Take flight, p.72
Take Flight, page 72
“It will definitely clear your name,” he said. “Or at least show that you are not the only one with this power.”
“Yeah, good,” said Lyn.
“I stopped it after you, uh, you won. But before everyone came out to help. I am not sure how you will explain, though.”
“Cut it a little more, please,” said Lyn. “Cut out the bit at the end, where I . . .”
Where I kill her.
“If you are certain,” said Jörg cautiously.
“I’ll tell them I cut it myself, that I didn’t want footage of that existing.”
She looked around. Arndt and a couple of the cousins were standing over the body of the blonde, their heads bowed. Arndt said something in German, then turned.
“We have not touched her,” he assured Lyn. “Or her sword. I understand that everything must be left for your colleagues to find. But a small prayer for a cousin . . .” He trailed off and smiled sadly. “It is not the ending we might have hoped for, but it is better than it could have been. I am glad that you won, Lynette.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “It did not look like an easy fight.”
“No,” agreed Lyn.
“We should go now,” said Arndt. “You should summon help.” He crouched down and kissed her on the brow. “I am glad that we could assist you, at least a little.”
“Will I see you again?” she asked weakly.
“There is an e-mail address,” he said, and told it to her. It was very simple, easy to remember but nondescript. “Write when you can, once things have settled down. But there is no hurry. Not for days, not for weeks, not for years if you need the time. We will always be glad to hear from you.”
The rest of the family bade her farewell. There was a general tenderness but a wariness in some, for which she could not blame them. They had just watched her kill a woman; the corpse lay only a few feet away. Jörg crouched down to place the camera case next to her and shake her hand one final time. And then they were all gone, vanished into the rain.
It’s all over, she thought again.
A moment of quiet. The rain had diminished a little, but it still pattered down. The thunder had quieted and the lightning had ceased.
The blonde hadn’t asked her any questions, hadn’t cared about her. She’d dismissed the fact that Lyn was related to her. She’d seen Lyn as a threat, a rival, not a potential ally. She’d only been interested in what her power could get for her. And she’d been willing to kill people to take it.
It would have been nice if we could have worked things out, Lyn thought. But I don’t think I’ll have any nightmares because of this. It was something that had to be done.
“Okay,” Lyn sighed finally. She dug into her coat and pulled out a burner phone that she’d purchased and that Jörg had held on to for her. Let’s see how this works out. She dialed the number for the notifications line of the Office of Qualifications and Examinations Regulation. “Hi, this is Pawn Lynette Binns.” She listened and smiled as she pulled her rings off her fingers, tapped them to release any captured energy, and flipped them away into the grass. “Yes, that’s me . . . yes, the Delouser. Could you please put a call through to the watch office?
“I’m ready to come home.”
28
Bridget sat, bone-tired and filthy, on the kitchen chair. She felt empty.
She had opened the flat’s door to find the Checquy support team taking over the place. Usha was gently led out and down the hallway while a nurse stepped in and vigorously scrubbed Bridget’s hands and forearms clean. She was gentle, though, around the sealed-off wound on Bridget’s arm. The Murcutts had been hustled into the bedroom at gunpoint and the door shut firmly, two armed guards and, perhaps more frightening, one conspicuously unarmed guard looming over them. Wattleman became visible once they’d swathed him in a bathrobe, and they guided him out to a car, no time to say goodbye, leaving nothing but a residue of blood, sweat, and dirt that had seemingly materialized on the chair once he got up from it.
Checquy surgeons had entered the flat—three men in suits who quickly changed into white gowns. A rubber sheet was laid on the table, and Usha was lifted onto it. An injection was given, and her eyes fluttered shut. Her dusty, bloodstained clothes were cut away, with only a few patches of material left where blood and pearl handprints had glued them to her skin. The surgeons consulted with one another. Glass bottles of blood were produced from an insulated chest, and a nurse held them up to drain down a tube into the patient.
