Histories of the Void Garden, Book 1: Pyre of Dreams (33 page)

Stanwick
huddled one of the grocery bags under her arm, and slung her other
arm over Charlene’s shoulder, “What you just witnessed my dear, was
the first manic misfires of the Tiernan - Miller propaganda
machine, lurching into action in an attempt to get out in front of
a problem.”

Charlene leaned
away from Stanwick’s embrace slightly, “What problem?”

Stanwick
frowned, “Well, us of course.”

David staggered
as he started to walk backwards so that he could face the others,
“That quickly? Because of my phone call?”

West looked
dubious, “No, I would imagine that something else has spooked them
into action. Possibly just your flight from Washington David, but
more likely the fact that two progeny of the void were attacked in
the process.”

West’s
explanation disturbed David - the fact that he had not used the
phrase ‘attacked and killed,’ suggested to him that there was a
real possibility that the men that he’d driven off a cliff hadn’t
drowned in the back of the van. Perhaps West had known that they
wouldn’t die. He watched his daughter, skipping along without a
care in the world, and he felt overcome with guilt that he’d even
brought her with him. He turned his back on the others and scowled
at the pavement as he walked, “We aren’t safe are we?”

West watched as
Stephanie sidestepped towards her father and took his hand in hers.
The truth was that everyone was safe except for Stephanie. He
picked up his pace until he was walking alongside David, “I’d say
we have perhaps a couple of hours to get our affairs in order.
Possibly less. But first, an army marches on its stomach, so we
eat.”

Brad Cobb stood slack
jawed and motionless, his eyes flicking from one screen to the next
as the various news stories broke around the world. He barely
noticed the two agents as they filed in through the heavy door to
the right of the banks of monitors. The two men made for the
executive assistant director’s office, paying no attention to the
pandemonium that was buzzing about the FBI headquarters.

McMahon knocked
politely, but opened the door without waiting for a welcome.

The man behind
the desk got to his feet slowly, towering slightly over McMahon and
Carmichael. He pointed towards the outer office and grinned, “This
your doing?”

Agent
Carmichael rolled his bottom lip under his top teeth, acknowledging
his culpability with a slight lilt of his head. He had been
stationed with Albert Hicks through various government agencies, in
all manner of clandestine posts, and he had always played the part
of second fiddle to Albert’s conductor, mostly willingly. Albert
was long lived, mild mannered, and even by Tiernan’s standards,
methodically vicious. Carmichael and McMahon agreed on few things,
but they were both quick to acknowledge that Albert Hicks was a
good man to have between you and the almighty.

“You’ve spoken
to Miller then?” Hicks asked, unsure whether or not it had been
solely his text message which had stirred Miller into action.

As much as he
respected him, McMahon still struggled to keep a straight face
around Albert. It didn’t help that the timbre of his voice was
unnervingly thin and boyish, like it had never quite finished
breaking. Albert could have changed his voice it if he’d wanted of
course, and that bothered McMahon even more. Why would a man with
Albert Hicks’ history not choose to do something about his peewee
voice? His teeth too; yellowed, gnarly stumps of cracked candy,
offering a paltry barrier against that sharp tongue of his. Why
wouldn’t he just fix himself McMahon wondered. After so long in his
company, he had come to the conclusion that Albert Hicks chose to
be exactly as he was for the simple reason that it wrong footed
people. He noticed now that Hicks was still waiting for a reply,
and he snapped out of his disgusted reverie, “We stopped off at a
coffee shop and used their phone to call Miller on the way
here.”

Hicks scratched
his scalp, running his murderous little hands through a thick black
head of hair as he tried to imagine how McMahon’s conversation with
Miller had played out. “Brad Cobb’s on this now. He’s got David
Beach’s twenty , and he’s pulling together a team to head up a grab
in New York.”

McMahon’s head
bobbed in vacant contemplation, “Who’s Cobb?”

