Read The Path of Razors Online
Authors: Chris Marie Green
The Path of Razors (37 page)
“What you came upon?”
Kiko was already following up. “There’s ... Well, something happened to bring us back here, Dawn. And even though I wish Natalia would get her butt to headquarters”—he’d changed his tone, telling Dawn that he and Natalia had debated this and she’d somehow talked him into it—“I don’t think that’s what the team needs. I thought we should get back to you as soon as possible. Her radar can only help, and Frank can always rush to us if we need him.”
“Plus, I’ll be able to fight,” Natalia said.
Kiko “uh-uh”ed. “Not before you hide, first thing, then engage only if you need to.”
Dawn broke up the party. “Just why did you two come back here?”
“Tell her,” Kiko said, but the new girl only shook her head.
Dawn realized that Natalia looked like a second grader who’d taken mama’s favorite jewelry out to play with and accidentally dropped an earring down the sink drain.
“All right then.” Kiko turned to Dawn. “Don’t kill us because we were just doing something we thought might speed up the investigation. And I didn’t even know what Natalia was up to in the backseat when I was driving her to headquarters. She was
sup
posed to be lying down and resting.”
sup
posed to be lying down and resting.”
Natalia spoke up. “But when you found out, you stopped driving and joined in quickly enough.”
“Okay.” Kiko’s swallow was obvious, even from the backseat. “Natalia was carrying a small Ouija board, so we went ahead and contacted Briana Williamson.”
“What?”
Dawn turned to the female psychic, remembering their conversation from a couple of nights ago: How Natalia wanted to get back on the Ouija to try to get in touch with the dead girl from Queenshill they’d contacted before. How she would do anything to help those voices that called to her.
“You know that we can’t afford to open ourselves any more than we already did when we talked to Briana the first time,” Dawn said. “What the hell were you guys thinking?”
She could hear Jonah stir at the curse, but she was beyond caring.
“I realize it sounds like a terrible idea.” Natalia was hanging her head. “But nothing bad happened, and we were far away from headquarters at the time. Friends were escorting us, and it seemed the perfect opportunity based on what I felt in Highgate tonight.” She peeked up through the bangs of her red wig, the braids dangling over her shoulders. “Briana—and I have a strong feeling it was er—came back to us.”
“And,” Kiko interrupted, “there was something a little different to what she said, so that’s why we hightailed it back here.”
Natalia had taken out her notebook and flipped to a page. “Perhaps it means nothing at all, but we thought you should see.”
“Remember,” Kiko said as Natalia showed Dawn what she had written, “how Briana had spelled out ‘wicked master’ on the Ouija during our first session with her, but then she was cut off?”
Dawn nodded, recalling how Natalia had passed out from the stress of the contact. They’d thought that “wicked master” was a warning or a game that Briana might be playing on behalf of a possible Underground.
“Well,” Kiko added, “it looks like Briana didn’t finish what she had to say, and tonight she had a chance to complete her thought.”
Dawn glanced at the note page to find WICKED MASTER written on it, but with one little—yet freakin’ huge—difference.
WICKED MASTERS.
An
S
.
S
.
Plural.
It was enough to make Dawn forget that she was avoiding Jonah, and she showed him the paper, too, knowing that Costin would get the information through his dominant host.
As Jonah stared at it, that gluttonous black spot in Dawn gaped, teased by the message. Taunted.
Stoked by the possibility that there was something much bigger than she’d first suspected on the horizon.
“More than one master,” Dawn said. “A joint Underground.”
Kiko nodded. “Either we’re in for a fucking roller-coaster ride or we’re just fucked altogether.”
Twenty minutes later, when Kalin sped over to their vehicle to report that they’d tracked the running female vampire to the east in Dalston, Dawn started the engine and revved it to a roar that only halfway filled that dark spot inside of herself.
TWENTY-FIVE
LONDON BABYLON, MAIN UNDERGROUND
THEY’D
made a pact, the lot of them.
made a pact, the lot of them.
