On Sunday, his last evening at home, Lucas attended a lecture at the Athenaeum Club. He had been off school for two weeks now, and since Clearmont had broken up for the Easter holiday on Friday, the official story was that he was going abroad to recuperate from his recent illness. In the meantime, his father decided it would be a good idea for Lucas to show up at a public event, just in case there were rumours of something amiss. For this one night, they would pretend that it was business as usual.
There was an additional reason for Lucas to attend. The subject of tonight’s lecture was ‘International Witchcrime: Causes and Consequences’, and there would be a strong showing from the Inquisition. Two of the tribunal members suspected of being bribed by the Wednesday Coven were expected to attend. The event would provide a good opportunity for Lucas to observe them.
Besides, anything was better than having a condemned man’s last meal at home. Philomena had been told that Lucas was assisting with a high-level government research project, and had been made to sign a confidentiality agreement regarding his fae. Her air of martyrdom hung over the house like a cloud. Marisa, on the other hand, had cheered up considerably. Lucas’s stint at WICA was the ideal way to sweep her stepson’s embarrassing condition under the carpet.
His father was resigned but not reconciled to the situation. He had not asked Lucas anything about his training beyond polite and general enquiries to which Lucas gave polite and general answers. They spent the taxi ride to the event making the smallest of small talk.
Lucas approached the row of iron bells over the club’s door hoping he didn’t look as furtive as he felt. When he saw Jonah waiting on the other side, this awkwardness was replaced by annoyance. He had not changed his original evaluation of the man. A well-meaning plodder, but a plodder all the same.
Thankfully, Jonah was only there to keep an eye on his charge, not play chaperone. There was a drinks reception before the lecture, and the well-heeled crowd in the ante-room had a sociable buzz. Ashton was immediately taken to one side by a journalist friend, leaving Lucas free to survey the gathering. So far, only one of the two tribunal members he was supposed to be observing, Max Holland, had turned up.
Max Holland was a criminal barrister who had lately gone through a costly divorce. The other suspect, Ruth Mackenzie, was a senior civil servant whose husband’s business had recently been saved from bankruptcy. Mr Holland looked prim and prosperous, and was accompanied by his second wife – and her display of diamonds. Perhaps they had been bought with coven cash.
Lucas decided to move a little closer. But his next step brought him face to face with the last person in the world he wanted to see. Gideon Hale was standing in front of him, a very pretty brunette on his arm.
‘Good to see you up and about, Stearne. I heard you were ill – you certainly looked a bit off at that party the other week. And if you don’t mind me saying so, you’re still a little washed-out.’
‘I thought I’d try the pale-and-interesting look.’
‘Well, I should’ve known nothing would keep you away from tonight.’ Gideon turned to his companion. ‘Other kids dream of being footballers or pop stars when they grow up. Lucas only wants to chase witches.’
The girl gave a bray of laughter, and reached for a drink from a passing waiter. In doing so, she jostled the person behind her, who turned around. It was Jonah.
‘Now here’s someone I didn’t expect to see. Unless, of course, you’re here on official escort duty.’ Gideon gave Jonah a conspiratorial wink.
‘Why would a witch want to attend an event like this?’ asked Lucas, a little too quickly.
‘There’s one over there.’ The girl pointed.
A woman in a low-cut dress was standing by the side of a much older man. She had a thin iron collar around her throat. Lucas had never seen anyone bridled in such a way. She was, he realised, very lovely, with her swoop of bronze hair and violet eyes. There was something familiar about her companion, but Lucas couldn’t place him. He was squat and stooped, with a bald freckled dome of a head, and small pouchy eyes.
‘That’s Lord and Lady Merle,’ said Jonah respectfully. ‘He’s some kind of media tycoon. I think she was a model, before getting the fae.’
Lucas knew about Lord Godfrey Merle. He was the founder, chairman and chief executive officer of the Cardex News Group. Marisa had been on one of the same fundraising committees as his wife. The charity was in aid of sick children – he thought he remembered something about Lady Merle having a disabled daughter.
‘What an odd way of wearing a bridle,’ the girl observed. ‘Ugh. If it was me, I’d do anything to cover it up.’
‘Maybe she’s not ashamed of what she is,’ said Jonah quietly.
‘Well, it was brave of her husband to take her on.’ The girl didn’t bother to lower her voice. ‘Mind you, an old man like that was probably all she could get.’
To Lucas’s embarrassment, Lady Merle looked over. She didn’t seem to have heard for she gave them a sweet, rather vacant smile. Her pink silk dress was a touch over the top for the occasion, and its low neckline meant the metal of the bridle showed up dramatically on the white skin of her neck. It must be uncomfortable. Did she wear it there as a mark of shame, or a brand of courage? Either way, the sight disturbed him.
Conversation turned to the recent witch-attack outside the Inquisition. Gideon and Jonah had been eye-witnesses, and soon the other guests were asking for their account. Even Lord and Lady Merle were drawn to the discussion. There were reports of reprisals too. A bridled witch who owned a newsagent’s had been doused with petrol by a gang of teenagers and set alight. Dreadful, shocking, everyone agreed. And yet . . . one could almost . . . well, it was only natural that people were angry. Britain had always been remarkably tolerant of witches. Yes, indeed: the witchkind community should remember how lucky they were.
