Waging War (28 page)

Connor recited, nearly word for word the
conversation Saira had had with everyone after her ordeal. I stared
at my feet as Connor spoke, my eyes tracing the pattern of the
Turkish rug under them. Then something he said clicked and I looked
up.

“What did Walters say about shooting
Tom?”

Connor took a breath and repeated his last
words. “Walters said Tom knew why he’d done it. He talked about the
men in his family blooding their children – about how his
grandfather had beaten his dad so badly he vomited blood for a
week.”

That was it. That was the thing that
clicked. “Who is Seth Walters’ grandfather and where was he in
1944?” I asked.

Connor dropped to a computer and began
typing furiously. If Ringo had been here he would have found the
answer in one of the books high up on the shelves he’d already
scouted. The difference between the young men fascinated me.

While we waited for Connor to complete his
search, Arman caught my eye and spoke quietly. “Do we leave this to
Shaw and the adults on the Council?”

My gaze was steady. “Believe it or not,
Arman, I
am
the ranking adult.”

Connor piped up with a cheeky tone. “The
adultest adult. Better at adulting than anyone I know.”

Arman’s eyes widened fractionally.
“Right.”

Connor smirked at Arman’s surprise. “A
hundred and fifty years, more or less, will do that to a
bloke.”

“What have you found on Walters?” I scowled
at Connor, but he was focused on the computer and missed it.

“Hang on …” He read through the page and
then clicked a link, read some more. “Seth Walters’ father was
Francis Walters, born in 1945 to George and Lydia Walters.”

“Where was George Walters in 1944?” I
asked.

Connor looked up at me with genuine surprise
on his face. “He was in London, the head of private security for
Ronan Rothchild.”

“Why do you look so surprised?” I asked
Connor.

He scanned the page he was reading for
confirmation. “Markham Rothchild’s father, Ronan, sat on the board
at the British Museum.”

“There’s the link,” Arman breathed.

“Tenuous,” I agreed. “But yes, it’s
there.”

“It should come as no surprise that George
Walters was a bad guy.” Connor’s fingers flew over the keyboard as
he did another search. “He spent several years in prison after the
war for assault, was accused of some very shady business practices,
and then in the 1960s he was arrested for knifing a business rival
to death.”

I drummed my fingers on the table, furiously
putting the pieces together as I knew Saira would have. She’d have
gotten there faster though, which I realized when the last piece
fit into place. “The Grandfather Paradox.”

Connor knew what I was talking about
immediately and was already nodding. The others waited for me to
explain. “The Grandfather Paradox is a time travel conundrum. What
if a man traveled back in time and accidentally killed his
grandfather before he could meet his grandmother? How, then, could
the man have been born to travel back in time?”

“I don’t understand,” Arman said,
frustrated.

Connor interrupted with the impatience of
one used to being the smartest in the room. “If Tom kills George
before Francis is born, then Seth Walters can never be born.”

Arman’s eyes narrowed as he saw the
ramifications. “But if Seth isn’t born, then Tom can’t be.”

“Which may be the point.” I said, rubbing my
temples. “Nonetheless, all of this presupposes Tom
would
actually go to such massive lengths to encounter his
great-grandfather during a mission designed to steal treasures from
the British Museum. I think we can agree it’s an enormous
supposition to make.”

That statement seemed to suck all the
enthusiasm out of the room, which Arman fought with frustration.
“We’re still not closer to figuring out where the missing
mixed-bloods are being held, though.”

“Sure we are.” Logan’s voice piped up from
the sofa where he’d retreated with Saira’s book. He turned it
around to show us a full-page black and white photograph of a
stripped out Underground station. Ava gasped.

“That’s it. Except there’s a train standing
on one of the tracks. That’s the place Tam showed me.”

“What is that, Logan?” I moved closer to him
to see.

“Some urban explorers wrote about visiting
all the ghost stations in the 1980s. The British Museum station is
the hardest one to get to because they took down the street
entrance in 1973.”

