All That Burns (16 page)

Her plea—so hopeful and desperate from the shelter of her hoodie—seems to soften the Ad-hene’s face. The edge of his lip twitches. “I’ll try my best, Princess.”

Anabelle slides her hand into mine. I hold it tight, brace myself for his spell.

“Follee-shiu
.
”

Kieran’s magic breaks over my head, drips down like an egg yolk, covering every inch of my skin, my clothes. The spell isn’t physically heavy, but I feel a weight to it. And even though it feels like armor, there’s a strange warmth
to the magic. It prickles like pinecones, flushes my cheeks.

I grit my teeth, trying my best not to show how unnerving it is to have the Ad-hene’s magic soaking over me. Anabelle squeezes my hand. The tremor in her fingers tells me she feels this too.

“You’re hidden now.” Kieran doesn’t have to tell me. The knowledge weighs my limbs. It feels as if bricks have been bound to my feet as I walk past the flashing patrol car, through the police barrier.

It’s as awful as I first thought it would be, that morning when Kieran knelt on the cliffside and offered to heal my wound.
Magic
. The feel of it dances across my skin: sparks and longing. I can’t help but remember the rush of my own spells, golden and unyielding through my veins. How the world and everything in it—the sky, the sea, the earth—was at my fingertips.

“Watch it!” Anabelle yanks me directly out of the path of a harried-looking detective.

“Sorry.” We’re almost in the square. My steps sway a bit, as if I’ve had too many gin and tonics. I guess I am drunk in a way, reeling under so much magic after so many months without.

I catch Kieran staring.

But I don’t have time to think about any of this.
Trafalgar Square is at our feet. So empty. The sea of humanity is no more. Instead there are only clusters, islands of investigators and authorized press. Lanes of yellow tape. Hints of the Black Dog’s carnage outlined in chalk and bloodstains. The remnants of the Gold State Coach: splinters and gold in the middle of the road.

When Anabelle sees the carriage she stops. Her eyes flicker, unable to hide the ruin she sees. My muscles tense as I wait for another reaction, some flare in her blood magic, but the princess keeps her promise. She swallows it all back, makes her face hard, stays in control.

Getting close to the carriage takes skill. Human investigators swarm all around its carcass. It’s not so difficult for me to slip through their maze of suits, but I’ve had centuries of practice. As I navigate the obstacle course of cameras and blue-gloved hands I can’t help but catch snippets of the conversation.

“Still no confirmed sightings of His Majesty or his sister.” A detective in a bright yellow vest says as he blows on his coffee.

“What about the Faery?” the man next to him asks.

“Nothing. There’s a warrant out for her.” The detective’s face twists. “They found the Jaguar on the west coast. Abandoned. No telling what she did with the princess.”

They’re talking about
me
.

“This is a bloody mess. Looks like Forsythe was right.”

“You’re not on about that M.A.F. crap again? Mark my words. Julian Forsythe’s up for a power grab.”

“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.” The other man shrugs. “Someone’s got to stand up to these creatures.”

Kieran and Anabelle follow slowly, carefully. Backpackers picking their way through a china shop. The princess only has eyes for the coach. Several times Kieran has to hold her back, guide her through the buzz of mortals.

“Feel anything?” I ask when they reach the edge of the carriage.

Kieran runs his hand over the wheel’s twisted remains. “Titania’s been here, hasn’t she?”

“Yes.” I touch the same wheel. Try to feel what he feels. Just grains of wood and paint brush under my fingertips. The only magic is his. Power and pepper-spice against my skin.

Always reminding.

I pull my hand away.

“There’s hints of Black Dog too.” He removes his hand as well, wiping it on the wool of his peacoat. “Where exactly were you when you felt the prisoner’s aura?”

“In the carriage. We were just pulling under Admirality
Arch over there.” I point to the grand building and its trio of arches. “Shall we go look?”

“Hold on.” Kieran frowns and reaches for the wood again. “There’s something . . .”

“What?”

“The Black Dog . . .” His frown grows. “Something about its aura is off.”

I bite back my questions, watch as his hand moves over the wood. He shuts his eyes, lids fluttering in concentration. Reading all the things I can’t.

Anabelle presses close, smashing hard into my shoulder to avoid another quick-walking detective. “Is it really safe to be standing here? I’ve had about twelve close calls already.”

