“I never even heard of her before last night,” Shark says. “I knew about the Grady werewolves and the Lambs, but they were never my problem. Still, this won’t be the first time I’ve gone looking for someone. We’ll find her.”
“We could do with some help,” Meera notes. “They have armed troops, as we saw in Carcery Vale.”
“The Disciples?” Shark asks.
“The Disciples,” Meera agrees.
The pair produce mobile phones and start dialling.
The mages aren’t interested in our mission. This is a bad time for humanity. Demons are attempting to cross faster, and in greater numbers, than ever before. The Disciples are rushed off their feet, dashing from one crisis to another. There have been six successful crossings this year and more than a dozen foiled attempts. And those are only the recorded attacks—more probably went unnoticed. Over five hundred people that we know of have died, not including those at the hospital last night. That’s an average decade’s worth of action.
The Disciples that Shark and Meera chat with over the course of the day don’t care about werewolves or the Lambs. They don’t even respond when told that Beranabus is involved. Most times, the mere mention of his name is enough to whip them into action. But not now. We can fight our own battles as far as they’re concerned.
Shark and Meera turn to their other allies when the Disciples fall through. They have a network of contacts—soldiers, politicians, police officers, doctors, etc. They call on them for support when demons cross and create merry hell. The operatives move in to clear up the mess, bury the dead, comfort the survivors, kill the story before it spreads.
Meera’s contacts are mostly media types and corporate directors. She rings around, asking about the Lambs, but the Grady executioners keep a low profile. She learns that they have several worldwide bases, but Prae Athim could be at any of them.
Shark takes a different approach. He phones a guy called Timas Brauss and tells him to come as swiftly as possible. He then contacts people in armies or who were once soldiers. He sets about assembling a small unit of men and women with a variety of skills—explosives experts, mechanics, pilots, scuba divers and more. He won’t need them all, but he puts in place a large force to draw from. They’re more cooperative than the Disciples. Shark seems to command a lot of respect in military circles.
The calls continue into the night. It’s the most frustrating day I’ve spent in a long time. There’s nothing I can do except sit, listen and run errands for Shark or Meera, fetching them food and drink.
I try to watch TV, but I can’t get comfortable. I’m worried that Shark and Meera will think I’m slacking. Eventually I crawl into bed, tired and grumpy, thinking I should have stayed in the demon universe. At least I served some bloody good over there!
THE FILTHY TWELVE
My phone rings unexpectedly. Jolted awake, I check the time on the bedside clock—07.49. Picking up the phone, I yawn, “Yes?”
“It’s me,” someone says in a strange accent.
“Who?”
A pause. “You’re not Shark.”
“No, I’m Grubbs. Shark’s in the next room. Do you want me to—”
“It doesn’t matter,” he interrupts. “I’m Timas Brauss. Tell the receptionist to let me up.”
A couple of minutes later there’s a knock on my door. I open it to find an incredibly tall, thin man in the corridor. He must be seven or eight centimetres taller than me. Skinny as a stick insect, with long, bony fingers. Floppy red hair, an even darker shade than mine. A startled pair of blue eyes, as if he’s in a constant state of shock.
He pushes past me without a word. Looks around the room and up at the ceiling. He’s carrying a couple of laptops and a briefcase. He sets them down, then drags the desk by the wall out into the middle of the floor and lays his gear on top of it. Fires up the laptops, takes a few plug-ins out of the briefcase and connects them up.
“Wi-Fi is a blessing from the gods,” he mutters as I stare at him. “It was hell on Earth when I had to hook these up to ordinary phone lines. Who are we looking for?”
“A woman called…” I hesitate. “Do you want me to wake Shark?”
Timas shakes his head. “I can work without him. Who are you after?”
“Prae Athim.”
“Spell it.”
When I’ve done that, I tell him she works for an organisation called the Lambs. I start to describe the attacks and why we want to find her, but he holds up a hand. “That is enough information for me to be getting on with,” he says curtly and bends over his laptops like a pianist. He’s soon tapping away at a fierce speed, oblivious to all else, working on both computers at the same time.
Meera wakes before Shark. She’s surprised to find the odd-looking stranger in my room, but says nothing once I’ve told her in whispers of his approach to business. We eat breakfast, then return to watch Timas Brauss. At one stage I ask if he’d like anything to eat or drink. He shushes me without looking up.
Shark finally rises close to midday. When he steps in to find Timas hard at work, he doesn’t look surprised. Stretching, he nods at Meera and me, then grunts at the man hunched over the laptops. “What do you have?”
Timas spins neatly to face Shark, letting his fingers rest on his knees. He looks like an overgrown schoolboy. “I have a full profile of the woman, Prae Argietta Athim. Do you want to know her background?”
“Couldn’t care less,” Shark sniffs. “Where is she?”
Timas clicks his tongue. “I would need more time to answer definitively. But I can tell you where she should be if she’s adhering to her regular schedule.”
“That’ll do,” Shark says.
Timas reads out a long address, down to the postal code, finishing off with her floor and office number.
“It’s a regular building?” Shark asks.
“Yes. The Lambs own the complex. A mix of offices, laboratories and miscellaneous divisions. I’ve downloaded a schematic plan of the structure and environs.”
“Let’s see.” Shark pushes Timas aside and studies the right-hand screen. Meera and I edge over to look at it with him. The blueprints mean nothing to me—my eyes go blurry from looking at all the lines—but Shark nods happily as he scrolls down. “Should be easy enough to crack. Security systems?”
“Downloading,” Timas says, tapping the other laptop.
“How much longer?”
“Maybe an hour. They are very cleverly protected. An invigorating challenge.”
Shark stretches again. He looks pleased. “Unless they’ve packed the corridors with troops, this should be a piece of cake. We’ll put a small team together, waltz in, grab Prae Athim, shake her up… be home in time for supper.”
“You really think it’ll be that easy?” Meera asks sceptically.
“Like hell,” Shark grins. “But you know me—ever the optimist.”
While Timas continues to play his keyboards, Shark gets back on the phone to those on his shortlist. Meera also makes a few calls, in case any of her contacts have discovered anything about the Lambs. I sit around as impatiently as the day before, twiddling my thumbs.
The first of Shark’s team arrives at five, a chunky woman called Pip LeMat, an explosives expert. She’s followed by three men over the course of the evening—James Farrier, Leo DeSalle and Spenser Holm. They’re all soldiers but I don’t learn much more about them. They retire with Pip and Shark to his room shortly after they arrive, making it clear they don’t want to be disturbed. Apart from the clinking of bottles and glasses, and the occasional cheer or bellow, we don’t hear from them for the rest of the night.
Shortly before eleven, Timas steps away from his laptops, takes a blue satin handkerchief from a pocket and dabs at his forehead, then folds it neatly and puts it away again. “Could I have some milk and a selection of
