“Take his foot off the damn accelerator!” Clements choked out just as the car jerked, swerved, and ran straight into a bank.
Odette was the first to open her eyes. She could practically feel her system burning away that yellow smoke inside her. Her metabolism was in overdrive, her amplified liver cells enthusiastically scouring the compounds from her blood. What on earth was that stuff? she wondered. I suppose the driver’s Checquy powers must have gone bad or something.
She looked around and saw that everyone else in the car was unmoving, slumped in their seat belts. Everyone except Rook Thomas, who was sprawled halfway down to the floor. She had one arm looped through the seat belt, and there was a good deal of blood in her hair—either from hitting her head or from smacking into something when the car crashed into the embankment. Odette herself seemed to be unhurt beyond a few aches. She undid her seat belt, crawled across the limo to the Rook, and checked the smaller woman’s pulse. Thomas was alive, but she wouldn’t be happy when she woke up. Odette smoothed her hair aside and checked the cut on her scalp. It was not actually very deep, and the bleeding was minimal. A quick examination revealed no sign of any other injuries.
Well, she won’t die from a scalp wound, Odette decided, but she retrieved a clean handkerchief from her purse and applied a judicious amount of pressure nonetheless. We should get her back to Hill Hall quickly. I don’t think Marcel’s repair work would have been damaged, but we need to make certain. With one hand, she dug her mobile phone out of her purse and rang the emergency Checquy number.
“Office of Qualifications and Examinations Regulation, notifications line,” said a cheerful voice. “This is Nigel Bonnington.”
“This is Odette Leliefeld. There’s been a car accident,” said Odette. She heard a pained sigh come over the phone. Sorry to inconvenience you, she thought.
“Are you okay? You sound all right.”
“I’m fine. However, Rook Thomas, Pawn Clements, and Rook Thomas’s executive assistant are all unconscious, and Rook Thomas is bleeding from the scalp. I’m not certain what other injuries she’s sustained, but I’m giving her first aid.” She couldn’t help smiling a little as she heard the sound of someone having an extremely quick nervous breakdown come down the line. Yeah, suck on that, mate. After a few seconds of compacted panic, Pawn Bonnington spoke. This time, his voice was a little higher in pitch.
“And you’re trained to give first aid?”
“I took out my own appendix when I was sixteen,” she said. “And I put two new ones in when I was nineteen. I think I can apply pressure to a laceration.”
“What’s your location?”
“No idea,” said Odette. “Fifteen minutes from Hill Hall.”
“I’ll alert the staff there. Help should arrive soon.”
“Great,” said Odette. “I’ll stay on the line, if you don’t mind.”
“And the driver?” Bonnington asked.
“Oh, crap,” Odette said guiltily, suddenly remembering that there was another person in the car. She carefully lifted the hankie off the Rook’s head and saw that the bleeding had stopped. Then she scooched forward. When she peered into the front of the limo, she flinched. The driver was draped over the steering wheel and twitching violently. The airbag had apparently gone off when the car hit the bank. However, while an airbag was generally a good thing for a person in an accident, it had not been good for a man who was in the process of inflicting terrible wounds on his own face. Odette was no stranger to blood, but the mess in the driver’s seat was stomach-turning. The yellow smoke seemed to have dissipated—she couldn’t even taste it in the air.
“He’s in very bad shape,” she reported over the phone. “Significant self-inflicted wounds to the face.”
“What?”
“I think he had a seizure of some sort,” said Odette.
“A seizure?”
“Yes, and then his powers went nuts—smoke everywhere. I think that’s what knocked everybody out.”
“My God. And you’re sure you’re all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” said Odette, “but everyone else is still unconscious.” I hope they haven’t been poisoned. She awkwardly put her hand through the hatch and fumbled at the driver’s neck. His pulse was erratic, and his skin was burning hot. Christ, this is not good. “I’m going to try to help him.”