She’s right. Even in the short time we’ve been standing by the carriage the crowd of mortals has grown. It’s only a matter of time before one of them jostles into one of us.

“Kieran.” I grab the edge of his coat. “Let’s go to the Admirality Arch.”

“Just a moment.” His eyes are still closed. His hand is now fully gripped around the rim of the wheel. “Some of the prisoner’s magic is here. Very faint. Buried in the Black Dog’s aura.”

I think of my own encounter with the Black Dog—how,
instead of tearing my flesh from bone, it retreated into Westminster’s Underground. How Blæc’s breath hissed as it vanished into the shadows:
Can’t . . . not yet . . . won’t let me eat . . .

Not a miracle.

A curse.

Blæc didn’t spare me out of mercy or restraint. He was being
starved
. So he could wreak havoc in Trafalgar Square on the day of the coronation. Draw all defense and attentions away from the carriage. Create the perfect window for the masked men to come . . .

“We find the dog, we find the trail,” Kieran says.

“Last I heard it was in Queen Titania’s custody.”

“With the Frithemaeg? That should be easy enough.”

I can’t hide my doubt; it’s all over my face. “Titania isn’t well. And she’s not exactly supportive of this investigation.”

“You’re at odds?” Kieran steps away from the wheel.

At odds.
What a civil way to describe how the Faery queen withdrew her help when we needed her most.
Abandoned
or
betrayed
feels far more fitting.

“I’ll send a message asking about the dog.” I look back over to the Admirality Arch: three gaps which open up to the Mall, lead the way to Buckingham. I can even see a
few of the plane trees beyond. Leaves brown and shriveled. Dying without color.

“We should go over there.” I point to the arches. “Where I felt—”

All of a sudden I feel like those trees, shedding and peeling off dead layers. Kieran’s eyes shine bright with horror as he watches his veiling spell unravel. The power which was not mine slips away—gone again.

All three of us are stripped bare. Exposed for every eye and camera lens in Trafalgar Square to see. The scene around us freezes, detectives stunned and us caught like deer in a car’s headlamps.

Then the moment shatters. I grab the hem of Anabelle’s sweatshirt, tug her with me as I lunge from the ruined carriage. The princess doesn’t hesitate. Neither do the investigators. Cups of coffee splatter on the ground. Stun guns—blue and bright fragments of lightning—jag into the corner of my vision.

We run. Dodging streetlamps and parked police vans. Sprinting around statues and fountains. My feet jar against asphalt and stone, over those horrible chalk outlines of the souls Blæc took. Anabelle runs beside me, keeping perfect pace. Kieran is nowhere in sight. I don’t have time to stop and look for him. If these men catch
me, so much more time will be wasted. Time Richard can’t afford.

But all ways out of Trafalgar Square are blocked. Choked with metal barriers and eavesdropping reporters. We’re like rats in a trap, running in circles, trying to find a way out.

There’s none.

Someone claws my shoulder, jerking me back so hard my cap tumbles off. Another detective grabs Anabelle. The princess twists in his arms—movement made of fury and panic. I feel her strength swelling. Magic ready to spill over at any second.

“Don’t, Belle! You promised!” I spit the words at her. “We’ll find another way!”

For a moment I fear the princess won’t be able to stop the surge. But Anabelle manages to push it down. She screams instead, jousting a sharp elbow into her captor’s stomach. He doubles over, releases her onto the stones. I dig my feet into the asphalt, pull hard against the fingers looped into my jumper. There’s a fraying of yarn and I’m free.

Then I see Kieran. He’s looming over the street, perched next to a statue of Charles the First. Looking very much the way he did when I first saw him: fierce and dead, fire
and slate. Something to be feared. He glowers over our pursuers. His arm stretches out and through the thick of his peacoat I see the glow of his scar. Blazing.

His magic thunders through the square, lances through the ground like silver lightning. The asphalt which was so sure and solid under our feet becomes quicksand, tugging first at toes. Then ankles. Trapping those standing on it like flies in a pool of tar. Some of the detectives are knee-deep in the softened street.

The Ad-hene is the only one who does not sink. Kieran walks toward us with firm steps and tugs Anabelle up from the viscous street-gunk. He offers his arm out to me, the one where the scar’s light still throbs through his clothing. A slight singeing smell drifts from the sleeve’s wool: magic burning through.

