Quentin struggled to wake up.

He hadn’t had a hangover in a while. A long while. Why he’d got so blotto as to pass out on something that felt hard enough to be a floor was beyond him. At least he usually made it to bed before he succumbed, but he had no clue where he was right now. Except that it was dark. And not merely dim, but utterly pitch black. The bedroom was never so dim, not even in the dead of night.

He was in an odd position, too, sprawled out as if…

Recovery position.

There was no mistaking it. Had he lost consciousness? If so, who had placed him in recovery, and where were they now?

He unfurled and bounced to his feet, subconsciously wiping drool from his chin.

What the hell was going on?

More to the point, where on Earth was he?

He felt down his jacket until he could dig out a handkerchief from within, and used it to wipe his face, then he forced his left arm to work and wreathed it in flame so that he could see.

The sudden light made him flinch, and he had to wait a moment until his eyes stopped watering.

The room was large and bare. There was a small patch of darkness on the floor. There were light fixtures overhead, but they were obviously not switched on, and there wasn’t a single window anywhere to be found.

The basement. Bomb shelter. Whatever he wished to call it.

He tried his footing and, once he was sure of it, he hurried toward the door.

It was locked.

Michael.

The name bubbled up from within as patches of memory began to fill themselves in, which in itself was a novel experience. Memories, once lost, tended not to return.

There had been something in the tea, hadn’t there? And like a damn fool he’d drunk it, despite the bitterness of it. He’d made excuses for it, convinced that it was just stewed in the pot, because who would walk brazenly into a man’s home to poison him?

Quentin glanced down at himself and patted his pockets for his phone.

It was gone.

He grit his teeth in irritation. No phone, no keys. Just his handkerchief and some paper.

Quentin frowned. He didn’t habitually carry paper around, so he pulled it out and brought the flames closer.

Another envelope, again bearing Frederick’s crest.

“What the hell are you playing at, Fred?” He withdrew his hand from the flame and left it burning in mid-air. It would, over time, drain his energy, but frankly he hardly cared right this very moment.

He tugged the envelope open and withdrew the letter inside, then unfolded it and held it by the light.

Dearest Icky,

My apologies for the inconvenience. If everything has gone according to plan, Laurence is currently en route to London with me. You’re going to want to catch up tout de suite, and the tooter the sweeter, because the longer I have this boy the worse off he’s going to get.

For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. You told me to keep myself safe, but you and I both know that’s impossible.

Regards,

Frederick.

It made no sense at all. But it didn’t need to. Regardless of how unspecified the threat to Laurence, one had been made.

London.

Quentin snarled. It felt as though dots were connecting themselves at half speed. Whatever he’d been dosed with, it seemed to have left his brain working even worse than usual.

What the hell makes you think he won’t bump your delectable little florist off?

Freddy took your shirt.

We need to face the possibility that he’s screwed us.

Stay away from him, Fred. Keep yourself safe.

This was Father’s doing. Frederick had as much as said so, but more than that it was the only thing which made sense. Why else would Frederick take Laurence, let alone to London?

To get Quentin to go home.

Frederick may or may not be acting under his own agency, but it did not matter. The important thing was the threat to Laurence’s well-being.

He tossed paper to the floor, extended his telekinetic hold around the door, and pulled.

The door groaned in protest, but it didn’t come free.

It had been completely replaced, as the biometric lock was an integral feature of the previous one, but it was still a security door. A foot thick, with multiple bolts as broad as a table leg on either side. It was like being inside a bloody safe, and there was no provision for escape should one be locked inside. Why would there be? It was impossible to lock the door without the key.

This was no ordinary door, and an ordinary level of effort would not suffice, so he stepped back and extruded more of his gift to coil around the door and adhere to it.

And then, as though lifting machinery at Myriam’s farm, he focused every ounce of will through his hold and wrenched on the steel.

The flame extinguished itself.

He heard cracking, snapping. Taps and thuds as detritus hit the floor. Metal groaned and rock snapped.

It wasn’t possible to tear the door free from its hinges. Not before the door frame tore itself out of the wall it was built into. So he adjusted his grip to take in the doorframe, and heaved until his heart thumped and his head hurt.

