Burn Mark (38 page)

Troy was staring down at Lord Merle’s lifeless body. Serena was still collapsed in the chair, rubbing her hands and rocking. But when she heard Glory, her face lightened. ‘Silas! Oh good. He’s right on time.’ Her hysterics were over almost as quickly as they’d begun. ‘Quick,’ she said. ‘Over here.’

She hurried over to her husband’s corpse and, with Troy’s help, dragged him behind the folding screen. Glory pushed a rug over the blood smears on the carpet. Heavy steps could be heard on the stairs outside.

Serena grabbed Troy by the arm. She spoke in an urgent undertone. ‘I’m sorry. Godfrey turning up early – well, it unsettled me. It wasn’t the plan. The two of them should have got here at the same time. But it’s all right. I can improvise.’

There was a tap on the door. ‘Serena? Are you in there?’

‘You wouldn’t believe me before,’ she whispered. ‘So believe me now. You
have
to go.’

Somehow, Troy and Glory allowed themselves to be pushed into the adjoining room, the one Serena had originally entered from. It was the connecting corner room between the west wing of the attic where Rose had her quarters, and the south which ran the length of the main house.

‘There’s a set of stairs at the other end,’ Serena said. ‘From there you should be able to get away. Be quick.’

Troy began to protest but she shut the door on him and turned the key. ‘Just a moment, Silas,’ her voice said brightly.

Glory and Troy looked around them. They were in another bedroom, but its furnishings included a medicine cabinet, and various scans and charts pinned to the wall. The second door opened on to a corridor, and a series of small rooms that must have once belonged to servants.

‘The woman’s cracked.’ Troy muttered. ‘What the hell is she up to?’

‘We’ll find out soon enough.’ Glory pointed to a TV monitor in the corner. Serena had said that Rose needed to be watched all the time, in case she injured herself without realising it. This room must be for her private nurse. She pressed her ear to the wall, and was gratified to find the partition was thin enough to listen through. She kept her eyes on the screen.

Godfrey Merle was a bully. Glory was used to men like him. Silas Paterson, however, was a different kind of crook. Apart from Officer Branning, he was the first inquisitor she’d seen at close hand. He looked much more how she imagined such a person to be: tall and lean with a silvery, sinister elegance.

Lady Merle had undergone another of her transformations. ‘I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting, Colonel,’ she was saying, all a-flutter with charm.

‘I’ve never had a secret assignation in an attic before. Your note was most mysterious. I confess I wasn’t sure what to make of it.’

She laughed mischievously. Her bosom billowed over the violet dress. She went behind him and shut the door to the stairs. ‘Maybe I just wanted to have you all to myself.’

‘And what would Godfrey have to say about that?’

‘He’d probably tell me to stop being so theatrical.’ Serena took out a packet of cigarettes from her bag. ‘And he might have a point . . . However, I wanted to talk to you somewhere I knew we wouldn’t be disturbed.’ She lit a cigarette and inhaled pleasurably. ‘Mm –
mm
. I know that you and Godfrey are behind all these witch-attacks, you see.’

Troy and Glory exchanged looks. How would this end?

Silas Paterson, however, didn’t look alarmed. ‘Do you now?’ He settled into the armchair. ‘How interesting.’

‘I thought so, yes.’

‘And how did you find out, might I ask?’

She smiled, breathing out a stream of creamy smoke. ‘Pillow talk.’

‘Oh, Serena.’ Silas shook his head indulgently. ‘I’m sure there was more to it than that. I’ve always thought Godfrey underestimates you . . . And come to think of it, I suspect that you’ve done some talking of your own. Only twenty minutes ago, I had a call from one of my associates. He’s just apprehended an intruder in my office. A friend of yours, I assume?’

Glory bit her lip, so hard she tasted blood. Lucas. It had to be.

‘I don’t have any friends, Silas darling. Even my admirers are getting thin on the ground.’

The Colonel brushed a speck of dust from his sleeve. ‘No matter. We have arrangements in place for just such a contingency. The situation is under control. I’m curious, however – what did you hope to achieve by bringing me up here? Are you going to beg me to see the errors of my ways? Make me an offer I can’t refuse?’

