The ancient tower loomed over Four Meadows farm, black and silent as the surrounding night. Late autumn bugs chirruped in the bushes. Stars played hide and seek behind slow drifts of cloud, riding the slow cool breezes across the sky.
A figure broke from the treeline, sprinting for the tower, and disappeared into the shadows at its base. A long nose and a broad-brimmed hat broke away in silhouette, glancing around for witnesses. Seeing none, the figure took hold of the ivy sprawling up the stones and began to climb.
After a minute or two, the same broad brim popped up over the windowsill. Dark brown eyes examined the shutters, which were firmly closed. Thus satisfied, Roger pulled himself up so his waist was level with the windowsill. He reached his arm over his shoulder, groping at the pack on his back.
Quietly, but quickly, Lucy swung the shutters open before he could react. Sir Roger tensed, fingers curling tight around the ivy, his other hand dangling over his shoulder. Their eyes met in that instant as if drawn by magnets. Even in the blanching glow of the dim moonlight, Lucy could tell he had gone very white. She grinned at him. She couldn’t help it.
“So,” she giggled, “it WAS you.”
“Er…yes,” said Sir Roger, returning both hands to the ivy. “I’m sorry. I just wanted it to be a surprise. I hope I didn’t bother you…”
“The only thing that bothers me is the drop, Roger. I don’t want you risking your neck just to bring me fancy things.” Lucy leaned forward onto her elbows, bracing her head in her fists. “Speaking of which - what have you brought this time?”
“Wine,” admitted Roger, with a sheepish smile. “Chateau Haut-De-Gamme.”
Noting the slight tremble of his arms, Lucy stood straight.
“I have a present for you, as well. Would you like to come see it?”
She retreated from the windowsill into the enveloping dark. Sir Roger hauled himself onto the ledge and slid into the tower room feet-first, strained muscles grateful for release. Meanwhile, Lucy lit the candle on her nightstand, then crossed to the window and closed the shutters against the chill. She turned to Roger, who had set his backpack of wine and rocks down by her tiny bookshelf.
“Close your eyes,” she ordered. “I want mine to be a surprise, too.”
Roger did so, trying not to smile and failing miserably. He could guess what was coming, and wasn’t disappointed. His present was a tender kiss from a lovely lady. He wrapped his arms around her, squeezing tight, hands caressing her back. Lucy’s mouth lingered on his for a long time, exploring the borders of beard and lip with gentle nibbles. She pressed her hands flat against his chest, feeling his rising heartbeat keep time with her own. Then her hands slid lower, over his stomach…and lower still. She hooked her fingers between his belt and his trousers and pulled hard and fast, drawing him inexorably closer. Sir Roger broke the kiss, looking down at this new arrangement, though not doing anything about it. His wide brown eyes met her smouldering green ones.
“Is this, er…are we…going to progress?”
Lucy laughed, confusing him speechless.
“‘Going to progress’?” she giggled. “Oh, goodness, your pillow talk drives me wild!” She started to undo his belt. “Yes, Roger,” she added more quietly, “I wouldn’t mind fucking, if you’re in the mood.”
Thus encouraged, he allowed himself to be urged backwards onto the bed. He sat, trousers askew and legs spread; Lucy occupied the space between them. She pulled off her nightdress over her head. The only thing she’d been wearing underneath were leggings to ward off the autumn chill. Gratified by the slightly dazed look his face, she leaned over and kissed him again, pinning him to the blankets. Lucy gave him a few minutes to map out her shape, her textures, her tastes. When she could wait no longer she reached over awkwardly to search the drawer of her nightstand. After a brief shuffle she pulled out a tiny roll of thin lambskin, tossing it on the bed beside him. Then she sat back and began to wrestle with his trouser buttons. Roger raised his head to watch her work.
“It’s not…not your first time, then?” he panted, referring to the readily available condom. Smiling, Lucy shook her head.
“No,” he breathed. “Is it yours?”
