It was the speed at which things happened, or rather didn’t, that frustrated Sarah the most. The war itself went in fits and starts – nothing for what seemed like an age, then a flurry of action and activity and news. It was the same in the battle against the Vril.
After the information from Crowley and Jane, there was a few days of excitement as they tried to interpret what they had discovered. But soon the interest dwindled and the theorising and investigation became a chore. Not that Sarah could do much investigating. She didn’t have an aptitude for code-breaking or seeing patterns like Wiles. She didn’t have the patience for research of Elizabeth Archer or the interest in the occult of Miss Manners. Guy seemed used to the lulls between the action, and Leo Davenport never seemed at a loss for things to do.
Sarah felt she was rapidly being reduced to Brinkman’s driver. That wasn’t what she’d signed up for, and she wasted no opportunity to tell him so as she ferried him from meeting to conference and back to the Station Z offices.
So when he called her into his office, she suspected it was to give her yet another pep talk and explain the importance of what they were doing.
‘I know you’re frustrated that you can’t get more involved,’ Brinkman said.
‘And that everything takes so long.’
Brinkman held up his hand. ‘I know. In many ways it’s the nature of the job. Which is why I’m sending you to Cheshire.’
Sarah stood up, suddenly angry. ‘You’re having me transferred? Just to keep me out of trouble? How dare you!’
Brinkman suppressed a smile. ‘Sit down. Cheshire is just where you start. I’m not having you transferred. I’m having you trained.’
Sarah sat down, still wary. ‘Trained? What do you mean, trained?’
‘As a Special Operations Executive agent. They have a, well, a sort of school for agents. I’m putting you through it. If you’re going to get involved properly then I want to make damned sure you’ve got the skills you need to stay alive.’
‘What sort of skills? I can fly planes and shoot, but you can’t train someone for the work we do.’
‘That’s largely true. But there’s a lot you can learn that will be useful. Now, while there’s something of a lull in things as you’ve been at pains to point out to me whenever you can, seems like as good a time as any. You start with parachuting and then I believe it’s sabotage techniques. Just don’t practise them in the office. You report to SOE on Monday.’
* * *
The first thing that was made clear to Sarah when she reported on the Monday was that no one used their real names. Even the SOE instructors, Sarah suspected, were not who they said they were. She was ‘Sparrow Hawk’, which she thought was actually quite appropriate. There didn’t seem to be any system to the names: a shy mousy brunette girl was ‘Boxer’ and a middle-aged man with thinning hair who seemed to be constantly sweating was ‘Sardine’.
What surprised Sarah most was the variety of training. She had started at RAF Ringway in Cheshire, parachute training. They moved her on quickly from that when she told them she knew what she was doing, and had parachuted into Germany.
‘Well, not really,’ she confessed to the instructor. ‘Back in 1934 I was working in a flying circus and we did shows all across Europe. My plane crashed, engine failure. I had to bail out. That was in Hamburg.’
The instructor, whose name like so many of the instructors was apparently ‘Smith’, nodded. ‘That’s good. You’ll have to be convincing where you’re going.’
Whether he thought she was going into occupied territory or simply meant the rest of the training, she wasn’t sure. It took her several minutes to persuade him she wasn’t making it up.
Sabotage training at Brickenbury in Hertfordshire was exhausting and Sarah wasn’t sure how useful it might be. She was good at the practical side of things, but the theory she found tough going. It was one thing to set explosives and rig them to go off, quite another to read through pages of notes about which devices to use when, and what different types of explosives, fuses, and detonators were called. But there was a perverse satisfaction in twisting the handle of a detonator, or waiting for a fuse to do the job, and watching a small building or the shell of a vehicle explode into flames and smoke.
She was more convinced by the Commando combat course – which involved a train journey to Scotland that was almost as much of a test of endurance as the outdoor survival training that was included when she got there. A group of grizzled, experienced men who were obviously itching to get back to some real action taught Sarah and her anonymous colleagues all they needed to know about finding food, locating water, creating a shelter, and how to make a smokeless fire. She also learned the basics of a form of unarmed silent killing which the instructors called ‘Defendu’.
* * *
Gradually, over the days and weeks, Hoffman was able to suppress the images – to keep them at the back of his mind rather than overprinted on his every thought. He felt some affinity with the Watchers, though he could never tell anyone that, of course. Kruger, the scientist in charge of them, probably put it down to macabre curiosity that Hoffman spent so much time here with them, watching them sleep.
