Taken (6 page)

My street was dark and still again, and the shop was empty. The distant
thump, thump, thump
of club music drifted over the rooftops, but there was no movement outside. I stood flipping the sheathed dagger absentmindedly between my fingers, frowning at nothing. Outside my window, lights shone from the blocks of flats across the canal.

I felt uneasy. I live alone and I should be used to the quiet of my part of Camden after sunset. But tonight something about the silence had me on edge.

It wasn’t as if anything that had just happened was all that extraordinary. I do get invited to mage social events
sometimes
. Not often, but it happens. And sending an apprentice out to deliver invitations in person wasn’t unusual . . . okay, it
was
unusual, but it wasn’t unheard of. It must have just felt strange to me because I’d been off the social circuit so long.

I told myself that, but the uneasy feeling didn’t go away.

I don’t get these feelings often and when I do I’ve learnt to pay attention to them. I did a scan of the immediate futures, looking for danger, and found nothing. I spread my search further, looking for anything that might threaten or attack me.

Still nothing.

I tried half a dozen more ways of looking for danger and came up blank every time. Finally I tried something different. I looked into the future to see what would happen if I sat in my bedroom and did absolutely nothing.

One uneventful hour, two uneventful hours, four uneventful hours—then activity. In the early hours of the morning people were going to come to my door. Not ordinary people—mages. They’d want to talk to me, and they were . . .

I frowned. They were Council Keepers.

That was strange.

Keepers are the primary enforcement arm of the Council, kind of a mix between police and an internal affairs division. There are a lot of reasons for Keepers to come looking for a mage and very few of them are good. As I looked into the future the encounter didn’t look hostile, but it didn’t look friendly either. I wished I could see exactly what they were saying, but as I tried to focus on the distant strands the images blurred and shifted. It’s hard to predict something as fluid as conversation. I can do it easily if it’s only a few seconds ahead, but trying to do it a few
hours
ahead is almost impossible. I tried to focus on a single strand and pin it down.

The Keepers were asking me questions. They were suspicious. I tried to hear what the questions were about or why they were asking them, but couldn’t pick up any details.

I shifted my focus to the beginning of the conversation. That was better. Now the Keepers were saying the same things in each future with only minor differences, the things they’d decided to say before my answers took them in other directions. I suddenly realised what the scene reminded me of: two police officers interviewing a suspect.

I strained my mental lens to its limit, trying to get the exact words. By concentrating and piecing together bits from parallel futures, I was just able to make out fragments.

“—where were—”

“—did you do—”

“—any contact . . . after—”

I shook my head in frustration. Useless. In every one of the futures, my future self seemed to ask the same questions. I focused on the answers the Keepers gave in return.

“—enquiries—”

“—was here—”

“—last . . . see her alive—”

I stopped dead. The futures I’d traced so carefully shattered, fading into darkness.

I stood motionless for ten seconds, then ran for the door.

chapter 3

A
s I ran down the street I skimmed through futures and searched the traffic, then changed direction to cut left down an alley that led into Camden Road. I ran straight out between parked cars into the middle of the main road. Horns blared as cars screeched to a halt.

A man wound down his window behind me and started shouting. His accent was so thick I couldn’t actually understand what he was saying, but he didn’t sound happy. I pulled open the door of the black cab in front of me with the yellow
TAXI
light above its window. “Archway,” I said before the driver could open his mouth. “I’ll pay you double if you get us there in five minutes. Triple if you make it in less.”

“All right, mate,” the driver said comfortably. “Not a problem.”

The taxi pulled around the car in front of us, the angry driver still shouting from his window, and we accelerated away north.

*  *  *

N
o one knows the London streets better than a London cabbie. At this hour with the crowds and traffic it would have taken me at least ten minutes to make the drive from Camden to Archway. The cabbie did it in less than half that.

Archway is an odd place even by London standards. A network of concrete shops surround the Underground station, out of which rises the squat ugly brown shape of Archway Tower. Two roads fork away northwest: On one is the sprawl of the Whittington Hospital while the other passes under Suicide Bridge. “There you go, mate,” the cabbie said as we reached the station. “Which street?”

I stared out the window, concentrating. We were at the junction around the old Archway Tavern, the ancient building forming an island amidst the A-roads. I looked up the hill to see the high arch of Suicide Bridge, marking the boundary between inner and outer London. I pointed to the right of the bridge, northeast. “That way.”

As soon as we left the main road the streets narrowed and emptied. Cars were parked everywhere, making it hard for the cab to move, and minutes passed with agonising slowness as I scanned through futures, watching myself explore different directions in an expanding web.

A tangle of futures flashed; combat, danger. “Stop!” I opened the door before the taxi had stopped moving and shoved a handful of notes at the driver. “Keep the change.”

The taxi had brought me to a housing estate. A long three-storey block of flats loomed above, walkways running along the top two floors with doors at regular intervals. An old decayed children’s playground was laid out in the courtyard in front, the swings rusted and the animal figures vandalised. The base of the block of flats was shadowed, blending into a small cramped garden. High walls shut off the view to the street and only a handful of lights shone in the darkness. It wasn’t late but the place had a dead feel to it. I moved at a fast walk, heading farther in. Behind, I heard the rumble of the taxi’s engine fade away into the noise of the city.

From the shadows at the base of the flats ahead came a sharp metallic
clack
.

I broke into a run. The sound came again, twice, echoing around the brick walls:
clack-clack
. I passed under the building, reached the pillars that were blocking my view, and looked around the edge.

The housing estate was a big long construction of dark brick. There were two ways in: a pair of double doors leading into a stairwell, and a small lift. To one side was the car park; to the other was a fenced-off area of trees and grass. A single fluorescent light was mounted on the wall, casting a flickering glow over the scene in front of me.

