Shrike (Book 2): Rampant (8 page)

Waggling the string back and forth, there appears to be about a two street radius where I'm likely to find the next in the series of pins. I look at Taog, and I can see him following my thought process. "Want to go look?"

We take his car, and finding the location of pin eight, the highest number we've found so far, only takes about fifteen minutes to get to Canonmills. Taog parks his Smart Car, and we get out. 

"I'll check Eyre Place if you take Rodney Street," he says. I nod and we split up. 

I only have to walk one street down. On the corner of Heriot Hill Terrace is number nine. Triumphant, I send a text to Taog and wait for him to catch up, tracing out possibilities on the map app on my phone with the new addition. We find number ten another two streets down, and this time the number is on a wee flag attached to an arrow. The arrow points almost north, up Claremont Street. 

My excitement begins to turn to nervousness. I can't walk into a possible trap, not with Taog beside me. He's likely a target for Rosamund Granger, and if she's behind these stencils, I cannot risk his safety. Not again.

He looks at me when my steps slow on the pavement. "I know what you're thinking, and I don't like it."

"I know." I don't explain. He'll let me go; he always does. 

But I'm not going to go the now. Instead I turn and start the walk back to his car. He follows after a beat. 

"When are you going to check it out?" The levelness of his voice is artificial, like a bowed board sanded until the top is flat but the centre is worn thin.

"Late tonight." 

"I'll wait up. My flat tonight though."

I nod, and we finish the retreat to his car in silence.

It's become a given that our nights are spent together. Perhaps it's codependent of us, but I think we both have the same lingering sense that each of these nights could be the last.

I have to throw my Shrike get-up in the dryer when I get home, as it's still damp from last night.

I don't recall any other superheroes having to launder their uniforms, but I suppose that wouldn't make for very exciting comics.

Making my way back to Claremont Street, I approach cautiously, checking each building for the stencils. Walking on the pavement makes me feel apprehensive, and not just because I could very well be waltzing into a trap. Every few steps, I find myself glancing upward, longing for the solitude of the rooftops and the vantage they give me. I have to avoid passing cars, because even at three in the morning, a masked woman might be noticed in the lights. I follow the street about a half a mile. It takes almost fifteen minutes, but when I finally see a stencil on the white trim of a chip shop pointing upward, I could kiss it in relief. 

I don't, though. Kissing a stencil of my emblem would make me rather narcissistic.

Instead, I retreat to the last close I passed and climb up to the roof. 

Again I get a running start to jump the gap between buildings. Again the rush of the wind on my face makes my heart take wing in my chest. 

And again, I sail past where I think I would land.

This time I save myself from the ignominy of planting my face on the rooftop, but my entire body seems to break into gooseflesh. 

I don't know what's happening to me. Part of my brain tries to suggest the obvious, and I can't let myself entertain it. It's not possible. Even though none of my abilities should be possible, here I am. And yet this final thing seems too far-fetched, too scientifically implausible. At least Edmund Frost offered some sort of reason for my other abilities, with his brilliant-but-imperfect microbial serum. Even he couldn't have predicted how it would interact with the antigens in my blood.

But flight? 

The word pops into my head in an eager whisper.
You could fly
. 

Fly.

I can't fucking fly.

I must just be getting faster. Stronger. Jumping farther.

It's a relief that the next building is a hop down and not a leap across empty space — a relief punctured just a bit by disappointment — and I'm soon looking down at the chippie where I saw the stencil. I see no other indication of a sign for me, only darkened windows. I retreat behind a ventilation unit on the roof and look over the entire building. There's nothing distinguishing about it, aside from the stencil below. Not that I'd expect a bouquet of columbines to advertise if it were Britannia's hide out or Rosamund Granger setting a trap. 

As no one's shot me with tranquillisers yet, I don't think anyone's looking out for me. I settle in with my back against the ventilation unit and watch the roof. The arrow did point up — perhaps the roof was the end point in mind. 

Dawn won't arrive for hours, and the sky won't even begin to lighten for three or four. If there's something meant for me on the building I'm watching, it's not something I can see in the dark even with my enhanced vision. 

But movement I can see. There's a wee shed on the roof, and the door cracks open and then swings wide. A young — I think — woman steps out, hair tucked under a hat. She steps out, looking around. Her head swivels so quickly that I'm a bit worried for her on behalf of her neck. She paces in front of the door and pulls something out of her jacket.

At first I can't tell what it is. It looks like a dark-coloured handkerchief, but when she shakes it out, I see something glowing. She holds it by the corners.

The glowing thing is a shrike.

She's signalling me.

It's clear she doesn't see me yet, and I slide down to a crouch and waddle toward the edge of my building, looking down over where she stands. After a minute, she crumples the glowing flag and stuffs it back into her jacket.

She checks the time on her mobile and retreats into the shed.

I check the time on my own mobile. It's 3:06 in the morning. I don't know if the woman will return or not, but I settle in to wait.

I don't have to wait long. She returns at 3:15, holds out the flag for one minute, rotating slowly to hold it in all directions, then retreats.

She does the same thing at 3:25, 3:35, and 3:45.

Every ten minutes. It seems a bit excessive, and I start to wonder if part of her jitters stem from too much caffeine to keep awake. What is she doing for the say, eight and a half minutes it she has between trips in and out? 

At 3:55, she comes out again and holds up the sign.

Silently, I drop down on the roof behind her when she turns north toward the firth. I dart glances around me, making sure no one is waiting to ambush me. 

