Crane returned to the flat on the Strand after a useful trip to Hannaford and Greene to find the place empty. Merrick, he knew, would be out dealing with some of Miss Saint’s problems today, but Stephen’s absence was a disappointment and a slight irritation. He wanted to see his lover, wanted him close by until the current threat was dealt with, and he knew they were safe.
He contemplated Stephen’s message—Gone to the Golds—and considered.
Back in summer, in the crazed days when giant rats had erupted amongst them and precipitated a sea change in their lives, he had had a brief exchange with Dr. Gold: Stephen’s best friend, Esther’s husband, a practitioner with a healing talent. When Gold had learned about Crane and Stephen’s relationship, and the power in Crane’s blood, he had told Crane to remember that he was a doctor who could be consulted in confidence. It had seemed a non sequitur at the time.
Crane tapped his fingers on the tabletop, thinking, then set out down the stairs once more, and hailed a cab for Piccadilly.
A second cab took him from Fortnum and Mason’s emporium, with an armful of purchases, to Dr. Gold’s Devonshire Street surgery. The usual nurse answered the door, her face changing from immediate refusal to a nod of recognition, and Crane was ushered in to see Dr. Gold, sitting in his consulting room in his shirtsleeves, dark face worn. There was no sign of Stephen, or Esther, or any patients.
Gold gave him a quick, tired smile. “Lord Crane. Please say nobody’s dead.”
“Not to my knowledge. May I have five minutes of your time?”
“That makes a pleasant change. Yes, by all means. Please, sit.”
Crane put his offerings on the desk: a bunch of hothouse flowers and the most expensive fruit basket Fortnum’s had had to offer. “For Mrs. Gold. I hope she’s well?”
“No, she’s sick. More or less continually, which is unpleasant for her, and since she is the worst patient of my acquaintance, fairly nasty for me. I’m probably going to hide the fruit in case she throws it at me, but I’m sure she’ll like the flowers, unless the smell makes her feel nauseous, in which case she’ll doubtless let me know about it.”
Crane had never regretted his preference for men, and this wasn’t changing his mind. “My sympathies, Doctor. I should have brought you brandy.”
“Yes, you should.” Gold leaned forward, elbows on desk. “I assume this is about Steph.”
“It is. Has he spoken to you about the tattoos?”
“Yours? The ones that move? Is that the problem?”
“It’s a little more complicated than that.”
“Of course it is. Off you go. I am very tired,” Gold added before Crane could begin, “and rather worried, and in quite a foul mood, and not easily shocked, so please tell me the problem and don’t dance around my sensibilities. I think I’ve run out of those when it comes to Steph’s personal arrangements.”
Crane refrained from asking if he wanted to wager on that. “Very well. You know that the tattoos move when I make love to Stephen. The thing is, it happened yesterday, without any intimacy. I was a couple of miles away from him and had been all day, but my tattoos went flying. They even settled in the wrong places, one on my face.”
“Oh God,” said Dr. Gold with unutterable weariness. “Did it do anything else? What was the situation?”
Crane explained about the punchbag. Gold’s face tightened.
“Show me the hand you hit it with. Make a fist. And again.” Gold turned Crane’s hand over and back, squinting intently.
“The thing is,” Crane said, “Stephen told me afterwards that he’d been using his powers at the time.”
“A lot of power?”
“I don’t know if it was a lot.” Crane had seen Stephen using his powers at full stretch a few times, and those occasions had mostly been spectacularly destructive. But Stephen would surely have mentioned it if he’d wrecked the gaolyard. “I’m not sure what he did, just that he was very angry when he did it.”
“Were you angry when you were at the punchbag?”
“Yes.”
“About?”
“Stephen,” Crane said unwillingly. “We’d argued the day before.”
“Would you call it natural anger? Proportionate, something you’d usually feel?”
“Are you suggesting my mind was affected by something?” Crane bristled at the thought.
“I don’t know. What do you think?”
“Ah…I’m not sure. I went to the gymnasium because I was angry in the first place. I had good reason to be angry with him,” he felt compelled to add.