Getting to him to render said help, however, would be difficult. The car’s impacts and scrapings with the embankments had left the sides dented and the doors jammed shut. I’ll have to try to wriggle into the front seat of the car. It wouldn’t be easy—the hatch was intended only for the transmission of imperious orders and, possibly, drive-through fast food. Matters were made even worse by the fact that the front of the car had crumpled in on itself. Still, I think I can do it. She put the phone on speaker, laid it on the seat, and was about to start when she heard distant voices outside the car.
Well, that was fast, she thought. I have to give the staff at Hill Hall credit.
“Miss Leliefeld?” said the voice over the phone hesitantly.
“Hmm?”
“The driver . . .”
“Yes?” she asked.
“He’s not a Pawn. He’s a Retainer.”
“What? So?” The Checquy seemed obsessed with ranks and titles.
“So he doesn’t have any powers.”
She froze. What the hell does that mean? Then she frowned. Is that laughter outside? She heard the voices of young men. They sounded elated.
What the hell does that mean?
Unless it’s . . . oh God.
Antagonists.
She fumbled to take her mobile phone off speaker mode, then froze as she heard footsteps coming toward the car. She knelt on the seats and peered cautiously through the window. It was tinted, so she was certain no one would see her, but it also meant that, on the sunken road in the twilight of the countryside, she couldn’t see much. Just silhouettes getting closer.
“Miss Lelie—”
“No time,” she interrupted in a fierce whisper. “Let Hill Hall know, men have come. They must have attacked the car, and now they’re coming toward us.”
“How many men?”
Odette risked another look. “Five, I think.”
“Weapons?”
“I can’t tell.”
“Please hold.” Tinkling electronic music ensued.
You’ve got to be kidding me. She looked up at the sound of someone trying the door handle.
“Bloody door’s not opening,” said a voice. Odette frowned in confusion—it was not at all the accent she’d been expecting. This was a young man with a very specific London accent. Cockney, it’s called, she remembered. So what’s the significance of that? Maybe I was completely wrong about who they are.
That would be nice.
“Well, what a fucking surprise,” said someone else. “Smash a window, then.”
“Nah, wait,” said another voice. “Let’s have a little play.” There was a grunt, and then Odette looked up at the sound of boots landing lightly on the roof of the car. Another pair landed, more heavily, and the roof dimpled a bit. Crap. She hunkered down on the floor and looked around anxiously. The back of the car seemed almost irresponsibly empty of weapons. Her new shotguns were in the boot. There was a little minibar, but all the bottles seemed to be made of plastic.
“Hello, Miss Leliefeld?” came a tiny voice. It was her phone. “Miss Leliefeld?”
“Do you hear that?” one of the voices on the roof said.
“No,” said the other one.
“Just move,” said one of the figures still on the ground. “Now. Help will be coming.”
“Right.”
A broad metal blade punched through the ceiling. Odette ducked her head and pressed the back of her hand against her mouth so as not to scream. She looked up and saw the blade directly above her. About ten centimeters of it jutted through the roof. It was as wide as her forearm and made of a dull black metal. As she watched, it bega
n to rip along the roof, leaving a jagged tear behind it.
“Yeah, baby!” came the exultant shout from outside. “Fuck that shit up!”
We’re being attacked by hooligans, thought Odette. And apparently they’re fucking our shit up. She could feel her muscles tensing into tight springs, and her spurs slid out.
The sword blade was removed, and then two sets of hands forced themselves through the rip. She gave a moment’s thought to slashing at them with her spurs, but before she could put thought into action, they had begun to haul back on the roof. A corner of it peeled away with a horrendous metal shrieking, and five male faces peered in. Two of them were black youths, and the other three were white. However, it was not their race that caught her attention.
They had all been mutilated, twisted. There were lines running all over their faces, cicatrices that were swollen and red. One of them had square scars around his eyes. Another had a line running down the center of his face. A third had two lines that began at a point under his chin, angled away from each other, and went up over his shaved head.