The girl, Number Seventeen, in particular intrigued him. She had connected to an Ubermensch without the need for a bracelet. The link had been weak and indistinct, but a link nonetheless.
Looking down at her, apparently sleeping peacefully, Hoffman wondered who she was. Most of them were volunteers, so she had probably been plucked from the League of German Girls – the female equivalent of the Hitler Youth. Had she volunteered for the tests that revealed her innate psychic ability, he wondered?
He heard the noise as he turned to go. A scratching, scraping sound, so quiet he almost missed it. Hoffman walked slowly round the bed, trying to trace where it came from.
Her hand was scratching at the sheet, describing a shape on the cotton.
Hoffman wanted to go home. But for the moment he must continue to be the person he had become, whatever the consequences. Drop his guard for a second, and he would be dead, no matter how resilient his body had become. So he strode over to where a tired nurse sat making notes at a small desk in the corner of the room.
‘Get a pencil and paper quickly,’ he ordered. ‘I think Number Seventeen is drawing.’
* * *
The cat didn’t need much sleep and it rarely had to rest. Even so, it was a long way to the city. It could have got there quicker by jumping into the back of a truck that stopped for fuel at a gas station on the highway. But the cat didn’t want to be noticed. It kept to the shadows, off to the side of the road.
When it was hungry, which was not often, it ate, creeping up on small rodents – even unwary birds – and pouncing. With its senses and speed and viciousness all sharpened by the Vril that controlled it, the cat rarely lost its prey.
It didn’t get impatient, it was just following instructions. But even so, there was a hint of satisfaction somewhere in what remained of its feline brain as it padded to the top of an incline and saw the city in the distance ahead. The tops of the taller buildings appeared first, and then gradually the whole vast expanse of Los Angeles was laid out before it.
* * *
They propped her up in the bed and she stared straight ahead, eyes unfocused. The pencil in her hand swept over the paper, sketching out a horizon. Then the detail – the buildings, streets, a car approaching along the road leading down the incline.
One last detail – the same on every sheet – and the drawing was done.
* * *
The cat watched the car approaching. Not wanting to be noticed, it moved silently and swiftly to the side of the road.
* * *
Kruger pulled away the drawing as soon as it was finished and handed it to the nurse. She numbered it and added it to a pile at the foot of the next bed.
Hoffman watched as Number Seventeen started on a fresh picture. Grass and trees, seen from a low angle.
‘They are moving off the road,’ Kruger said. ‘Whoever they are.’
‘Whatever they are,’ Hoffman said. ‘See how low the point of view is.’
‘An animal?’ Kruger wondered. ‘A dog perhaps? And this image over the picture, always the same shape…’
* * *
The cat watched the car as it drew level. It caught a glimpse of the driver – a young man with curly dark hair.
The cat turned to watch the car speed away, hissing with irritation that its journey had been interrupted, even though only for a few moments. Mouth wide, teeth bared, saliva spotting the nearest grass.
* * *
The girl turned, staring directly at Hoffman. Her mouth opened wide in a sudden hiss of anger – teeth bared, saliva spotting his face.
He stepped back, surprised, wiping the back of his hand across his cheek.
‘I think it’s a cat,’ he said.
* * *
The cat made its way back to the side of the road. Once it finally reached the city, then the search would begin in earnest. It knew roughly where to start, but it would still take days, perhaps weeks or even months, to find what it was looking for.
There was an image constant and clear in its mind. The artefact it needed to locate. It could feel it, the slight trembling in the air that drew the cat onwards, growing almost imperceptibly stronger as the cat headed in the right direction, as it drew closer to its goal.
* * *
Jed glanced down at the map unfolded on the passenger seat of his car. It looked like it would take him about another hour. Keeping his left hand on the wheel, he traced his finger along the paper road towards his destination.
It had seemed simple enough back in the city. Just set off towards where he had seen the strange aircraft heading and see if anyone had seen anything. But now he was on his way, driving through miles of deserted countryside and wasteland, he realised what a mammoth task it really was. The empty space on the map translated into hundreds – maybe thousands – of miles on the ground.
Even if someone had seen it, the chances of Jed finding them were probably minuscule. Even if they remembered – it was weeks ago now, but this was the first chance he’d had to get out of the city. Looking up from the map, Jed ran his hand through his curly, dark hair and continued down the road.
* * *
He hated touching them. Hoffman was quite sure it wouldn’t work, but it was still the obvious thing to do – and if he had not suggested it, Kruger probably would have done.