“I’m sure you did. Hmm. How often do you two have intercourse? Of the relevant kind to this discussion.”
“Perhaps four times a week.”
“Really? Great Scott. When was the last time, before that incident?”
“Two days before. The evening.”
“Hell’s bells.” Gold rubbed his hands over his face. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“Something happened last night. We made love. He had iron on his wrists—”
“What? Why on earth— No, wait. Do I need to know why?”
“No. You would also be well advised not to let Stephen know I told you about it.”
“I’ll strive to forget this entire conversation.” Gold waved at him to continue.
“Iron,” Crane went on. “But my tattoos still moved afterwards, as usual. His didn’t until I took the cuffs off.”
“Right.” Gold thought for a moment, frowning. “Do you understand how practitioners work?”
“Go on.”
“We don’t usually carry power within ourselves. People like the Magpie Lord, or you, are few and far between. Most of us tap power out of the ether, or the world around us, or what have you.” Gold made a sweeping gesture. “Steph is drawing your power to him, and it’s flowing back from him to you, because it’s his influence setting off those tattoos. My suspicion is that there’s been enough back-and-forth of power between you that the flow has created a channel, like a river carving out a new path, understand? And that channel, I would hypothesise, exists independently of the physical contact by now, and it may be about more than moving tattoos.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that I wonder if you found yourself flooded with power yesterday because of Steph, or if he found himself flooded with anger because of you.”
Crane assimilated that. “You think I affected his feelings?”
“Isn’t that precisely what you do?” Gold retorted. “This is Steph. He very rarely loses his temper. He’s dedicated. He’s cautious. He’s been put in gaol and suspended from duty because of flagrant lawbreaking and a fistfight in Council. Do you see the odd one out here?”
“He’s not that cautious. Or that calm.”
“Not since you came along, certainly.”
Crane met the doctor’s dark eyes. “Are we discussing a magical issue, or something else?”
Gold tapped a finger on the desk. “Lord Crane, my problem is this: I don’t quite see how this business between you ends, other than with you going back to China and leaving Steph alone with twelve-hour days in the justiciary and a handful of memories.”
“It won’t happen.” The picture conjured up by those words was intolerable. “I’m not leaving. I’m not leaving him.”
“Really? Not when there are damned inconvenient things like tattoos turning up on your face? Not with him tied to England and you hating the place—yes, he has mentioned that. Not in six months, a year, five years, with no marriage vows to impede you from doing as you like?”
Crane’s fingers were curling into his palm. “If you’re staying with your wife purely because of your marriage vows, then those vows aren’t worth a damn, and nor is your opinion on Stephen and myself.”
“As I’m sure you’ve surmised, I stay with Esther out of fear,” said Dr. Gold. “Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not opposed to your relationship with Steph, as such. If he was happy, there’d be no more to be said.”
“He’s happy. Why the devil would you say he isn’t?” Crane set his teeth against the question, What did he say?
“He’s been suspended from the justiciary,” Gold pointed out. “You’ve been arguing. You’re asking me for help, behind his back—”
“Hardly that if he’s upstairs.”
“He’s not upstairs.”
“He said he was coming here.”
“Well, he didn’t.”
“Making this an entirely pointless journey on my part,” Crane bit out. “Thank you for your unsolicited advice, Doctor, and for your remarkable bedside manner. I can quite see why your surgery is doing such a thriving business.”
Unexpectedly, Gold laughed at that, and held out his hand as Crane started to rise. “Wait a moment. Stop. I, ah, may have overstepped the mark a little.”
“You did.”
“You’re conducting an illegal relationship with my best friend, and when I last saw my wife, she was girding her loins to discuss the topic of Jenny Saint’s virtue with your manservant, which is why I’m hiding down here. Frankly I’m not quite sure where the mark is, these days.”
That was all the apology that seemed to be forthcoming, so Crane gave a nod of acceptance. The doctor steepled his fingers with a scowl. “There is something else I feel I should mention. Is Steph still using that blasted ring of yours, the Magpie Lord’s?”
