by A. L. Knorr
The line was quiet briefly, but when Daria spoke, I could hear a smile in her voice. “You’ll survive this Ibby,” she said softly. “That at least, I know.”
The line went dead. I lowered the phone, breaking it apart in my hands, molars clenched.
“Ibby,” Uncle Iry said warningly, taking a step closer before I did anything rash. It was a good thing he did as well because I was trying to decide whether to pitch the phone bits into a storm drain or smash it beneath my feet. I took a long, steadying breath. With an immense effort of will, I handed the phone pieces to my uncle, who took them without comment.
“Don’t put the phone back together,” I warned. “Not unless you really need it.”
“Okay.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Our car is here.”
I hadn’t noticed the purr of a finely tuned engine sliding up to the curb. A sleek, sexy Maserati, glistening black, awaited us. I’d never been much of a car person, partly because a car was a luxury I couldn’t afford, and partly because I’d never driven a day in my life, a true Londoner. Jackie had learned how to drive, and I could only imagine she was enjoying her new ride. I suspected that she’d missed riding in expensive cars since she gave up fast boys and wild parties.
The rear door opened, and Sark stepped out, his arm resting on the open door. He’d spruced up with a sport coat and an expensive-looking watch. Classic new money hipster: someone who had money but didn’t quite know how to spend it.
“You blokes ready to rock’n’roll,” Sark asked throwing a heavy dose of pure Jagger mockney into his speech.
“This is a very nice car,” Uncle Iry said stepping to the boot with his bag. “Very nice.”
I gave Sark a wry look, noticing his outthrust hip and the way his hands dangled from his wrists.
“How did you swing this, Mick?” I stepped towards the car.
“Connections luv,” he crooned as he stepped aside to let me slide in. “Af’er all, when you’re goin’ on a suicide mission, you can always afford to do it in style, babe.”
Chapter Fourteen
Pierre Gwaffu had purchased and refurbished Castle Bromwich Hall, just outside of Birmingham, and tonight was the grand open house. After dropping off Iry at the hideaway, Sark, still sticking to his florid accent, explained that Gwaffu claimed to be an Algerian of a-Mazigh, Berber descent, who’d come to the UK years ago. He posed as an art aficionado in blue-blood circles, and as an art smuggler in less high-browed, but equally wealthy, company.
“Of course, all that is a front too.” Sark shrugged as he slouched against the window. “He’s a fixer for Winterthür, arranging dirty deeds wherever and whenever they need ’em.”
The countryside rolled by, the russet hills glimmering in the dying light. I’d only been outside of London proper a handful of times, and it always amazed me how verdant and rural the land was, even a few miles from the city limits.
“... but the real thing is that Gwaffu is about as human as Daria.”
I sat up. “What?”
Sark’s expression was grave. “Whatever ungodly thing Daria is, Pierre is something like her.”
Pressure behind my eyes was building; I had to fight the urge to knead my temples.
“Like I said, I’m no demonologist, and he’s never, you know, let it all out around me, but I’ve seen the eye thing and heard stories.”
I knew what he was talking about. I’d seen Daria’s eyes reflect light, along with taking on a cruel, bright light of their own when she was losing her temper.
“What stories?” I said through my teeth.
“Spooky stuff, boogeyman stories.” Sark lolled his head to look out the window. “He walked into an IRA ambush, and not a minute later, there are seven dead Irishmen. Brokering a deal with some Azawad general and reps from Ansar Dine, and being able to cow both men with a look.”
The fact that Gwaffu was inhuman wasn’t enough; he had to be scary enough that terrorist groups had stories about him. And here we were, one burnt-out operative and three civilians. Admittedly, I was an Inconquo, but the idea was for this to be a covert operation not a supernatural slug out. My chest felt tight. I looked out the window trying to control my breathing.
I jumped when Sark touched my hand.
“Ibby,” he said in a tender, warm voice I’d never heard him use. “You are ready for this. You are going to be great.”