The Vault was deep beneath the castle, secured behind a huge metal door, like the airtight hatch of a submarine. The guard snapped out a ‘Heil Hitler’ as Hoffman approached, then spun the locking wheel in the centre of the heavy door and swung it open.
Hoffman entered what looked at first like an operations room. Maps hung on the walls, plans and documents were spread out over wooden tables under a high, vaulted ceiling. Alcoves stretched into the distance, shadowed in darkness though Hoffman knew exactly what each contained.
He walked briskly down the long chamber, past the tables and into an area that was more like a laboratory. At the end of it was another identical hatchway door. Few people knew what lay beyond that, and Hoffman shuddered at the memory of what he had seen there.
But his interest was in a workbench to one side, against the wall. Laid out on it was a variety of artefacts – pottery, glass, metal, ceramic, all neatly labelled. All ancient. At one end of the workbench lay several bracelets, rings of chunky metal inlaid with a gleaming silver tracery.
He reached out a tentative finger towards the nearest bracelet. Nothing. Carefully, warily, he picked it up, holding it only by the edges. Immediately the silver tracery glowed a brilliant white and the inside of the bracelet erupted. Thin orange filaments sprang out, probing, searching for flesh. If he put the bracelet on, Hoffman knew, the filaments would find his wrist. Metal spikes would spring out to hold him immobile as the filaments burrowed through his skin.
Hoffman had a wooden box in his other hand, already open. He dropped the bracelet into it, and at once the filaments drew back inside the metal.
Number Seventeen was still drawing – a hazy view of a street with hollow doorways and scattered dustbins. Nothing to distinguish where the city or town might be. And over the top, the same symbol sketched again as on all the other drawings.
‘The Reichsfuhrer should be told,’ Kruger said to Hoffman as he handed him the wooden box.
‘I shall inform him when he returns,’ Hoffman said. Himmler was at meetings with Hitler all week. Often, Hoffman went with him. He didn’t enjoy the experience.
Kruger opened the box. If he thought it odd Hoffman had put the bracelet inside, he didn’t comment. He removed the bracelet. It was hinged and he pulled it open. He closed it round the girl’s right wrist. It hung heavy and inert as she drew.
‘Nothing,’ Kruger said, disappointed.
‘Hardly surprising,’ Hoffman told him.
‘I suppose not. But we can always hope. I wonder if it is worth trying the other bracelets we have? One of them may be a match.’
‘It needs to establish a link at both ends,’ Hoffman pointed out. ‘It must match not just the girl but whoever, whatever she is seeing through. We can establish a link at one end with the ritual but even that doesn’t always work, and we never know which of these it might link to.’ He waved his hand to take in all the sleepers across the whole room.
‘Then this is probably as good as it gets,’ Kruger said.
‘We are lucky she is picking up anything at all,’ Hoffman said. He gently pushed back a strand of the girl’s hair that had fallen forward across her face. Not that she noticed.
* * *
Sarah hardly noticed the passage of the days – the weeks. Spring was turning to summer without her really noticing. Most of the time she had no idea where she was. The people she was with changed constantly, as everyone seemed to do the training stages in a different order. Maybe, she thought, it was a deliberate policy to dissuade any of them from becoming friends. Not just a security consideration, she realised, but because for many of them this training would lead to almost certain incarceration or death.
Knowing that meant she saw her colleagues in a different way. She realised that the bluster and arrogance of some of the men, the spiky abruptness of some of the women, was down to nerves more than character.
The final stages of the training seemed more sedate. Sarah spoke some French, and learned more. She was shown how to forge documents – which required a lot more patience that she’d ever believed she had. She spent a day learning to fire and handle enemy guns and explosives – almost as long as they’d spent teaching her about Allied weapons.
Arriving at the Beaulieu estate in Hampshire to complete the final stages of her training was almost a rest.
‘Here you will learn surveillance techniques as well as deception,’ the chief instructor, Major Woolridge, informed Sarah and the others. He was a tall, slim man with a plummy voice and a thin moustache. About a dozen trainees were assembled outside the impressive country house, standing on the gravel driveway. ‘But don’t believe for a moment that the heat is off, because it isn’t. So I’ll see you back here at oh-six-hundred tomorrow for a visit to the assault course.’
Every day started early with the assault course, or a run through the extensive grounds, or both. Sarah reckoned she was fitter than she had ever been. As exhausted as she had ever been. It was a surprise as well as a relief to be given some free time one sunny, warm afternoon. One of the instructors gave Sarah and several other trainees a lift into Southampton. He ‘suggested’ that they should not be seen together, so they each went their separate ways.