“He has been.”
Dr. Gold sighed heavily. “Have you noticed anything different about it?”
“It looks as ever it did the last time I saw it. Although, he was wearing it on a chain round his neck when we made love and the chain, uh, melted.”
Gold slumped forward, hard, so that his forehead hit the desk with a thud.
“Doctor?”
“Don’t mind me,” Gold said, voice muffled by the wood. “I’ll just rest here. Melted the chain, you say. That didn’t worry Steph at all?”
“Not obviously. But he did say it was no longer dormant, if that means anything to you.”
“Nothing good.” Gold raised his head again. “Lord Crane, have you felt entirely yourself through all this? Any peculiar sensations or unfamiliar symptoms?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“Right. Because, I dare say this is very far fetched, but the most powerful sorcerer England has ever produced lives on in your bloodline, and the connection between you and Steph has awakened his power to the point where you don’t apparently need Steph, or the ring, to light it up any more. So I’m keen to know whether you feel, for example, let’s say…possessed by the spirit of a Jacobean sorcerer, at all?”
“No.” Crane bit back an exasperated For fuck’s sake. “I can assure you that I don’t.” Gold cocked a brow. “Doctor, I was possessed by the spirit of a Chinese sorcerer barely four months ago. I haven’t forgotten what that felt like.”
“Fair enough, glad to hear it. Except that you have the Magpie Lord’s bloodline; Steph’s using his power and wearing his ring; both of you have magpies all over you. And it’s getting stronger. I am a little unnerved by the scale of the Magpie Lord’s presence in your lives.”
“The Magpie Lord has been dead for centuries,” Crane said obstinately. “Granted, death is less of a barrier to being a damned nuisance than I’d realised, but even so…” He tailed off.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
It was not quite nothing. When that insane spirit had claimed his mind and body back in summer, and Stephen had called on the power in his blood to fight it off, there had been a single thought in Crane’s mind. It came back now with force.
What he had thought, as he struggled to retain mastery of his body and soul, was We are the Magpie Lord. And, it occurred to him, that was when they—Stephen, rather, just Stephen—had wrested back control of the power.
That was sheer coincidence. It had to be coincidence, because the alternative was unacceptable and Crane was bloody well not going to accept it.
This was something Stephen had to know. He was damned if he would talk to Gold about it first.
Gold’s dark eyes were locked on his, intent and intense. “Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
Gold contemplated him for a few more seconds, then blinked and looked away. “Well, if you say so. Let me know if that changes. And if you see Steph before I do, tell him that if he doesn’t come and talk to me, I’ll send Esther to talk to him, and then he’ll be sorry. In the meantime, do you want my advice on your immediate problem?”
“Go on.”
“Accept that this sort of thing is going to happen.”
“You really are outstandingly unhelpful,” Crane said. “I’ll definitely come to you when next I want leeches applied.”
Gold shrugged. “If you actually want this to stop, leave him and go back to China. Otherwise, you’re a powerful magical source, he’s a practitioner. Strange things are going to happen now and then.”
“My life has been an unending barrage of strange things ever since I set eyes on him,” Crane said. “But I take your point.”
“Good, because it’s the only one I currently have.” Gold gave a sudden yawn. “Excuse me. With the best will in the world, I have no other ideas to offer. I’m occupied in trying to keep my wife from miscarrying our children.”
“Children?”
“It’s twins. Esther does like a challenge. Is there anything more I can do for you?”
Crane rose, accepting the dismissal. “Thank you, Doctor. I think.”
“I never claimed to have answers,” Gold said. “Certainly not to the kind of questions that involve Steph. Good day, Lord Crane.”
“Good day. I’ll show myself out.”
Crane left the doctor in his empty consulting room and headed for the street, unnerved and unsatisfied and wondering where Stephen had got to. He wanted to tell Stephen about this, to hear a testy, “Don’t be ridiculous,” and see his amber eyes crinkle with annoyance at Gold’s alarmism.
He wanted Stephen to be here, now. Where the devil was the man?
