Recently, during the business of Kai’s kidnapping, she’d killed one Fae, and his wife had made a definite promise of vengeance. Both of them had used a gloves motif. Of course this could be pure coincidence – any woman in London might wear gloves.
But it might not.
‘Did she give you any concrete instructions about what to do with me?’ Irene asked.
All of them shook their heads. ‘She just said, catch her when she’s coming out of the British Library, here’s a description of her, prick her with this needle and it’ll knock her out. Then take her down to the tunnels and chase her a while, before you, um . . .’ The first one paused mid-narrative. ‘Frighten her and let her go,’ he suggested hopefully.
Irene sighed. ‘Please don’t treat me like an idiot. It’s been a long day and it’s going to get longer, and I am not in a good mood. Where’s the poisoned needle?’ Vale could probably analyse it.
‘Davey’s got it,’ werewolf number three piped up.
‘And Davey is . . .?’ Irene enquired.
‘Not here,’ werewolf number three said, clearly wishing he wasn’t there, either. As Irene’s glare intensified, he added hastily, ‘Davey went to the throne room. And he took your folder, too.’
Irene considered her options. The fact that she’d been left down here unconscious, to be chased and mauled to death, argued strongly against Lady Guantes. The woman was not a powerful Fae, but she was practical. (The two facts were connected.) She was the sort of enemy who’d hire a sniper with a powerful rifle to wait outside your workplace, and you’d never even know there was a bullet coming. Even if she had wanted Irene to be kidnapped and killed by werewolves, she’d have given them some sort of warning about not letting Irene say anything. So if this was Lady Guantes, then it wasn’t intended to be a murder.
But what if it was meant as a distraction? To keep her down here while something happened to Kai or Vale? The thought lay in Irene’s mind like a curdled piece of shadow, suggesting a hundred worse possibilities. She had to get out of here and check they were safe.
But she also had to get that folder back.
‘All right,’ she said, lowering her voice to a tone of gentle calm. For some reason, the werewolves cowered even more. ‘We are all going to the throne room. You’ll lead me there.’
‘We can’t do that—’ the first one started. The words caught in his throat as Irene raised her half-brick. ‘Tom here’s unconscious! We can’t just leave him.’
‘You can carry him,’ Irene said patiently. ‘There are three of you, and one of him. It won’t kill you.’ But I might, the words went unsaid.
‘We’re not supposed to bring outsiders there,’ the second one tried, unconvincingly.
‘Then you’ll just have to apologize when we get there,’ Irene said. Perhaps it was time for the carrot rather than the stick. ‘Look, gentlemen. You were clearly drastically misinformed about me. I’m not particularly angry with you. I’m angry with the person who hired you.’ Mostly true. She was more angry with the person who’d hired them. Getting angry with the hired thugs themselves was a waste of time and energy. ‘Take me to your throne room, let me get my folder and that needle, and you won’t have to worry about me ever again. Isn’t that the best possible outcome for all of us?’ A train rumbled by in the background, providing echoing thunder to back up her words.
She was trying to be patient and project an aura of unhurried superiority, but her impatience nagged at her. Was it safe to be running further into the depths of werewolf territory like this, while anything could be happening to Vale and Kai? Granted, Kai was a bit more careful these days, even if he didn’t have Irene’s own level of sensible paranoia. In addition, Vale was with him, and the two of them should be safer together . . . But anything could go wrong.
She locked gazes with her first victim, and again he backed down. ‘Right. Miss. Ma’am. We’ll show you the way and then you’ll be out of here, right?’
‘I’m looking forward to it,’ Irene said grimly.
Half an hour later, Irene was struggling not to think What if something’s happened to Kai or Vale? with every second step. She’d considered sending one of her little pseudo-pack to warn them to lock the doors and be careful, but she wasn’t sure that she trusted the werewolves out of her sight. They hadn’t tried to run away from her, though, which said something about how badly she’d frightened them.
She found it difficult to feel really terrified about her current situation. Possibly she was becoming jaded, after the last few months. In comparison with everything else, and especially in comparison with Alberich, a werewolf pack seemed like a pleasant walk in the park. Part of her knew this was not an intelligent attitude: just because a danger was less than world-threatening didn’t mean it couldn’t kill her. The other part of her was just plain irritated – with these idiot thugs; with whoever had hired them; with the heat and the darkness and the dryness and the dust; with this waste of time; with everything.
For a moment she thought she was imagining it and rubbed her eyes, but then she realized that it was actually getting lighter ahead of them. ‘Are we there yet?’ she asked the nearest werewolf.
In the growing light, she could see the uncertainty on his face. ‘I’m not sure about this . . .’ he mumbled. ‘Maybe you should let us go in and find that folder thing for you?’ ‘No,’ Irene said firmly. ‘I don’t think so. Try again.’
‘Maybe I should go and tell them you’re coming – ask for an audience?’ he hazarded.
‘That’s more like it,’ Irene approved. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t take long.’
He swallowed and loped on ahead. His gait had been becoming visibly more animalistic over the last few minutes. Either the Language’s hold was wearing off, or it had worn off some time back and he’d only just realized it.
‘You could simply walk away, ma’am,’ one of the remaining werewolves said. He and his friend were still carrying their unconscious compatriot between them. ‘If you were to head straight out from here, there’s a ladder to the north—’
Irene adjusted her hat. It was battered, dust-smeared and probably ruined, much like her coat, and any professional cleaner would have them both burned on sight. ‘Gentlemen, you seem to think that I’m a lady of fashion,’ she said. ‘I’m not. I’m a professional, and I am the sort of professional who has just thrashed all four of you together. And then I let you live, because you’re not a threat to me and I don’t have any quarrel with you.’
She’d spent most of her life playing the invisible underling in the background, creeping around in the shadows to avoid attention. Over the last few months she’d come to realize that taking the initiative and acting like someone who deserved respect might also be a valid strategy. She was not someone who was going to walk in there and apologize for the intrusion. She was a professional, a Librarian, and thoroughly dangerous. She was going to demand an apology for kidnap and theft. And if that failed, she’d damn well drop the ceiling on them.
They would listen to her. Or else.