There were no windows in the warehouse. Nobody on the outside could see the rows and rows of tables full of drugs, bootlegged cyberware, weapons, ammo, stolen appliances, or any of a dozen other types of illegal merchandise.
John, Valentine and Brenden strolled up and down the aisles. Brenden had eyeballed a person who seemed like a pretty good dealer, as far as crooks went. He stepped up to the cache of goods. John and Val practically gawked at all of the hardware laid out.
``Lookin' fer sum'thin' pertikeler, mate?''
Llewelyn nodded. ``Glock nine millimeter.''
``Coo, 'at'sa good 'un, gov'nor. Lotsa folks like them popguns.'' He produced one from behind the table, sighting along the barrel at an empty crate. ``Nice an' light, an' simple t' conceal. 'ere, want ta look at 'er, gov'nor?''
Brenden ran his finger around the tip of the barrel, then smelled the excess oils that his finger picked up. ``Not too bad. I'd say that this is about #150 worth of gun.''
``One fifty! Crimey, gov'nor, it cost me more'n'at. It'd break me heart to give i' away like 'at. Two-fifty.''
``What's this? Come, come, sir; the plastic is chipped. Who knows how strong it might be?''
The dealer humbly accepted #170 for his wares after a little bit of browbeating. Valentine's mouth formed a little 'o' of delight as her eyes came across 'Tiny Tim'.
``You likes li'l Tim thar, lass?''
Val was practically caressing the Ingram Mac 10 she had picked up.
``Tho' it 'urts me t' do so, I can sell it to a pretty laidy like you for a mere #300.''
Brenden announced, ``Yes, that would be quite a fair price''--the dealer's face lit up--``for the gun, a case of ammo, and three clips.''
The dealer's day was utterly ruined as Brenden cowed him into accepting, and he was downright miserable when Brenden decided to buy a Desert Eagle for John Kickingbird, too.
The three strolled happily away with their new purchases.
``Blimey. Wha' a bloomin' bloody lousy day. I just might go legit. I'm like to make more money that way, anyhows!''
Brenden straightened his tie as he waited patiently for his meeting. He had been given an appointment with Sir Matthew Burke Chatham, an Associate Director with, he understood, relevant jurisdiction to be able to help out Valentine. Despite the many hardships Britain faced since the Invasion, her Ministries of Intelligence were still going strong--perhaps even stronger than ever, some might say.
The Fifth Directorate--comparable to America's FBI--had assumed greater domestic responsibilities as more traditional enforcement had suffered under the wash of realities. For some reason, more of M.I.5's men had been able to keep hold of their devotion and sense of duty than those from the local forces.
The big door swung silently open, and a figure emerged from the office. Brenden couldn't place the name, but he was fairly certain that the man had been at Mountbatten's the other night.
The secretary nodded in Llewelyn's direction. ``Sir Chatham will see you now.'' Brenden nodded, and entered.
Brenden's footfalls were lost in the thick, dark red carpet underfoot. He approached the desk and extended a hand. ``Good morning, Sir Chatham.''
The Associate Director frowned, and, after a pause, shook his visitor's hand. ``Not really. Sit down, please.''
Brenden did so. The director removed his glasses, wiped them thoroughly, and reset them upon his face. ``What may I do for you?''
Brenden tried his best not to show how irritated he was that this man had not returned any sense of formality whatsoever. ``Yes. Well, I was referred to your department for a problem of mine. Rather, of a friend of mine. In the early a.m. on Saturday, a Miss Valentine Wiggin was taken custody on Fleet Street, and I am told that your department is handling the case.''
Chatham frowned again, sending ripples through several of his chins. He pushed the intercom on his desk. ``Bring me the folder for Wiggin, from Saturday morning.''
Uncomfortable silence filled the air for several minutes, until the paperwork was delivered. ``Let me see...'' Chatham cocked his head back, to look through his bifocals.
``Breaking and entering, illegal weapon possession, property damage. Seems fairly open and shut. What, may I ask, seems to be the problem?''
Brenden held his voice calm and level. ``Sir, those charges do not reflect the circumstances. My friend was attacked, and badly hurt trying to defend herself.''
