As Mary was escorted out of the room, the last thing she saw was the Widow all over Robert. She screamed as she was dragged back down the corridor, louder than any of the Rangers had done while they were being tortured.
Ask David? Ask the dead? She didn't need to. Because as she'd fallen backwards onto the floor she'd seen the strange symbol painted on Robert's wrist, snaking up his arm. Talked to him and reasoned with him, her arse! The Widow had done something to Robert. But that fact didn't make it any easier to take. What Mary had waited so long for - Robert's affections - the Widow had managed to secure in hours. And she couldn't get the image of the Widow and Robert out of her mind.
In spite of the fact she hadn't asked for it, David chose that moment to speak up. When she was thrown back into her cell, tears flowing from her eyes, he said in a quiet, serious voice:
I'm really sorry Moo-Moo. But she was telling the truth. She's not controlling him, he's doing all this of his own accord.
"Shut up!"
This was all meant to be, it had to happen this way.
"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" she repeated, convinced she was finally going crazy. But in addition to her brother she could also hear the Widow's voice:
The dead have knowledge that we don't. They know things and, if we're only willing tae listen, they'll tell us.
Sometimes he could hear what the dead were saying.
One person at any rate. And not directly, but through the people closest to him. It didn't matter what he did, what he'd achieved, he'd always be compared to someone who'd died long before this fucking virus had come along; killed by something else entirely, though still related to the blood. His brother's problem had not been the wrong type, though, it had been an abnormal amount of white blood cells. That's what had done for him, and yet in a way he got to live on forever in the memories of his mother, grandmother and father. His father especially. He'd been the one who'd doted on Gareth, to the point where it might have seemed to the outside world that the man had no other child. The golden son, who'd shone so brightly he'd burnt out - leaving the patriarch of the family with no alternative but to grudgingly acknowledge his younger offspring.
A younger offspring who now catered for the man's every need, even though he didn't get so much as a "thanks".
"I don't know why I still bother," he said to his father, who was practically bedridden - or who preferred to stay in bed anyway, being waited on hand and foot.
"You bother because you're a good lad. A good son. You always have been." This was his Mam talking, lowering her romance novel - one of many he had to constantly supply her with. She was next to his father's bed, keeping him company, although it was becoming increasingly obvious that her husband couldn't stand the sight of her these days. The Dragon's Nan wasn't far away; sat in the corner with her knitting, clacking away.
How long had it been since any of them had been outside into the real world? He couldn't remember. Must have been back during those early days when he'd got them safely away from all the fighting, the rioting, the houses being set alight. Got them somewhere safe so he could look after them. Even when they'd moved to the stadium, they'd been transported in the back of an armoured truck. Only his dad had complained, as the Dragon's most trusted aides had hefted him into the lift, taking him to the floor where a home away from home had been constructed. "Mind what you're doing," his father had shouted at the men, still not grateful for the fact that he was being looked after, taken to a place of safety.
His Mam and Nan had been more appreciative, settling well into the routine - "Ooh, look, isn't this nice. At least we can get a decent cup of tea." They hadn't really gone out of the house much even before The Cull, whereas his Dad had at least been able to escape down the pub or to the rugby. The Dragon had thought - mistakenly - that his father might approve of the new venue. "When things calm down a bit, I'll arrange for you to watch some matches," he'd told him. Still stupidly trying to gain his approval, even though the Dragon had shown who was really in charge a long time ago. His Dad had looked at him like he was filth.
Like he wasn't Gareth.
But he still visited them as often as he could, given his hectic schedule. He'd fitted in this quick call after meeting with Tanek, who represented some of the Dragon's associates. "Associates?" his Nan had said, when he explained where he'd been. "Your grandfather fought in the war against their kind, you know." Her knitting needles were going like the clappers. "The Nazis."
"That was a long time ago," the Dragon's mother had said, standing up for her son. "I'm sure our boy knows what he's doing, and what he's getting himself involved in. Don't you?"
His father had huffed at that one.
"You got something to say?" the Dragon asked point blank; he was done pussyfooting around.
"Only that you'd never have seen our Gareth-"
"Fuck him!"
"Now dear, there's no call for-"
"No Mam,
fuck
Gareth. He's not here, I am! I'm the one who looks after you, clothes you, feeds you. Without me where would you be, eh?" He was aware he was breathing hard, his pulse pounding in his ears. "
Of course
I know what I'm doing! Anyway, they're not
really
Nazis," he said, turning on his Nan.
She said nothing, just continued to knit.
"They're a means to an end. Once we have enough weapons and vehicles we can push them out of the picture altogether."
"And they're just going to let you, are they?" His Dad said.
"They won't have any choice."
"Listen to him. They're supplying
you
with stuff and you're talking about taking them on and beating them. They could wipe you out like that, lad." His father snapped his fingers.
The Dragon growled. "We could take them. Just like we did with Hood's men."
"That's going to come back and bite you on the arse, as well."
"How so?"
"They won't be best pleased when they see what you did to their headquarters."
"That was the whole idea. That's why I released one of them. When Hood sees what I've done, he'll think twice about moving against me."
"You're underestimating him."
His mother nodded. "He does sound like a very rough customer to me."
The Dragon sighed.
His Dad continued: "Remember all those stories about what he did. That man pretending to be the Sheriff of Nottingham, the Russian fella? He's someone who's not frightened off so easily."
"And what would you know about military strategy?"
"Please, can we stop arguing?" his mother pleaded. "I hate it when you two don't get along."
Ignoring his wife, the Dragon's father pressed on, "What do I know? Only what I learnt on the rugby pitch, boy."
