Hooded Man (91 page)

“I got bored,” was his only defence when she confronted him. It was that night she discovered there were more ways to hurt someone than simply hitting them. “Look, it was a mistake to get hitched. We rushed into it.”

“Please, Alex, darlin’.” She was tugging at his shirtsleeve – Christ, she could hardly believe that now.

“Lemme go. I-I just don’t love yer or fancy yer anymore, all right?”

It was far from all right. About as far as you could get.

“I’m leaving now – and tomorro’ I’m getting a divorce.”

It was at that point she realised just how similar she was to her mother – and her father, too, ironically. She still had hold of his shirtsleeve, his arm. If she couldn’t have Alex, then nobody else would; certainly not those whores he’d been sleeping with. Pulling him round, she dragged him over and shoved his face into the vat of boiling fat. His scream was piercing – she almost stopped what she was doing. But she glimpsed the ring on his finger, felt it brush against hers on the hand she was bending back. He’d worn that every time he’d fucked one of those tarts, the promises meaning nothing.

She’d pushed him even further into the fat, until he went limp and stopped screaming altogether.

It was only afterwards she realised the severity of what she’d done. But there’d been no witnesses. The blinds at the front of the shop had been drawn and it was too late for anyone to be in the clothes store or electrics shop on either side.

That left the question of what to do with the evidence. Then she recalled reading something in one of those occult books about an ancient ritual; about how to take the hurt and pain away, and empower yourself with the spirit of the one who’d done you wrong in the first place. Something to do with ancient tribes. She’d turned her nose up at it when she’d first read it, found it disgusting, but –

The more she thought about it, the more it made sense. A way to dispose of both the evidence, and for a part of Alex to be with her forever. To make her stronger.

And she hadn’t eaten all day.

It had taken some building up to, even more determination to continue – to finish as much as she could. But before she knew it she was stripping him, putting the rest of Alex into the fat and turning up the heat. Cooking him until the meat practically slid off. And do you know what, it tasted much better than the gristly scrag-ends she’d survived on as a child.

The rest of the remains she’d disposed of in a secluded spot miles away. But before leaving, she’d packed both lots of clothes and left a note for Alex’s father saying that they needed some time away together, to remember what was important in the marriage.

She hadn’t returned until after everything went crazy in the world.

The next few years after Alex, she’d spent travelling – Romania, Haiti, China, New Orleans – reconnecting with more than just her dead husband. She’d sought out other people who could help her hone the skills she’d abandoned, and gotten herself into trouble more times than she cared to mention. Not all of her tutors had been as nice as Evelyn, not all of the places they operated in quite so reputable. At one underground club, she’d had to fight off three guys who insisted on more than just cash as payment for their knowledge. One would never walk again, another would never see again, and the third would never have children.

The ones she found the most useful, the most adept at the black arts, she beguiled. Sometimes simply with her body, other times helped along with a spell of attraction. She’d marry them, often not legally, then take their power, too. She literally ate men alive, in the end revelling in the nickname some gave her: the Widow. To most that simply meant she’d lost husbands in the past and had a penchant for black, but she couldn’t help thinking just how appropriate it was to be likened to the spider.

Had she ever loved any of the men she’d wed, then killed? She’d been fond of some, it had to be said. But loved? She hadn’t felt love since Alex, hadn’t
let
herself; it made you weak. She’d just needed their energy, their abilities, that’s all. Fashioning herself into something that could survive the coming storm.

She’d known it was on the horizon, even before the first person died of the virus. The Widow had seen it, was prepared for it, knew that she would live through it. Even knew she’d end up here, returning to her homeland and leading an army of men. Knew she’d take the castle once she had enough of them to fight for her, to wipe out those few remaining members of the 52 Infantry Brigade and Royal Regiment of Scotland still protecting Edinburgh Castle. Knew she’d choose her own colours for them to wear, giving them traditional names to further emphasize the marriage of ancient and modern. And knew that she’d be crowned queen of all she surveyed by way of the Stone of Destiny.

She laughed, running a hand through her wild hair.

“Something amusing?”

The voice came from the shadowy archway over to her right, but didn’t startle her. She’d been expecting his return, knew her men wouldn’t stop him from gaining entrance. Nor should they, because the pair of them had business to discuss.

“Just thinking about destiny,” she told him. “Fate. The future.”

“You will not
have
a future if you continue to make such mistakes.”

“Why don’t you come out, man? Come out where I can see yer.”

There was a second or two’s hesitation, but the tall figure did just that, walking cautiously into the hall. His looked wary, as though expecting an attack. This was not a trusting person, but then she’d always known that as well, hadn’t she? Even before they’d met.

“Now, what were you sayin’ about mistakes?” she asked.

“I think you know already.” He wasn’t referring to her power; it was pretty easy to guess the topic of conversation. What some might call her recent failure. “I assume you received the message from our mutual friends abroad? The ones who loaned you those little toys to play with.”

Toys? Yes, she supposed they were. Just like the men she used. But this was a game on a grander scale than most. “I did. Just didn’t want tae make a meal of it.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “With your reputation, you surprise me.”

The Widow rose from her seat. “Credit me with some... taste,” she said. “The man looked like he’d been half eaten already. By animals.” There had been no power to gain by devouring
him
. He had no power to give. But this man in front of her, now he was different.

“He had,” said her intruder. “There’s a difference?”

The warrior in front of her didn’t – couldn’t – understand. She knew what he must think of her, what most folk out there thought. But they were wrong. They didn’t have the first clue what she was all about. “Aye. Want to find out?”

“I’ll pass.”

The Widow grinned. “So, I presume yer here to follow up?”

The man said nothing, just watched as she came closer. And was he... yes, she caught his eyes roaming over her body. Perhaps she could work her magic on him yet.