Never tell about what had really happened with Mrs. Jones—not unless Wolfie came into their minds to discover the truth for himself.
But even then, the schoolgirls had vowed to block the details as best as they could, to fight for what they possessed here in the Underground, because what
did
they have except for Wolfie?
did
they have except for Wolfie?
What would be the use in continuing if he found out?
Of course, Della was certain that Mrs. Jones was still alive out there, somewhere; the old vampire had told them that they would lose half their powers if she were to perish, and it only made sense since she was their cocreator.
And all the girls still felt whole.
Yet they were willing to pit their own word against the cat’s, if the ancient thing were ever to return. They were willing to have their master choose between her and them.
Because the girls had no other choice.
So, as one—a pack with a secret so terrible that it bound them—they sealed and camouflaged the broken Underground exit. Then they crept through the halls, sniffing in the hope that they would catch the scent of Wolfie’s hair and leather clothing while avoiding the recruited vampires who had returned from aboveground.
After almost an hour, they simultaneously identified him, then traded glances and headed for the common area as that one unit.
His Queenshill darlings.
The girls he indulged, hated to punish, hated to lose.
They found him in a tented room, with its gold and silver and blue silks flowing from roof to ground over satin beds. It was one of Wolfie’s favorite areas, and Della thought it might be because of his days as a soldier, camping out under a night sky.
But Wolfie’s desire for fine things decorated the area, too: golden pitchers traced with blood that he had already sipped, diamond and crystal chandeliers, gem-studded posts, all derived from the swindled fortune of Thomas Gatenby.
Their master was presently stretched over a bed, alone, his eyes closed, his hands clasped on his chest, his hair spread over a pillow after his frenzied gallop over the heath.
Seeing him lying there, Della believed that he was good, innocent in everything, and the power of that belief sighed through her, even if, in the back of her mind, a niggle remained—a tweak of knowing that reality was what one made of it.
But it was her choice to have faith in what she wished.
Their
choice.
choice.
As they padded closer to him, his chest rose and fell, but then he sprang up, giving a hearty growl that caused the group to jump back.
He laughed, but not a one of them giggled as they normally would have.
A pause clicked by.
Clearly realizing that Wolfie would think something amiss, Stacy forced herself to be jolly. She squeezed Della’s hand next to her, so Della imitated the gaiety, squeezing Noreen’s hand on her other side, sending the message down the linked chain of the gathered girls.
Soon, they were all laughing, just as Wolfie would expect.
Yet he still cocked his head. “What troubles my dears?”
Della’s skin prickled.
The schoolgirls had silently mind-discussed at length what they would tell him. They had concocted a story that could be supported by what had been recorded on any cameras, if he should ever look.
Stacy stopped smiling, her tone dropping to a quivering whisper that would have made any actress proud. “We’re so afraid, Wolfie.”
It had its intended effect: he stiffened into a protective hunch for his girls.
Della remained silent, even though it didn’t seem as if Wolfie minded that she was out of her cage. Perhaps he believed that Mrs. Jones had taken her from it; he hadn’t been round to know any better.
Besides, Wolfie was Wolfie, and water slid off his back so very easily.
Would that be the case now?
“You see,” Stacy added, “Mrs. Jones came into one of our minds and made a threat beyond imagination. She saw Noreen jesting, pretending to dance with you for our entertainment. Although Mrs. Jones didn’t outwardly react at the time, she became ... jealous. Frighteningly so. She linked to Noreen’s mind and told her to beware in a most awful manner.”
They had chosen Noreen to be the victim because she did enjoy her dancing—any camera would validate that. Also, Wolfie had been paying a great deal of attention to her back in the sub-Underground.
Noreen, for her part, trembled quite convincingly next to Della, and the still-healing gashes on her face from that deep swipe Mrs. Jones had given her during their fight made her seem all the more vulnerable.
Wolfie knit his thick brows.
