There had been a stir of interest among the assembled werewolves at Dawkins’ question, which subsided again at Irene’s answer. It was interesting that Dawkins hadn’t seemed surprised at Irene’s suggestion of an alternate world. Perhaps working for the Fae left them more used to such concepts.
‘All right.’ Dawkins shifted position in his chair slightly. The movement was echoed by the group of werewolves around him, but on a larger scale, like an orchestra’s musicians following a conductor. ‘That’s a fair answer. I’ll not stand in the way of your talking to Davey.’ o;Remind me of her name again,’ Dawkins said to one of the women behind him.
The woman flicked a glance at Irene that was as sharp as cut glass. Her dark skin was ruddy in the lamplight, and her braided hair curved around her head like a nautilus shell. She was dressed in prim clothing that might have belonged to a shop assistant or a teacher. ‘She’s called Irene Winters, Mr Dawkins. Been here a few months now. Canadian.’
‘Now you see,’ Dawkins said, leaning forward, ‘this is where it gets interesting. I keep on hearing your name linked to Mr Vale, and connected to trouble with my people. Significant company, for a woman who’s only been here for a few months. That has me curious about you. Not necessarily opposed, you understand. That would be unreasonable.’ His voice, if possible, deepened. ‘But if you’re meaning to make me your enemy, then you’ve put yourself in harm’s way.’
Irene shrugged. ‘Your people do seem to do a great deal of work for the Fae,’ she said. ‘Lord Silver. Lady Guantes. I regret it if your wolves have been caught in the middle.’
‘Mm.’ Dawkins considered that, his hands on the arms of his throne. ‘And Mr Vale?’
‘My friend,’ Irene said. Just this once, she didn’t care about the consequences of answering truthfully. ‘But that’s not why I’m here.’
There was a rising growl from the room around her. Messy images of the I-am-about-to-be-torn-to-pieces sort flickered through Irene’s mind, and it took all her self-control not to turn around.
Dawkins raised his right hand. The room fell silent. ‘It’s true that we can’t always pick our friends, any more than we can pick our family,’ he said. ‘Let’s not condemn her for that. But you’d better have a fucking good explanation for being down in our tunnels.’
His sudden vulgarity ripped through the hot air as his voice rose with it. The pack was growling again, all of them rising and snarling, like surf on the shore in a hurricane, or like rain slashing the leaves of a forest.
He’s reasonable, Irene thought. The surge of anger around her was reassuring, in its way: Dawkins had directed it, and Dawkins was in control. If she could deal with Dawkins, then the situation was manageable.
‘Blame your own people,’ she said. ‘I was coming out of the British Library when I was jumped, drugged, brought down here and had my property stolen.’ She pointed back in the direction of her victims, without breaking his gaze. ‘I’m not here to make myself your enemy, or to count their actions against you. But I want my property back.’
‘And someone here’s got it?’ Dawkins demanded.
‘Davey. Or so I’ve been told. I’d like the needle with the poison they used on me, too. If you don’t mind.’
Dawkins leaned back in his chair, looking thoughtful. The scars on his face shifted into a new set of disfigurations. ‘And you aren’t calling any sort of debt on my boys, for snatching you?’
‘Why should I?’ Irene let herself smile. ‘They’ve already paid.’
The tension dropped a few notches. Dawkins nodded. ‘Right. Now I’ve a question I want answering. If you can do that, I may be able to help you. Celia!’ The woman with the braided hair tilted her head. ‘Go find me Davey.’
Celia nodded, stepping back and into the crowd.
‘So what’s the question?’ Irene asked.
‘A while back, some of my boys took a job for that Fae woman you mentioned. Lady Guantes, in from Liechtenstein. She was the one doing the hiring. They left on a train with her, and I haven’t seen them since.’ Dawkins’ voice was a low, throbbing growl, almost as deep as the rumble of the passing trains. ‘What I want to know is: what happened to them?’
Oh, this was going to be a difficult one to answer. ‘Why do you think I know?’ Irene parried.
‘She was working against you,’ Dawkins said. ‘I’m thinking that you or Lord Silver are the two people I’m most likely to get an answer out of, and I don’t want to pay Silver’s prices.’
Irene contemplated honesty. They were left behind in a dark, paranoid Venice in a high-chaos world, and you’ll probably never see them again. Perhaps tactful honesty would work better. ‘That train went to a Fae world,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, but if Lord Silver or Lady Guantes didn’t bring them back, then I don’t think they’ll be coming back.’
‘You can’t fetch them, then?’
‘I wouldn’t go there if I could – but I can’t access that world,’ Irene admitted, ‘and I’d probably get killed if I tried. So no, I’m not going to be able to help you there.’ And she hoped that wasn’t a bad omen for the future. Saying she wasn’t going to do things under any circumstances was like using words such as unsinkable around big ships and icebergs. It was just asking for trouble.
There had been a stir of interest among the assembled werewolves at Dawkins’ question, which subsided again at Irene’s answer. It was interesting that Dawkins hadn’t seemed surprised at Irene’s suggestion of an alternate world. Perhaps working for the Fae left them more used to such concepts.
‘All right.’ Dawkins shifted position in his chair slightly. The movement was echoed by the group of werewolves around him, but on a larger scale, like an orchestra’s musicians following a conductor. ‘That’s a fair answer. I’ll not stand in the way of your talking to Davey.’ It wasn’t quite as helpful as I’ll make sure Davey turns over your stolen property, but it would do for a start. Irene nodded in thanks.
Then the wave of chaos-tinged power hit her again, slamming down on the room in a silent burst that made her shake. She locked her knees and bit her lip, conscious that she was swaying, but aware that if she showed weakness, her grip on the situation would be broken. It didn’t touch the werewolves, they couldn’t even feel it, but it ran across Irene’s nerves in a burst of foul scent and heat, then leapt for the nearest printed material like an arcing current.
‘What the hell is this?’ Dawkins rose from his throne, inspecting it in confusion. Irene went up on her toes to get a better look at it, over the heads of the werewolves that were crowding around, and her heart sank even lower. All the carefully attached Tube signs were covered in graffiti or had changed their wording entirely, and the new writing was all in the Language.
I know you’re there, it said.