My gaze bounced from our interlocked hands to his soulful expression, eyes sparkling behind his glasses. The care and encouragement implicit was a surprise and felt good. The tension in my nerves and the bands around my chest began to relax until the Maserati’s speed climbed, and I saw Jackie’s narrowed eyes in the rear-view mirror.
“Please,” I pulled my hand away, “don’t touch me like that again.”
Sark sat back nodding. “Sorry.” He turned to look out his window.
We didn’t speak the rest of the way to Bromwich Hall.
---
“Easy, easy,” Sark cooed, his hands raised, palms out as the security guard shoved him up against a wall.
When we’d first arrived, we’d been ushered through the manor front doors by two huge silverbacks in suits. A few steps in, we’d been asked to step into a side room for a quick security inspection by a blonde woman in severe but not unflattering pantsuit. Sark had winked, implying this was routine, but two men in black suits had moved from behind the cover of the open door. One had checked Sark into a wall, while the other had taken me by the arm.
“No worries, dear.” Sark grunted as the rough handed brute flipped him around so his face was against the wall. “They just care about our safety.”
I took the hint, and the copper strands I’d worked into the dress returned to their hiding places. I let myself be led and did my best to gracefully take my seat as the goon shoved me into a chair.
“Stay,” he snarled, in a thick accent.
I stared up defiantly, chin thrust forward.
“All par for the course,” Sark called, though his voice was somewhat muffled with his face mashed against the wallpaper.
“Not quite,” the blonde said as she moved to stand behind the man pinning Sark.
“Pierre … gave permission,” Sark gasped. “We had … invitation.”
I began to wonder if he was about to pass out, so laboured was his breathing, but I did my best to stay calm. Once I revealed my power, there was no going back.
“That invitation had special conditions,” the woman said, crossing her arms and giving Sark a look. “Your admittance was predicated on a certain item that would square your debt with Mr Gwaffu.”
Sark pushed hard enough to knock the brute back a step, whirling around. “Debt!” Sark growled breathlessly. “What about Barcelona!?”
Sark earned a shot to his stomach hard enough to make me wince. He sagged back against the wall, sucking in breath. The thug looked ready to beat Sark into pulp, but a word from the woman held him back.
“Not yet,” she said with utter authority. “Do you have the item promised or not?”
Sark glared at her, eyes venomous with hate, but after a long heartbeat, his gaze shifted to me. I met his stare, tension coiling through me. He’d said the plan was to give the necklace to Pierre. What kept these thugs from taking the necklace, then disposing of us before scuttling back to their boss? Would Sark, sensing that, order the attack?
Sark met my eye, his face flushed and sweaty, and I was sure he was about to spring into action. Instead, one eye winked, so quick I nearly missed it, as he seemed to deflate.
“Give them the package, luv,” Sark said with a sigh. “Seems there’s no trust amongst old friends.”
I stared at him, my mind racing, before I opened my purse.
“Slowly,” growled the guard with the thick accent. One hand was inside his jacket, and the look in his frozen chlorine eyes told me exactly what he would do if he had to finish the motion. I was surprised that I had assessed the metal armament––handguns in both guards’ shoulde
r rigs and a small pistol holstered in the woman’s waistband at the small of her back––without conscious thought. Apparently, Mr Gwaffu took security very seriously.
“Okay.” I held up my free hand, palm out like Sark had, balancing the purse on my knees. “Everyone just calm down.”
I pulled the folded manila envelope that held the necklace from my purse. Before I could extend my arm, the thug snatched it and passed it to the woman.
Giving me a critical once over, the uppity bint inspected the envelope. Satisfied, she delicately opened the top, looked inside, then using a pen from her jacket pocket drew out the necklace. She looked it over slowly.
“Everything’s in order then?” Sark asked.
The blonde gave him a withering look, then handed the envelope to my guard and used a phone to snap a few pictures of the necklace.
“We’ll see,” she said cooly, sliding the necklace back into the proffered envelope. “If visual confirmation is a go, I’ll take the piece for secondary verification, after which Mr Gwaffu will meet you. Assuming that you behave yourself.”