“What do you mean, took it down?” I
asked.

“They literally knocked the building down
and put something else in its place. So now, the only way in is
through the Underground tunnels,” Logan finished proudly.

“The Mongers are using
live
tunnels
to bring the mixed-bloods in?” Connor sounded disbelieving, as
older brothers will, but Logan stood firm.

“Why not? The trains don’t run at night, and
maybe the British Transport Police are Mongers too? It’s not like
they’re moving a mass of people. One or two at a time can slip past
the Station CCTVs with no problem. I’ve done it loads of
times.”

I grimaced. “Of course you have.”

Arman got up and started pacing. “So, when
are we going?”

My first instinct was to tell him there was
no “we” in this. I would be going alone. But if we found the
missing mixed-bloods, someone would need to go to the police,
especially if there were Monger guards to deal with. Arman was
eighteen, athletic, and from a good family, so his credibility with
Scotland Yard wouldn’t be questioned. And he’d probably try to
follow me anyway.

But because opposing Arman was second
nature, I addressed Ava. “Can you try to contact Tam again?”

“I can try. The visions don’t always come
like that, but if he’s thinking about me, we might link up.”

“If you do, please try to confirm they’re in
the British Museum station, and let him know we’re coming.”

Arman was just barely keeping his
frustration in check, but relaxed just a fraction when I finally
turned to him. “Buy as many headlamps as you can, and we’ll bring
them to the mixed-bloods. I’d prefer to have the police lead them
out, but if we have to do it ourselves, they should be prepared.”
Adam nodded and I turned to Connor. “Find out the Central Line
schedule, see if there’s an actual map of the tunnels. If you can
determine schematics of the stations closest to the British Museum,
that would be useful as well.”

And because young Logan looked so hopeful, I
added. “Whatever information you can find about how the urban
explorers got to the British Museum station will save me from
stumbling around dark tunnels like a fool, and would be
appreciated.” His enthusiastic nod made Ava giggle.

I looked around the room. They were all so
very young, and yet their sense of responsibility and willingness
to
do something
was more advanced than that of many adults
I’d known.

I focused on Connor and Logan. “Tell your
mum what we’re doing, and I’ll do the same with Jeeves.”

“What about my uncle and the Ladies Elian?”
Connor asked.

I turned to Ava. “When is the Council
meeting?”

“My mother has called a special session for
two days from now, at seven p.m. She has insisted that all Family
Heads and their heirs be present.” Ava had a crisp, authoritative
way about her when speaking about business that enhanced, rather
than contradicted, her ethereal loveliness.

“She needs the numbers to try to remove
Rothchild,” added Arman.

I returned my gaze to the young brothers.
“No one can say anything to your uncle or to the Ladies Elian. If
they decide to go to that Council meeting, and if the Monger ring
is used on them, we can’t take the risk they’d tell the Mongers
what we’re up to.” I included the twins in my statement, and Arman
looked grim.

“Walters won’t be at the meeting. It’s too
dangerous for him to be out in public right now,” he said.

“I hope you’re right,” I said, “but with all
the Family Heads otherwise occupied, he may decide it’s a perfect
time to eliminate his mixed-blood problem. I’ll stay at Bishop
Cleary’s tomorrow. Meet me there at sundown in two nights with
whatever exploration supplies the Edwards boys think we need.”

Logan’s face betrayed his excitement at
being included in the planning, and I hoped it was enough to
preclude a desire to participate in the rescue attempt. I had the
sense that an outright “no, you can’t come” would guarantee that
he’d find a way to join us.

I turned to Ava. “I presume you’ll be going
to the Council meeting as well?” She nodded. “You’ve seen what the
ring looks like. Study the Monger hands, Rothchild and his daughter
in particular. If that ring appears, get out, and get a message to
Jeeves. If Claire and Millicent are there, he will be waiting in
the car, and he’ll know how to proceed from there.”

“I will,” she said solemnly. Then she
touched my arm with a careful hand. The sudden shock of a vision
clouded my head, and her fingers gripped me, hard, as she Saw it
too.

