“What?”
“Why do you wear those damn bunny ears?”
He reached across the floor to try to grab the ears and toppled over. With a huff, he grabbed them, jammed them on his head, and pushed himself back up to a sitting position.
“I have…you might shay,” he said, wobbling side to side, making the bunny ears bounce. “A schlight problem with authority. The earsh fix it. Drivesh Julia mad.”
I laughed harder at that.
Plimmy poured the last of the Scotch in my teacup and stood. “The rest is for you, dear. Come on you lot. We’re pissed, and it’s dark. Time to stumble home and let Wedd get some sleep.”
She patted my cheek and gave me a hug. “Sleep tight. We’ll see you on the morrow.”
They said their goodbyes and shuffled out the door. I latched it behind them, went into my bedroom and crawled under the covers. I was asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.
Rap, rap, rap.
The sound of light knocking flitted into my dream, rousing me. Nope. I was ignoring it. Sevenoir could go hang. I wasn’t getting up again.
Bang, bang, bang.
The knocking got louder. I pried my eyes open and lifted my head. It pounded with a bass thud in time with the continued pounding on my door.
“Are you kidding me?” I cursed under my breath as I kicked the covers back violently. “What do you people have against sleep in this country?”
I stumbled into the front room, still wearing my clothes from the day before. Was it the day before? There was no light coming in my windows, and the streets were quiet.
What kind of inquisition was this now? Not only did the English lack appreciation for a decent night’s sleep, I decided, but the Templar organization as a whole was in collusion against me getting one.
I opened the door and stuck my hand out, startling the knocker.
“Give me the damn letter,” I growled.
The tall, dark-haired Templar guard who had drawn the short straw for this particular visit grinned at me. “No letter. You’re to come with me.”
“What?” I said crossly, pointing to my red eyes and rumpled shirt. “Hungover… Nope, actually, still drunk here. I’m in no condition to go anywhere.”
“Those are my orders, miss.”
I put my hand on top of my head and pressed down to keep it from exploding.
“What time is it?”
“About a quarter after 11.”
“P.M.?” I squeaked, then winced as the headache drove a spike through my brain. No wonder I was so tired. I hadn’t been asleep for more than an hour, two tops. “Do I get to know where or why, at least?”
“Temple Hall. Why is above my pay grade.”
I scowled at him, my hands on my hips. “I’m taking a shower first.”
He nodded with equanimity. “I’ll wait outside the door. Hurry.”
I showered quickly, pressing a cool washrag to my eyes to try to relieve their puffiness, then threw my wet hair back into its neat bun and pulled on a pair of jeans and a clean shirt. I looked at my shoes and decided it was definitely going to be sneakers. If I needed to dress for success, someone needed to give me more than 20 minutes warning. I grabbed my backpack and a hoodie then stepped out into the landing of my apartment building and locked my door, before following the guard down the steps.
We reached Temple Hall just shortly before midnight on Saturday morning, June 23, a little more than a week after I’d arrived in London. Funny, so much had happened in the past couple of days, it felt like more time had passed.
The guard escorted me up the front stairs, where we were met by R
ichard Sonnac. He bowed to Sonnac and turned to me with a wink, mouthing “good luck,” before he headed back down the stairs.
Sonnac motioned me to follow him into the hall proper. I complied, interested to note that he did not head toward the tall doors I was all too familiar with on the southwestern side.
Instead, he strode all the way across the hall to an alcove on the east corner. Two sets of doors were visible there, one set directly to the east with two guards in front, a bald black man and a white woman with a blonde bob. On the left was the other set on the north side of the hall, but there were no guards there.
“Grand Temple will be convened shortly,” Sonnac said, “Remember, your word is your bond. Ready your heart, mind, and soul for what is to come.” Then, he turned and left me gaping at the eastern doors.
This was disconcerting. I wracked my aching brain to figure out what I was in trouble for now.
The blonde guard knocked on the door, and it was opened by a female attendant in a Templar uniform, but one far more ceremonial and ancient looking than I was used to seeing. She was wearing a chapeau with a large white feather and carrying a staff.
The attendant motioned me inside to a small wooden paneled room—much smaller, but no less ornate than was typical to this building—dimly lit with candles in two wall sconces. I could see a second door on the wall across from the entrance. The room was roughly rectangular with a chair and a small couch, and an ornate wooden screen along the back.
“Divest yourself of all your worldly possessions,” she stated, holding a bag out in front of herself. When I didn’t move, she added, dryly. “This is not a symbolic request.”
At last, the coin dropped, and a thrill ran through my body. This was my initiation! A broad grin broke across my face, and I hurried to comply with her request. I removed my backpack, the Templar pendant my mother had given me, and the rest of my jewelry and placed it in the bag the attendant held. When I was done, she handed me a set of clothing and told me to remove my clothes and dress in the garb to prepare myself, pointing to the screen along the north wall, apparently set up for privacy.
London Underground: An Unofficial Legend of The Secret World (Unofficial Legends of The Secret World Book 2) Page 22