Crane made it three steps along the pavement before he heard his name called.
“Lord Crane? Lord Crane!”
It was the handsome young man from the other evening. His face was rather set. The white streak in his black hair was much more pronounced now, a jagged line like a broad flash of lightning. Stephen had mentioned that when he told Crane about meeting him in the gaolyard.
“Mr. Pastern,” Crane said. “How very convenient. I was just thinking how much I wanted to hit someone.”
“You don’t have time for that. They’ve got Mr. Day.”
“What?”
Pastern held out a closed fist, opened the fingers. There was a tangle of red-brown curling hair on his palm. The jagged end where the clump had been shorn from Stephen’s scalp was still visible.
“Explain,” Crane said. “Now.”
“Lady Bruton and her friends. They have him and they intend to kill him. The only reason they haven’t done so yet is you. They’re betting you will do their bidding. He’s the stake.” Pastern smiled, with no humour at all. “Lady Bruton wants you more than she wants to hurt Mr. Day, but it’s a pretty close-run thing. So if you want him back—”
“Where is he?”
Pastern shook his head. “I’ll take you there. Uh-uh.” He took a rapid step away, evidently reading Crane’s face. “If you attempt to assault me, I’ll be gone before you know it, and I won’t be back. And if you’re not there by two o’clock, alone, they will kill him. You need to start taking orders, Lord Crane.”
It was quarter past one already. Crane weighed up his options rapidly. None of them were good.
He would have to make some better ones.
He folded his arms. “Whose side are you on, Mr. Pastern?”
“Mine. Which currently means Lady Bruton’s. I did offer Mr. Day an arrangement, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“Of course he didn’t. I am a much more reasonable man.” Crane eyed him thoughtfully. “I understand Lady Bruton has a hold on you. What if I break that hold?”
Pastern gave a startled laugh. “You? You’ve no powers, no allies, and a serious weakness in the shape of Mr. Day. She’s strong as hell. What can you possibly do about her?”
“I’ll see her dead before suppertime.” Crane spoke with an assurance he didn’t feel. “Trust me.”
“God,” Pastern said. “You’re utterly deluded.”
Crane smiled at him, a warm, friendly smile that made the man sway back, just a little, in unconscious expectation of attack. “We all have special skills, Mr. Pastern. Mine is getting what I want. It might not look as impressive as walking in the air, but…” He twitched the collar of Pastern’s coat straight. “I’m sure you’ve noticed who’s wearing the better clothes here.”
Pastern looked down, looked up, then reached out and straightened the lapels of Crane’s topcoat with both hands in return. “Even if you have something in mind, so what? If you imagine I’m going up against Lady Bruton, or even that I’d risk being seen to help you, you’re sadly mistaken.”
Crane shook his head, still smiling. “I’m not quite so optimistic as to depend on you. How long will it take to reach this place, wherever we’re going?”
“About half an hour on foot.”
“And if we return to my residence on the Strand on the way, will we still arrive in time?” Crane asked that with an air of the mildest interest, knowing he couldn’t allow the importance of the question to show. He had the beginnings of a course of action in mind, but everything depended on where Pastern intended to take him. If it was where he hoped, they might have a fraction of a chance.
“Yes,” Pastern said. “What do you want to do there?”
“You will give me one piece of information, and one minute here. I will then come with you, alone but via my home, to wherever Stephen is. You may continue to act as you see fit in your frankly rather contemptible quest to preserve your personal safety.” Crane noted the little twitch on Pastern’s face, filed it away. “When I have eliminated the hold that Lady Bruton has on you, you will hand back the ring. If you fail to return it, you will see me again. I don’t think either of us wants that, do we?”
Pastern’s mouth tightened. “You’re very confident for a man who’s going to die.”
“You’re remarkably uninteresting for a flying trollop. Do we have a bargain?”
