Vigil: Verity Fassbinder Book 1 (39 page)

She giggled, an odd sound coming from her. ‘Then Vadim disappeared and everyone assumed he’d given up. But I think he went
off to learn darker magic, to become more powerful so he could find Dusana himself and break the binding. He wanted to become
someone feared not just by us but by the Normals too: those who walk so bravely in daylight.’

‘Who cast the spell?’ The more she said about Nadasy, the more my fear for David swelled, but I had to push it down for the
moment and concentrate.

She pursed her lips. ‘What you need to understand, and I trust you’ll take this into consideration when you speak to dear
Bela, is that Nadasy had been talking for some time about taking back the world, both night and day. He talked of staging
a coup, leading a revolution against the Normals. He was stirring things up, finding those Weyrd willing to listen to his
ridiculous ideas. So, when a certain person was approached by Anders Baker, looking for a means to put his new beginning into
action, perhaps that person thought of a way to help distract Nadasy from his goals – to make the wheels fall off, as it were.’

‘You.’

‘Clever child.’ Her smile never wavered. ‘Nadasy was a great snob, not just about Normals, but about Weyrd too: half of us
weren’t good enough for him, our bloodlines insufficiently regal. Not all of us can have the blood of the Bathorys – inbred,
every one, I promise
you – running through our veins. Our breeding doesn’t affect our power or our potential; a peasant might as easily bring down
an empire as a prince.’

I could have sworn speculation gleamed in her eyes as she said
peasant
.

‘And Dusana? Where is she?’

‘Have you not seen Baker’s mermaid? A fairly tasteless piece, I always thought, but one must work with the tools one has.’
She watched her own fingers playing with the gold spider pendant dangling from her bag. It had rubies for eyes, eight of them.

Understanding started to creep up my neck like multiple tiny sticky feet.

‘Lifelike, isn’t it?’ Her gaze met mine, flashing red. How did she look under her glamour? How many legs might be apparent
if she let it slip, just for a moment; how many fangs might jut from her mouth?

‘You . . .’ In my imagination I superimposed the bronze mermaid’s face over the portrait in Baker’s sitting room; the features,
now in context, matched perfectly. ‘You turned her into
that
? You left her like that for more than fifteen years?’

‘I never liked her. She was as uppity as her father. Besides’ – she gestured eloquently with bejewelled fingers – ‘Baker offered
a
lot
of money. Hermès handbags don’t come cheap.’

I licked my lips a few times. My mouth felt parched. Donovan Baker’s mother had watched him his whole life. Did he know? I
was willing to bet not. And Anders Baker had overseen his wife all those years. I felt queasy.

‘And now Nadasy’s back—’

‘Well, I suspect he’s learned much in his time abroad. He probably thinks he can free his daughter, if he can find her. And
if Vadim’s got his hands on Baker – whom I understand has disappeared – and he
thinks he can get away with killing him now, then I don’t trust Anders not to give me up if his other leverage is gone. My
chances of survival are vastly increased by standing behind the likes of you.’

‘Your faith is flattering.’ I picked at a thread on the arm of my chair and found myself having to resist the urge to keep
pulling until the weave broke. ‘Where is Nadasy?’

‘I wish I knew . . . imagine my bargaining power if I did.’ She clasped her hands and rested them on the bag. ‘I think that’s
enough. I’m very impressed at your self-control, given the trying circumstances, but I’m not sure how much patience you’ve
got left.’

‘You’re smarter than you look.’ I stood, kept my tone even and said, ‘And remember: if anything happens to my lover, I’ll
come for you. It won’t matter who you try to hide behind, I will tear you apart.’