Lucas was surprised to find that Lady Merle was one of the most outspoken on the subject. She had a breathy, girlish voice, and a way of widening her eyes when she spoke that made her seem both flighty and fragile. ‘Oh, it so upsets me when people say that bridling is a repression. Why can’t they understand that my iron makes me feel safe? One day we might find a way of curing the fae, but for the moment, I’m just grateful the condition is manageable.’
‘Decorative, even,’ said her husband, running a thick finger along her collar and then, teasingly, around her throat.
‘It’s not as if you’re suited to a witch-career, Serena,’ somebody said with a laugh. ‘Much as we’d like to see you in a police-witch’s uniform.’
‘Or army gear,’ said somebody else. ‘There’s always the Marines.’
Lord Merle smiled. ‘Serena knows her limits – don’t you, darling?’
His wife hugged his arm and giggled. Her violet eyes were glassy. Lucas wondered if she was quite all there.
It was a relief to be called into the lecture hall. He settled down in his seat and tried to look attentive, even though the speaker, an American academic from the Salem Institute of Witchkind Studies, was not a particularly inspiring one. The only point of real interest was when Silas Paterson came on stage to say thank you at the end. So this was Josiah Saunders’s second-in-command at the Witchcrime Directorate. Lucas thought he looked intelligent, if forbidding; a tall, silvery man with a dark stare and a stately manner.
Afterwards the audience was invited to ask questions or comment.
Gideon got to his feet.
‘Religion has always been opposed to witchwork, and used to be our first defence against it. Does this mean that people in the secular West feel less of a moral imperative to limit witchwork than those in faith-based societies?’
‘Hrm, hmm. An interesting question,’ said the academic. ‘Perhaps someone in the audience would like to respond –’
Before he could think better of it, Lucas was standing up too. ‘You can use religion to justify whatever you want it to,’ he said. ‘Take Islam – the Koran forbids witchwork, yet some clerics argue that it’s legitimate in some circumstances. Witches are often condemned in the Bible, but King Saul goes to the Witch of Endor for help, and Moses performs witchwork-like miracles before the Pharaoh. So we need to deal with the world’s witchkind on a rational basis, not through faith or superstition.’
‘By way of UN Declaration 192, you mean?’ There was a sneer in Gideon’s voice. ‘Calling for the global decriminalisation of non-practising witches might be “rational”, but it achieves nothing.’
‘It would be more effective if people actually understood what it was about,’ Lucas replied. ‘Or managed to get its name right. I assume it’s Resolution 192 you’re referring to.’
Somebody laughed. Gideon’s face tightened with anger as the audience rustled and hummed.
The academic looked uncomfortable. ‘Thank you both for your . . . er . . . thought-provoking contributions,’ he said. ‘I only wish we had the time to address them further. Now, if anyone else has a question –?’
Lucas sat back in his seat. He was almost as pleased with himself as when he’d first crafted the glamour.
His satisfaction didn’t last. Leaving the lecture hall, he wasn’t able to ignore the frown on Jonah’s face. And during the ride home, his father was more than usually quiet. ‘You shouldn’t have tried to argue with Gideon,’ he said at last. ‘You need to avoid anything that might draw attention to yourself – attention from inquisitors in particular. And Gideon Hale is going to go far.’
Lucas felt his heart twist. His father was only trying to protect him. But at the end of the day, Gideon was the kind of son Ashton Stearne should have had, and they both knew it. Thank God I’m leaving for the coven, he thought. It will be better for both of us once I’m gone.
Harry Jukes made contact with Nate on Monday morning. Nate listened to a voicemail, frowned, then took his phone into the hall to listen to it again. Glory was careful not to look too interested when he came back and stood in the doorway to the lounge, chewing his lip.
‘What’s up?’ Jacko asked. He and Chunk, with Glory’s help, were packing up fake Chanel No. 5 bottles to sell online. The digitally-printed labels looked just like the original, and the perfume smelled pretty good as far as Glory could tell, though when she tried a spritz it gave her a rash.
‘A call from Lord Snooty. Y’know – the kid who deals our party-pills. And gave us the tip-off for the Dalton Street job.’
‘Has he got us another break-in?’
‘Dunno. His message’s all garbled. I’ll give him a bell.’
Nate went outside to make the call. He came back looking troubled. After pacing around a bit, he went to talk to Auntie Angel. Half an hour later, and still frowning, he went out. Glory watched him go down the road, but couldn’t quite work out if he turned right or left at the end of it. He must have asked the old lady to make him an elusion. Forty minutes later, he phoned Angeline, and she left the house too.
The two of them came back from their rendezvous with Harry mid-afternoon. This time, Nate had a swagger in his step. Earl, Patch and the boys were summoned to a conference in the basement stronghold. Auntie Angel might have insisted that Glory was included, but on this occasion she wasn’t told a thing. Nate shot her a triumphant look as he and the others trooped down the stairs.
