Stiletto

  “How can you tell?”

  “There’s layering and variations in the scent,” said Sander confidently. “He came here directly from the Italian restaurant, but he’s definitely returned since then. Sometimes it’s right after he’s bathed, sometimes it’s right after he’s eaten.”

  “And it’s a male?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s a good thing,” said Bart thoughtfully. “That will mean there are fresher trails, correct?” It had taken the tracker days to lead them to this spot. Trailing an old scent through a city of millions of people had proven to be incredibly difficult, not least because Sander was unable to deploy his full complement of sensory organs in public. They’d had to keep stopping and standing about awkwardly while he froze in the middle of the footpath and dredged up a hint of a scent from the city. On several occasions, they’d had to retrace their steps to intersections and try different routes. Twice, he actually had to lie down on the footpath and sniff, which had gotten them some very suspicious looks. Fortunately, the pedestrians of London were far too polite and jaded to interfere or comment.

  “Much fresher trails,” said Sander. “It’ll be a snap.”

  “Why would he come and stand here, though?” wondered Bart. Sander shrugged the shrug of a man who was there to sniff the pavement and then kill things, not to reason why.

  “I know,” said Laurita. She nodded across the street. “That hotel is where the Broederschap delegation is staying.” The other two Chimerae digested this thoughtfully.

  “How many times has the Antagonist come here?” Bart asked finally.

  “At least four.”

  “Let’s get a coffee,” said Bart. “I’ll contact Marie and let her know. And then we’ll resume tracking.”

  That’s it,” said Marcel. He stepped away from the table and sat down on one of the chairs that had been pushed back against the wall. Odette moved off and let her shoulders slump, exhausted. Alessio, who had been kneeling on the other side of the table and observing their work, shuffled backward, unmindful of the blood that stained the knees of his suit.

  “That’s it?” said Sir Henry, standing up and moving forward. “What do you mean, ‘That’s it’?” He looked incredulously at the boardroom table where the body of Rook Thomas lay, looking very small and vulnerable. She was horribly still. Her dress had been sliced open down the back and blood had ebbed from the wound and onto the table. They had hastily put down cloths and coats to keep it from spreading, and now the place looked like a Crimean War hospital. One tea towel from the adjoining kitchenette was draped over the stab wound, and another lay over the elastic of her knickers, a token effort at dignity. “Is she dead?”

  “‘That’s it’ as in I am finished and she is going to stay alive, at least until she manages to get herself stabbed again when I am not around to accomplish a miracle,” said Marcel.

  “She’ll be all right?” asked Sir Henry. “She’s not breathing!”

  “Give it a moment,” said Marcel. A moment was duly given. The Rook’s body twitched, and she drew a raspy breath. And then another, much less raspy one. “I must say, we’re very good,” said Marcel.

  “He means that he’s very good,” said Odette. She’d assisted Marcel throughout the procedure, but it had been his skills that kept the Rook alive and repaired the worst damage. She stretched her arms up painfully and looked down, crestfallen, at her racing dress, which was liberally splashed with fluids that had once circulated inside Rook Thomas. Another outfit ruined, she thought. Surely this can’t happen every time I go out in England.

  “Nicely done,” said Ernst.

  “It’s damn outstanding, is what it is!” declared Sir Henry. “Let’s have a drink!” he started looking through the cupboards. “It’s a boardroom, they must have someth—ah! Here we are.” He took out a bottle and brandished it triumphantly. “Old Pulteney, just the thing to celebrate an unsuccessful stabbing.” He distributed glasses and poured everyone, even Alessio, a dram. “Cheers!” Everyone drank, and then Alessio started coughing. Sir Henry looked over at the Rook cautiously. “I say, you didn’t put anything in her, did you? No new organs?”

  “No, nothing like that,” Marcel assured him. “Though I had to secrete a great many more enzymes than I normally would. It seems that her powers automatically attack any unfamiliar organism, even if it’s benevolent.”