Bridget was directed to dissolve the first handprint, the one on the front of her friend’s shoulder, and then told to step out of the way as the surgeons set about their business with their scalpels, their needles and thread, a glowing mouth. And then the second handprint was dissolved, and the wound repaired.
Eventually, Usha lay there cleansed of pearl and dust and blood with neat sutures where she had been shot. The surgeons advised Bridget that her friend would recover, and Usha was wrapped in sheets and carefully carried away on a stretcher by attendants.
Then Bridget had to strip the pearl off her own injured forearm, and a doctor sewed up the ugly jagged wound, dressed it, and shook her bare hand with no hesitation before departing.
“You are to wait here,” said one of the nurses. “The guards will remain with you to keep your guests secured.”
“Thank you,” said Bridget dully.
And so she sat. No one had thought to bring her replacement clothes, so she had washed her hands several times and then her face and tried not to look at the bloodstains on her clothing.
Bridget rested her hands on her stomach and thought about the possibility of a child inside her. It had been only—what? A day? Two?—since she and Gerald had . . . if they had created something together, what would it be right now? Just a whisper of potentiality.
And if she and Gerald had made that potentiality, would it have survived everything she had gone through? The fall through empty space in Wattleman’s arms and the jolting landing onto the street, the fear of running through the bombings, the madness of seeing her friends and comrades killed in the Caïssa, the whiplash of despair and relief from losing Usha to finding her alive, the battle with the Murcutts’ men, the abrupt switches in gravity, the maelstrom of dust from a collapsing (and then exploding) building—would a whisper be able to withstand all that chaos?
I think yes, she decided, but she didn’t know if she hoped it had. She didn’t know if she hoped it existed at all.
“Miss Mangan?” She looked up, startled, to see Rebecca Steward at the door. Lady Carmichael’s chatelaine had a suitcase in her hand and a wary expression on her face.
“Miss Steward, I’m sorry, I didn’t even hear you come in.”
“Lady Carmichael is on her way here from Bufo Hall, but once I saw the state of Pawn Wattleman, it occurred to me that you might appreciate a change of clothes.” She held up the suitcase. “There’s soap, shampoo, a towel, and fresh everything, including shoes.”
“You’re a goddess,” said Bridget gratefully.
“And yet no shrines,” said Miss Steward. “You go get cleaned up and use all the water you want.”
When Bridget emerged in a smart skirt and blouse, Lady Carmichael had arrived and was sitting at the table talking quietly with Miss Steward. She stood and embraced Bridget.
“I’m glad you’re all right,” the Lady said.
“I don’t know if I am,” said Bridget. “You—have they told you about Pamela?”
“Yes.” The Lady’s voice was bleak, but her face was calm.
“Why aren’t I crying?” Bridget asked. “I care about her desperately, she was my dear friend, and she died horribly. When we thought Usha was dead, I wailed and screamed, but Pamela is gone and all I can do is sit here and not cry.”
“Perhaps it’s because we thought Usha had died in a stupid, random disaster caused by a war that kills people who have nothing to do with it but Pamela died as a soldier on a mission. She died fighting an enemy. That makes a difference.” Lady Carmichael sighed. “Or perhaps it’s because we’re all exhausted.” Bridget looked at the Lady and, for the first time, noticed the dark patches under her eyes and her pallor. She looked almost as weary as Pamela had.
“Sit,” said Steward firmly. “Both of you. I’ll make tea.”
“I never send soldiers out into the field without being aware that I might be sending them to their death and that I will be the cause of it,” said Lady Carmichael finally. “I hope they know that they are valued, that I treasure them, and that I never act lightly.”
“They do know that,” said Bridget. “We do.”
“I came to the Checquy later in life. I sometimes wonder if there’s some element I’ve missed, some lesson that everyone else learned as a child and considers obvious, that would make this all seem so much more reasonable,” mused the Lady.
