Burn Mark (23 page)

‘Why’d they want to draw that sort of attention to themselves? Most likely it’s some random nutter. Or foreign terrorists.’

‘It’s the same old vicious circle. Witchkind complain about being persecuted, so they hurt somebody or disrupt something in protest. Then they become outraged when there are reprisals. No wonder people think they can’t be trusted.’

‘“
They
”?’ she repeated. ‘Ain’t you a witch too?’

He coloured. ‘Yes. And I’m all too aware of the responsibilities. The fae is like carrying a weapon – something to be used as a last resort. The end must always justify the means.’

He sounded pompous, and they both knew it. The girl raised her eyebrows. ‘For “Queen and Country” . . . I s’pose that’s what they teach you at WICA. Shame not everyone has the luxury to be so high-minded.’

‘Well, the fact is most of the work that law-abiding witches do is simply counteracting the damage that other witches inflict.’ Lucas didn’t realise he was quoting his father until he’d said it. ‘Look at history. Look at the crime statistics.’

She gave a snort. ‘And who collects the statistics and writes the history books, who chairs the bloody debates? You want numbers, fine. Take the Burning Times: sixty thousand witchkind men, women and children –
children
– burned and tortured to death in sixteenth-century Europe alone.

‘Just because I don’t speak posh, don’t mean I’m pig-ignorant either,’ she added.

The girl was obviously carrying several chips on her shoulder, but the main irritation was that she had a point. Lucas struggled to keep his tone level. ‘Most human history involves suffering. But any cult of victimhood is dangerous. It feeds on bitterness and revenge, not to say myth-making.’

Glory’s eyes flashed. ‘Myths! My gran and great-gran died at the Inquisition’s hands. How’s that for a bedtime story?’ She came to a stop, and took a deep breath. ‘OK . . . maybe your family’s been one of the lucky ones. But imagine if they wasn’t. Imagine it was your granny who got killed ’cause of her fae. Or your mum. Would you still be telling witchkind to keep a stiff upper lip?’

Lucas thought of the dreamy portrait in the library at home. His father had had to identify Camilla Stearne’s body, pulled from the wreck of her burning car. He looked at her with distaste. ‘I’d know that getting hysterical about it wouldn’t bring her back.’

It was probably just as well Glory’s phone interrupted them with the
beep
of a new text message. For a moment, he’d thought she was about to hit him.

‘It’s from Auntie A.’ She got up, her face set. ‘Time to plan your first gig.’

‘Arrogant little turd,’ Glory muttered to herself. All high-class sneers and condescension. But as they walked back – Glory marching ahead, Harry Whoever-He-Was strolling along with his hands in his pockets – she forced herself to calm down. She’d come very close to giving herself away. He must know she was already on the Inquisition’s watch-list; no doubt he’d been trying to goad her into saying something incriminating.

They met her dad outside Number Seven. ‘Who’s this then?’ Patrick said with a nervous smile. ‘New friend?’

‘Dad. I told you about this, remember. He’s Harry. He’s going to do some work for the coven.’

‘It’s good to meet you, Mr Wilde.’ Harry put out his hand and Patrick, giving Glory a slightly baffled look, shook it. Harry moved past him into the house, where he was noisily greeted by Chunk and Jacko. He’d said he was going to put his shopping in his room before rejoining her and Angeline.

‘The poor lad looks done in,’ said Patrick. ‘What kind of work is he doing, anyhow?’

Glory managed not to roll her eyes. They’d been through this before. ‘He’s a witch, Dad.’

‘Oh yes, that’s right. But . . . dear me . . . if you two are seen together, mightn’t that attract trouble? From the authorities, I mean. You don’t want to draw attention to yourself.’

‘Auntie Angel’s supervising. We’ll be careful.’

‘I see . . . But –’

‘It’s
fine
, Dad.’

‘All right, love. If you say so.’ Patrick’s forehead wrinkled in thought. ‘Well, he’s got a nice way of speaking, I’ll say that for him. Very gentlemanly.’

Ugh. Smarming up to her dad like that – it was disgusting. Harry might be an Inquisition stooge, but Glory resented how quickly he’d been accepted by the rest of the coven. He’d only been here five minutes, didn’t look, talk or act like anyone they knew, and yet he was already one of the boys. A real gentleman crook.