I stare at his outstretched hand another moment. It’s steady, strong, unflinching. Just like the magic warping the asphalt at my feet, it lures me in: deeper and deeper.

Kieran doesn’t wait for me to reach. He grabs my arm and I feel the heat of his mark—searing against my skin. All it takes is one pull and I’m free. Back on solid ground.

“T
his is a terrible idea,” Anabelle whispers as we walk into the pub. The hood of her sweatshirt is tugged halfway down her face, so I have to guide her around the dimly lit tables.

I’ve already commandeered Kieran’s cap. His scarf too. I take in the early evening crowd, mostly paunchy, middle-aged men leaning over pints, watching reruns of a football match. The man closest to the end of the bar gives us a side glance as we walk in. The rest stay glued to the screen.

The princess is right. This isn’t the best of ideas, but our need to get off London’s streets has escalated to crucial levels. Just like my hunger. It’s been over a day since I’ve had anything more than the expired, crumbling granola bar I foraged from the Jaguar’s glove box.

“We need to eat and regroup,” I tell her. “If someone recognizes us, Kieran can wipe their memory.”

“Right. Because his spell worked so well last time.” Anabelle flops into a booth. “That was a Grade A, bloody
circus of a disaster. I think every news venue in Britain caught that on tape.”

Most of the pub’s screens are switched to the football match, but the closest one is all news. In the brief time we’ve been sitting here Richard’s image has flashed twice. The first photograph shows him in his polo gear, arm slung around Edmund, one of his Eton buddies. The second is from the red carpet at the Winfreds’ gala. It has to be, because I can see the embroidered sleeve of my dress.

My face is cut out completely.

Kieran shrugs off his peacoat and moves into the booth next to Anabelle. “I underestimated the power of this city. I’m sorry, I didn’t feel the spell slipping until it was too late.”

I look at the coat still draped over his arm, burn marks wormed into its sleeve. The ring of ruined fabric hugs his thermal shirt too, in the exact pattern of his scar—the one Titania was so certain meant betrayal.

The Ad-hene can’t be trusted.

Was Titania right? I think of how solid and sure Kieran’s magic felt in the square. How little the sickness of the machines seemed to affect him, despite his age. Was it possible Kieran
let
the veiling spell fall? That he meant for us to be exposed?

Kieran’s slate-gray eyes catch mine. “I won’t be able to hide all of us again. Perhaps just one. If the situation is dire.”

“At least we found something.” Anabelle picks up a menu. Lets it fall back down to the table without so much as a glance. “Queen Titania will send us the dog and we can find out who spelled it.”

A woman comes up to the table, takes our order. Anabelle slouches far into her end of the booth, and I can’t help but tug down my cap. But the waitress has eyes only for Kieran. She doesn’t even seem to notice the burn on his sleeve.

I can’t help but look at the screen. The reporter’s voice buzzes through the speakers. Eternally loud.

“
What was supposed to be a national celebration turned tragic yesterday when King Richard’s coronation carriage was attacked by a spirit known as a Black Dog.
”

The screen flashes to shots of that morning. Eight plumed horses pulling the Gold State Coach through a sea of cheers and flags. Richard peering out the window. Then, a sudden jerk of the camera, to the huge hulk of shadow which barrels through the crowd. The Black Dog.

I wait for the camera to pan back to the carriage. To show the masked men and my fight, but the scene stays
glued to Blæc. The swirling chaos of people and Fae around it.

A distraction. That’s all the Black Dog was. A savage, deadly distraction. I wonder if
any
of the hundreds of cameras managed to capture Richard’s kidnapping.

It’s like the stage magicians from the Victorian age. The ones veiled in smoke and capes, who yanked rabbits from top hats in the name of magic. Who used beautiful women and shining lights to lure the audience’s attention from the truth. The simplicities of hidden compartments and trapdoors. The art of sleight of hand.

So what were the mechanics of this trick? How did all those men and Richard simply disappear under so many watchful eyes and lenses? In such a space as Trafalgar Square?

Another piece of the puzzle. Missing.

“
The monster left a wake of bodies and missing persons. The most notable being King Richard himself. Rumors are circulating that Princess Anabelle has gone missing as well. Like King Richard, she was last seen in the company of Emrys Léoflic. The alleged former Fae has also dropped off the radar.
”