“If there’s a lesson like that, I missed it too,” said Bridget. She wasn’t sure if it was appropriate, but she reached out, laid her hand on the Lady’s, and held it tightly for a moment. Lady Carmichael looked at her and smiled sadly. Then she took a deep breath.
“Meanwhile, we have two criminals locked up in the next room,” the Lady observed. “I suppose we had better deal with that situation. This whole little endeavor has hardly been covert. We’re getting reports of two men bursting through the wall of an upper story of a brothel.” She paused. “One of them is reported to have been naked. The other one landed headfirst on the street, a maneuver that appears, unsurprisingly, to have been messily fatal. The naked one was breathing but unconscious. Meanwhile, gunshots and screams were heard to come from the top floor. The naked man woke up and was, ahem, ‘lost in the crowd.’ And then all the occupants of the building rushed out into the street, many of them scantily dressed or in various states of déshabillé.
“Then the building partially collapsed. And then it exploded.” She looked at Bridget. “There appear to be some gaps in the story. Would you be able to assist me with those?”
“I believe I can, my Lady,” said Bridget, and she recounted everything that had happened since they’d last spoken in Lady Carmichael’s office. There were some strategic modifications and omissions, of course. Rather than recognizing Pamela as the witch who had torn his aircraft out of the sky, the Nazi had, in Bridget’s telling, seized an opportunity to attack intruders.
“I sent you into a much more complicated situation than I anticipated,” the Lady said grimly.
“It was more complicated than any of us anticipated,” said Bridget gently.
“We still don’t know who was providing these Murcutts with the Checquy items?”
“No,” Bridget said. “All I’ve been able to get out of Matilda is that it’s a man who has a house in London and is an opium addict.”
“I suppose it’s something of a lead,” Lady Carmichael said.
“Not much of one,” said Bridget apologetically.
“We must question the Murcutts. But if they refuse to talk or their information is unreliable, we could try to identify the source in the Checquy. However, I still want to keep the theft of our assets off the books if at all possible. Thank God the Murcutts had actual powered minions—that’ll help me justify all this.”
“Tillie Murcutt has indicated that she’s willing to make a deal,” Bridget said.
The Lady pursed her lips thoughtfully for a moment. “Tell me about her.”
Bridget gave her impressions and recounted the life story that Miss Murcutt had shared.
“I see. And the brothers?”
“The elder one, Robert, doesn’t know anything about the events of today. And Tillie said he’s always distanced himself from the supernatural elements of the business. But the brother we have in custody, John—well, he does not appear to be handling things very well,” said Bridget. “Quite aside from the fact that he still has my handprint locked across half his face, he’s become quite brittle after witnessing all the . . . activity.”
“Hmm.”
“I think he would break easily, if, um, that’s the route you want to take.” The Lady regarded her levelly, and Bridget felt herself flushing. She didn’t know if she was suggesting intimidation or torture or what. Everything felt confused now.
“Tillie Murcutt has demonstrated a willingness to be bought, yes?” asked Lady Carmichael.
“Yes. I think it would have worked if that one thug hadn’t tried to be clever.”
“Let’s bring them in,” Lady Carmichael said. “I have some experience in doing business.”
At that, for the first time, Bridget felt a twinge of pity for Tillie Murcutt.
The siblings were brought in, and when Tillie saw Lady Carmichael, she pulled up short in shock. “Oh my God,” she said. “I know who you are. You’re famous.”
“Well, I’m known,” said the Lady placidly.
“You were the little girl in the . . .”
“Yes.”
“And now you own . . .”
“Yes.”
“But really you’re with these . . .”
“Yes.”
Tillie kept staring at her in astonishment.
“Would the two of you like to sit down?” Lady Carmichael said.
The siblings sat, the sister still incredulous but managing to look collected in her admittedly dusty coat with the gown underneath. The brother was hunched over with his coat partially over his head. He chewed at his lips, and his eyes darted back and forth anxiously.
