Authors: Emma Newman
“That will be very difficult,” Max said.
“Bollocks.” The gargoyle put itself between her and the Arbiter. “He’s just saying that to cover our arses and make out like it’s something special. We can get you whatever you need to know. The files kept by the Agency are easy to get hold of now and they have one for every single person in your Nether Society.”
Cathy wondered what they had in her file. She suspected Bennet had kept all of her secrets out of it, to preserve their blackmail value.
“Don’t make promises we can’t keep,” Max said.
“And don’t get in the way of something that could get us much further than we can alone,” the gargoyle replied. “Cathy is our insider. She knows what it’s like in their world, we don’t.”
“I know enough,” Max said.
“We know enough to bust their asses when they step out of line, but not how the system works. And she’s connected to the Fae in a way we can never be. Someone is messing everything up, not just in London but the entire Heptarchy and probably other places too, someone who knows Fae magic and sorcery. We have to collaborate if we’re going to solve any of this, whether you like it or not.”
Cathy sat back as the two of them stared at each other. She felt like she’d been obsessing over one messy room whilst the entire house was falling apart. Whilst she was desperate to hear about what the gargoyle and Arbiter saw that night, it wasn’t the time to ask. Their relationship was strange, but then how could anything be normal when a walking, talking gargoyle was involved? Did all Arbiters have them? She didn’t know what the Heptarchy was and she didn’t know what the “someone” the gargoyle referred to had been doing, but one thing was clear: she had her first potential allies against the Agency.
“Listen, I know there hasn’t been much trust between us,” she said. “But I think the gargoyle is right. I don’t know how things work for Arbiters, but I do know that Nether Society is fundamentally unjust. It’s built upon suffering and I want it to change. We can help each other and I’m prepared to take a risk for you if you’re prepared to help me.”
Both she and the gargoyle looked at Max expectantly. “We’ll try it,” he said. “If your uncle can manage to work with the Sorcerer Guardian of Wessex perhaps we can manage to work together too. But if you try anything, it’s all off.”
“Understood,” Cathy said. “Same goes if you try to screw me over. But I do want things to change, and I think the gargoyle’s right.”
The gargoyle grinned. “Finally. Now let’s get to work.”
5
Sam stripped off the black suit and the shirt and stood in his underwear until he started to shiver. He needed to shower but could only face grabbing a pair of jeans and top from the bedroom floor.
The wake was probably still dragging on but he’d stayed as long as he could. He’d said an uncomfortable goodbye to Leanne’s parents and walked all the way home. His feet still throbbed from walking in the formal shoes.
He tried to remember what it was like in the house when Leanne lived there but he could only remember the arguments so he went downstairs to see whether there was any beer left.
As he walked through the hallway a flash of green made him stop before he’d reached the kitchen. He looked back at the long mirror hanging where it always had and realised sunlight was shining out of it.
“Oh, shit.”
A tapping sound drew him towards it, dreading what he’d see. He’d yelled at all the people in horror movies who go to investigate a strange sound and here he was doing it himself.
The mirror looked like a window onto Exilium and Poppy’s faerie was tapping on it. When it saw him it waved and his shoulders drooped.
The glass appeared to liquefy as the faerie reached a tiny hand through it to beckon him. He considered running out of the house and never coming back but his feet still moved forwards as if his body had already made the decision.
“Fuck,” he said as he climbed through the surface of the mirror, feeling as if he was slowly putting his face into a pond but there was no water beyond the surface tension.
“Where have you been?” The faerie flitted about in front of him. “We couldn’t find you.”
“Busy,” he said, wondering if the chapel had offered some sort of protection. Then he realised it was probably something to do with Lord Iron’s house, seeing as his company provided a Fae-proof flat for Leanne. “What do you want?”
“Lord Poppy wants to see you. He’s over there.”
Sam trudged through the perfect meadow grass, irritated by the beauty of the birdsong. There were trees and poppies, like the time he’d come in with Cathy. He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked until he reached a clearing. Poppy was waiting with his cane and dozens of poppy flowers as if he had always been there and always would be.