Three men were standing near the wall. They wore dark clothes and ski masks and carried handguns fitted with the unmistakable long metal cylinders of sound suppressors. Two had their attention fixed on the person by the lift, while the third faced the other way, his gun pointed downwards in both hands as he scanned for movement. I was out of his line of sight, but not by much.

Anne was next to the lift, slumped against the wall, and as I watched she slid down to crumple onto her side. “Check her,” the man in the middle said. He had a gruff voice and sounded English.

“Gone,” the one closest to Anne said. He still had his gun pointed more or less towards her.

“Make sure.”

“Three in the body. She’s gone.”

“Make sure.”

“Fuck that,” the shooter said. “You heard the guy, I’m not getting that close.”

The red digital number above the lift had been changing from 2, to 1, to G. Now the doors grated open as a mechanical female voice recited, “Ground floor.” The two men’s guns were pointed into the lift before the doors had finished moving, but it was empty. White light shone from inside.

The man at the middle looked away from the lift to the shooter. “I said
make sure
.”

The other man shrugged, then levelled his gun at Anne from less than ten feet away and started pulling the trigger.

I was already moving, but I wasn’t fast enough. By the time I’d gotten the little marble out of my pocket the gun had gone
clack
three more times. The suppressor muffled the shot so that the loudest noise was the metallic sound of the action cycling and the
thud
of bullets chewing through flesh. The man shot Anne a final time as I threw the marble, and the man watching their backs had only time to flinch before it shattered against the wall.

The marble was a one-shot—effectively a single spell with an activation trigger. This particular one was a condenser spell, and as the crystal shell holding the magic in stasis broke, mist rushed out to blanket the area in fog. The cloud was only about forty feet across and it wouldn’t last long, but for a minute or two anyone in that area was blind.

Except me. As I plunged into the cloud I flicked through the futures ahead of me, and by seeing the ones in which I ran into the men I knew where they were. The one at the back was the most alert and so I bypassed him, staying outside his field of vision. The man in the middle who’d been giving the orders was turned away, his gun blindly searching for threats, and it was simple to put two punches into the spot just below his floating ribs. He staggered, turning towards me and spreading his legs into a shooting stance, and I kicked him hard in the crotch and brought my fist up into his face. He went down.

I kept moving, getting to where the shooter had been standing over Anne, but he’d moved. I could hear his voice somewhere off to my right, calling to the man at the back. For the moment the men were confused, scrambling to figure out who was attacking them, but it wouldn’t last. Anne was lying huddled and still at my feet and to my right was the glow from the lift, filtering through the mist.

Then Anne took a ragged breath.

I looked down at her for one second before my reflexes kicked in. I knelt, got my arms under her, and lifted her up. Anne cried out in pain as I did, and the men’s voices suddenly fell silent. I knew what was coming and hauled Anne into the lift.

Clack-clack-clack
went the silenced guns, along with a
crunch
as bullets tore into the brickwork where I’d been standing. I hit the button inside the lift marked
2
. With my arms holding Anne I couldn’t reach the button without jolting her as well, and she cried out again. “Doors closing,” the mechanical voice said loudly.

The men outside heard that and knew what it meant. I felt them shift their aim to track the sound and I stepped right.
Clack-clack
went the guns, followed by a
spannng!
as a bullet ricocheted around the metal interior of the lift, missing me once, twice, three times before dropping to the floor. The lift doors ground shut and I felt the shudder as it accelerated upwards.

I had a few spare seconds to look over Anne, and as I did my heart sank. There were a half dozen holes in her pullover and around them the grey wool was turning reddish black. My shirt was already wet with her blood and she was sprawled in my arms with her head back, her breath slow and rattling. I don’t know much about first aid, but she looked bad.

The lift decelerated and came to a stop. There was a wait that felt like an hour but could only have been two or three seconds, then the doors ground open. “Second floor,” the recording said clearly. “Please mind the step.”

Whoever had designed the block of flats had obviously worked to a clear set of priorities. Unfortunately, while
cost
,
size
, and
low-maintenance
had made it to the top of the list,
aesthetics
,
good escape routes
, and
shelter from gunfire
hadn’t. The lift came out at one end of a walkway with a concrete balustrade and a railing. Twenty flats were spaced evenly along the walkway, and at the far end was another lift. The walkway was a dead straight line with no place to hide and thirty feet below was the concrete of the car park. I’d never make it past all twenty flats and to the other lift before the men behind caught us. And if I went back down I’d run into them even faster. Unless I could fly, there were no other ways out.

Well, if we couldn’t get out, we’d have to get in.

I moved quickly along the walkway from door to door, scanning the futures. Flat 301—locked. Flat 302—locked. Flat 303—double locked. Flat 304—I stopped and flipped the mat to reveal a key.
There’s always one.

From the stairs behind came the sound of pounding feet, and I hissed between my teeth. These guys were fast. I set Anne down as gently as I could and moved back to the stairs. The entry to the stairwell was a swing door with no handles that opened both ways. The walkway was narrow and I knew that the landing behind the door would be narrow too. I braced myself against the railing, listened to the feet pounding up the stairs towards me, and just as the man on the other side reached the top of the stairs I stamp-kicked the door as hard as I could.

My foot encountered the door from one side just as the man reached it from the other, and there was a judder and a satisfying
crunch
as the door was introduced to the man’s face. The door came off better in the exchange. The man staggered away, the door began to swing back towards me, and I kicked the door again.

This time the man didn’t have any momentum to keep him upright and the door smacked him off the top of the flight of stairs. I had one glimpse of him going down the stairs in a whirl of arms and legs, the second man’s face turned upwards, eyes startled as he saw what was about to hit him, then the door swung back towards me and I darted back to where I’d left Anne.