“So, do you own this?” Tillie asked Lady Carmichael. She gestured at Bridget and the guards. “They’re your private magic army?”
“No, I’m just a part of it,” the Lady said.
“Gosh,” said Tillie breathlessly.
“I spoke with my apprentice here.” She gestured to Bridget, and Tillie looked at her wide-eyed. “She’s advised me that you know the name of the man who provided the artifacts.”
“Uh, yes. Yes, I do,” said Tillie.
“Excellent. I want that name.”
“I . . . yes, well, I have a few things I want,” said Tillie, trying to collect her thoughts.
“Indeed,” Lady Carmichael said.
“Of course, your employee will need to remove the, uh, mass from my brother’s face. That is a given, so I’d like to begin with the fact that my place of business has been demolished by your people.”
No mention of the German bomb, I notice, thought Bridget.
“I require the cost of completely reconstructing the building and replacing any and all materials contained within.” Bridget’s jaw dropped. “I also want compensation for all my lost business during the period that reconstruction takes. It’s wartime—builders are at a premium, if you can find any. So I’d say two years’ profits, minimum. I also need compensation for the loss of my people—a year’s salary for each of them.”
“This would be for their families?” asked Lady Carmichael.
“I’m their family. I also expect that no mention of any of my family’s business will reach the ear of law enforcement. Now, all of this is simply to reimburse me for what I have lost as a result of your activities. I view it as your outstanding existing debt.”
“I see,” the Lady said. Bridget was still reeling from the outrageousness of the criminal’s demands.
“This brings us to the question of a certain name that you want and that I possess. Given that you sent four people with magic powers to get this information, you must want it very badly. Your girl here”—and she nodded to Bridget—“named a price that seemed fair at the time. But it doesn’t seem fair now, not when I know who you are and what resources you possess.”
“You’re thinking of my personal, private monies rather than official funds,” warned Lady Carmichael.
Tillie shrugged. “If you want that name badly enough, I know you can afford to throw some cash into the pot.” She quoted a figure that made Bridget blanch. Tillie noticed and smiled.
“I see,” said Lady Carmichael. “And is there anything else?”
“Yes. I want immunity for me and my brothers from punishment for any crimes, magical or otherwise.”
“I’m afraid it’s a little late for that,” said the Lady. “You’ve already been found guilty.”
“What? But isn’t there supposed to be a trial?” asked Tillie, flummoxed.
“Your trial was my apprentice reporting to me,” said Lady Carmichael serenely. “She has described your various crimes, and I have found you guilty, which is well within my authority.”
“Oh.”
“As is exacting immediate punishment.”
“Oh.”
“I know. It’s enough to make one wish for a Star Chamber,” Lady Carmichael said without a hint of sympathy. “The punishments reserved for your crimes are quite horrendous.” At this, Bridget saw John Murcutt’s hands tighten into fists, and she tensed, but nothing happened. “The merest possibility of being spared those punishments should be a sufficiently large incentive for you to offer me complete cooperation.” Tillie opened her mouth, but the Lady pressed on. “But I think I can also offer you some things you don’t even know you want.”
“I . . . yeah?” Tillie looked wary, as well she might. Bridget herself had no idea what Lady Carmichael was talking about.
The Lady looked to Bridget for a moment. “My apprentice here has spoken eloquently on your behalf, and she has assured me that, oddly, my other apprentice, whom your man shot, would also be speaking in your favor if she were not recovering from emergency lifesaving surgery carried out on this very table.” Both Murcutts jerked their hands off the table. “I am offering you a place with our organization.”
“What?” exclaimed Bridget as Tillie reared back in surprise. Lady Carmichael regarded Bridget levelly, and she could feel a fierce blush rising up in her cheeks. “I beg your pardon, my Lady.”
“Granted,” said Lady Carmichael easily. Still, Bridget had an unpleasant suspicion that her outburst would result in a patient, gentle, and entirely excruciating lecture later. “Now, where was I?”