At last her smile wavered and she blinked furiously. I rose and opened the door; Father Tony appeared as if by magic. I jerked
my chin in his direction and he disappeared again, presumably to call Bela. Eleanor Aviva and I waited in silence. I thought
about popping her head off, just to see what she looked like after death, to see if the glamour would fade and reveal her
in what I suspected would be arachnid glory. I wanted to see if that might release some of my tension, let some of the distress
drain away. But I didn’t. I didn’t have the energy. I felt sick at heart at the thought of David at the mercy of the mage
and the golem. It was clear Nadasy had taken him in revenge for Magda, my loved one in return for his, and despair threatened
to overwhelm me, until the sound of Bela’s footsteps pulled me back.

My time with Eleanor Aviva was done.

‘Good luck,’ she called as I left the room. I didn’t turn around.

The low sun left little licks of silvery-gold on the ripples of the river; the wind bit through my jacket and turned my hands
to ice as I held the dagger out over the water. I was crouched on a rocky outcrop, studiously ignoring Ziggi standing on the
nice flat path behind the guardrail, sighing loudly and telling me every few minutes that he was cold and bored and utterly
convinced there had to be a better way of doing this.

Stupid as I felt, this was the only option I had left. As the certainty I was wasting precious time became heavier, the harder
it was not to turn around and yell rude things at my friend. But I did my best to ignore him and concentrate on the sole means
I could think of to summon the Boatman. Things like the Dagger of Wilusa didn’t exist in isolation: they were connected to
the world like spiders at the centre of their webs. They linked to the elements, their owners, their custodians, to the acts
they’d committed, sometimes to
anyone
who’d touched them . . . and the Boatman ticked at least two of those boxes. So I continued huddling determinedly as the
blade vibrated and sang, much like an attack of tinnitus. If the only course to draw the Boatman out was by irritating the
hell out of him, well, under the circumstances, I was okay with that.

Finally, the temperature dropped even further and the air started thickening and whitening until a fog was churning around
me. A
glance over my shoulder showed Ziggi as nothing more than a faint silhouette. In a frozen moment the boat and its oarsman
were floating in front of me, staying in one place with no discernable effort, as close as he could get to the shore without
running aground and losing all professional dignity. In the bow hunched a figure, facing away from me. I stood, feeling my
knees crack, stretching out my arms to steady myself.

The Boatman’s hood fluttered on the wind and I could see he was less than pleased. Then his shoulders lifted, a gesture I
took to mean he was demanding to know what I wanted and why hadn’t I done whatever it was I was supposed to do? Had I been
able to reach him, I’d have wrung his scrawny neck.

‘What do you want me to do?’ I yelled.

‘Stop them,’ he yelled back, shaking a fist.

‘
How?
’ I glanced down at the figure at his feet, who was now looking up at me. A long cut had ruined Anders Baker’s throat and
rust-red blood covered the front of his expensive cream pullover and designer jeans. Stunned, I blurted, ‘What happened to
you?’

‘They have no voice, not until they pass through. Do you imagine that any would remain silent on this last journey? That they
would not howl their despair?’ the Boatman asked. ‘Voices have power, and these are powerless.’

Had Nadasy found him and learned the secret of Dusana’s fate? I hoped not. As soon as I’d told Bela what I’d learned, he’d
set out for Baker’s place with full-on goon squad and informant in tow. What if I’d sent him into a confrontation with the
mage? Though they’d been friends once, I didn’t think Nadasy held too many lives sacred these days.

Maybe it wasn’t Nadasy
, I thought. After all, the list of folk Baker had pissed off was long. Bela had back-up; David was on his own.
David might already be dead and growing cold
, said that shitty little voice in my head.
He’s being tortured, maimed
,
broken, and it’s all my fault
. I shuddered and returned my attention to the Boatman, who was looking decidedly impatient.

‘I get it, you’re not supposed to interfere, but the golem – do you know
anything
about it? Its master, Nadasy? They’ve taken—’

He was shaking his head, maybe a bit sadly, as if to say
I can manage only one crisis at a time
.

‘Stop
them
, the angelics,’ he said. ‘They will break the sky and night will be forever. They will change the nature of death.’