Going to Auntie Angel’s made her feel better. Among the lace and china knick-knacks, the pink candy-striped walls, the Starling girls still reigned supreme; bad, bold and beautiful as ever. When Harry arrived, she could see his eyes were drawn to their pictures too. Lightly, she touched the undone amulet (reduced to a scrap of dirty blank paper) in her pocket. His glamour’s eyes had been muddy brown, but as long as she carried the amulet she could see their true dark blue. She supposed the shadows under them must be showing up on his glamour too.

‘Are you a Starling fan?’ she couldn’t resist asking.

He shrugged. ‘Their facilities were remarkable. I just think it’s a shame they couldn’t have put them to better use.’

Facilities! It was as if he was talking about a household appliance. Or a well-designed kitchen.

‘Maybe they didn’t have much of a choice.’

‘There’s always a choice. Like you choosing to help me.’

‘True enough,’ Auntie Angel agreed, coming in with a tray of tea and biscuits. She beamed at them over the china. ‘Now, let’s all sit down, and find ourselves the best way to go robbing. Milk and sugar, Harry?’

Stonily, Glory listened to her great-aunt outline the plan of action, allocate roles and discuss preparations. Afterwards, Angeline told Harry to round up the rest of the coven so they could get things started.

Once he was gone, she reached across and tugged Glory’s hair so hard she yelped.

‘Whatever happened to easing suspicion and playing nice? I’ve had enough of the sulks and the stroppiness. So has Harry, by the look of things. It’s time to mend your manners, girl.’

Glory had been about to boast about undoing the witch-agent’s glamour. Now she decided to keep it to herself. Lately she’d begun to wonder what would have happened if she hadn’t got the fae, not ever, and an unknown witch like Harry really had been recruited for the coven. She’d like to believe that Auntie Angel would have continued to fight her corner, to fuss over her just the same, but she couldn’t be sure. Maybe she’d have ended up doing the housekeeping, like Harry said.

It hurt that the old lady didn’t seem to realise how difficult this was for her. Harry’s coven debut was going to be a copy of one of the Starling Twins’ earliest and most audacious scams. To add insult to injury she, Glory, was going to have to stand by and watch him flaunt his fae in triumph.

Chapter 20

The Starling Twins had been sixteen when they pulled off the House of Cleeve robbery, at a diamond merchant’s in Bond Street. It was their first act of witchcrime to hit the headlines, for they’d used both glamours and fascinations to waltz off with over ten thousand pounds worth of gems.

Cooper Street’s ambitions were more modest. Their mark was a small jeweller’s in a quiet Islington street. The manager was a young woman, new to the job. She spent most of her days reading celebrity magazines and updating her Facebook account. There was one security guard and two CCTV cameras. The shop and its display cases were alarmed and there was, of course, the usual iron bell over the door.

The account the manager gave to the shop’s owner and the police began simply enough. She and the guard had been alone in the premises on Friday afternoon, when a teenage girl came through the door. Her hair was long and dark, and she was wearing a little black dress and leopard print heels. There was perhaps something a little . . .
common
about her, the manager thought, but the outfit looked expensive. Her Gucci bag and oversized Chanel sunglasses certainly were. What’s more, she had arrived in a BMW with blacked-out windows.

The girl said she was just browsing. ‘It’s s’posed to be for my birthday.’ Her voice was a touch rough around the edges too. ‘But Blake’s fed up with shopping. We’ve been looking all morning.’

Glancing out of the window, the manager saw a teenage boy lounging by the side of the BMW. She did a double-take.

This was no ordinary teenager. It was Blake Gordon, star of the
Heretic Heart
film franchise. He played a heroic young inquisitor, fighting witches in sixteenth-century Spain. She’d read in her magazines that he was in London to promote the latest film, and here he unmistakably was. Scruffy, with warm caramel skin and dimples, just like in all the posters and pap-shots. The only difference was that he was a little shorter than she’d realised, and looked younger than eighteen.

In her statement to the police, the manager was careful to explain that her excitement at seeing him was purely professional. This was her chance to make a big sale, and gain some publicity for the shop. Her pulse quickened.

Meanwhile, the girl was trying on a heart-shaped sapphire and gold locket, pouting into the mirror. ‘I’m not sure he’d like it on me,’ she said.