``Attacked, eh? She told the constable that, too. There was no trace of an attack. Just a bloody lot of bullet holes and some broken shop windows. Again, I ask, what seems to be the problem? The lady is already out on bail, and she can present her case in court in a month.''
Brenden tried to count to ten, got to four and a little bit. ``I would like to see her personal property restored. It is a matter of utmost importance.''
The heavy jowls rocked back and forth as the Associate Director's head turned to scan the page. ``Property? All that was withheld was an assault rifle and a laptop computer.''
Brenden's voice rose perceptibly. ``That is not a laptop computer, sir. That is a cyberdeck, and it is a vital piece of equipment to her, and to her comrades. Are you aware, sir, that Miss Wiggin is employed by M.I.6?''
Now it was Chatham's turn to be angry. His face turned flush, and his voice fairly bellowed. ``Directorate Six has no authorisation to operate within the country! This is not, as you Yanks would say, their turf. Therefore, as long as she remains in England--which, I might add, will be until her trial--she has no need for her little toys.''
Brenden tried calm and reason one last time. ``Mr. Associate Director, sir, I give you my word as a citizen of this country, an agent of your government, and as Viscount of Harms, that this equipment is necessary and vital, and that it is imperative that it be returned.''
``You have my answer, Mr. Llewelyn. The items will remain in custody.''
Brenden leaned over the desk, and made his voice as low and threatening as he could possible manage. ``Chatham, if Valentine--or any of our associates--come to harm because of this asinine decision, I will personally come back here and extract justice from your prodigious hide. You have my word on that--not as count, not as agent, not as citizen--but just as somebody who doesn't like to see good oxygen go to waste.''
Chatham leapt to his feet, sending his chair flying backwards. He gesticulated wildly at the door. ``Get out of here, now!''
Brenden slammed the door very satisfyingly as he left.
Alice held the door open as an upset looking Brenden tramped through the door and threw himself down on one of the piles of pillows that comprised Shadoe's apartment. ``What a jerk.''
``Brenden, whatever happened?''
``I didn't get her stuff. The blockhead over at M.I.5 wouldn't order the release.
``Anyway, did you get in touch with everyone?''
Alice nodded. ``You told Valentine and John, didn't you?''
``Yes, dear.'' Sunday afternoon, Brenden had received an invitation from a friend of his in the SAS, to dine at the Tower Tuesday night. Well, thought Brenden, the last get together went fairly well.
Which reminded him, ``Where's Anna?''
``She took Lord Dalming home from the hospital today. The wound wasn't too serious. Just, well, messy. They have him all bandaged up, and Anna is going to stay with him today.''
Brenden nodded just as a fervent knock sounded at the door.
Alice went to the door. ``Who is it?''
``It's Val. Is he back yet?''
``Yes, one moment.''
Alice slid back the bolts and opened up the door.
Valentine flew into the room like a hot pink Concorde. ``Well, where's my stuff?'' she said, moving straight for Brenden.
He loosened his tie and sighed.
``Val, I'm sorry. I couldn't get your things for you. I-''
``You what???''
Alice said, ``Oh, dear,'' and moved closer. ``Valentine, he did his best.''
``You said you would get me my gun! I want my gun back, damnit!''
Before Brenden could even say a word, Valentine spun on the heels of her combat boots, throwing a spray of hair gel in his eye, and she stormed out.
``That went almost as well as my meeting this morning,'' mused Brenden as his hand twitched for a double of bourbon. Shit.
A soft knock sounded and the door, and David Hardy wiped his straight razor across its strap, wiped shaving cream from his face, and went to the door. Unconsciously, his hands fluffed out the freshly trimmed muttonchops as he crossed his meager apartment.
A shock of bright white hair over dark, inky features met the priest as he opened the door. ``Alain, what a pleasant surprise.''
The elf nodded her head curtly. ``Father Hardy.'' She used his title, usually, simply because he seemed to appreciate its use.
``Do come in. May I get you something? I haven't much around, but...''
Alain shook her head. ``No. I'm afraid I've come to speak of serious matters.''
Hardy noticed that he was wearing only his breaches and undershirt, and said, ``Give me just a moment, please, and then you may speak freely about what troubles you.''
While David finished dressing, he mused on whether the misguided girl was finally seeing a glimpse of the Truth. The distorted faith represented by the one she called Dunad had some elements that compared favourably with the teachings of the Lord, and Father David Hardy held out hope for Alain, that she might one day know His Grace.