It was a refreshing change of pace just to wander round the town. But it wasn’t long before Sarah realised she was being followed. She first saw the man as she was walking along a quiet street. He paused to light a cigarette as she glanced back, turning out of the wind, but also so that his face was hidden. She recognised the same man from his raincoat and hat later as she turned a corner. Then she saw him reflected in the plate-glass window of a large shop on the main street. He stood on the opposite side of the road, obviously watching. As she turned, he also turned away, and pretended to walk on.
Was this part of her training, Sarah wondered? Or was it more sinister – someone actually watching her because of her connection to Station Z? Either way, her best option was to lose him, and as soon as possible.
She wandered apparently aimlessly round the main streets as she decided what to do. When she finally decided, she walked into the largest clothing store she had found, and made for the ladies’ underwear department. There were a few other people browsing, all women. As she had hoped, the man kept his distance rather than make himself obvious.
Taking a selection of items to the changing rooms, Sarah smiled at the attendant. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t really want to try any of these on.’
The middle-aged woman outside the line of changing rooms raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh?’
‘It’s just that…’ Sarah hesitated, feigning nervousness. ‘There’s a man following me. He’s been following me round all the shops. I know him slightly, but I would really rather not see him.’
The woman smiled back. ‘Oh, I quite understand.’ She glanced past Sarah to where the man was making a pretence of examining a rack of women’s coats. ‘He does look rather an unpleasant type,’ she agreed.
‘I just wondered if there is a back way out of the shop, or something?’
The woman pointed past the changing rooms. ‘Turn left at the end, you’ll find a door that leads out into Melvyn Street. I’ll distract him for a moment for you.’
Without another word, the woman marched off towards the man. He glanced up as she approached, while Sarah made sure he saw her step into the nearest changing room. She put down the clothes and peered out again, watching as the woman took the man by the arm, turning him expertly as she showed him one of the coats.
As soon as the man’s back was turned, Sarah hurried from the changing room and round the corner. Soon, she was sitting in a tea room several streets away, positioned so she could see the street outside without being seen herself. There was no sign of the man who had been following her.
‘Is this seat taken?’
She thought at first it was the same man. But he was younger, wearing a jacket rather than a coat.
‘No, please.’ Sarah gestured for him to sit down opposite her.
‘Have you been here before?’ the man asked as he waited for the girl to come over. ‘The tea cakes are very good. If they have any.’
‘My first time,’ Sarah said, returning his smile.
She was happy to sit and chat for a while, all the time keeping a discreet watch on the street outside for the man who had been following her.
He introduced himself as Charlie. ‘I work down at the docks,’ he told her. ‘Boring, really. An office job, but they say it’s too important for me to be allowed to join up, so…’ He shrugged. ‘What about you? What do you do?’
‘I work in an office too,’ Sarah said, choosing her words carefully.
Charlie sipped his tea. ‘Doing what?’
‘Oh, this and that. I’m a sort of secretary.’
‘Sort of?’
She watched him carefully, noting how intent he suddenly seemed. The bead of sweat above his left eyebrow. She hadn’t noticed before, but there were several empty tables further into the tea room, so why had he sat here with her?
‘Very boring,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘Typing mainly. I’m sorry, but I have to go.’ She drained the rest of her tea in a swallow and stood up.
Charlie – if that really was his name – seemed amused. ‘Will I see you again?’
‘I doubt it.’ She left without looking back, pausing only to pay at the till on the way out.
‘Charlie’ got up almost immediately. He handed a few coins to the girl at the till, not waiting for his change, and followed Sarah out into the street.
As soon as he stepped through the door, a man appeared in front of him. Charlie made to step round him, but the man moved with him.
‘Leave her,’ the man said.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Charlie frowned, tried to push the man out of the way.
But the man resisted, catching hold of his arm. ‘I said leave her. You had your chance, you did you best, and she didn’t fall for it.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Yes you do. So don’t be a poor loser. She passed the test, she didn’t tell you anything about herself, did she? Probably not even her name.’
Charlie’s silence gave the man his answer.
‘So make your report and leave it at that.’
‘Afraid she might crack if I keep at it?’ Charlie demanded. ‘Isn’t that the point?’
The man smiled. ‘Usually, perhaps. But Sparrow Hawk is a very special case. I don’t want her upset or intimidated.’