“Forget your mind control tricks,” he said, as if reading her mind. “They won’t work on me.”

No, she doubted very much that they would. His was not a weak mind, and he had purpose. He also had a connection to someone who’d passed over. Someone who had given him a mission to fulfil.

“Why d’ya keep on pretending you’re their lackey?” she asked. “Yer nothin’ of the kind. You have other motives. Doesn’t take someone with my abilities to see that.”

“Your ‘abilities’?” He gave a throaty chuckle.

She scowled. “Dinnae mock me, I’m warnin’ yer.”

He laughed and she felt the rage in her rising again. She no longer wished to subdue him the fun way, now she wanted to teach him a lesson. The Widow reached behind her back and brought out a sharp, golden knife with a jewelled hilt.

“It would be the last thing you’d do,” said the big man.

She stepped forwards, and he brought a crossbow up, letting off a couple of bolts.

She avoided them easily, knowing where he would fire, then continued with her attack. Snarling, he lunged to meet her. But as he did so, the Widow brought up her other hand, which had been clenched. She opened it and blew the contents in his direction.

Like the seeds of a dandelion, the dust drifted into her opponent’s face. He coughed, dropped the crossbow – then froze. The Widow smirked. Relaxing, she walked slowly towards the large man and tutted.

“All that pent-up aggression. When was the last time yer released any of it in another way... my Hermit?” She knew the answer to that already; it had been a long time, back before the virus even. Someone no-one else knew about. Someone he’d loved and lost, who’d betrayed him. Someone he’d killed.

She brought up the knife, tracing the tip down the olive-skinned man’s cheek – not hard enough to make it bleed, but enough to make her point. Now she was this close, she looked him up and down, just as he had her. Oh, to take him – then take his power. She licked her lips, running her free hand over his chest, over his arms, feeling the bulge of the muscles there. The Widow knew he could feel it too. She’d only prevented him from moving, not
feeling
.

Then lower. She looked him in the eyes, but he didn’t blink. He couldn’t, even if he’d wanted to.
You can’t do it, not yet. You need him
, she told herself. “Look, I understand why you want Hood dead. I know what he did. I know what you’ve lost at his hands. It’s common knowledge, you’re going to say. But I know more than yer average bystander. I know about yer promise, Tanek.”

His eyebrow twitched, in spite of the paralysis.

“Keep his child safe, isn’t that what was asked of yer?” She smiled. “I won’t tell. Yer secret’s safe with me. Nothing that has happened so far has happened by chance. Everything’s in a state of constant balance and flux, Tanek, do you understand? But if you know the outcome of certain events, you can... manipulate that balance. Tweak the future in yer favour. I’ve given yer a sample of that today. Believe me when I say the sacrifice of those toys, as you call them, was necessary. It’s all part of my plan. A plan you and those you claim to serve couldn’t possibly hope to understand.”

She paused, studying his eyes, trying to work out whether or not her words had sunk in. She’d had this selfsame conversation with Ceallach when he’d returned from the raid, when he’d demanded to know why she hadn’t seen the trap Hood had sprung. The Widow could understand how angry he’d been at seeing their men captured, at losing those weapons and vehicles, but it was all for the greater good. Ceallach had seen that after some gentle persuasion, and a night or two in the Castle Vaults. Tanek would see it as well. He had to, because she needed the weapons those he worked for supplied. And she had no wish to anger them, even if she did know what would happen to that nation in the long term.

“Now, I want you tae deliver a message back for me. Tell them they have tae trust what I’m doing. They will get what they want, and so will you. Hood will come here, and when he does, we – I – will be ready for him. It has all been foreseen, Tanek.”

The Widow removed the knife from Tanek’s cheek.

“So, yer have a choice. Leave now, do this for me, and I swear yer’ll get what yer want. Hood out of the way and De Falaise’s offspring. I think yer know what will happen if you choose otherwise. Do we have an agreement?” The Widow continued to scrutinise his face; she saw the twitch again and smiled. “Good!” She backed off, and when she was far enough away said, “Oh, aye, yer can move now.”

Tanek stumbled forwards, shaking his head.

“Take it easy for a minute, the magic’s strong.”

“Fuck magic. You mean poison.”

The Widow sighed. “Believe what yer want.”

Some people just didn’t have the capacity to think beyond the everyday. Tanek believed in what he could see, in what he could feel – and fight. She couldn’t really blame him, but at the same time it soured the idea of taking his power. There were other strengths than the purely physical, and she understood he would never be one of her conquests. That didn’t mean she couldn’t still use him, of course.

Tanek stooped to pick up his crossbow, raising it again. The Widow didn’t even flinch. He was just testing her, to see if she knew his intentions. She did. “Time yer were goin’, isn’t it,” she said. It wasn’t a question. “After all, there are others to see.”

The larger man’s eyes narrowed, then he nodded. “Very well. But we shall see each other again, soon.”

“Somehow, I doubt that,” the Widow said after him, but she was talking only to his lengthening shadow. She returned to the table, shoving aside a tarot card showing
The Hermit
. She reached instead for the one she’d been seeing time and again throughout her life.

The Widow examined it, and tapped it against her lips. Then she placed it back down.

On it was a picture of a man sat on a throne.

CHAPTER SIX

T
HE MAN KNOWN
as Shadow sat crossed-legged on the ground, gazing ahead and waiting.

This place had tried to repel him from the moment he’d entered. He could feel it. The whole forest was somehow against him. Its inhabitants as well; the creatures that called this their home. Birds flapping up in the trees, their song shrill and piercing instead of beautiful. Things scuttling about in the undergrowth. And the trees themselves had done their best to get him lost, even when light broke, making one part of this place look like another.