Okay, so I could see he had a stake in that.

‘How can I stop them if I can’t fucking find them?’ I shouted, losing my temper just a little with someone I definitely needed
not to piss off. ‘Or anyone else?’

He pointed upwards, jabbing at the air: upwards, and kind of
behind
. We were below St Mary’s Church.

‘Spaces are not what they seem.’ The mist shifted again, thinning and dissolving into nothingness. Anders Baker turned his
eyes in the direction of travel. The Boatman shook his head as if he couldn’t believe he’d put faith in me.

‘Spaces are not what they seem,’ I muttered. I thought about City Hall and its hidden dimensions. I thought about how easy
it might be to hide something in plain sight. I clambered up the rocks and as soon as I hit the path I started to run, almost
knocking Ziggi over as I yelled, ‘Spaces are not what they seem!’

I didn’t need to check to see if he was following me.

*

The cliffs were deserted, no sign of any siren conclaves, angels, abseilers, or random sightseers to be seen in the last of
the daylight.
No one
. It was almost as if the city’s population as a whole had sensed something
wasn’t quite right, wasn’t quite safe, and had gone home to hunker down with a cup of tea and chocolate biscuits until whatever
threatened had blown over.

I ran up the stone steps, panting for breath, half-skipped, half-jogged towards St Mary’s and pushed through the gate. I took
the corner of the church a little too sharply and felt a pain in my knee, which I ignored; I had to keep going. Out past the
garden, where the ground fell away, the sky was shot with pink and red, with silver limning the clouds. I circled the building,
coming at last to where the ragged stones and missing masonry were hiding more than they revealed.

There had once been a room there.

Perhaps there still was.

I stepped forward, just as I had that night when I’d been hit by the thrown stone. The air congealed, feeling like glue against
my skin, but I pressed on, blindly hoping that the ward, like so many others, wouldn’t work on me, or at least not entirely.
Only when my lungs began to burn did I start to doubt . . .

. . . and then I was through, gasping and stumbling into a well-lit chamber. It was warm, and to my relief there was no scent
of decay. There was, however, a crib, rocking chair, changing table and baby bath, and toys had been scattered across the
thick rug. The two solid walls were hung with sumptuous tapestries depicting ladies and unicorns getting on famously, both
gorgeous, and perfect for keeping away the chill. A camp bed piled with blankets said someone else was spending time here
too: someone who’d gone to the trouble of making it comfortable and safe.

The enchanted walls that hid the stone nursery from the outside world were transparent, and through them I could see the manse
and the community hall, and the hospice beyond.

Then a gurgle came from the crib and I turned back and bent down, pushing aside the net with its lilac ribbons, embroidered
purple butterflies and yellow bunnies. Sitting in the middle of creamy sheets was a violet-eyed baby girl with a ton of curly
black hair, wearing only a nappy, a drooly grin and two sets of unbound wings. The pair closest to her skin were black, the
others, smaller and silver, nestled just inside the first like the petals of a flower: so beautiful, so magical – and putting
her in mortal danger. They were only wings, but they had turned her into a
thing
, wanted and pursued. With them, she would always be hunted.

Beside her lay a half-full bottle, still warm, which suggested her guardian wasn’t long gone. Calliope Kallos was well cared
for, apart from an untimely diaper issue. I wrinkled my nose and she laughed, a sound bright as bells. Fortunately, the changing
table was equipped with all the necessities.

‘This was not on my List of Firsts, baby.’ I peeled open the nappy. ‘Oh, sweet mother of crap!’

After cleaning her up with an inordinate number of wet wipes and spraying half a ton of talc everywhere, things were a little
less dire.

‘You’d think a divine infant might manage to poop something a bit more fragrant,’ I told her, but the baby just kept laughing
and dribbling. When I picked her up, she snuffled against my neck. She smelled sweet, floral, but not like powder. She smelled
like Tobit; his odour of sanctity clung to her.