Hicks shrugged,
“He’s a good man. Unfortunately, he’s pulled together most of the
loose ends the two of you left dangling.” He scratched his forehead
and inhaled slowly, always paying attention to those subtle
affectations, “I’m not putting you back on lead, but I’ll make sure
you’re on Cobb’s roster.” He looked out onto the floor and saw Cobb
now, “I’m not sure who else has David Beach’s back, but you’ve both
witnessed what West is capable of.” His eyes wandered from McMahon
to Carmichael, unconvinced that either of them understood fully
what he studiously avoiding saying, “Just don’t leave any loose
ends.”

Charlene opened the
door to her own apartment and stepped over the threshold
cautiously, all at once feeling like this was a stranger’s home.
Having spent only a handful of hours in West’s apartments, she
looked about her own, and wondered why she had allowed it to become
a shrine to her past. There had been a point, surely, when she had
stopped imagining a future for herself. She looked over her
shoulder and touched the back of Stanwick’s hand with her
fingertips, “Excuse the …” she stumbled over her words, because
mess really wasn’t the word for it; decay might have been more
appropriate, but it would suggest more squalor than was actually
present. She allowed her sentence to trail off, and the hording and
detritus to speak for itself. She had lived her life.

Charlene had
suggested that she should take care of her hair while the others
prepared breakfast. Stanwick politely offered to help, and when
Charlene vouched that she’d dyed her own hair many times over the
years, and would be quite comfortable going it alone, Stanwick had
insisted that she go along with her. She didn’t want to alarm
Charlene, but she couldn’t get her mind off the fact that they were
only a short drive from Arctum Industries. It was possible that
they would have a couple of hours to prepare for the road, but it
was equally likely that an army or Tiernan’s Blood-Bastards would
turn up at their door at any minute.

As Charlene
sorted through the bags of shopping, Stanwick slumped into the
comfort of one of the fabric sofa cushions. On the side table
closest to her, there was a color photograph set in an overly
ornate brass frame; a woman sat on a porch swing, resting her head
against an up-stretched arm. It wasn’t easy to make out if the
woman was smiling, or squinting in the sunlight, but she looked at
ease in her surroundings. Stanwick held the photo up over her
shoulder, “Is this you?”

Charlene didn’t
have to look up from what she was doing to know which photograph
Stanwick was pouring over, “That’s me alright, the only picture I
have of me on my family’s farm holding in South Carolina.” She
pulled the dye out of its bag and stepped closer to the couch,
brushing her fingertips over the cold metal of the frame, “It was
taken just after my Aunt Carina passed. I went down to organize the
sale of the estate. Young agent who was photographing the property
was kind enough to take that and send it on to me.”

Stanwick set
the photograph back on the side table, and resisted the urge to
rummage further. She turned, resting her head on the couch back,
“Were you close to your family?”

“Close enough
to know better than to be around them.”

Stanwick
smiled, and nodded towards the box of dye in Charlene’s hand, “Do
you mind if I keep you company at least?”

Charlene shook
the box and pried open the lid as she walked towards the bathroom,
“So long as you don’t get under my feet, you are more than
welcome.”

West poured a few
drops of oil onto the cast iron pan and watched the smoke rise into
brushed steel vent which hung over the hob, “And how would madame
like her steak?”

Stephanie
shuffled forward on the tall stool, leaning over the counter,
“Juicy!”

David helped
himself to the coffee which had just finished brewing, “Blackened
with a hot red center usually, although she sometimes gets a bit
squeamish if it’s too rare.”

“Do not!”
Stephanie protested, lifting off the stool and leaning to the side
so that she could see what West was doing.

West turned the
steaks over in the glass bowl one more time, making sure they were
all seasoned well, then he picked them out one at a time and laid
them out in the pan. Stephanie clapped her hands together,
cherishing the sizzling sound and the smell of oregano and garlic
that quickly filled the kitchen, “Are we having baked potatoes
too?”

West set the
timer on the hob, then spun quickly to face Stephanie, “Baked
potato for breakfast? Are you mad?”

Stephanie
giggled, “It’s the same as hash browns.”

“It’s not too
different,” West conceded, “but we don’t have time to cook
them.”

Stephanie
moaned as she slid even further forward on the counter, “Dad always
cooks baked potato with steaks.”

West glared at
David indignantly, “My good man, why was the chef not informed of
the proper dining etiquette required by madame?”

