Vigil: Verity Fassbinder Book 1 (42 page)

The house looked the same: huge, deserted, pale against the dark sky. On closer inspection, however, the paint job appeared
a little grubby, not quite crisp, as if without the old witch in residence to make sure every surface was wiped and every
wall washed, things had started the process of slow decay. I was willing to bet cobwebs were beginning to creep across the
windows, that the curtains were becoming home to colonies of upwardly mobile insects.

And the place wasn’t entirely deserted: I could see, just peeking out, the back of a Transit van: gunmetal grey, nondescript,
serviceable, the sort with no windows anywhere but the cab . . . the sort that would be perfect for transporting stuff you
didn’t want seen, like a golem, or a kidnapped boyfriend.

‘No one’s been watching this place since you toasted the old lady,’ Ziggi reported, adding, ‘Didn’t seem to be any need.’
He’d turned off the headlights before we’d entered the property and now we were once again parked under the looming camphor
laurels, waiting quietly, watching. Calliope had apparently forgiven me; she’d gone to sleep soon after we’d hit the road,
switching between silent slumber and stunningly loud snoring. I had the awful feeling another nappy change was due, and of
course I’d not had the forethought to retrieve the bag of baby stuff from the church.

‘I’m going in,’ I said, although part of me – a very large part of
me – wanted to run away, terrified of what I might find. That part of me was certain I didn’t want to know, that I couldn’t
handle
that
loss. I wasn’t sure the other part of me disagreed much.

‘Okay.’ Ziggi moved to open his door.

‘No, you’re not coming.’

‘I’m not?’

‘Nope, you’re going to be left holding the baby.’ I reached forward and handed him the slightly damp, dozing lump. ‘And you’re
going to keep trying to contact Bela.’

‘Gotta say, this doesn’t seem like a great plan.’ He held Calliope as if trying to work out which way was up. As I got out,
she farted and burped at the same time, just to be helpful.

‘I’m making it up as I go along.’ I stretched my fingers towards the sky, loosening up. ‘I can’t wait any longer, Ziggi. I
can’t leave David on his own.’

‘He might not even be there.’

‘I know. But I need to check this place first. If I have to, I’ll start working out Plan B.’ I patted his shoulder. ‘Just
keep trying Bela.’

‘If you don’t come out?’

‘Then you can have my stamp collection.’

‘You don’t have a stamp collection.’ He opened the glove box and removed another Taser with all the aplomb of a magician pulling
a rabbit out of a hat.

‘How many of these do you actually own?’

He grinned.

I almost refused it, then I remembered what I was facing and stuffed it into a side pocket. It was an X2, a bit more compact
than the older models, but it still felt like a brick. I reached in through the window and touched the baby’s smooth face.
She opened her eyes and giggled.

‘Good luck,’ Ziggi said quietly, and as I started towards the house he added, ‘Don’t get yourself killed.’

*

It took less time to cover the distance than before, but I was different: I was stronger, fitter, and this time I had a very
good idea what I was dealing with. Emotionally, though, I was in an even deeper hole. Before, it had been Lizzie’s fate in
my hands. I’d thought nothing could make me ache like that ever again. The height and depth and width of how wrong I’d been
was breathtaking, but I was doing my best to stay calm, to stop the tiny section of my brain that had all the worst possible
scenarios running on a hi-def loop.

Of course I wanted to charge in there, all metaphorical guns blazing, but just because I was hurting did not mean I was going
to unplug my cortex and do every stupid thing people did when suffering such uncertainty, facing such enormous loss. If I
panicked, I risked losing the most valuable thing in my life, so I pushed the pain and anxiety down and let hard determination
be my map. I told myself to be brave, no matter what I found.

Up the steps, onto the verandah and to the double door. Someone had hammered a lovely piece of pine over the panel I’d broken
previously. Those little ceramic pots, now filled with withered plants, were still sitting on the white iron table, so I used
one to smash in the other panel of glass. People never learned.

Inside, it was dark and cold. Before, I’d been able to smell only furniture polish; now there was the odour of dust and the
faint, familiar stench of something nasty that had passed by a while ago. The narrow Persian runner squelched underfoot, so
I hit the torch app on my mobile and crouched. There were dark patches of wet there, not only in the expensive weave, but
also on the polished wood floors. As I moved on, I glanced into the lounge and dining rooms. It
looked as if several items of furniture were missing; I was sure there were empty spaces where armchairs and dining chairs
had once been.

At the foot of the stairs I checked the light-coloured carpet for stains, but this one was clean – there was no way the leaking
golem could have made it up there without leaving a trace, so instead I headed towards the kitchen, moving as quickly and
quietly as possible. I’d almost made it when I heard that sound, that distinctive
bang-click
, and without thinking I hit the deck. I lost my grip on my mobile and it landed with a thud. The screen was cracked, but
there was still a bit of a sickly glow that I could see by.

Though I’d managed to avoid the shot, I had landed face-down in a puddle of yuck and my left hand went sliding through another
to thud into the skirting board so hard it felt like my fingers had exploded. Ziggi’s X2 in my pocket crunched against my
hip and the pain made me catch my breath. I rolled over and saw the two long metallic threads of Taser wire above me, the
probes embedded in the wall. My gaze followed them back down the corridor to the front door where a lithe, muscular silhouette
was throwing aside the spent weapon and cursing, but I was still trying to scramble out of the way when she came at me. In
the weak light from my mobile I saw the glint of sleek blonde hair and hard blue eyes.

Anders Baker’s AWOL security guard grinned and pulled a knife.

I didn’t have time to get up so I kicked her legs from under her and she grunted as she fell. I really hoped she’d landed
on her own weapon, but my luck wasn’t that good; she reared up like a cobra and swiped the blade across my chest. It split
the leather of my jacket, but didn’t get through the T-shirt to the skin underneath. I did the only thing I could think of
and kicked her in the groin. It didn’t have quite the same effect as it would on a guy, but it did slow her down a little.