Sark put a hand to his chest and looked affronted. “I’m an impeccable guest, darling,” he drawled, his smile as glowing as it was insincere. “You ought to know that, of anybody here. You hated to see me go last time.”
The two brutes stiffened, both making pointed attempts not to look at the woman.
“Not quite how I remember it,” she remarked dryly as her phone gave a soft ping and she tapped the screen. “You may join the party now, but stay on the ground level or gardens. The upper floors are by invitation only, and it would be embarrassing if security had to … escort you out.”
The guard who’d punched Sark rolled his wide shoulders and clenched his hands into fists to make the point.
“Oh, absolutely,” Sark drawled, pushing off the wall to saunter towards me, crooking an elbow. “Come on, lovely, let’s get that beautiful arse over to the dancefloor. You do have a dancefloor?”
None of the security team seemed inclined to answer as I stood and slid my hand into the offered elbow. A guard moved to the door and drew it open for us, his expression frighteningly blank.
“Appreciated, chap.” Sark grinned as we slid through the door and out into Castle Bromwich Hall.
---
“Wha—”
Sark gave a sharp shake of his head and guided me past the open hall to the back veranda where a bar had been set up. The veranda overlooked broad, tiered paths winding into magnificent gardens festooned with lights. Sark hailed two drinks from the bar and downed them both, ignoring my stare, then called for two more. He handed one to me and motioned to head for the garden paths. Stern faced and strongly built men in dark suits stood at intervals along the paths.
“What the hell was all that about?” I demanded once we were standing under a latticework. The last blue hyssop blooms of the season dangled over our heads. Sark’s smile appeared sickly in the emerald light from the fairy-lights in the shrubbery.
“All a bit of foreplay darling.” He raised a hand to tap his ear with a finger. He made a little circle in the air before he turned the gesture into an effort to smooth out his hair. His gaze willed me to grasp his meaning. People might be listening. I nodded, and we moved down the garden path.
“It was just Pierre’s people being a bit dramatic and theatrical really,” he continued with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Once he verifies that piece you furnished, we should be in business.”
We passed a table where a small man in a server’s outfit stood shivering. I felt for him, thankful for my coat. The evening air was chill enough to keep most of the partygoers inside.
“C-can I take those for you?” The server gestured at the drinks in our hands.
Mine was untouched, but Sark’s was down to the dregs.
“Cheers, mate.” Sark took my drink and downed it in one gulp before handing both glasses over.
The server nearly bolted in his haste to get even a brief respite from the cold, but he paused long enough to ask: “Will you be needing another?”
Sark shook his head, waving the man on.
“He needed a warm-up,” Sark slurred at one of the guards standing by the table. “Too bad I can’t fink o’ somefink to get you two inside to do the same, eh?”
The guards shared a not-so-subtle look of disgust, and the one Sark addressed looked to Sark with icy calm.
“Carry on, sir,” he prompted with a curt, dismissive nod.
Sark threw up a wild imitation of a salute, then broke into a fit of giggles before dragging me down another garden path.
We were a dozen steps away from them before I dared to speak, my voice hushed and urgent.
“Now I really don’t understand,” I hissed, nearly in his ear. “Please don’t tell me you’re drunk, and if you’re not, what are you doing acting like you are? Do you want to get us thrown out?”
“No, I’m not drunk, and isn’t it obvious,” he muttered back as we slowed our pace to a crawl. I doubted anyone walking the paths or looking from the veranda could even see us in the arboreal tunnel created by the canopy of interlinked tree branches.
“Well, obviously it’s not.” I pulled my arm free.
Sark made a frustrated noise in his throat and adjusted his glasses.
“If I get blotto after being roughed up by Pierre’s goons, it sends the signal that I am desperate, vulnerable, and unstable. I want Pierre to think that so he’ll approach me confident he can squeeze every last inch of leverage. His overconfidence will be our opportunity.”
Sark had started to edge out of the canopy’s shadow, one hand reaching back towards me.