However, what confronted him when he returned to his cubicle of a living room was something of a more pressing nature. ``David, there have been some strange happenings in the last few days. Brenden and Alice are convinced that there is a horror in London.''
David allowed himself a sharp intake of breath. He also noticed that Alain had allowed a more lax use of a particular word than one would ever hear from a Victorian speaking of a Horror.
``Lord Protect us and grant us Your Mercy. Alain, what has happened?''
Alain paused to collect her thoughts for a moment, and then began. ``Of course, you know about what happened at Brenden's apartment.''
David nodded. ``Indeed. That poor soldier, God keep him.''
``If I have the times straight, the first event after that took place on Friday. Alice, Valentine, and Shadoe were shopping and a man went berserk, attacking everyone around. According to Alice, he held some sort of special fixation on her.''
Alain provided several more details that she had learned from the trio involved. Hardy's visage turned grim. ``Would to God that I did not know whereof you speak, Alain, but I think that I do. It is a spell, one of the few common spells among the various twisted followers, worshippers, even, of the Occult. An Occultist concentrates on violent, painful, heart-rending images, and then uses his dark powers to force that emotional turmoil on another. The results are not regular, of course, and anything but predictable, but violent psychopathic tantrums such as you describe are a common effect.''
Alain pondered the significance of that. ``That man, according to authorities, has not yet recovered. What a powerful spell!''
David nodded grimly. ``If such a powerful Occultist is in the area, then you can be all but certain that there are, indeed, Horrors as well.
``I now regret that Brenden and I have been operating under such different schedules since I invited him in. I have heard nothing of any of this. What else has transpired, Alain?''
Alain told the stories of Valentine, Shadoe, and Alice fighting their own shadows, and of the demon that was made of shadow.
Hardy's face was looking drawn and pale. ``I have never heard of such a thing as this. Things could be more serious than any of us has yet considered.''
Continuing, Alain gave the priest all of the details she could recall from the violent afternoon at the café. ``And the other creature,'' she was saying, ``seemed to resemble a type of undead known here in Aysle, but I am certain that it held us in what I have heard you call the Power of Fear.''
``Alain, this is very, very important. Of what manner of nosferatu did this creature remind you?''
Alain said, ``A type called a wraith. Father? David? What's wrong?''
All the blood had drained from Father Hardy's face. He crossed himself, and began to pray softly to himself.
He looked up and locked eyes with the worried elf. ``Alain, the Wraith of Orrorsh is a terrible beast. It is a type of gospog, the most supremely powerful type known to all of Victoria. Wraiths exist for one purpose: violent murder.
``If that soldier had not been killed in Brenden's apartment, Brenden himself would have been the victim. Obviously, the Wraith was sent to kill him. A Wraith will destroy anyone who crosses its path, and discovers it hiding, before moving on to a new location.
``That coldness you described, so cold it felt like death, that it a power (or should I say a curse?) possessed by some of the most potent creatures in Orrorsh. What you felt, Alain, was the very evil of that Wraith overwhelming and destroying your living soul! That coldness can kill!''
Alain protested, ``But David, this thing, this wraith, did not try to kill us at the restaurant. It seemed more to be toying with us. If it were as you describe, we should all by now be dead.''
David nodded. ``That thought frightens me even more. Do you know why? Because that implies that this Occultist is strong enough, and powerful enough, to control it.
``Alain, I must do some research if I am to be able to help you and our friends. Unfortunately, this strange duplicate of Victoria, this England, is not likely to have a great number of the books and materials I shall need for such an undertaking. God willing, though, I will find some.''
Alain, who had learned something of the ways and methods of the Occult under Father Hardy's tutelage, quickly offered, ``I can help you.''
``You are most generous, Alain. But do you feel that you know enough of the forces and things with which we are dealing? I do not mean to belittle your considerable knowledge--far from it. But you have very little practical experience with the creatures of Orrorsh.''
Alain decided not to be offended by the man's Victorian arrogance, because he was very probably correct. ``I understand. But I will be able to help locate writings for you.''
``Very good. God be with you, Alain. Let us meet again in a few days to see what we may have found out.''