With a final explosion of rock that he couldn’t see, the vast mass of metal broke free and slammed past him into the opposite wall. Shards of rock and plaster rained down on him, and he buckled to one knee under the assault.

But then it was done. He let the door fall, re-ignited the flame so that he could see, and then he picked his way through the dust and rubble to reach the stairs.

He had no idea how long he’d been a prisoner in his own basement or how far away Frederick was, but if a single hair on Laurence’s head had been harmed there would be hell to pay.

* * *

The door at the top of the stairs was much easier to deal with, and he shoved it out of its frame so hard that it shattered against the far wall. Footsteps clattered down the stairs, so he gathered up each and every shard of wood and fanned them out between himself and the newcomer. A hundred ragged daggers, suspended in thin air, ready and waiting.

Mia bounced into view with her hands raised, equally as ready as she dropped to the ground floor and regarded him.

The dogs plodded out of the kitchen and stood between them, tails wagging.

He huffed and maintained his impromptu shield a second, then swept it aside and let the shards fall into a pile.

Mia’s eyes widened, and she lowered her hands. “What the hell’s going on? I thought it was a goddamn earthquake!”

Quentin shook his head and started toward the stairs. “What time is it?”

“Coming up on 12:30.” Mia stepped aside and frowned as she looked him over. “You gonna tell me anything?”

He took the stairs two at a time. “Frederick has taken Laurence. He sent someone to drug me, and they left me in the basement without keys or phone. They have a significant head start, and I have to go.”

Mia chased him up the stairs, dogs at her heels. “Okay. You shower, I’ll find your passport and see if they left your phone laying around the house somewhere.”

Quentin didn’t argue. There was no way he could travel like this, and Mia’s plan saved him time, so he simply said, “Thank you.”

“We’ll get Laurence back,” she said as though it was a fact.

He nodded, and shut himself in the bathroom.

* * *

The Book of Water urged flexibility and calm, and Quentin had begun to understand what made Musashi such a master swordsman.

It was bloody hard to be calm right now.

He showered perfunctorily while his mind picked over possibilities. His fastest route to London likely involved bouncing through LAX, which meant booking a flight as soon as he was able and taking whatever class of travel was available. Regardless, he could safely calculate that Frederick had several hours on him, dependent upon how many flights per day there were and whether any seats were available. Quentin’s fastest route to London was around thirteen hours, and that didn’t include travel time to and from airports, or passing through border control at Heathrow. If Frederick had chartered a private aircraft then his head start was even more advanced, as Quentin couldn’t afford to chase him at that pace.

The anger mounted, and he turned the water off.

He had to stay calm. If he was to travel, he could not appear agitated or they may not allow him to board. If he was to avoid wrecking an aircraft interior he had to keep a lid on his temper.

If he was to save Laurence he had to pick his way with care.

He moisturized quickly and hurried through to the walk-in to dress, choosing a three-piece suit which would allow him to move fluidly should the need arise.

Did he have time to pack?

There was no way to know, but it would seem peculiar to travel with nothing, so he fetched a small case and filled it almost entirely arbitrarily. The only items he could really recall choosing were toiletries and boxer shorts. The essentials.

If Michael had stolen his passport…

The fury clicked another notch.

No. Frederick wanted Quentin to follow. Taking his passport would prevent that.

“All right. Passport, phone, keys.” Mia burst into the bedroom without warning. “I’ve checked flights. There’s a direct from here to London but it isn’t until 8PM, so it’s not worth the wait. You can bounce through Los Angeles and arrive in London six hours earlier than that one. Sebastian’s on his way so there’s an adult here when the kids come back from school. I’ll drive you to the airport.”

“Thank you.” Quentin swept from the walk-in and took the items she offered, sequestering them in his pockets. “I don’t know when we’ll be back.”

“Not something to worry about right now.” She took his case and hefted it in one hand as she hurried out of the room. “Flight is in two hours. Traffic’s low. Let’s go. Once you’ve got a ticket we can figure everything else out.”

“Agreed.” He ran after her.

She glanced to him as they made it to the garage, and her lips twisted into a small smile. “You’re doing good. Just keep a lid on it and you’ll get him back.”

He raised his chin. “I shall do my best.”

He had to.

Laurence’s life depended on it.