He sat up to help her with the trouser leg snagged on his foot. On the way, he couldn’t help but kiss her again, desperate for another taste of her lips. Air, by comparison, was unbelievably dull.
“No,” he gasped, as he pulled away. “But it is my first time being in love.”
He smiled, slightly embarrassed at how silly that had sounded out loud. Lucy did not seem to notice, instead blushing at the sincerity in his voice. She grabbed his head and pulled him in for another starved kiss.
He stood at the juncture of the L-shaped corridor, staring into the darkness. Listening to it. It returned in kind. He held no candle, no lantern; the sparse weedy torches on the walls had been extinguished for the night as usual. He hadn’t seen another guard for at least an hour. The ones that weren’t napping at their posts were gathered in an alcove upstairs playing cards for coins. David was alone, mostly.
It’s time. There will be no interruptions. They sleep.
He knew it was true. Could feel it in the air, could hear their snoring and shuffling. The entire block was out cold, except that one. The one who never slept. He thought he had been quiet. He should have known she had heard, should have felt her listening. He’d been too complacent. Too distracted. Now he was neither. He took silent, steady steps down the corridor, leaning up against the wall beside her door. He let the darkness speak for him, in a whisper tinged with false desperation.
“Ms. Harker?”
He heard a soft, sharp intake of breath from the gloom.
“I need you to be quiet. As quiet as I am. Can you do that?”
“Yes,” came the throttled squeak.
“I want to talk to you about what you heard. What you told the Elite. The killer knows that someone is on to him, but he doesn’t know who. I want to protect you, Ms. Harker. I want to figure out how to keep you safe.”
He carefully held the keys on the ring together as he lifted them from his belt.
“I’m going to come into your cell, now. Give me just a moment.”
He managed it with only a few squeaks; none loud enough to wake the neighbours. He closed the door in the same way, but did not lock it.
“Where are you, Ms. Harker?”
“On the cot,” she whispered shakily. “The far corner, on the right.”
He touched his right hand to the wall, following it around with tiny, careful footsteps.
“If he hears us,” whispered David, “we’re both in trouble. Not a sound, do you understand?”
She acknowledged this by remaining silent. David’s shin dragged up against the low wooden beam of a cot; he felt a quivering radiation through the dark not a few inches away. Suddenly, he could see her there, curled up on the foot of the bed with her back to the wall; whether imagination, echolocation or true dark sight, he could not say. The voice simply told him she was there, and it was right. He could even see her head moving, seeking him in turn.
“I’m very close, Ms. Harker. I’m going to reach out. Don’t be alarmed when I touch you.”
She wasn’t, as his right hand closed softly on her upper arm. Then the knife in his left hand touched her throat, poised to cleave her larynx in two. She hadn’t needed his warnings to be silent, after all; she froze completely, terror grinding her to a halt.
“Oh, now you have nothing to say,” he breathed. “Why didn’t you shut up sooner? You would have saved us all some trouble.”
She gasped as he pulled her down to the cot by her arm, knife never leaving her throat. He climbed on top of her, knees on either side of her waist. He leaned in close, hunching over her ear like a vulture.
“If you try screaming, you won’t be able to do it for long. Do you understand?”
She nodded, doing her best not to whimper as the motion scraped her voicebox against the knife.
“If you tattle on me ever again, I won’t leave you a tongue to do it with. If you dare let on that I was here, tonight, I won’t sharpen the blade first. The next time Mr. Belvedere comes knocking, you’re going to say it must have been a dream and you can’t be sure and you’re very sorry for wasting his time. If he comes around my house again because of something you said your own mother will not be able to recognize you. Has anything I’ve just said been unclear, Ms. Harker?”
She shook her head, sawing the knife along her throat. The tendons there stood out like cords of rope as she throttled the sobs in her chest. Satisfied, he made to stand.
Wait, said the voice. Not yet.
He froze, knife still hovering, hand still gripping her arm.
“What?” he whispered aloud, making Ms. Harker flinch. His body suddenly broke out in gooseflesh, his nerves sang electric. The pressure that had been slowly mounting at his groin became the focus of his entire world.