“Ah! There you are. I’ve just seen my favourite’s husband and I feel the need to be cheered up.”
“He has that effect on me too,” Sam muttered. “I’m not the best person to cheer anyone up at the moment.”
“Oh?” Poppy came closer, swinging the cane ahead of him with each step. “Oh, dear, you do smell rather miserable. Has someone died?”
“Maybe.”
“Someone close to you.” Poppy squinted as he peered into Sam’s eyes. “My, what a delightful mess you are. I have just the thing to help.”
“Me or you?”
“Both of us, my little grieving one. Sit down.”
“This is counting towards my debt, isn’t it?”
“Oh, silly me!” Poppy snapped his fingers and the hourglass appeared. “Well, a minute here and a minute there is nothing between us.”
Sam had to really stare to catch sight of the grains of sand falling. There was still so much to go. Expecting to sit on the grass, he found himself caught by poppies forming a rudimentary seat beneath him.
“I want you to draw a picture for me,” Poppy said, reaching behind his back and pulling a pad of paper and a pencil from nowhere. “I have a renewed appetite for art, thanks to my little sunlit one having painted such a masterpiece. Have you seen it?”
“No. It was rolled up when I delivered it.”
“Oh. Maybe you will one day, maybe you won’t. I may have an exhibition and reveal it one time only.” He lowered his voice. “Did she tell you what the secret is? The one she painted into it?”
Sam shook his head, glad Cathy hadn’t told him. It meant he didn’t have to lie. “Nope. I haven’t got a clue. And I can’t draw so can I go home now?”
“Everyone can draw!” Poppy dropped the paper and pencil into his lap. “Try. Take as long as you need. Well, until I tire of your struggle and find an alternative way for you to be entertaining with a pencil.”
“I don’t know what to draw.”
“Not ‘what’ – who. The one who died. Yes, that’s perfect. I want you to draw…” Poppy leaned down to peer into his eyes. “Her? Yes, a woman, I think. Your mother? No. Your wife!”
Sam stared down at the page, disturbed by how much Poppy could fathom from his face alone. He wanted to be anywhere else, doing anything else, but Poppy was desperate to do something awful, he knew it.
He started to draw but the face appearing on the page looked like something a six year-old would be ashamed of. He went to turn the paper over but Poppy stopped him with his cane.
“Keep going. I must see how awful this will be.”
Sam’s mouth was so dry he could barely swallow. The lines on the paper bore no resemblance to Leanne – they didn’t even resemble a person. Poppy watched every hesitant stroke as the faerie sniggered. Sam just wanted to stick the pencil in Poppy’s chest and bolt.
“It’s done,” he finally said, unable to make it any worse.
Poppy took the piece of paper and tipped it from one side to the other before looking at Sam. “Did your wife look like this?”
“Of course not.”
“I can make you think she did.” Poppy watched the horror spread across Sam’s face. “No? You’d rather remember her as she was and suffer not being able to draw her?”
“Of course I bloody would!” Sam chucked the pencil across the clearing and stood up. “This isn’t a fucking game! She’s dead!”
Poppy’s expression was that of a child at the circus: utterly enthralled by a trapeze artist. He leaned closer, reaching towards his face. “Oh…” he whispered. “It’s exquisite.”
Sam leaned back but Poppy’s hand was too fast and he felt the gentlest brush across his cheek. Poppy pulled his hand back, a sparkling teardrop balanced perfectly on his fingertip. Sam touched his cheek and found it was wet.
Poppy lifted the drop to his mouth and tasted it with his horribly long tongue. “What a delicious creation! Grief and guilt and superbly piquant regret. You can go now. I want to enjoy this alone.”
Sam didn’t need any encouragement and hurried out of the clearing and towards the Way back to his house before Poppy said anything else.
Max checked there was no one on the fire escape. They were only a few feet from a busy pavement, tucked in a cramped alleyway between two huge buildings and thus far unnoticed by the innocents of London. He looked at Catherine, who was hunched in a coat and leaning against the wall. She was pale and looked tired. The gargoyle was sitting next to her, close enough to prop her back up if she needed it.