"Hmmm, you mean the way no-one would tackle a larger opponent, someone who seems stronger, you mean? Someone filled with enough confidence to make people think twice? That's exactly what I'm banking on."
"I think you're out of your tiny mind," his father stated, finally.
"Oh, you do, do you? Well-"
A knock on the door interrupted the dispute and they all looked at each other. Then the Dragon remembered he'd asked for lunch to be brought down. "Enter!"
The woman who came in didn't meet his eye as she wheeled in a trolley carrying a silver soup tureen, bowls and fresh bread on plates. The Dragon gestured for her to serve each of his relatives with the soup, which he saw was tomato. This particular servant was actually not doing such a bad job. He remembered seeing her for the first time, when the men brought her before him as part of a recent haul. She'd been a little too old for his tastes compared with some of the others - that silver-blonde hair a turn off. Though by no means bad looking, she reminded him a little too much of some of the teachers back at school. But he'd decided she was ideal to run about after his family, as some of the younger girls just weren't cut out for that kind of thing. It transpired she'd worked in a nursing home back before the fall of mankind, so he'd set her to work washing his father on a daily basis, changing the sheets on his bed. As much as his Mam wanted to help, she was getting on a bit herself and it was too much for her. Besides, why have servants and do the work yourself?
Meghan, wasn't it? Yes, that was the woman's name. He watched as she set the soup down first beside his Nan, then his Mam, who both thanked her - they didn't get the whole concept of personal slaves - and then on the table beside his father. The older man said nothing, but struggled to sit himself up.
"What are you waiting for?" The Dragon said to Meghan. "Bring a tray across and put it over his knees."
The Dragon's mother nodded, smiling. He knew what she was thinking:
See? A good boy to his Dad after all.
As Meghan set up the tray, her hands were shaking a little. But it was as she served his Dad's soup that she spilt it on the bed, catching his leg with the hot liquid. The man cried out and Meghan stepped back, hand to her mouth. "I-I'm sorry, I-"
"You stupid bitch!" shouted the Dragon. "Look what you've done!"
She grabbed a cloth and started mopping up the soup.
"Now dear, it was only an accident," said the Dragon's mother, trying to keep the peace.
"I'll have you killed!" the Dragon screamed, and Meghan burst into tears.
"There's no need for that," his Nan told him. She'd never really liked his father. "The lady's been doing a good job."
And the more the Dragon thought about it, the more the idea of his Dad getting a little burnt did appeal. A lesson for arguing with him. Perhaps he had overreacted, initially annoyed that his father had personally witnessed one of his staff cock up. But there was no actual harm done, save for a bit of scalding maybe. His Nan was right: this woman
had
done a good job up to now.
But the Dragon couldn't be seen to be too soft. "Get out," he told Meghan. "Wait in the hall, while I think about suitable disciplinary action."
She left, still in tears, closing the door behind her. The Dragon's father was glaring at him.
"What will you do to her?" his mother asked.
"I haven't decided yet. She'll be punished."
"Like you do to all those other women," his father hissed. "The ones you think we don't know about."
"Ryn!" snapped the Dragon's mother.
The Dragon ignored them both, and called for the guards to come and wheel him out. It always made him feel uncomfortable, the amount of things they knew. How they did know, was anyone's guess; quizzing the guards, quizzing the slaves who saw to them? The Dragon dismissed all this from his mind, as his guards brought him out into the corridor. There was Meghan, as he'd instructed. She was still sobbing. And something about that, the mixture of the crying and the resemblance to some of his old teachers at school, made him wonder if he'd been too hasty in relegating her to simple menial chores. He'd discipline her, yes, as he had never had the chance to do to those teachers who put him down when he was young.
Then, who knows
.
"Like you do to all those other women," came his father's voice again, echoing in his mind.
It went without saying, but he could also hear the man suggesting that Gareth would never have done such a thing. He wouldn't need to do things like that to women, because he'd have had his pick - if he'd lived.
Dead, and still speaking to him.
The Dragon decided to take his mind off his problems for a while.
Chapter Eleven
It had taken some time to recover.
The sights that he'd witnessed had exhausted him, both mentally and physically. He was convinced no human had ever witnessed anything like it, so in one way he felt privileged. In another, it made him feel small, inconsequential: a tiny cog in a massive machine. He had his role to play, obviously, and a duty to perform that they couldn't possibly complete in his realm. But in the great scheme of things...
Shadow constantly kept checking that the pouch was still at his hip. Its contents were an important part of pulling this whole thing off. After he'd woken, and after he'd drunk a
lot
of water, he'd gathered the ashes at the place where the forest gods had been subdued. With that taken care of, it was time for the next part of his plan to be put into effect.
That would involve travelling to the Hooded Man's other home. The castle at Nottingham. Entering the city would not be easy, he'd anticipated that. Hood's Rangers patrolled the territory and didn't leave much room for manoeuvre. But there were always ways into places. Shadow felt brave, he felt lucky, for with such superior forces guiding him how could he possibly fail?
The Rangers were good at concealment, he'd give them that. But he'd sniffed out their presence from a mile away, enabling him to avoid patrols, keep away from the lookout posts and sneak into the city as the sun fell at his back.
He'd studied and memorized maps of the city before leaving for these isles, and it stood him in good stead when it came to negotiating his way to the castle. Once again, Shadow was conscious of the parallels between him and the man who might have been, given different circumstances, a brother in arms. How many times had Hood done this to creep up on an enemy, taking out their defences and leaving the way clear for his Rangers? That wasn't Shadow's intention today. He was just one man, and, in spite of the backup he had on the ethereal plane, he had no army ready to move in once he opened the gates.