‘Actually, I’m here to give you a present.’ Her left hand traced, teasingly, the curve of her iron collar. ‘You like balefires, don’t you, Silas? You like to watch witches burn? Well . . . this is your lucky night.’

She tossed her lit cigarette in the direction of the door. It lay smouldering for no more than a second or two, before the carpet and door panel combusted with a
whoosh!

Troy and Glory, watching events on the little screen, recoiled in shock. Silas leapt to his feet.

‘You crazy bitch – what the hex are you doing?’

‘Toasting my success. It’s pure alcohol, sweetie; no smell or stain. The room’s been soaked with it. So are the stairs. They’ll be alight already.’

He got out his phone, saw there was no signal, and swore.

Oily plumes of smoke were already rising from the doorway and up into the corners of the room. Flames fluttered after them.

The attic windows were too small to offer any hope of escape. Silas lunged towards the only other door in the room, behind which Troy and Glory were standing. Of course it was locked. ‘Open this door.
Now.’

Serena watched him calmly. ‘I couldn’t possibly. I threw the key out of the window. Don’t worry,’ she added, ‘the smoke will get to us before the fire. We won’t feel a thing.’

The inquisitor continued to blunder about as the flames muttered and scurried along the floor and up the walls. He kicked over the screen, exposing Lord Merle’s bloodied corpse, and gave a cry of horror.

‘You’ll burn in hell’s own balefire for this!’

‘I deserve it,’ Serena said. ‘And so do you. Have a little dignity, Silas.’

It was a big room but half of it was already ablaze. The lens of the camera was obscured by smoke; shortly afterwards the screen went dead. Troy turned to Glory. ‘Time to get out of here.’ He opened the door to the rest of the attic.

‘But we can’t just leave them –’

‘Why not? She’s mad and he’s evil. With Merle already dead, I reckon that’s quite a few problems solved.’

‘It won’t change nothing! Paterson and Merle have associates. They’ll carry on without them – this’ll just be used as more proof of how wicked witches are!’

He hesitated.

‘And besides, you heard what the bastard said. His goons have got Lucas. We have to find out what they’ve done with him. C’mon, Troy.
Please
.’

‘All right. Whatever.’

Troy checked the door handle. The metal was still relatively cool to the touch. He stood back, then ran to slam his shoulder against the door.

Silas shouted from the other side. Troy tried again, again with no success. Smoke was seeping around the edges.

‘Keep back,’ Troy yelled, and got out his gun. He shot repeatedly at the lock. Moments later, Silas Patterson stumbled through, and collapsed on the floor.

It was astonishing how quickly the fire had taken hold. The room was a flickering cavern of heat, the curtains and drapes peeling off in flakes as they burned.

Lady Merle was on Rose’s bed, trying to heave up her husband’s body beside her.

Troy and Glory ducked down low, raised their arms over their noses and mouths, and lurched towards her. By crouching low to the floor, where the air was clearer, they managed to escape the worst of the fumes. Glory tried to pull Serena away, but the woman fought back, kicking and scratching. Troy wrestled her down at last and began to drag her towards the exit.

‘No, no, I won’t,’ she choked out. ‘You’re wrecking everything. Let me
go
–’

‘What about Rose?’ Glory pleaded.

‘She’s better – off – without me. I’ve made my – my bed and – now – now I’ll lie in it –’

Serena wrenched herself free and ran back into the flooding heat. Glory stared with streaming eyes as white skin, violet silk, were swallowed by smoke.

‘Leave her,’ Troy shouted. ‘We can’t save them both. For God’s sake, Glory!
Move
!’

They plunged back through the burning doorway. Silas was collapsed on the floor the other side, his body racked by coughs. The air was poisonously thick. Glory felt as if there was an animal scrabbling to get out of her chest, its hot black fur clogging her lungs. All she wanted was to lie down, to close her eyes, just until she could recover her strength. But Troy’s hand was on her back, pushing her on, and together they staggered through into the further reaches of the attic, hauling the inquisitor along with them.

Chapter 34

There was more space in the back of the van than in the boot of Troy’s Mercedes, but because of the drug, Lucas couldn’t sit upright and he lolled helplessly, jolting about with the motion of the vehicle. Perhaps the drug was of some benefit: he was too confused to be truly afraid.