The gargoyle had said more than it should. Max took a moment to think through the reason he was there, examining each decision point for signs of her interference, or that of any of the puppets. She was happy to negotiate once they were there, but there was no way she could have steered events to force them to work together. At least, it wasn’t apparent from the information at his disposal.
The gargoyle had driven it, not her. It had pressed for action, had suggested going to see her and had blurted out far too much when they were together. The gargoyle wanted this and it was a part of him. Did that mean
he
wanted this?
Impossible.
Something must have happened when the gargoyle… came into being. Something had changed it. A traumatic experience could affect the soul. It was the only explanation; he knew the puppets were untrustworthy and needed to be closely policed and his soul would know that too. Something must have warped as it became part of the stone. It wasn’t the soul chain; Ekstrand had checked it.
He had to make sure the gargoyle didn’t steer anything else.
“What are we waiting for?” the gargoyle asked. “I want to see this!”
It seemed excited. They were about to commit a criminal act and it showed no nervousness nor moral difficulty.
“Are you sure we have everything we need?” he asked Catherine and she nodded.
“I just need a place high up,” she said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if my bodyguard was watching this through a glass. Are you sure I won’t get into a hell of a lot of trouble?”
“There is a risk,” he replied, unable to lie. “But I am almost certain they’ll be far more interested in speaking to me than in prosecuting you.”
She nodded. “Because they’ll want to know why you’d let me do it.”
“And because they’re trying to kill him,” the gargoyle added. “Or at least they were the last time we saw them.”
Catherine looked from the gargoyle to him. “Tell me he’s joking.”
“It’s the truth,” Max said. “But critical circumstances have changed since then. I wouldn’t do this if I was sure I would be killed. I may be an Arbiter but I still have a self-preservation instinct like anyone else.”
She banged her head gently against the bricks behind her and then groaned. “Let’s get this over with. We’ve come this far and I want to see if it works. And I’m probably never going to have an opportunity to do anything like this ever again.”
“It’s gonna be great!” The gargoyle drummed its front paws on the ground. “Give the bag to me. Let’s go!”
Catherine hooked the handle over its lower jaw and then Max led her up the fire escape. He had to take it slowly, with his walking stick hooked over his arm, and she was soon struggling too. The gargoyle made its way up by a different route, its paws too unwieldy for the narrow metal ladder struts. It leapt from corners to wall to handrail to window ledge, reaching the roof of the building first. It had already emptied the contents of the bag and was snuffling at them by the time they reached it.
“Whoa, great view,” Catherine panted. “I just… need to sit for a moment.”
Max did too. The majority of the roof was flat and a walkway ran around the edge. The building’s facade extended above the roof line, creating a thick wall at waist height with periodic gaps perfect for spying purposes. He crouched behind it as best he could and looked down into Trafalgar Square. It was cold and the sky was a clear blue and the innocents were hurrying along the pavements as they always had. He watched tourists taking pictures of each other in front of the huge sculpted lions and people lunching together on the steps of the National Gallery. There were fewer pigeons than he remembered.
“I love it here,” Catherine said. “I walked through a few times but I could never stay very long.”
“When you ran away,” the gargoyle said.
She nodded, thoughtful. “That first time we met,” she said to Max. “Why wouldn’t you give me asylum?”
“That doesn’t exist for puppets,” he replied. “It’s never been necessary.”
“Are you seriously telling me that no one from the Nether has ever wanted to get out?”
“Never.”
“Doesn’t that surprise you?”
He shook his head. “You people have eternal youth, power, grand houses and an easy life. If we went down there and asked any one of those people if they wanted the same, they’d accept.”
“If you sold it to them like that, maybe. They wouldn’t if I told them the truth. What’s the point of eternal youth if all you do is sit around and do embroidery or talk about fashion or have endless dinner parties with the same people over and over? No sunshine, no wind, no rain… just endless mist.”
“But they’ve perfected how to deal with that,” Max said. He knew the Fae lost puppets to illness in the early days after the Treaty, but that hadn’t happened for a long time. His Chapter Master had a theory about magic worked into their anchors by the Fae to protect them but they never got to the bottom of it. It wasn’t considered a priority.