All five of them had elected to wear sleeveless T-shirts for the evening’s festivities, and she could see similar marks on their arms. One man had continuous spirals curling up the length of his arms, slicing through some tattoos of dubious artistic merit. One of the black men had oblongs of pallid Caucasian skin implanted into his forearms. Another man had lines circling his oversize biceps, outlining the bulging muscles. The sword blade that had cut through the ceiling was projecting out of a slit in his arm.
Odette judged that they would not have looked reputable even before their modifications. Now, they gave the impression of being patchwork thugs. One of the white guys, the one with the sword, squinted at her.
“’Ere, we’ve got one that’s awake!” he announced, and then he smiled at her broadly. With a shock, she saw that his mouth was full of chromed serrations. “So, darling,” he said to Odette, “are you my fanny?”
“I beg your pardon?” she said, completely at a loss.
“Not ‘my fanny,’ you tosser,” said one of the black guys. “Myfanwy.”
“Oh, whatever,” said the first guy. “Like that’s even a name.”
“That’s not Myfanwy Thomas,” said a voice from the shadows by the side of the road. In contrast to the hooligans, this voice spoke with a polished upper-class English accent. “It’s Odette Leliefeld. Hello, Odette, good to see you again.” Odette frowned. He stepped forward, tall, blond, and handsome. She was fairly certain she had never seen him before in her life, and yet he somehow seemed familiar.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Plenty of time for explanations later,” said the man, smiling. “You’ll be coming with us. For now, though, we have some errands to take care of. Lads, that’s Myfanwy Thomas.” He pointed at the slumped Rook. “Kill the fucking bitch right now.”
The youth with the sword blade coming out of his arm drew back, preparing to strike. Odette lunged forward and slashed out with her left spur, slicing across his already scarred cheek.
The men all flinched back at her movement, and then they flinched back even farther when Sword Arm clutched at his face and began a hideous screaming. She’d given him a dose of the platypus venom, and it appeared to be having the effect for which the platypus had evolved it. The other young men around the car seemed suddenly unsure of themselves, but not the tall blond one.
“Anybody else want some?” asked Odette coldly. Sword Arm was now rolling in the dirt, squealing in pain. “You realize he got off lightly, right?”
“Bitch, you are gonna regret fucking up my mate,” said one of the other men, the one with the scars twisting up his arms, whom Odette had mentally christened Spiral Guy. “And since you’re not that Miff chick, well, you’re not even gonna believe what we’ll do to you.” He bent his hand back slightly, and a blade made of bone slid out of his palm. It was a good twenty centimeters long, and glittered wetly.
“She lives, that’s part of the deal,” said the blond man sharply.
The deal?
“Step back, lads, I got this,” said another one of the men. His mouth had scars radiating out from it, and as he opened his mouth, his lips split along the lines, peeling open like the petals of the most disturbing flower in history. A fine crimson mist spewed out of his throat, enveloping Odette.
“You’ve got nothing,” she said coldly. This time she was prepared. Her skin itched, but lenses slid down over her eyes and protected them. She pressed her lips tightly together, and muscles within her sinuses clamped shut. Then, while Mist-Breathing Guy (she was too focused on the task at hand to come up with a better moniker) stood back smugly and his face knit itself back together, she swiped forward with her spur and scored him across the neck.
He stared at her in bewilderment and then crumpled, whimpering. Apparently, he had a different reaction to platypus venom than his mate, although it was still an acceptable result. Odette breathed out. She had never actually used her spurs on a person before. She would have expected to feel something about injecting a man with an excruciatingly painful toxin. She didn’t. Perhaps because she didn’t have any room to question her actions here. It was simply something that had to be done.
The remaining three thugs didn’t feel the need to question her actions either. Instead, they moved forward. Spiral Guy swiped out at her with the blade jutting out of his palm, and she flinched back hastily. Another man held up his hands, and she saw that he’d had extra thumbs added. With a wet crack, his arms split in two at the elbows. He reached behind his back and drew four knives. The black man with the white skin on his arms simply stalked toward her, his oversize muscles twitching slightly. The backs of his fingers were covered in shining, spiky carapaces, like knuckle-dusters made of insect shells.