Darkness. A tunnel. Danger from all sides –
the live rails, Mongers with guns, rats who watched with glittering
eyes from the shadows. Then the ghost station, where a hulking
train lurked in the darkness, filled with people afraid to sleep
too deeply. There was fear, and some anger, in the shadows.

A gunshot. And then panic – people running,
following Arman’s call. More shots fired, and a dull metal thud as
a stray bullet hit something metallic, something old.

Then a deep rumble. Not a train. The earth
itself.

Ava gasped and pulled back as though my arm
had burned her hand. She stared into my eyes with a wild look.
“It’s too dangerous …”

My heart was still pounding as the vision
finally faded. It left a lingering fear in its wake – fear not for
my own safety, but rather a deep, abiding fear of leaving Saira
alone.

I could sense Ava pulling back, making a
different plan, and there was hopelessness in her expression. I
touched her sleeve, careful not to encounter bare skin again. “I
have to do this, Ava. There’s no other way.”

Her whispered voice trembled as she searched
my eyes. “You can’t.”

“You know I do.”

Tears filled her eyes and she shook her
head. “Saira will know.”

“What will she know,” I asked Ava
gently.

“That you knew you’d die, and you went
anyway.”

The Woods

Ringo came back just after sunrise with two
rabbits and a pheasant to clean. I took the pheasant because I knew
chickens and could deal with the feathers and blood, and because
gutting a rabbit was more hardcore than I knew how to be at the
moment.

He raised an eyebrow but said nothing about
Archer’s absence. Maybe he thought Archer was down below in the
cellar. For that matter, maybe he was. I wasn’t going to chase him
down though. My ego and confidence had taken a hit, and I was too
busy ignoring the prickling of indignation, guilt, and insecurity
that had made me slightly nauseous when I’d woken up alone.

After we’d cleaned ourselves up from the
bloody work, Ringo handed me the skinned and gutted meat. “Take
these to Marianne, would ye? There are some chanterelles in my bag
as well for ‘er.” He collapsed on his bed and peeked an eye up at
me from the shadows of his stall. “I didn’t see signs the Germans
‘ad been about, and the Maquis are likely down for the day, so ye
should be alright if ye go out.”

I hoisted his bag on my shoulder. “Sleep
tight.”

“What does that mean?” His eyes were already
closing.

“It’s a thing moms say when they’re tucking
you in.”

“Well, it sounds ‘orrible, like ye’ll not
move and wake up stiff as anythin’.”

“The follow-up to it is ‘don’t let the
bedbugs bite,’ because that doesn’t give kids nightmares.”

He chuckled sleepily at the irony in my
tone. “No bedbugs when ye sleep on the ground. The rats get
‘em.”

I shuddered. “Right up there with yeasty
codpiece. Thanks for that.”

He was still chuckling when I left the
barn.

A layer of mist hung over the garden, and it
gave the place an eerie feeling of silence – a suppression of sound
rather than the absence of it. As if the land itself was holding
its breath, waiting for the war to come and spoil it.

The kitchen door of the house opened, and
Marianne stepped outside with a basket over one arm, and a
beautiful embroidered shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She
didn’t seem surprised to see me, and was delighted with the meat I
held out to her. “From Louis,” I said softly in French.

She spoke rapidly as she led me inside to
the sink, where I laid the meat and washed my hands before digging
the chanterelle mushrooms from Ringo’s pack. More rapid French as
she happily took them from me and began preparing a marinade of
lemon, olive oil, and rosemary. I helped chop the rosemary as
Marianne made very quick work cutting the rabbits into pieces,
which she dropped into the bowl with the marinade, then covered
with a heavy plate. The pheasant was prepared for roasting, and
then everything was taken down the stairs to the cellar, which was
nearly as cool as a refrigerator. I noticed the gaps in her food
shelves and realized that Marianne and Marcel were living a
farmer’s version of hand-to-mouth.