Glory went to sit on Number Seven’s front steps. Several of the fake perfume bottles had faulty caps, leaking their sickly contents into the lounge, and she needed some air. There were traces of vomit on the pavement below. Joe Junior, presumably. As the coven’s so-called boss, he should be leading the meeting to discuss Harry Jukes; instead, he was sleeping off his hangover. Nate probably reckoned that if he recruited a witch for the coven, he’d get to be boss for real.
Glory scowled. Sooner or later, Nate would mess up big time, and the others would see him for the flash prat he was. Then Nate would have to be put in his place. But that was her problem – not the Inquisition’s or the police’s or WICA’s. Auntie Angel was adamant she’d fixed things up so that Cooper Street had immunity from whatever doom was heading the Morgan brothers’ way. Glory wasn’t entirely convinced. It wasn’t just her own safety she had to worry about. Nate and the rest were her responsibility too.
Someone came out of the door and sat on the step beside her. It was her dad.
‘Where is everyone?’
‘Basement conference. I weren’t invited.’
‘Ah. Would you want to be?’
‘’Course. I’m a member of this outfit, ain’t I? I shouldn’t be hanging round like a spare part. I need to do stuff.’
Patrick stared down at his threadbare slippers. His big toe was poking out and he wiggled it reflectively.
‘Yes. You’re like your mum in that way.’
Her heart leapt. Glory had decided long ago to stop asking Patrick questions about Edie, because she saw how much it hurt him. Most of her stories came from Angeline. Now she couldn’t stop herself. ‘Am I? For real?’
‘Edie was like no one I’ve ever known.’ Patrick was still gazing at his feet. ‘You’re brave like her, and smart. Restless too. But your mum was a very private person. She’d been hurt, you see, in her past. It made her strong in some ways, fragile in others. I – I tried to look after her. But that wasn’t enough.’
There was nothing Patrick could have done to save Edie. As soon as Charlie Morgan had her in his sights, that was that. Soon Glory would have to tell her father the true story. It was why she’d been avoiding him over the last few days – the prospect was too wretched to contemplate. Now, however, she wondered if he might find the news a relief. Closure.
‘I know how important becoming a, er, witch is to you,’ he said hesitantly. ‘And I hope you get your wish. But it’s a lot . . . a lot to deal with. The pressure and so on. I think your mum . . . well, she found it tough.’
‘I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. If I come to it.’ Glory tried to smile, feeling the weight of secrets inside her, an indigestible lump. ‘I just have to make sure I’m prepared.’
‘Prepared . . . yes . . .’ Patrick nodded slowly. ‘That reminds me – Charlie phoned. He wanted to know how you were getting on. Some research project, he said.’
Balefire and blast him. Phoning her dad was a special kind of warning. A pointed reminder of who called the shots.
It had been a long time since Glory had taken a problem to Patrick, but sitting side by side on the steps having a proper conversation for once, she felt the urge to confide in him. ‘Frank had a look at our books,’ she said. ‘He told Charlie that someone in Cooper Street’s on the fiddle.’
‘So Charlie asked you to investigate?’
‘Yeah. I’m pretty sure Nate’s to blame, but I need to prove it.’
‘Hmm.’ He was quiet for an infuriatingly long time. Then: ‘It wasn’t Nate. It was Patch.’
Glory gawped at him.
‘His kid brother has a gambling problem,’ Patrick continued placidly. ‘Owes serious cash to some serious people. Patch said he’d help. Times past, he could’ve gone to Joe and asked for an advance. In this case, it seemed easier to sort things himself. So he siphoned off some cash from the Bishop’s Green depot job. It was only meant to be short-term, but when a debt someone else owed him didn’t come good, he panicked. That’s when he came to me: asked if I could fix the numbers, buy him some time. He’s been paying the money back in instalments. I should’ve known Frank would spot it.’
‘Damn right. You gone soft in the head or what?’ Glory got to her feet. She was more worried than angry. She liked Patch. He used to perform card tricks at her birthday parties when she was a kid, and only last week had nicked a stash of glossy magazines for her. With effort, she relaxed her tone. ‘Never mind. I’ll phone Charlie myself and sort it out.’
Patrick scratched his unshaven chin. ‘Um, maybe I should make the call,’ he said uncertainly. ‘Or Angeline. You should be out with your friends and enjoying yourself. Not worrying about coven business.’
‘Somebody’s got to.’
He looked at her with unfamiliar seriousness. ‘I know you want to find a purpose, Glory, and something to work for. But I don’t think it should be this place.’
‘Why not?’
‘Oh . . . well . . .’ Patrick shrugged and blinked, his moment of authority already fading. ‘Nothing really changes here, does it? Same old, same old. It’s too late for us. It could be different for you.’
No, it’s too late for me as well, thought Glory. I’ve agreed to bring a government spy into our home. Whatever happened afterwards, she knew nothing in their lives would be the same.
Awkwardly, she bent down and kissed her dad’s bald spot. ‘I know what I’m doing,’ she said.