  “You secreted things into her?” said Clements, looking a little queasy. The Pawn had spent the entire operation standing by the door, her gaze firmly averted from the surgery, ready to prevent any intruders from entering.

  “Various anesthetics, sedatives, and cleansing and repair agents,” said Marcel. “It helps to have one’s tools always to hand.”

  “And I noticed you breathing on the table and tools?” said Chevalier Whibley uncertainly.

  “Marcel can expel an antiseptic mist,” said Odette. “In an emergency, it serves to sterilize equipment.”

  “Also keeps my breath fresh,” said Marcel cheerfully. He sipped the whisky. Lady Farrier swept in from an adjoining room and took in the situation. It might have been Odette’s imagination, but it seemed as if the Lady’s eyes lingered on her thoughtfully for a moment or two. Then she looked at the Rook on the table.

  “She’s still alive,” said the Lady, and it wasn’t a question.

  “Yes,” said Sir Henry. “And likely to stay that way, thanks to Dr. Leliefeld here. And Miss Leliefeld.”

  “Thank you both,” said Farrier. She stepped forward to shake their hands and then noticed the blood. “Well, we’ll shake hands later, but rest assured, you have the gratitude of the entire Checquy.”

  That’s nice, thought Odette wearily. Maybe this will help to make up for the disastrous incident with that soldier boy and his leg.

  “How long until she recovers?” the Lady asked.

  “A few days and she’ll be as good as new,” said Marcel. “She’s lost a great deal of blood, so we’ll need to arrange a transfusion. And I’ll want to add some agents to the blood to accelerate recovery, but with that and some rest, she’ll be fine.”

  “Marvelous. Well, we can have the blood flown to Hill Hall along with someone to look after her,” said Lady Farrier. “It would be a shame to cancel the weekend just because of this.” She looked over at Marcel. “It’s all right to take her in a helicopter, isn’t it?” He nodded. “Good. Oh, where’s her handbag? She mentioned that her car was on the north side of car park seven and that if she didn’t make it, we should arrange for someone to come pick it up. I expect one of the Reading team can drive it back to London. Anyway, we’ll want the keys.”

  “I didn’t notice a handbag when I got her,” said Ernst shamefacedly. “But I wasn’t looking.”

  Lady Farrier sighed. “It’s always something, isn’t it?”

  30

  And there’s Hill Hall,” said Lady Farrier. Odette nodded, entranced. She had been glued to the window of the helicopter for the entire flight from Ascot. The landscape was gorgeous, and she had been mesmerized by the patchwork fields, the slashes of forest, and the towns and villages. Now, as the first helicopter drew down over the estate, she sighed. Ahead of them, the manor house was nestled in a park, around which ran a long, high wall. It really was like entering an elegant past.

  Except you’re in a helicopter, she reminded herself. And a hideous neon jogging outfit. Before they could leave the boardroom, they’d had to wait for the Checquy team from Reading to arrive, and they’d dispatched a hapless flunky to the local shops to buy some replacement clothes for those whose race-going outfits were stained with blood.

  Then they’d discreetly transported the still-unconscious Rook through the service corridors of the grandstand to an exit and suffered in the glacial-pace traffic before finally arriving at the nearest helipad, where there were two helicopters waiting for them. In one of them, Rook Thomas was arranged across three seats and attended to by Marcel, under the watchful eye of Pawn Clements. Odett
e, Ernst, and the Lord and Lady had piled into the other one.

  The helicopter swept over the estate, and Odette noticed a battered-looking tower of rough gray stone jutting up from one wall.

  “Is that part of the fortifications?” she asked curiously.

  “No, it’s a folly,” said Farrier. “The man who had the wall built added it for a bit of decoration.”

  “Ah. And Hill Hall belongs to the Checquy?”

  “It’s the country-house retreat of the Court,” said Farrier. The helicopter was landing now, on a broad flat lawn at the side of the house. They climbed out and were greeted by a handsome Pawn accompanied by a handsome Dalmatian.