“Noreen told us what Mrs. Jones said,” Stacy continued, “and while we were reeling under the shock of what she threatened, our housematron entered the room just as we were at the height of our fear. We overreacted, not thinking clearly.”
“Overreacted?” he asked, as if not understanding the word.
Stacy went to Wolfie as planned, getting to her knees and lowering her head so she didn’t meet his gaze straight on.
It was time for the clincher, Della thought, holding tight to Noreen’s hand.
ime to see how Wolfie reacted.
“We weren’t certain how to handle what she told Noreen,” Stacy said. “She’d never before informed any of us that she would string us up by the ankles and bleed us dry.”
Wolfie flinched, and Della wondered if it was because he was shocked by the very notion of such violence against his girls or if there was no way they should have known the details of Mrs. Jones’s activities.
“She ... said this, Anastasia?” Wolfie asked Stacy, his voice thin.
All the schoolgirls nodded, their eyes wide.
Stacy pawed at his thigh, and Wolfie glanced at her hand, his gaze going a deeper shade of gold. Even Della realized what that look meant; all of them did because they had seen it during playtime while leaning against him.
However, although the most recent class hadn’t been graced by his bite yet, the older girls had known every one of his desires once they’d been brought to the main Underground.
“We didn’t think of the consequences we would receive for protecting Noreen and, by extension, ourselves,” Stacy said, her voice choked. “And as we defended against what we thought to be an imminent attack against one of us, Mrs. Jones ran away. We only thought we should be honest with you, Wolfie.”
For a moment, he seemed as if he didn’t believe that his companion had retreated. He closed his eyes, clearly attempting to contact her, but Della had no doubt Mrs. Jones was far, far away from the Underground and still above the surface that blocked mind communication.
When he opened his eyes again, Della didn’t know if he was about to enter their minds to see the truth of this for himself, or if he was angry enough to skip that and slay them all right here and now.
What if he didn’t believe them? What if they had driven out a mistress whom he would love more than all of them?
But when Stacy—experienced, knowing Stacy—moved her hand between his legs and stroked him, his eyes went hazier with gold heat.
And when the rest of them moved in to cuddle against Wolfie, to force him to make the choice between going after Mrs. Jones or staying here with them in this Underground he’d populated with a veritable feast of his greatest passions, he seemed lost. Especially when Della, Noreen, and Polly joined in.
He had never tasted their blood before, had never fully consummated his passion for them, and Della wondered if it had anything to do with Mrs. Jones’s possessiveness of her harvests.
Della thought to her classmates, Let him drink from the others, and they seemed to understand that, perhaps, the three of them should withhold what Wolfie had been missing in case they required the leverage later.
As the other girls lowered him back to the cushions, their lips and hands all over him, he sighed, as if temporarily defeated.
“I suppose,” he said, “Mrs. Jones will return if she chooses, and we can settle matters then.”
It was all they wanted to hear for now, and while Stacy slipped off Wolfie’s shirt, Della clung to his thigh in utter gratitude, trying not to pay mind to all the lies pinning her to the one individual she’d always believed would love her forever.
TWENTY-SIX
HAPPILY NEVER AFTER
In
a rundown Dalston building with a Flats to Let sign in a glass-webbed front window, Claudia sat across from the bathtub that held its captive, a twentysomething woman who had tarted herself up for a night on the town. She wore a black dress that showed her curvy, nubile body to every advantage as she cowered. A flop of brown hair fell over one wide, terrified eye, brushing a sealed mouth that Claudia had charmed shut so the victim wouldn’t scream so loudly anymore.
a rundown Dalston building with a Flats to Let sign in a glass-webbed front window, Claudia sat across from the bathtub that held its captive, a twentysomething woman who had tarted herself up for a night on the town. She wore a black dress that showed her curvy, nubile body to every advantage as she cowered. A flop of brown hair fell over one wide, terrified eye, brushing a sealed mouth that Claudia had charmed shut so the victim wouldn’t scream so loudly anymore.
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