Soon, far too soon, the van came to a stop. The doors slid open and Gideon and the driver, a pinched-faced young man Lucas thought he recognised from the inquisitorial guard, pulled him out. They were in a street of big dirty-white townhouses, of the kind that had once been impressive homes but were now eking out a living as hostels and cheap hotels. Their particular destination had chipped cornicing and broken steps that were sprouting weeds. The upper storeys had been converted into flats; through the sagging curtains of the ground floor window, Lucas glimpsed a woman sitting at a table with a little boy. He was colouring with crayons. The light was peaceful, warm.

As he was hustled towards the basement steps, Lucas willed the woman to look out. Even if she couldn’t tell what, if anything, was wrong, he wanted her to see his face, for her eyes to connect with his. But of course her attention was on the child. The little boy laughed, and Lucas felt an anticipatory constriction in his chest. The muddling effect of the drug was already wearing off. Nobody knew he was here, nobody could stop what was happening. This was real.

It became even more real in the room they took him to: windowless, with an iron door, and lit by a bare bulb. Gideon and Zilla faced Lucas across the table: real grown-up inquisitors doing a real grown-up interrogation. In spite of their grave looks, they were excited about it, Lucas could tell. Gideon probably practised this sort of thing in front of the mirror. Zilla’s severity sat uneasily with her pouty, posh-girl looks, like badly applied make-up.
What are we doing here?
Lucas thought.
We’re all amateurs. None of us knows how this will end.

He tried and failed to sit up straight. He was drugged and dirty, in iron cuffs. He looked at Gideon in his well-cut suit, his sleek hair slanting over his brow. The clear eyes, the easy smile. He was everything Lucas was supposed to be.

Lucas cleared his throat. ‘This is illegal. Kidnap, drugging and assault.’

‘I’m disappointed, Stearne,’ Gideon said. ‘I would expect a swot like you to have studied the small print of the 1997 Witch-Terrorism Act. You like quoting rules and regulations, don’t you? So let me remind you of Clause 9: in times of national crisis, the British parliament can vote to impose special short-term measures for the prevention of witch-terrorist attacks. Which they did only this afternoon. Emergency powers are now in effect.’

‘OK. Before you go any further, you should know that I’m working for WICA –’

Zilla actually giggled. ‘A boy detective! How
thrilling
.’

‘That’s why I’m off-record. My case file is classified.’

Gideon folded his arms across his chest. ‘How convenient. Because you certainly don’t appear on any register I’ve ever seen.’

‘Well, since you’re a glorified intern, not a High Inquisitor, that’s not exactly a shocker.’ Finally, Lucas felt ready for a fight. ‘That must be why Paterson recruited you to his crackpot scheme – he knew you’d be vain enough to think that being his henchman is some kind of promotion.’ Gideon’s face tightened, and Lucas knew he was right. He let the anger rise, pushing out the fear. ‘So yes, I know all about Paterson and Lord Merle, and that awful Howell woman. I know what you’re up to. You’re framing witchkind for your own crimes, so you can return this country to the golden age of a balefire on every corner, and a witch-hunt twice a week.’

‘A general crackdown is in the national interest,’ Zilla said coldly. ‘We have intelligence that Endor is regrouping. We need to be ready for them, to have the necessary powers and procedures in place.’

Now it was Lucas’s turn to laugh. ‘Seriously? You’re
seriously
going to give me the whole “the ends justify the means” crap?’

‘If we’re going to talk about clichés,’ Gideon retorted, ‘let’s start with the liberal ones. All that whining about witchkind rights, the endless hand-wringing over so-called persecutions . . . And people actually fall for it! It’s retreat after retreat. Concession after concession.’ He spoke with a passion that had been missing from his performance in the school hall. ‘They have insinuated themselves into all aspects of public life. The rise of Jack Rawdon is a case in point – we’ve put national security in the hands of the people who pose the greatest threat to it! For wasn’t that Endor’s mission, in the first place? A world run by witches. Ten, fifteen years down the line, the offices of the Inquisition will be little more than a heritage theme park.’