“I—uh— A minute to do what?” Crane jerked his head at the Golds’ door and Pastern frowned. “Oh, no. No recruiting help. If she sees you’ve brought someone, or if you’re followed—”
“Mrs. Gold is extremely unwell, as I’m sure you know. There’s nobody to bring.” Crane pulled an envelope from his pocket. “I merely want to leave these legal papers in safety with the Golds. I’d rather not hand them to Lady Bruton.”
“Why can’t you leave them at your home?”
“They deal with a lady’s private business, with which I’m assisting. In the event that Lady Bruton murders me, I don’t particularly want my friend’s intimate affairs made available to the world. I’m handing them over for safekeeping. You may watch me do so.”
The windwalker hesitated. “I can’t let you get a weapon either, here or anywhere else. She’ll murder me. And don’t forget, if you attack me—”
“I am not looking for weapons. I don’t need weapons. Can we get on?” Crane spoke with weary impatience.
Pastern, thoroughly off balance now, asked, “What was the information you wanted?”
“What Lady Bruton has on you.”
“That’s all?”
“I can probably remove the threat more efficiently if I don’t have to guess what it is.”
“But…” Pastern shook his head, dismissing his confusion. “Very well, I’ll play your game. I don’t think you have a rat’s chance, and I work for Lady Bruton right up to the point I no longer have to work for her. At that point, I will still not be on your side, but you can have your blighted ring back with my goodwill. So take your minute here by all means. Oh, and I hope you don’t think it will be of any use to tell milady she can’t trust me. She knows.”
“So, I imagine, does everyone who’s ever met you. Good. You may tell me your plight on the way.” Crane riffled through the lawyers’ papers, then shook the sheaf tidily together, and went to knock on the Golds’ door again, Pastern by his side.
Dr. Gold’s nurse answered, and Crane handed her the sheaf. “Good afternoon, again. Give these to Dr. Gold now, please, with instructions to hand them to my manservant as soon as possible. There, Mr. Pastern. Did that satisfy you in its brevity?” He smiled at the startled nurse. “Good day. Come on, Pastern.”
He turned and strolled down the steps. Pastern said, “Is that it?”
“I did say so.”
Pastern turned to hail a cab. Crane batted his arm down. “Unless we need to, I should rather walk.”
“Christ,” Pastern said. “You do know that Lady Bruton’s got your lover right now? You do understand that she wants to hurt him?”
“I do, yes. And I know that if she had me, and Stephen was in my place now, he would come to my aid with all speed, and fling himself at Lady Bruton in a desperate effort to preserve my safety. It wouldn’t be the first time.” He shrugged. “I am not Stephen. We walk.”
“You’re a cold-blooded shit,” Pastern said, with feeling.
“True. And yet, I said she would be dead by suppertime, and I am a man of my word. Why don’t you tell me about your problem?”
Pastern sighed. “Do you know about the artist?”
“Artist?”
“He draws people. And once he’s drawn you, he can kill you. He rips the paper, or the canvas. Where do you think all the dead policemen came from?”
Stephen’s cases. That was part of Lady Bruton’s plan, part of a relentless assault on him—his work, Saint, the ring, Crane himself.
“This artist,” Crane said, casting his mind back. “If I speculated that he’d been spending a lot of time in the Strand recently…”
“Oh yes.” Pastern sounded almost sympathetic. “He’s got you all right. It’s a good likeness. On paper, too. You’d better hope he doesn’t set fire to it.”
Well, that explained how Bruton had got a hold on Stephen. Crane nodded. “I see. And how do you come into this?”
Pastern gave a tiny shrug. “He drew a picture.”
“Can anyone destroy the pictures, or must it be him? If you or I were to rip up the paper…”
“I don’t know,” Pastern said. “If I was sure that only he could do it, I’d have killed him weeks ago.”
“I dare say you would,” Crane remarked, looking at his face, and walked on, thinking hard.
Pastern insisted on coming up with him up to the flat on the Strand.
“No weapons,” he repeated. “If she thinks I let you get something—”
“I’m not seeking a weapon,” Crane told him. “I am aware that you’re all practitioners. What possible chance do we mere mortals have against you?”
Pastern narrowed his eyes. “Then what are we doing here?”
