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Imogen thought about escaping immediately. Ryleigh would be worried, and she knew they needed her help with the children. But as she listened to the imps' chatter, she changed her mind.
"Dunno what she wants with this one. Already got the white-haired witch, so Marg says. The mistress'll have both stones soon enough, so she probably don't need this one here."
"Stop your whinging," the leader snapped. "Mistress says get 'er, we get 'er. No questions asked or you'll be needing a new tongue to ask 'em with. Put her in the back seat. And be careful with her. Mistress don't like damaged goods."
It was a good thing Imogen was awake. Otherwise, they'd have banged her head at least three times putting her in the back of a black SUV with three row seating. As it was, she wasn't able to avoid a bruising smack to her shoulder when they dumped her in the third-row bench seat. At least she landed on the upholstered leather rather than the floorboards.
They have Charlotte. But what do I do about it?
She thought it over as the imp drove, sitting on a box in the front seat and using blocks strapped to his feet to reach the pedals. She'd only caught a glimpse as they jockeyed her into the car, but it made her nervous to be a in a vehicle with such a contrived driving apparatus.
They moved through traffic with surprising smoothness, though the imp driving made frequent use of an astonishing lexicon of curse words. Every time they pulled up to a stop, the brakes shrilled in protest and, though Imogen was no mechanic, she could tell they must be down to bare metal. Fresh air rolled through the SUV, presumably from an open window.
Fifteen minutes later, the car slowed, the brakes squealing as they parked.
"You lot could use a brake job," Imogen said.
"Keep quiet, you," the leader said from the front seat. "We got a mechanic takes care of that kind of thing."
"Well, he isn't doing a very good job if the brakes are shrieking every time you use them."
"I said, shut up!" He reached in and pulled her roughly between the bucket seats of the middle row.
Imogen's shrug helped her avoid a face full of leather. "Easy there. I'm not as flexible as I once was, you know."
The lead imp jerked her forward until they were nose to nose. "Get this. I don't care what shape you're in. Far as I'm concerned, we can slit your throat and dump you in a ditch. But the mistress wants you and so we're going to bring you to her. Don't go getting any ideas in the meantime and keep your yap shut. Understand?" He shook her for emphasis.
"Sure, look. It's your funeral."
She meant it literally, but he ignored the warning, dropping her into the seat and gesturing curtly for the others to pick her up. Hoisted between two rows of imps, they moved her across a yard comprised of sparse grass and stones. At least this time they had her face up so she could take in her surroundings.
She recognized the area as Innisfayle Park, but the building looked like... No. She wouldn't dare. Craning her neck, Imogen looked at the captor holding her shoulder. "Your mistress lives in a church? How is that possible?"
"Been deconsecrated, hasn't it?" he replied. "Been that way since '82 or so." He leaned down conspiratorially. "Marg says the Mistress likes the... erm... what's it called? Irernly? No, that ain't quite right."
"The irony," Imogen said quietly, looking at the building's Gothic-Revival architecture.
The original builders constructed it of stone, laid in a sturdy but irregular pattern. The bell tower, topped with a conical roof and pierced with lancet openings, held nothing but air now, but a bell had rung there at some point.
Protective screens covered a large, lead-paned oculus, its original stained glass long shattered. The same was true of the lancet windows on the side where the glass had depicted saint’s lives, perhaps. Or the great works of Samson and Solomon. This place was old, and it had been holy once.
Now it was derelict and lonely.
She shivered. What had possessed Drakat to take up residence in a church? Defunct or not, even the palpable irony shouldn't have been enough incentive to invite the wrath of the divine.
The imps approached the front door, carefully edging around a blackthorn sapling that had sprung up like a sentinel through a crack in the front steps. The spindly branches, just budding green under the overcast sky, gave Imogen the shivers. Blackthorn was said to conceal dark secrets, and she wondered if Drakat had planted it there on purpose.
Edging through the door, the four imps followed their leader inside. Imogen drew a surprised breath. Whatever the outside looked like, the interior showed evidence of recent repair and remodeling.
The small entry hall with doors to the right and left ended in stairs leading to a second and third floor. An ornate carpet, no more than two feet wide, ran down the middle of the narrow foyer. Carrying her, the imps ended up walking on the tiles and their steps echoed against the dark wood paneling and stone floor.