Don’t take her word that she understands. Make her.
He came to, then, just for a moment. He was David again and nothing more. There was a woman pinned underneath him, crying, and he wanted to help her, not hurt her. He’d caused this, and that wasn’t right. He should try to make amends. What an awful time to have sprung an erection.
That was the ebb. The flow crashed over him the next second, a surging tide of black sticky grit. Drowning, he lost consciousness, awaking into a different one. His and not his. The one his ancestors had fought for thousands of years, trying to escape the jungle. The one that sought control from the base of his skull. When he tried to break through the wall of black pain, the voice shrieked at him with visions of those days, those awful days in Steadney.
There was no telling what the creature lying on the cobbles had once been. Male? Female? Had its skin, what remained, ever been a colour besides burnished shining pink? It had no hair, no clothes, all evaporated by the wave of destruction. No eyes. They were the first to go, as he’d learned all too well in the past few hours.
He had taken it by the arms. His partner - Nicolas? Alfred? Who had it been that day? - had taken it by the legs. One more corpse for the ever-growing ranks laid shoulder to shoulder in the burning streets.
The creature had made a sound, just like the one she was making now. A feeble, desperate sigh, begging for release. They both could have mistaken it for the lungs shifting inside that mottled chest, had it not moved. The feeling of muscle tensing under his hand had made Nicolas? Alfred? Or possibly Robert? drop the thing to the ground in shock.
The weight of the burnished monster had fallen onto David. He released his own grip, trying to get out of the way, but the monster grabbed him, fingers curling reflexively around the folds of his jacket like a baby gripping its mother’s dress. Surprise had tipped his balance, and he fell, the sticky pink thing pinning him to the ground just like he pinned her to the cot. Its breath was hot and dry and smelled of disease, teeth looming huge in shrivelled gums. Just like this, it had brushed its lips across his cheek as he turned to avoid it. Just like this, it had weighed heavily against his body, unable to lift itself, pressing into him. Just like this, he’d tried to shove it away, frantic, bracing against its shoulders.
Unlike this, Nicolas Alfred or possibly Robert had been there to pull the monster off.
It wasn’t as nice as the Rose and Badger; in its defence, most pubs weren’t. The Fox and Fennel was darker, closer, the ceiling lower and the windows smaller. It didn’t give the likes of Ambrose Belvedere any pause, though he would have thought twice before bringing a lady of distinction in for a nightcap. He leaned on the not-as-nice bar and asked the woman behind it:
“Is there a Paula on duty tonight? Paula Breckenridge?”
The thin, tired-looking woman eyed him up and down.
“Who’s askin’?”
Mr. Belvedere pulled back the left wing of his unbuttoned coat, revealing the gold-gilded badge pinned to it. It depicted the Crown’s coat of arms, the scroll underneath declaring him a member of the ROYAL ELITE. The woman did not need to see more. She jerked her chin in the direction of a dark-haired lady out among the largely empty tables, emptying them further of discarded beer steins. Mr. Belvedere watched her work for a moment in silence.
“What’s she done?” asked the woman, secretively. The Elite man turned back to her and smiled.
“Not a thing, ma’am. I’d just like to speak with her when she has a free moment. I don’t wish to inconvenience either of you. When it suits you, and her, just tell her to come sit down with me. I’ll take that table in the corner, and a pint of ale.”
He secured both of those with no fuss. He waited, lurking in the dark corner under the stairs. He couldn’t see much of the pub from where he sat, and he didn’t want to. Privacy was key.
What he did see after a few minutes was Paula returning to the bar with a platter full of empty glasses and mugs. She set it down, and the innkeeper lay her hands on it. Before lifting it she said something to her barmaid. Paula immediately turned to look at Mr. Belvedere. He nodded at her, and nothing more. Paula exchanged a few more words with the woman, peppered with nervous glances, then disappeared back around the stairs.
She reappeared a few minutes later, a hand towel draped over her shoulder. This time she walked straight towards the man in the corner, head up and eyes bright. She did not sit down.