“I’m changing out of this suit. It’s Hawkes and Cheney, it is worth significantly more than you are, and I have no intention of getting blood on it. You may watch if it will alleviate your concerns that I am arming myself to the teeth.”
“I’ll do that.” Pastern propped himself against the doorframe, arms folded, as Crane shed his expensive coat. He gave an appreciative whistle when the trousers came off, which was doubtless meant to be irritating. Crane ignored him, selecting a practical grey tweed with deliberation. It was one of his less favoured suits, so his wardrobe would not be unbalanced by its loss, it was the one he had worn to face Lady Bruton the first time, which might just possibly bring back unpleasant memories for her, and he was fairly sure that there was a clasp knife in its inner pocket. In the smuggling years, he and Merrick had regularly secreted weaponry around themselves, and it had proved a hard habit to break.
They set off again. Pastern pulled out a fob watch to check the time. Crane glanced at it, and then looked back.
“That appears to be my watch, Mr. Pastern.”
“Not any more.” Pastern snapped it shut and slipped it into his pocket.
Crane clicked his fingers. “Hand it over. Now.”
“Let’s be honest, you’re not going to need it much longer. It might as well not go unused.”
“You are going to give that back.”
“I’m really not,” Pastern said. “No, don’t try to hit me, Lord Crane. Think of Mr. Day.”
It was only a watch, albeit a very expensive one. He could afford others. And Pastern was probably right: Crane had severe doubts that he would live till it next needed winding. Nevertheless, the theft grated, and more importantly it put him on the hind foot with the bloody man. That would not do.
“Very well, score your little point, Mr. Pastern,” he said, in his most aristocratic drawl. “For now. Be assured, in due course you will regret this indulgence. In the meantime, do accept my compliments on your fingersmithy. What a very talented petty criminal you are.” He didn’t bother to assess the effect of that, but walked on, glancing up to the sky at a flurry of movement.
“What are you looking at?” Pastern demanded.
“Magpies.”
“Why?”
Crane gave him a scathing look. “Because they’re there. I could hardly see them if they weren’t.”
They were there, too; on railings and window ledges and three on the pavement in front of him. Ten, all told.
Ten for a dance? That was what this business with Pastern was, a merry dance, keeping him moving, and unsettled. Crane knew his casual rudeness was making him far more credible to the windwalker than any attempts to build an alliance would have done. Whether that would be enough to make the man hesitate, and if his hesitation would mean anything at all—well, that was outside Crane’s control.
Or ten for a dearth? Was it a warning? The magpies had been right too often for Crane to disregard the possibility. If he faced a dearth of allies, he and Stephen were probably going to die. Or perhaps it was a dearth of power. Lady Bruton would doubtless have Stephen in iron. Crane had to assume that, had discounted any intervention from his lover in the rapidly assembled web of guesswork and hope that now passed for a plan.
In some ways, it didn’t matter what the magpies meant. As long as they were still flocking to him, he and Stephen might have a chance.
Or perhaps he’d just seen ten magpies. London was infested with the bloody things, after all.
They turned down Bouverie Street, which meant they had to be heading to Temple Lane. Crane had staked everything on that being their destination, and the pure relief as Pastern stopped outside the chapel door was outweighed almost at once by a sudden, overwhelming rush of the terror that Crane had not allowed himself to feel till now. It gripped him now so that he could barely draw breath into his lungs.
Lady Bruton was a powerful and ruthless practitioner. Crane had faced death at her hands just eight months ago, and he did not want to do it again. She had allies, the murderous artist Newhouse at least, and probably more, since Stephen was no easy victim. The artist had a picture of him, and that thought alone was enough to make him taste bile in his throat. And in the likely event that his plan didn’t work, all Crane had was a clasp knife, which might suffice to cut his own throat rather than let the Bruton bitch use him against Stephen.
I’m fucked. We’re going to die. I don’t want to do this. I’m afraid.
“If we could get on,” he told Pastern, who was watching his face. “I do have plans for the afternoon.”