I don’t think I’m going to be able to buy us many more minutes, she thought. Those first two were complete strokes of luck.
Time to bluff.
“Do you think you can just take me down? You want to ask your two friends in the dirt there how easy it is?” she said. “And I’m out of the gentle venom. At least one of you is going to die.”
“There’s three of us left,” said the muscled man, sounding not at all concerned, “plus our friend here.” He nodded at the well-spoken blond man. “And you’re stuck in the car. And we’re gonna watch for your little bitch stingers.”
“That’s a fair point,” conceded Odette. “But you’ve got to come in the car if you want us, and my little bitch stingers can kill you.”
“I’m just going to cut them off,” said Spiral Guy brightly. “Or rip them off.”
I could probably scramble out of the car and run, Odette thought. Maybe I could lead them away? Except I’m sure at least one of them would stay and kill Rook Thomas. She looked down at the unconscious Checquy people. They weren’t her people, but she couldn’t leave them.
“This is what I get for working with amateurs,” said the blond man. “You three, stop your bloody posturing and immobilize her. I’ll take care of Myfanwy Thomas.” He stepped forward when a new voice rang out from the trees at the top of the bank.
“Don’t move,” it said. Odette frowned—she knew it from somewhere. Everyone else froze, and a look of absolute horror erupted on the blond man’s face.
“No!” the blond man shouted, absolutely aghast. “Not you! What are you doing here?”
“You, my friend, smell familiar,” said the voice. “Where do I know you from?” The owner of the voice stepped forward. It was Bishop Alrich, dressed in a gray suit. He wore no tie, and his free-flowing hair was now a light auburn, almost blond.
“It’s just some faggot in a suit,” snarled the thug with the knuckle-dusters.
“Yes, quite right,” said the blond man, rallying somewhat. “You take him, I’ll kill the Rook.” He drew a wicked-looking combat knife from inside his coat and moved toward the car. The thugs spread out before the Bishop, who stepped off the bank and dropped several meter
s to land smooth and unruffled.
“I won’t let you kill her,” said Odette to the blond man as he approached. Both spurs were unsheathed, and her knees were bent slightly, ready to move. To get at Rook Thomas, he’d have to climb in through the torn roof of the car. She set her mind. If he comes in here, he’s getting the octopus venom.
“You couldn’t possibly stop me, Odette.”
“How do you know me?” she asked. He’s not an Antagonist; they wouldn’t talk to me like this.
“I’m wounded that you don’t recognize me,” said the man. “But we’ll chat about that later. I really, really want to kill this woman right now.” His fist blurred out and cracked Odette on the side of her face before she could react. She staggered, and her back hit the jagged metal where the roof had been torn. Her knees buckled and she went down on the floor of the car. The blond man vaulted in through the hole in the roof easily, swinging his legs in like a farmer going over a fence.
“You won’t,” she said, and lunged at him, her spurs out. He dropped the knife and caught her wrists easily.
“You’re out of your league, Odette. But it sounds like I really need to hurry this up.” Outside the car, there were ominous sounds of thuds and tearing. A high, howling scream cut off into a wet gasp. He forced her wrists to the side and slammed his head into hers. The world flashed, and her legs went buttery.
I think I’m going to throw up, she thought fuzzily. Now the man’s grip was the only thing holding her up, and he let her go. She felt herself slither into a puddle. I can’t let him . . . She reached out weakly with her arm, and he planted a foot pointedly on her wrist and forced it onto the floor. He bent over and picked up his knife.
“Finally,” he said, and there was a terrible eagerness as he looked down on the Rook. And then the expression on his face changed. Odette made an effort and focused beyond him. Bishop Alrich was perched on the peeled-back portion of the roof. His hair, face, and clothes were bloody, and his hand was closed around the blond man’s throat.