David rolled
his eyes, “Spiff, you usually leave more than half the potato
anyway.”

Stephanie
pouted jokingly and slid back onto the stool, then she confided in
West, “I’m only little. Daddy usually cooks humongous
potatoes.”

West pointed
over his shoulder with his plastic spatula, “Those are some
humongous steaks madame. I’m sure you will not find your breakfast
wanting,” he looked at the timer on the hob, “six minutes
okay?”

David hugged
Stephanie and whispered, “Go wash your hands stinker.” She sighed
and climbed down off the stool awkwardly, “Where are the restrooms
chef?”

West pointed to
the hallway, “By the front door, on your right.”

Stephanie held
her hands out in front of her and shook her right hand, shuffling
her feet dejectedly as she went.

West leaned his weight
against the kitchen counter, flipping the steaks casually as the
buzzer sounded. He reset the timer and turned to face David, “She’s
not safe.”

David’s face
twisted in disbelief, “What … What do you mean
she’s
not
safe?”

“I mean that
even with you as you are now, even with Stanwick and myself at her
side, we can’t protect her from what’s coming.”

David’s eyes
glassed over, his hand covering his mouth. His fingers shook
visibly as his words bubbled in a panicked froth, “She has to be
safe. You brought us here. You have to be able to protect her, for
god’s sake.”

West stepped
around the counter and came to David’s side, resting his hand on
David’s neck, “She has to be turned. You understand that don’t
you?”

David stopped
breathing, his hands stilled by the momentum of West’s words,
“Turned?”

“She has to
become one of us. It’s the only way she can be safe.” He could feel
the fear, David’s pulse thick and strong under his fingers, “Even
as one of us, a child as young as Stephanie is at grave risk, but
she will be strong.”

David looked
towards the hallway, half expecting to see his daughter there, “I
can’t make this decision. It’s too much. I can’t bring her into
this.”

West’s hands
went to David’s cheeks, holding him firmly “Your father made this
decision. Your father took this decision out of your hands years
ago. The moment your family became involved in our world, your
fates were unwritten. Stephanie was born into this. It’s her
birthright as much as it is yours.”

David’s eyes
were wild now, “How can you say that?” He tried to shake his head,
but West’s hands were tight, and he was left gasping in his
frustration, “How can you ask me to do this to her?”

West pressed
his forehead to David’s, “You misunderstand me. I’m not asking you
to make a decision. I’m telling you what has to be done. Your
father has started a war. More than that … your father has made
gods of our kind. There will be many who refuse to believe it,
because religion is pervasive, and it is belief, and it is a way of
life that can’t be swayed by the resurrection of another man’s god,
but Lucas Miller’s words today said it all. ‘Let this be a subject
for philosophical debate … remember today’s events as a rebirth, a
renaissance of consciousness.’ What exactly do you think he was
talking about David?”

West let go of
David’s face and returned to the hob, plating the steaks as if
nothing had passed between them, “The power grab has been going on
for decades, and we have all lived too long in the shadow of the
great dream to think we could change that.”

David turned
his head to the sound of the bathroom door clattering as Stephanie
slammed it shut behind her. He wiped his eyes on the back of his
wrist, and he breathed in deeply, “You ready hon?”

Stephanie
smiled innocently, “I was born ready.”

Brad Cobb shook agent
Carmichael’s hand as he shielded his eyes from the helicopter’s
downdraft, “Brad Cobb. I suppose I should thank you.”

Carmichael
shook his head in deference, yelling over the whining engine,
“Hicks told us you’ve done some great work Cobb.” He patted agent
McMahon’s back, “You always worry some bright spark’s going to show
you up as a phony right?” He laughed, but McMahon shrugged him off,
“Yeah, nice work on that Cobb.”

Cobb looked
back and flashed a smile at Danielle Wheatley who had already
staked her place in the rear cab, “I’m sure you already know Agent
Wheatley.” He climbed in and took his place beside her, waiting for
the other two men to climb in and buckle up before he continued,
“Between Wheatley and Daniels, I’m not sure I deserve any
credit.”