‘Perhaps,’ said the manager, ‘your . . . er . . . friend might like to come in and help you choose?’

The girl shrugged. ‘He says he’s shopped-out. You can try.’

The manager needed no further encouragement. She hurried out into the street, leaving the security guard to watch the girl. Deferentially, she invited Blake Gordon to join them inside.

At first, the celebrity was both grumpy and reluctant. But if he’d been charming from the first it really would have seemed too good to be true. He was accompanied by his minder, a muscular young man with a bald head and dark glasses.

Inside the shop, Blake went up to the girl and squeezed her around the waist. She put her hands on his, squeezed him back, and smiled. ‘What do you think?’

She was trying to decide between two necklaces. One was the gold locket, the other a diamond necklace. ‘Either one, whatever,’ Blake yawned. Catching the manager’s eye, he flashed the smile that millions of girls had stuck to their bedroom walls. Blake Gordon’s powers were so much more alluring than witchwork. He was, after all, a
celebrity
.

It was then that someone else came into the shop. A middle-aged woman – the frumpy type. ‘Oh my God,’ she breathed. ‘It’s Alanzo!’ Alanzo was the Spanish inquisitor Blake Gordon played in the films. ‘I knew it. I saw you through the window. Alanzo. It’s really you!’

The security guard shifted his feet uneasily. It was getting pretty crowded in there: the film star, his girlfriend, the minder, the manager – and now the fan. Blake Gordon gave the new arrival a look of weary scorn, before turning his attentions back to the girl.

She had returned the locket to its case, and was just taking off the diamond necklace. There was a slight problem with a catch, which had got tangled in her hair. Blake was helping her. Meanwhile, the fan grew insistent: telling him how much she admired him, asking for an autograph for her niece. The security guard was between her and Blake, but the situation was complicated by Blake’s minder, who was getting aggressive. The manager tried to intervene. There was a moment of confusion, raised voices and a slight scuffle, before the fan was ejected from the shop.

Calm was restored, but the damage was done. Blake wanted to leave. At once. Impatiently, he hustled his girlfriend away, dropping the diamonds into the manager’s hand. ‘You’re a star,’ he murmured in his soft American twang. Yes, she’d admit it, she was dazzled – but not so dazzled that she didn’t get a good look at the necklace. All was as it should be. She carefully returned it to the case and the security guard held open the door.

The disgruntled fan had already left in a huff; now the BMW pulled away and drove down the road. The guard resumed his post, the manager fanned her flushed cheeks. The excitement was over. It wasn’t until at least twenty minutes later that she glanced at the case and saw the diamonds had turned into a cheap trinket of paper, ribbon and plastic.

Cooper Street had only had two and a bit days to arrange the scam, but preparations had been intense, and more disciplined than Lucas would have thought possible. Glory’s wig was real hair but her designer accessories were fake. So were the number plates on the BMW, borrowed from a car salesman who owed the coven a favour. Only Lucas had a glamour. He wore Blake’s over Harry’s, which he still carried, so the original illusion would remain intact after Blake’s was destroyed. The others had used the services of Earl’s sister-in-law, a make-up artist called Val. Her most dramatic work was on Nate, who had a latex cap stuck over his head to turn him bald. Val had played the persistent fan, and Patch had been the driver.

Stealing a real person’s identity was quite different to inventing a character like Harry, and Lucas felt a twinge of guilt on Blake Gordon’s behalf. The Starling Twins, he knew, had impersonated Elizabeth Taylor in their heist.

His first task, however, was to craft the decoy necklace. A fascination was witchwork that changed people’s perception of their environment or objects in it. The most popular use for this was to disguise illegal goods and fake valuable ones. Using an image of the diamonds on the jeweller’s website as his reference, Lucas created a rough copy by threading his fae through a gold ribbon and plastic beads. It wasn’t just the physical appearance he needed to mimic, however. The false jewels had to take on the aura of beauty and luxury that the real ones represented. As symbols of this, he took a glossy picture of a model from a magazine, and a rare fifty-pound note from the coven kitty. Moistening both pieces of paper with spit, he rolled and twisted them into thick threads, which he knotted in turn to the gold ribbon. He wrapped up the end result in a silk cloth.