  “Thank you, Pawn Dunkeld,” said Lady Farrier. “It’s lovely to be here.” Odette had to agree. It was dusk, and the fading light left the grounds all dark greens and purples. Hill Hall itself was white, and the windows were glowing.

  As Pawn Dunkeld ushered them inside, Odette could see three strapping men and an equally strapping woman lifting the unconscious Rook out of the other helicopter and onto a waiting stretcher as Marcel supervised.

  The party followed Pawn Dunkeld, who appeared to be something like the majordomo of the place, into a large, high-ceilinged foyer. “Your bags have all arrived and been brought to your rooms and unpacked,” he said. “I expect you’ll want a bath and a rest. There will be a light, informal dinner in about an hour, but if any of you are feeling too tired after today’s events, just ring down and the staff can bring up a tray for you.” Odette took this in with delighted incredulity. Judging from Clements’s expression, she too felt like she’d stepped into a period drama. One of the staff, a young blond woman in a maid’s uniform, guided them up the stairs to their room.

  “Does the Checquy seriously have parlor maids and footmen?” Odette asked out of the side of her mouth.

  “It’s actually a popular posting,” said Clements out of the side of her mouth. “People apply for yearlong secondments to Hill Hall. Everyone here except the head cook and the head groundskeeper has a different, regular job in the Checquy. I gather there’s a long waiting list.”

  “Really? People want to be servants?”

  “It’s one of those management-training things.” Clements shrugged. “You know, learning humility and working as a team. Gleaning important lessons about leadership by being a scullery maid or footman. Plus, there are a lot of intensive advanced courses you can take here that look good on the résumé. Languages, wilderness survival, strategy and game theory, negotiating, pastry-making.” Odette mulled it over and resolved to let Ernst know about the true nature of the staff. Not that she really thought he’d bother the housemaids, but he had lived in a time when servants weren’t just doing their jobs for the entertainment value.

  “But do you actually need a country-house retreat?”

  “Probably not anymore,” said the Pawn. “It’s like Chequers—the official country house of the Prime Minister. I’m sure Hill Hall seemed vital at one point, but now it’s handy for entertaining foreign dignitaries and the like. And a nice place to relax. The Court get first pick of the days, of course, but anyone can sign up to use it. I’ve attended a couple of weddings here.”

  “Here are your rooms,” said the maid with a decidedly amused smile. It was apparent that she’d heard everything. “You share a sitting room, but you each have your own bathroom.” She opened the door to Odette’s room. “Miss Leliefeld, we’ve unpacked and prepared all your clothes. You didn’t want us to open the two hard leather cases, correct?”

  “Yes, thank you, um . . .” Odette faltered.

  “Sarah,” said the girl.

  She showed Odette around the large room, which was decorated in warm tones that made it feel like the perfect place to fall asleep. Landscapes were hung on the walls, comfortable furniture was set around the room, and a fire flickered in the fireplace. Odette wandered through it, feeling distinctly déclassé in her tracksuit. Her cream heels (the Checquy shopper at Ascot had not gotten anyone shoes) still had some drops of Rook-blood on them and looked demented on the thick red carpet. I’ve spent my whole life not wearing a tracksuit and ruined heels, and then I come to England, and it’s my default uniform, she mused sourly. A set of squashy brown leather chairs and a sofa seemed to draw back from her in horror. It was not pleasant to be the tackiest thing in the room.

  Sarah caught her expression and winked, an action that seemed quite un-housemaidly. “If you need anything, Miss Leliefeld, just dial one on your room’s phone.” She departed, closing the door behind her.

  I wonder what she does when she’s not being a housemaid, thought Odette idly. She’ll probably end up being my boss or something. Then she checked on her luggage. Two cases had indeed been left unopened. One contained the numerous medications she took to ensure that her body didn’t realize what had been done to it and go on strike, along with the various chemicals she had to sleep in. The other case contained the set of surgical tools she’d been given for her eighteenth birthday. She didn’t anticipate performing any surgeries that weekend, but then she hadn’t anticipated performing one at the races either.