Wall sconces held balls of swirling light — probably magickal, since she couldn't imagine Drakat paying a utility bill. Her captors carried her up the stairs and down a long, subtly lit hallway.
The leader shoved open a door and jerked his chin toward the interior. The imps carried her inside and dumped her on the floor. The room was empty, with not even a carpet to soften the stone floor and walls. A lancet window admitted clouded sunlight into the space, but it had no curtains, and though the plain, dirty glass was intact, it didn't open.
"Don't you go anywhere, now. Understand?" The leader gave her a nasty glare as the imps filed out, then slammed the door. The grate of the key in the lock echoed hollowly through the room.
They were going to leave her here, tied up? Rhiannon's steed. This is beyond enough. "Hey! You can't leave me tied up like this," she shouted. "I need to use the jakes!" Not that the ropes would stop her from escaping, but she didn’t want the enemy to know that.
Silence, but she wasn't fooled. They had locked the door, but she'd bet they also left a guard outside.
"Fine. But if I end up making a mess, I will NOT be the one cleaning it up."
A grumble of conversation filtered through the oak door. After a moment, an imp stomped inside to loosen her bonds. "No tricks, now."
He had a bandage tied around his head, and she wondered if he was the one she'd hit with Georgina's statue.
Rubbing her wrists to ease the chafed skin the ropes left, she lifted an eyebrow at him. "Tricks? I'm not a witch. Where would I get tricks?" Without giving him a chance to think that over, she asked, "Where is the bathroom?"
He nodded sideways to a door on their left. "Have at it." He stomped out, slamming the door behind him. She heard the lock click and the slap of flat feet on stone. Maybe there wasn't to be a guard after all.
Imogen struggled to her feet and wobbled to the bathroom. The ropes hadn't been tight enough to cut off circulation, but the enforced inactivity had left her with an aching back.
"Pregnant women don't do well lying on their backs," she muttered. "Or hadn't you heard?"
No one answer, but she hadn't expected them too.
In the bathroom, there were the usual accommodations, chipped and discolored, but serviceable. There was also a small, broken window set high on the wall. The break created a large hole in the upper right corner, with a jagged edge around it.
Good. She could escape when she needed to. But first she had to find Char.
AN EXQUISITE RED DEPRESSION glass vase crashed against the stone wall, exploding into a thousand shards. "You did what?"
"Well, it wasn't us, was it? It was that parahuman torch they got there. We was trying to get the woman, like you said, and the kid fried two of my guys. Went up like candlesticks, they did, and set the drapes afire."
Another piece, a pink cup, this time, shattered at his feet, making the lead imp jump.
"I did not send you to commit arson. Trócaire House is widely known and loved for the owner's good works." Disgust and rage clogged her voice. "Burning it down will cause public outrage and attention I. Do. Not. Need." She punctuated each of the last four words with another vintage piece. A lavender plate. An amber mug, and matching blue candlesticks met their demise via Drakat's temper.
The imp dodged as best he could, but her aim was uncanny. The barrage ended with him bleeding from several cuts and sporting new bruises on every limb. "B-b-but mistress. We got her. She's upstairs right now."
"Why is she upstairs? Did I not tell you to bring her directly to me?"
"Yes mistress, but Marg said you was in a meeting and not to be disturbed. I thought—"
"You thought? You THOUGHT?" Drakat screeched and flung another plate at his head. The leader dodged this one, but couldn't evade its sister. The pressed glass plate struck him along his scraggly hair line, leaving a gash that streamed forest green blood down his forehead.
"Get the woman," he yelled at the closest of his four cowering underlings. The first imp in line ran out of the room. The thud of his heavy feet pelting up the stairs came to them clearly in the silence that followed.
For several moments, the silence grew around them, thicker with each tick of the clock. Then footfalls crashed down the stairs, but instead of turning into the room where Drakat waited, they pelted down the hall. The door creaked opened and slammed shut. Silence reigned again.
Drakat strode out into the hall. An instant later she was standing in the open doorway of Imogen's prison. The room was empty.
Saying nothing, the demon sauntered back down the stairs to her drawing room and softly closed the door. Turning to face the leader, she gave him a lethal smile. "She has escaped. But you will not."
The carnage was unbelievably brief. At the end there were four bodies and a lot of blood on the floor.
