Rebellion

Seeing that Kim had stopped, Forfax snapped his fingers again and she hurried forward, carrying the tray as steadily as she could; picking her way between pigeon droppings and what looked like puddles of oil, seeping from the crates dotted around the floor.

There was another man standing beside Forfax, his arms folded in front of him: he was dressed entirely in black, nowhere near as expensively as Forfax in his tuxedo, but there was something very deliberate about the way he was dressed, with the sleeves of his coat bunched up about his elbows, leaving his forearms bare and a bright white band visible around the skin of his wrist. At first, she thought it odd that anyone would be wearing a coat like that so late in the spring, but as the gap between them narrowed, she felt the chill in the air around her and saw her breath misting in front of her.

The man in the black coat was watching her. He said nothing, his face all but expressionless as she drew closer. And then suddenly, he leaned forward to speak to someone in one of the chairs. From her position she couldn’t see them; the back of the chair was too high. The man in the black coat’s eyes flicked back up to her, and he nodded once, then straightened. Forfax simply pointed to the table.

She set the tray down and every fibre of her being told her not to look at the occupant of the chair. So she didn’t. She lined up the three glasses, side by side, and opened the bottle with trembling hands, pouring the contents as carefully as she could. She could feel their eyes on her the whole time: all of them. Forfax nodded towards the chair, and she glanced up to see a hand extended towards her. She stared at it. It stayed there. Waiting. Around the wrist there was the same white band that she had seen on the man with the coat. It reminded her of something... horses, perhaps. Her uncle had bred horses, years ago. He had marked them, hadn’t he? With a brand.

Forfax sighed loudly and snapped his fingers again, and Kim realised that she was supposed to be putting a glass into the hand. So she did. Her own hand shook so violently that she almost spilled the drink, but she took a deep breath and steadied her grip, passing the glass safely to the occupant of the chair.

The hand’s fingers curled around the glass, removing it from her grasp. And as they did, she was startled to see the surface of the glass frost over, feathers of ice creeping out from beneath each of the fingers.

“Thank you,” said a silky voice from the chair; one which was used to being obeyed. “That will be all.”

This was not directed at her, she realised, but at the man with the coat, who nodded to Forfax.

Forfax, in turn, handed the other man his cane before beckoning her to come closer. She backed away from the table and the chairs and the odd lamp and the voice, and turned towards her employer, who was impatiently tapping his cane against the side of his foot.

“Is there anything else?” Kim asked, hoping more and more that she could get out of the warehouse and back to the relative comfort of the bar.

That’s if she could find her way back...

Forfax looked her up and down.

“I have no further need of you,” he muttered, and before she had completely registered what he said, he had clamped his hand down on her shoulder and was pulling her alongside him. She lost her balance, but it didn’t seem to matter: he wound his hand into her hair and pulled. The pain brought tears to her eyes and she threw her hands up to grab hold of his wrist. The man in the coat smirked as she was dragged kicking past him, past the chair, whose occupant leaned forward and smiled at her with bright red eyes that glowed... dragged screaming and uncomprehending across the floor.

She was still trying to process the face of the man in the chair with the eyes like hot coals, but then she was falling. Falling, and landing hard. The world went bright white, then red, then grey... slowly fading out.

LUCIFER DRAINED HIS glass as Forfax settled in the chair beside him.

“I shouldn’t have to come to you, Forfax.”

“I understand. It won’t happen again.”

“When I ask you to keep me updated, remember, I’m not asking.” He held out his hand for another drink, and Rimmon refilled his glass. Apparently satisfied, he sat back in the chair. “Make the move. And this time, keep – me – updated,” he said, and turned his attention to the crumpled form of the semi- conscious woman on the floor of the pit below. Something moved in the shadows at the base of the walls.

Something growled.

“Fifty says she doesn’t last five minutes,” he said, holding a folded note out to Forfax.

And as the growling grew louder, he smiled.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN Sub Rosa

“FRANCE?” ALICE WAS well aware that her voice sounded an octave higher than usual. She thought it was pretty justified, given the circumstances.

“France,” said Mallory, tapping his finger on the map.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

He very much didn’t. Not even slightly. Blowing out a deep breath, she looked from Mallory to the map, and back to Mallory. “But France? Really?”

“Can’t you just picture Michael in a nice little beret?”

“Stop it.”

“Sorry.” Mallory was still tapping his finger on the map, slightly absentmindedly. Alice kept on staring at it.

When they had said Michael had a fortress, she believed them. When they had said it wasn’t exactly discreet, she had raised an eyebrow. When they had said that actually, Michael was hiding in plain sight of several million people who passed by each year, she had laughed.

Until Mallory had finally lost his temper and slapped a crumpled map on the table, jabbing at a spot on the coastline of northern France. “There. Believe me now?”

He was pointing at Mont Saint-Michel.

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Not ridiculous. Clever.” He squinted at the map some more. “It’s Michael all over.”

“So, what, he’s just hanging out there? Getting photos with the tourists?”

“Not exactly. Well. The photos part, maybe. You know what he’s like...” The twinkle in Mallory’s eyes suggested he might not be entirely serious.

It was just as well: Alice had had about as much serious as she could take. Castor had left Pollux in charge of Xaphan and Florence and had taken up a sentry post by the door, while Vin had sloped back into the sacristy and perched on the narrow cupboard beside the sink, with a face like thunder. He was angry: she could feel it. Angry with himself, angry with Florence. Angry with just about everybody. But there was more than anger there: there was guilt, too. So much of it. She was about to go over to him, but Mallory’s eyes grew serious again and he shook his head.

“Leave him.”

“Why?”

“Because he needs time.”

“Is he alright?”

“No. But he will be. He’s been through worse. He just needs to get his head straight.”

“He looks...”

“He looks like he’s trying to work out what he did wrong. And rightly so.”

“What?”

“You know how this works, Alice. It’s Vin’s choices which have put him – us – here.”

“And it’s my choice not to leave him to deal with this alone.”