  All right, first thing I’m going to do is shower and get into some better clothes, she resolved, if only so she could meet her own eyes in the mirror.

  He sat on a bench by the river Thames and pondered. Lionel John Dover, formerly of Northampton, now abruptly of no fixed abode and completely unconcerned by that fact.

  Nine hours ago, he had been a family man with a well-paying job as a senior manager at a successful company. True, for the past two years, he had been completely insane, but that had not bothered him as much as he would have expected, nor had it interfered with his life.

  And then he met that woman.

  She knew, he thought. She knew everything. She knew about the things he’d done, and she’d done something to him, held him pinioned against his will.

  So of course he’d had to act, even though it was broad daylight and they were in a crowd.

  What was she? Who was she? How could she know about it? About me?

  Panicked, he’d hurried away from the racecourse and gone straight to a cash machine. He had taken out as much money as he could, three hundred pounds. That, along with the money in his wallet, gave him four hundred and thirty-seven pounds. Normally he would not have been carrying more than a hundred pounds on him, but he’d been betting and socializing.

  He hadn’t dared to go to his car. Instead, his mind whirling, he had gone to the train station and bought a ticket to London. Once he got to the city, he visited the nearest Marks and Spencer and bought a complete change of clothes, paying with cash. Nondescript. Designed to blend in. He stuffed the morning suit into the first rubbish bin he could find and walked away.

  He’d also walked away from his life, his family. His wife, Catherine. His children, Harry, Jenny, May, and Rupert. His dogs. His job. Everything. And yet, he found that he didn’t care. They were the trappings of another man’s life, a man who was not impossible and not insane.

  Before it all started, he hadn’t been a bad man. A stupendously boring one, perhaps, but not bad. He was not given to flights of fancy or possessed of much imagination. He humdrummed his way through life being respectable and upright. Certainly not the kind of man who would kill people.

  The first time it happened, he’d been collecting for the Red Cross, of all things. Community service. Knocking on the door of a house on a quiet street in Daventry, he’d felt a burning in his spine, a heat that built unbearably and set him gasping for breath until a pulse surged out of him. It sent him to his knees, and he’d been instantly drenched with sweat. Then he had a sudden awareness of the inside of the house as crystals erupted from every surface and impaled the two people within. He’d seen the house through a thousand facets. He’d felt the man’s and the boy’s skin, their blood, their muscles and organs, as the blades cut through them.

  His mind had fractured then, unable to reconcile the horrific unbelievability of
what was happening with the sheer undeniability of its truth.

  In a daze, he’d staggered away, gotten into his car, and driven back to his house. No one was home, and he’d stripped down and showered. He’d thrown his clothes in the washing machine and then passed out for hours. When he woke up, the memory of what had happened sent him shuddering. It was undeniably real. His rancid clothes were still in the machine and there were half-moon cuts in his palms from when his fingers had clenched unbearably, but beyond that, the memory of those moments was burned into his brain. He had to dash to the toilet, where he was violently ill. Then, trembling, he turned on the television.

  Braced for coverage of the nightmare, he found absolutely nothing. The big story was that some Shetland pony carrying a fat child had bolted from a local riding school, run into town, and come to a halt in the market square. No mention of any murders. No mention of crystals.

  Over the next few days, he’d watched the news, read the papers, and scoured the Internet, but there was never any reference to a horrific double murder, let alone a horrific double murder with unexplainable crystals. His psyche, already splintered by the impossibility of what he’d experienced, was shattered completely by the fact that no one else seemed to have noticed.

  Lionel Dover had become a different person. The way in which he understood the world had changed. On the outside, he continued to go to work, to spend time with his friends and family, but inside, his thought processes could no longer be considered human.

  Eventually, he’d driven by the house and seen no police tape, no bereaved family members wandering around looking shell-shocked. Several weeks later, a For Sale sign went up, and a few weeks after that, people moved in. They did not appear to be aware that their new home had been formerly occupied by a man and a boy who had been killed inexplicably.