Charlie made to go, but the man’s hand clamped down on his shoulder, squeezing it painfully tight. The man’s eyes were flint-hard and there was an unpleasant edge to his voice. ‘Understand?’
‘Yes,’ Charlie muttered. ‘Yes, you’ve made your point.’ He stared at the man for a moment as he tried to twist free, seeing him closely for the first time. ‘Hey – aren’t you…?’
The man let go of his shoulder. ‘I get that a lot,’ he said.
* * *
Sarah’s suspicions were confirmed the next day. Summoned to Major Woolridge’s office, she was surprised to find that there were already two other men in the room.
‘Come in, Sparrow Hawk,’ Woolridge said. ‘I believe you already know Captain Philcox, and Corporal Innes.’
Sarah nodded. ‘Hello, Charlie,’ she said to Philcox. She turned to the corporal. ‘And I assume you’re the man who wanted to buy me a new coat. Or was it a pair of knickers?’
Innes coloured and stammered a greeting.
‘You did well,’ Woolridge told her. ‘Not many people spot they’re being tailed on the first outing. Even fewer manage to lose their minder.’
‘And what about Charlie?’ Sarah asked.
‘You’d be surprised how many of the ladies fall for a handsome young man with a plausible manner. Though I have to say a higher proportion of the men are taken in by a pretty young woman. It gives the secretaries here an amusing side line.’
‘And if I had been taken in, as you put it?’ Sarah asked. She glanced at ‘Charlie’. It would have been easy to succumb, easy to tell him a bit of what she did to try to impress him.
‘Well, you’re something of a special case, I gather,’ Woolridge said. ‘But for anyone else, it’s the end of any career they might have thought they had with SOE.’
‘So, a lucky escape,’ Captain Philcox said with a smile.
‘Or,’ she told him, ‘it’s just possible I know what I’m doing and wasn’t taken in for a second.’ She smiled back at him, as his own expression froze. ‘And anyway,’ she added, ‘you’re not my type.’
* * *
For weeks she drew similar pictures. Hoffman checked through them whenever he could, but the initial novelty had worn off, and both he and Kruger left the nurses to take shifts providing paper and pencil.
Streets, people, cars and buildings. But the drawings were indistinct, with not enough detail, despite the quantity of images, to identify where the place was. Obviously somewhere industrialised and modern – but it could be Britain, the USA, even Germany …
Over each image Number Seventeen drew the same symbol. Two triangles pointing in at each other, overlapped at the tips. Just an outline, but Hoffman could see the details. It was the same image he saw in his own mind, but his image was stronger, focused, detailed. He could see the runes carved into the stone the artefact was fashioned from.
But what was it? On the one hand he didn’t want to show too much interest in it, afraid that might somehow give him away. On the other, Hoffman was desperate to know.
‘This shape,’ he said to Kruger finally, ‘why does she draw this on every page?’
Kruger shrugged, inspecting the latest sheet. ‘Some sort of interference, perhaps? Or maybe it represents some defect in the creature’s vision. Perhaps this is how cats see the world.’ He smiled to show he was not being serious. The smile faded as he caught Hoffman’s answering expression. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted.
‘Does it represent something?’ Hoffman asked. ‘Have you seen it before?’
Kruger looked back at the drawing he held. ‘There is something about it,’ he admitted. ‘It did seem familiar when I first saw it. Something held in the Vault, perhaps.’
Hoffman shook his head. ‘There’s nothing like that down there.’ He had checked. As soon as the image had appeared in his own mind, he had checked.
‘Even so…’ Kruger leafed back through the past few drawings, although the shape was identical on them all. ‘I’ll tell you where it might be,’ he said at last.
‘Yes?’
‘Have you seen the archive footage?’
‘Not all of it,’ Hoffman admitted. ‘And a long time ago.’
‘Just a thought,’ Kruger said. ‘But perhaps the answer lies in what happened back in 1936.’
* * *
One of the most surprising courses that Sarah took was ‘Deception Training’. What surprised her was not being taught how to lie convincingly, how to tell when someone else was probably lying, or the importance of apparent self-confidence and techniques to suppress any outward signs of fear or unease.
What surprised her was that the instructor was Leo Davenport. He smiled at her as their eyes met, but made no comment. So she too did her best to give no sign that they knew each other. Everyone else knew who Davenport was of course, which made it easier to keep up the pretence.
She made sure she was the last to leave at the end of the day, waiting until there were just the two of them.