When she turns back and spots me, she lets out a yelp and skitters backward, windmilling her arms. She doesn't fall, and I don't make a move to steady her. 

"You rang?" I say.

"You came." Her voice is steadier than I expect it to be, and indeed after the initial shock of seeing me, she seems to pull herself into some semblance of order. 

"I reckon if you went to so much trouble, I may as well come see what the fuss is about."

"Did you come alone?"

"Did you?"

The woman jumps as if I've pulled a gun. "I'm alone."

"Good."

"I've got to show you something."

"Aye? Trot it out." I know I'm being curt with her, but she doesn't seem to care. 

"It's in my flat."

Super strength or no, I don't particularly fancy following her into her flat. I know enough of dicey semantics to know that just because she said she's alone up here doesn't mean her flat is devoid of other humans.

"Cheers, but I'd rather not go down there."

She just nods, as if my answer is expected, and my esteem of her increases. "I'll go get it."

The woman vanishes for a few minutes, and I keep myself on alert. Stranger danger has become all too real a thing, and I'm not convinced yet that this isn't some sort of trap where I'm the bait for Rosamund Granger. 

When the woman reemerges with a printed list in her hand a moment later, I frown. She hands it over to me.

"What is this?" I ask. The list is names on a spreadsheet. Surname, given name, profession, political affiliation, location. I read it in the glow of my mobile, skimming through names. 

Randy Giles. 

Sarah MacKay.

Taog MacMillan.

All the moisture leaves my mouth and I take an involuntary step backward.

Taog's name is on this list. 

I don't need this woman to answer. I know what it is. 

"These are targets. Granger's targets. Where did you get this?"

"I made it."

I almost can't speak for a moment, not comprehending what she's said. "You made this." My voice comes out flat and terrifying even to my own ears, and the woman's eyes widen. 

"Not for her! These are the kinds of people she's looking for."

"What kind of people?" Skimming over the list, they're all different. A couple Gu Bràth members — Tasha's on here as well as a woman called Adair who Taog knows — but even a UKIP member and few Tories litter the list. I can't see a pattern.

"They're people who know about Britannia. Really know about Britannia."

For the second time in two minutes, I feel as though I've been dunked in the North Sea. "Granger's killing off people who know about Britannia. Explain."

"Most people think Britannia are a bunch of halfwits, like what tried to nick the Stone of Scone before the referendum. They think Granger was the last of the real dangers and that since you stopped her and Edmund Frost that it's over. But you know that's not true."

"As do you, I see."

"Aye."

"What's your name?" I ask her.

"What's yours?"

"Fair enough." I look at the list again, wondering if this woman's name is on it. I remember what Trevor said about Todd MacInch, the pro-union victim from Muirhouse — that he was into conspiracy theories and even and a website about it. Britannia fits the bill of a conspiracy theory. Bloody hell, Granger used to be in the Royal Military Police until she kidnapped and tortured the head of the Scottish National Party. 

"Call me Macy," the woman says.

"You can call me Shrike," I tell her with a wry smile.

She nods, unsurprised. 

"You think these are the people Granger is going to kill." It's not a question.

"Aye, I do."

I wonder if Macy's real name is on this list or if she's confident enough in her ability to avoid notice that she's left it off. Or if she left it off simply to keep me from knowing it. Either way, this list could be just the thing I need to actually do some good. 

"Thank you for this," I tell her.

"Use it to save them."

I wish I could promise her something, but I'm not some boy from another planet raised in Kansas. I can't vow to her that giving me this list will change anything.

And I can't get the sight of Taog's name on it out of my mind.

eight

Macy explains to me that she's ranked the targets in order of their danger to the best of her ability. The only reason Taog isn't higher on the list, she says, is that Granger knows of his proximity to me. It's not much of a secret that he was strapped to that bomb.

Whenever I think I'm anonymous I remember that — Taog and Magda and even Angus are names the media splashed about after I stopped the bomb on the eve of the referendum. They're as far as anyone has to look to find me, and it makes me feel naked walking around even if I'm clothed from toes to  neck in reinforced spandex and my new mask is snugly fitted and moulded black leather.

Then again, that alien farm boy got away with just wearing glasses.

Before I leave, I ask Macy how to contact her. She gives me an email address and asks me not to return here to this building, which I agree to. The last thing I need is the knowledge that someone who helped me got hit for their beneficence.

I send Taog a text on my way home letting him know I'm okay and that I have to stop at my own flat before coming to his. Macy listed these people's locations as best as possible, but for many of them, there's just a city or town and no further address. Taog's address on Primrose Crescent stands out. Britannia's known where he was for ages.

Trevor needs to see this list. The moment I get home, I scan it into my computer and upload it to the vault in the cloud Gu Bràth made for me. I also email it to Trevor to see what he can do with it. Even as a sergeant, I'm not sure he has the clout to put surveillance on every one of the people on the list, but it's worth a shot. I can't be everywhere at once.

The first name on the list is Timothy Strand. He's a Tory who lives in Morningside, according to Macy's spreadsheet. The notes say he's an historian and a hacker, but that's it. Scanning down the list, it looks like a lot of these folks are one of those things or both. It makes me wonder how any of them stumbled upon Britannia in the first place. 

A few, like Sarah MacKay, Esther Smith, and Wally Campbell seem to be off the grid, all living outside cities but in locations that still have decent broadband. I'm not convinced that some of the names aren't aliases.