“But,” I began even as I took his hand to continue our ruse. “You are desperate, vulnerable, and unstable. So, he will have the upper hand.”
Sark let out an exaggerated laugh as he staggered towards the next lighted section of the path. Apparently, he wanted anyone waiting around the bend to know exactly how “drunk” he was.
“He doesn’t un’er-un’erstand, he can’t, so ztop worryin’.”
“If you say so,” I muttered noncommittally as I struggled to match his uneven steps, arms interlocked.
Sark’s instinct proved right because three strides clear of the arbor the blonde woman from earlier stood in the path flanked by her two goons. Sark lurched to a halt, and I was nearly thrown off-balance. The dress and heels might be sexy, but I couldn’t exactly move like a ballet dancer in stilettos.
“What’d’you want?” Sark snarled, and then looked at his hand in shock. “And where’z my drink? Thiz party zuckz.”
“I see you’ve been enjoying yourself.” She raised an eyebrow.
“If that’s what you call it,” I replied coolly, giving Sark one of those ‘I can’t believe you’ looks.
“Well, before you have too much fun, Mr Gwaffu would like to see you.”
Sark clapped his hands in the loudest and most obnoxious way, missing only once in his drunken pantomime.
“’Bout bloody time.” He pointed a finger at an open hand. “I jus’ hope for yer zake you find a drink to put in thiz hand by the time we make it there.”
“Follow me, please.” She set off without looking back.
The goons stepped aside to let us follow, the one who’d manhandled me leering with a satisfied smirk on his face. It was a good thing Sark was so hard to handle as he played the lush, or I might’ve given serious consideration to have the man’s zipper do a little trimming.
We followed the blonde onto the veranda and then to a small door set in the western corner of the house. It swung open automatically when she swiped a keycard.
She led the way up an immaculately kept staircase to the third floor. Sark followed, lurching and swaying, then me, and then the guards.
“That’z the problem with theze ol’ places,” Sark panted loudly. “Too many damn stairs.”
“Please,” she said with a sweep of her hand after she brandished her keycard to open the door at th
e top of the stairs.
“I haven’t f-fergot about dat drink.” Sark wobbled a finger at her as he passed her.
She plastered on a glassy smile that didn’t even last long enough to greet me as I shuffled by her. Instead, I was met by a pair of cold blue eyes that communicated neither humanity or consideration. Chillingly, I realized I was nothing more than baggage to her, transported, or disposed of at a word. More frightening, she wanted me to see it.
Struggling to shake off the fear nipping at my mind, I stepped into a sitting room worked in shades of ivory and gold. The furnishing was sparse, a coffee table with chairs and a loveseat arranged around it. The necklace sat on the pale marble surface of the table.
In a chair next to the only window was a slim man dressed in black. The man’s attire seemed a splash of ink reclining on the low chair.
“Pierre.” Sark leaned against the loveseat across from the man. “It’z … it’s been a bit.”
The last words came out slowly, as though Sark were being very careful to enunciate his words clearly.
“It has, Eli,” Pierre Gwaffu said, a brilliantly white smile lighting his deeply tanned face. “But, I confess myself ... already disappointed.”
He had a hint of a French accent, but it was only a soft and subtle curling of the words.
Sark stiffened, fingers pressing into the plush fabric of the loveseat. “What?”
“Please, both of you have a seat.”
I looked to Sark. For a moment, he stood there, back rigid and then with a forced chuckle he moved around to sit on the loveseat. Feeling the prickling tension like electricity in the air, I gingerly walked to sit beside him. The background chorus of metals was reassuring – they were there if things turned ugly – but knowing he was an edimmu, like Daria, made me hesitant. Would he sense my probing will on the environment?
I’d bide my time.
“Why are you disappointed, Pierre?” Sark was painfully precise with his words, an attempt not to appear so obviously drunk.
“Because even though it has been a long time,” Gwaffu sighed and leaned forward to scoop up the necklace. “I’d hoped that you, of all people, would know how I would feel about you bringing me a fake.”