‘Making a little extra on the side?’ she asked. ‘I thought you were off on a film somewhere.’
‘Cover story,’ Leo told her. ‘Brinkman knows I moonlight here from time to time. Part of the conditions of SOE letting me leave them to join Station Z in the first place. Between you and me, no actor can stay as busy as I claim to be. More often than not, the film or radio work you think I’m doing is down here bringing light and enlightenment to potential agents. Well,’ he added, packing away his notes into a leather briefcase, ‘if what I teach ends up saving the life of just one of them, then it’s time well spent.’
Sarah had to agree. ‘You down here for long?’
‘Heading back this evening. Just as soon as I’ve delivered my reports on each of today’s students.’
‘Oh?’ She raised her eyebrows.
‘Don’t worry, you’ll pass with flying colours.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘And I am glad to see you’re taking this new “Bare legs for Patriotism” campaign seriously.’
* * *
Ralph Rutherford didn’t wait for an answer. He knocked on the study door, and went straight in. He knew immediately that he shouldn’t have done.
The bookcase behind Crowley’s desk had been pulled back from the wall on one side – hinged like a door. Before Rutherford could retreat, Crowley himself stepped out from behind the bookcase. He saw Rutherford immediately, and Crowley’s deep-set eyes seemed to recede even further into his head as they narrowed.
Without comment, Crowley swung the bookcase closed again, concealing whatever lay behind it.
‘I’m sorry,’ Rutherford said. ‘I shouldn’t have come in.’
‘No,’ Crowley agreed in a monotone. ‘But what’s done is done.’ He raised his hand so that Rutherford could see he was holding a heavy bracelet made of dull metal. ‘Is everyone ready?’
Rutherford nodded. ‘I was coming to tell you.’ He smiled apologetically, trying to make light of his mistake. ‘So what else do you keep in there?’
Crowley didn’t answer for a moment, and Rutherford felt suddenly cold and empty inside. Another mistake. Then the older man’s long face cracked into a grim smile.
‘Pray that you never find out,’ he said.
* * *
‘I promise you, it won’t hurt,’ Crowley had told her. Either he was wrong or he was lying.
The chanting reached its peak, echoing round the candlelit cellar. One of the robed women held a silver tray out in front of her. Her head was bowed so that her long, fair hair spilled over the tray, obscuring what was on it. She raised her head as the chanting stopped, revealing the bracelet.
Crowley lifted the bracelet from the tray, murmuring the words of power. He opened the bracelet and turned to Jane Roylston standing beside him. She raised her right arm and Crowley slid back the sleeve of her loose gown with one hand. With the other, he placed the bracelet over her forearm and snapped it shut.
The pain was immediate and intense, like fire burning, stabbing, and burrowing right through her. It started in the arm, shooting up to her neck then out through the whole of her body. Her vision swam as she struggled to contain the fire. When it slowly subsided, and her eyes refocused, she was somewhere else.
Crowley’s words were faint and muffled, as if he was speaking to her from another room.
‘What do you see?’
She was close to the ground, padding along a deserted street. Rubbish blew across the pavement in front of her. Jane knew she was the cat again. But now she didn’t just see through its eyes like she had back in February. She could feel what it felt, she knew what it knew. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. Smelling the rancid decaying food and the traffic fumes.
When she opened them again, she was back in the cellar. The scent in her nostrils was the smoke from the candles. The bracelet burned on her arm, but she could cope. She was used to pain – she had Rutherford to thank for that. She could detach herself from it, use it to give her the strength to be herself.
‘Los Angeles.’ She was surprised how strong and assured her voice sounded. ‘I was in Los Angeles. Whatever the Vril are searching for is there.’
‘Very good, Jane,’ Crowley breathed. ‘Thank you. Do you know what it is?’
She shook her head. ‘Only what it looks like.’
At a gesture from their master, the robed figures bowed their heads and backed away. All except one.
‘Will you tell Brinkman?’ Rutherford asked, throwing back his hood.
‘Perhaps. I haven’t decided.’
‘I don’t think we should.’
Crowley pushed back the hood of his own robe and stared back at Rutherford impassively. ‘I repeat, I have not decided.’
The discussion over, Crowley turned back to Jane, reaching for the bracelet on her arm. It was warm to the touch, the inlaid silver tracery glowing faintly in the dimly-lit cellar. And when he tried to unclasp it, the bracelet didn’t give. It was like it was a single ring of solid metal welded to her arm above the wrist.