“All present?” Necks craned as they peered up and down the line, then nodded in unison. Ilsa nodded back, just once, and patted Fowler on the arm. “Watch them ’til the police get here, will you?” Before he could protest, she slipped unseen back into the side road where her brother waited.
The rescue mission too, had partnered up.
It had been Ilsa’s idea, in case of chaos: once they found Gedeon and the amulet, they were to find their partner and get back to the Witherward. Captain Fowler had scorned Ilsa’s system and since his partner, Cassia, did not suffer fools, she appeared to have left him behind. As Ilsa looked back over her shoulder to see the first policeman on the scene put the Wraith in irons, she swore to remind him when they next met.
But Ilsa’s partner was dead. It was her and Gedeon now.
On another night, they might have attracted attention as they made their way west and crossed the river; there were certainly enough policemen around, every one of them swarming to the scene they had left in their wake. But a young man too wet with rain for the blood to show, a woman strangely clad in summer attire and shivering and a child who could have been ten years old and sleeping, were the least of the sights in Lambeth that night.
Ilsa was acutely aware at every moment of her brother, and she had the unshakable sense that his thoughts were likewise on her. It made the aching silence between them all the more excruciating. But there was too much to say – some of it she wanted to scream – and she was feeling too much; mournful, confused, bloodied, giddy, horrified with herself, and unbearably cold.
“Where’re your wolves?” she asked in a small voice.
“Back through the portal,” said Gedeon. After a long pause he added: “I hope.”
They reached the fountain in the quadrangle and passed through; the descent, the lurching sensation, the sudden realisation that she was climbing to the surface, then bright daylight and a mild breeze.
“Ilsa!” A blanket was thrown around her shoulders. Cassia’s hands pressed into her arms and warmth spread through the fabric, until Ilsa felt like she was sitting by a roaring fire. “You scared the life out of us… where’s Oren?”
“Dead.” It was Gedeon. He stepped forward and dragged Cassia’s attention like he was one of Fyfe’s explosives going off.
The quadrangle was teeming with shocked, crestfallen faces. Fyfe was cradling one arm but looked otherwise unhurt. Ilsa didn’t have any words of explanation to offer him as she placed the pocket forge in his uninjured hand. He looked at her bleakly, and his mouth formed Oren’s name. Seven of Gedeon’s wolves had made it back, including Scotty and a badly injured woman who was being tended by a healer.
Ilsa’s gaze met Eliot’s as he limped into view from the cloisters. It was only for a second, before Gedeon shifted and leapt at him. Eliot’s face was pained and wary as he crouched and transformed, just in time to catch the full force of Gedeon as they collided with a roar, shattering one of the arches of the cloisters.
Everyone was too stunned to react. Cassia clapped a hand to her mouth. Fyfe let out a wordless shout. The only witness who knew that this wasn’t some petty spat, that Gedeon might just kill Eliot – or be killed trying – was Ilsa.
The cats tumbled into the centre of the quadrangle, oblivious to their friends leaping out of their way. Ilsa dropped to all fours and grew into a great white leopard. She let out a reverberating snarl, but Gedeon and Eliot took no notice, so she saw no choice but to launch herself into the fray.
Her reward was a claw tearing into her shoulder; she didn’t know whose. Eliot reeled back, no doubt recognising her, but it took a firm bite to Gedeon’s neck to get him to back off. She transformed the second there was space between them, and threw up her hands. Eliot had already shifted, having been ready to end the fight before it begun. Gedeon transformed, looking startled.
“What are you doing?” he said in alarm, eyes drifting to the cut trailing down her shoulder. Her bullet wound had reopened too.
“You can’t just kill him,” Ilsa said, her breath ragged. Eliot was somewhere behind her. She didn’t turn around. She couldn’t look at him.
“Ilsa?” Cassia said. Her eyes darted between the three of them. “Gedeon?”
“Eliot’s a spy,” Ilsa said, loud enough so everyone could hear. “He told the rebels when to attack.”
Cassia’s fingers stilled. Fyfe lowered himself onto the lip of the fountain. His look of abject disbelief made Ilsa flinch.
“He’s a traitor to Camden,” Gedeon growled. “Put him in chains and bring him back to the Zoo. I think my cousin deserves to hear what he has to say for himself.”
An abbey guard fetched some manacles. Mutely, and reluctantly, the wolves took him prisoner. Eliot didn’t resist. He was a faster shifter than any of them; he could have burst from the abbey and been gone. But where? He had told Ilsa that serving Camden had been his whole life. So instead, he offered his hands to be shackled.
Ilsa had once read an article in the newspaper by a Metropolitan Police detective. Something she had been surprised to learn was how many suspects are glad to confess. They want to be caught and cornered. When there is nowhere left to hide, their honesty can finally win out over their self-preservation, and the burden of secrecy is lifted. The weight of running is just too tremendous.
Watching Eliot being led back to the Zoo, Ilsa could have sworn that the mercurial, tormented young man she had come to know was fading. Eliot looked more at peace than she had ever seen him.
* * *
“Why?” said Gedeon.
He was sprawled in an armchair