“I…was told you wanted to see me.”
“That I do, ma’am. My name’s Mr. Belvedere, Ambrose if it suits you. I’m with the Royal Elite. You are Paula, correct? Paula Breckenridge?”
“Yes. How did you know my name?”
“You’re married to David,” came both question and answer. Lines of concern streaked her face.
“Has something happened to him?” she quavered.
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out, Ms. Breckenridge. Will you take a seat?”
She did. She remained quiet, sad, but she was not shy. She kept his gaze, and waited for him to speak.
“I’m currently investigating the death of one Guinevere van Allen, recently of Seagate Prison. As you can imagine, your husband has been a subject of interest for me, bein’ the one who found her. I’ve interviewed him twice now and both times he’s lied to me.”
“What about?” demanded Paula. More angry than defensive.
“Why doesn’t he want me to know that he worked in law enforcement?”
She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath; exhaled.
“It’s not about the job itself,” she sighed. “It’s about why he was put on leave. He’s not hiding the fact that he was in the Guard, he’s hiding…Steadney.”
It was Mr. Belvedere’s turn to wait.
“He was one of the first to arrive. They were up there for days combing through ruined buildings. Burying people…burning them. I only know that from the stories. David won’t talk about it. He’s never talked about it, not with me, not with anyone. He hasn’t been the same since he came back. It started with nightmares, and eventually he stopped sleeping altogether. He hardly eats anything and he makes up for it with drink. He thinks I don’t notice.”
She only allowed herself one brief swipe of her eyes.
“He’s not well, Mr. Belvedere. He knows he shouldn’t be working, especially at that awful prison, but somehow he’s got it in his head that he has to be. He was going just as crazy staying at home. The reason…the reason he hasn’t said anything is that he’s afraid to be fired for his nerves. He doesn’t want to lose this job. But I suppose I’ve ruined that for him, haven’t I?”
She scrubbed at her nose. Mr. Belvedere studied her sympathetically.
“Ms. Breckenridge, it’s a tricky situation, I’ll give you that. I don’t know that his condition would immediately dictate firin’; though it does sound like he would benefit from professional help.”
“He had it,” warbled Paula. “He saw Dr. Balmoral. He was even taking tonic…was,” she added bitterly. “He decided I didn’t notice that, either. He refused everything that would have helped him.”
The Elite man had duly noted the name of the prescribing physician.
“Including me,” continued Paula. “I just want to be there for him and he refuses to talk to me. Or listen. I thought he was getting better, for a while, and now he’s worse than ever, and he still won’t get help.”
Paula let out another sigh as she looked into the Elite man’s eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “That isn’t your concern, is it? Please, excuse my rambling.”
“If it helped you to feel better, then I will accept no apology,” said Mr. Belvedere. Her face crumpled at this kindness. “In truth, Ms. Breckenridge, I would say that is all relevant information. Learnin’ who your husband is and why he said what he said was the whole reason I came to see you, and you’ve helped me greatly.”
“Is he going to be in trouble?” breathed Paula. “For lying to the Elite?”
“Not at all. I don’t believe this particular lie affects the outcome of the investigation. I didn’t suspect it would, though I do have a duty to be certain, one that you’ve helped me fulfill. Thank you, Ms. Breckenridge.”
The irony of lying to her was not lost on Mr. Belvedere. She did not appear to notice that he had.
“Now, I am sorry I waylaid you at work,” he said, swigging the last of his ale and standing from the table. “I’ll let you get back to it.”
She nodded, sniffling. He bent slightly to look her right in the eye.
“When you’re ready, of course,” he added in a whisper. “I’m sorry to have upset you, ma’am. If the lady of the house gives you trouble about it, you send her to me.”
Paula shook her head with a small smile.
“She won’t. And, you didn’t.” Indeed, the sheen in her eyes was already drying. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Belvedere.”
As he left the Fox and Fennel, he hoped, in vain, that it was the last time he would have reason to talk to her.
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