Then she regrouped, and tackled me.

Rolling over, I tried to grab her but my hand was still senseless and I missed her wrist, catching the sharp edge of the blade
instead. I let go quick-smart, but not fast enough: it had already done enough damage to slice through the numbness and my
palm was slicked with blood. I didn’t have time to contemplate the wound because she drew back and drove the knife into my
left shoulder. I managed to get my uninjured hand around her throat, and as she twisted the blade deeper and deeper, I banged
her head against the wall with all my not-inconsiderable strength.

Three blows, and her skull caved in, along with part of the wood panelling. Three blows, and the knife was deep into my flesh.
Three blows, and everyone else in the house knew I was here – so how long before the evil cavalry turned up?

I struggled to sit, and stared at the bleeding mess crumpled beside me. Gingerly, I felt around her squishy hairline looking
for hints of horns, at her shoulder blades for stumps of wings, at the lower back for any sign of a tiny tail, to see if she’d
somehow hidden what she was, but no glamour faded away as she died; she was just a
very
fit Normal, which I should have realised, because any Weyrd would’ve used their power against me, not just a stupid Taser,
not just a stupid knife.

I didn’t even know her name. She’d obviously taken up a new job after she’d left Baker’s employ – or maybe she’d already been
working for someone else for a while, drawing two pay cheques. Whatever information she’d given me had just been part of a
lure, a game.

I wiped my face clean before tearing off a strip from the bottom of her T-shirt and stuffing it into the hole she’d made in
me. I wound another piece around my left hand, hoping that would stop the bleeding long enough for me to do whatever I had
to do to finish
this. I leaned over and collected my phone. It was not lost on me that I’d once again been punctured.

I stood up, and nausea and lightheadedness washed over me. I had to lean against the wall until I’d pulled myself together,
then I squeezed my injured hand and the pain shooting up my arm shocked me alert. David needed me. This was not the time for
a nap. I moved slowly across the tiled floor into the kitchen, one step at a time, pausing to see if anyone was going to come
charging in, but there was no one at all. In the pantry the secret entrance was once again unlocked, and I could see the door
at the bottom of the stairs was standing ajar, letting a feeble sliver of light spill through.

The rows of wine racks at the unlit end of the basement were still there, though their contents had gone. They gave me some
cover as I limped along, trying to ignore my aching hip where the Taser had bruised it. As I got closer to the illuminated
area, I noticed the benches around the walls and the steel tables had been cleared away, but the furnace remained in its corner,
cold as a witch’s heart. Two narrow beds, an armchair, a few dining chairs and a low parquetry table with a slim laptop lying
open on it – was that where the video of the golem had been uploaded? By whom? – had been added to the furnishings.

Both beds were occupied, as was the armchair.

David, identifiable by his favourite ‘badger on a bike’ T-shirt, was blindfolded and sitting cross-legged in the middle of
one mattress. His bound hands had been roped to the metal frame, one to the top, the other to the bottom. Relief washed through
me, making me feel faint – although that could have been the blood loss – and the pressure in my chest released just a little:
he was alive, and from there at least, he looked unharmed. On the other bed was a worn-looking young man with middling brown
hair, sitting hunched over and miserable. His clothing was filthy and an even filthier bandage had been wrapped around his
left forearm. His expression pretty much summed up ‘unhappy with my life choices’. I didn’t know how much longer Donovan Baker
would be able to assume human form.

Huddled beside the furnace was Sally Crown. Her bloodied legs and head were at an angle that looked unnatural to me, and she
was completely still, though she might just have been deep in exhausted slumber. I was too far away to tell if she was breathing.

In the armchair sat Ursa, booted feet hanging over one armrest, jiggling happily as if waiting for the postman to deliver
a long-expected parcel. Apparently there
was
a tunnel out of the Archives after all.

‘Sigrid?’ she called. ‘Are you done?’

Ah. Sigrid. It felt better, knowing the name of someone I’d killed, though I couldn’t quite say why.

When there was no answer she frowned – and looked up to see me standing at the edge of the wine racks. Her widening eyes told
me I wasn’t precisely who she’d been anticipating. I had no choice now, so I stepped from the shadows – there was no cover,
no way I could sneak over to free David and check on Sally without her spotting me.

‘Sigrid won’t be joining us this evening.’ I saw David jerk at the sound of my voice. His head turned blindly in my general
direction.

The Archivist had obviously been expecting her minion to return in triumph, possibly with my head on a platter. She rose,
surprisingly sprightly, but knocked over the silver-tipped walking stick that had been leaning against the side of her chair
and it rolled enthusiastically across the floor and hit the toe of my shoe. I stood on it. I knew what it was now.

Ursa eyed the thing with annoyance and not a little fear; that combined with the shock of seeing me was apparently so unpleasant
that she began to lose her form entirely.

Though I’d encountered a lot of negative reactions, this was new and extreme: it wasn’t just a shifting or a simple shape-changing
so much as a
peeling
; the Archivist’s outer layer came off at her hairline, reminding me of a snake shedding its skin as it started folding back
and away. The body grew a little taller and filled out until ‘Ursa’ was no more than a discarded husk to be stepped out of
and kicked aside. In her place stood a vaguely familiar, kindly-looking grandfather in crumpled old-man trousers and a long-sleeved
polo shirt.

The Ursa suit emitted the scent I recalled from my second visit to the Archives; what I’d thought had been stress-related
was actually slow but inexorable decay. I wondered how long it had been since the real Archivist had been killed and her form
stolen? How many records had Vadim Nadasy destroyed while he’d walked around in her shell, how many secrets had he pilfered?