"Marg!" Drakat shouted.
The lesser demon hurried in, hands clasped anxiously across his middle. "Mistress?" He didn't turn his head, but his eyes flicked from one body to the next.
"Clean up this mess. I have a headache, so I'm going to take a walk. Clear my mind before my next session with Ms. Knox. I do not want to be disturbed for the next hour. Understand?"
Marg nodded, his head bobbing like a doll on a dashboard, but Drakat was already strolling out the door. "And let me know when Grag returns, will you? I have a feeling he isn't going to bring good news, and I'd like to rid myself of all the trash on the same day. Makes housekeeping so much easier." She didn't look back as she let the door close behind her.
Marg pursed his lips and uttered a short, high-pitched whistle. Within seconds, three imps hustled in, jostling against each other in the doorway in their haste to answer the call. They skidded to a stop as they took in the butchered carcasses.
"Clean up this mess, and if you see Grag, tell him the mistress wants him."
They bobbed silently and Marg left. The smell of blood always made him hungry, while facing the possibility of his own death made his ulcer act up. The two, plus the persistent terror of living under Drakat's thumb, kept him in a constant state of nausea.
The three imps rushed to get buckets and brushes. The mess took time to clean up, but they finished it and finally, the last servant filed out and closed the door.
Grag wiggled his way out from the display case he'd hidden behind when the leader and his posse followed Drakat in. When Grag entered the room, the case had been full of antique glassware. It was mostly empty now.
He couldn't afford to be caught alone in her private study, since his intent had been to find the wand and other artifacts she'd taken from him at the pub. But once she started berating the imps, he was doubly glad he'd hidden.
Overhearing her last comments to Marg, it was all he could do to keep from weeping with gratitude over his unusual foresight.
"Hurry, hurry," he whispered to himself. "Mustn't be caught."
A quick rummage brought the wand to light. Grabbing it, he tucked it into his pocket. Next came a silvery blue rod in a velvet sleeve. He didn't know what it was, but when he touched it, the thing burned his skin and he dropped it. Celestial steel?
He could sell that.
Another item for the pocket. Closing the velvet around it, he tucked the rod away.
Further rummaging revealed little of value and he pushed the last drawer in, ready to make his escape.
But it wouldn't close, and Grag felt a trickle of sweat slide down his cheek. Drakat must not know the drawers had been searched. At least, not until he was far, far away from here.
He shoved at it several times without success. Pulling it open, he discovered a pen wedged against the bottom, its nib sticking up beyond the drawer's lip. He snatched at it and heard a faint click.
The bottom of the drawer tilted, revealing a glint of color underneath.
Grag caught his tongue between his teeth. A secret compartment usually meant an item of enormous value — otherwise, why keep it a secret?
Tenderly, he lifted the false bottom and peered into the resulting cavity. A purple stone gleamed up at him.
Snatching it up, he tucked it away and pressed the panel into place, dropped the pen into the drawer and closed it.
He started for the door, but stopped, still as death, when a thought came to him. Find Charlotte Knox.
The notion was so foreign he couldn't believe it was his own, though there was no one else in the room, so it had to be.
Find her. Help her.
Shivering, he crept closer to the door. Drakat had cursed him, somehow. He knew it. There was no way these thoughts were his.
But why would she make him want to help her enemy?
Find Charlotte. Help her escape. The idea was silent, insubstantial, yet as real as anything he'd ever felt. Where was it coming from?
Trundling forward, his mind a swirl of panicked denial and demand, Grag scuttled into the hall and turned down the corridor away from the front door, jerking and wincing every time the thought came to him. It was rapidly becoming a compulsion.
At the corner, he struggled desperately against the impulse to turn right instead of crossing the hall. The Knox woman was in the tower, where Drakat took all her victims. All he had to do was turn right, then right again at the next corner to reach it.
But Drakat would find him. And if that happened, he was dead.
Sweat beaded on his forehead as he forced himself to ignore the voice insisting he help Charlotte.
Gasping and twitching, he slipped into the kitchen, where a sleepy kitchen elf, chained to his workstation, looked up blearily.
"Help me, please," the elf called, but Grag hit the back door as if Drakat herself was right behind him. The voice in his head demanded he go back, but Grag covered his ears and kept running.
