The Burning Page

‘No,’ Irene said firmly. ‘I don’t think so. Try again.’

‘Maybe I should go and tell them you’re coming – ask for an audience?’ he hazarded.

‘That’s more like it,’ Irene approved. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t take long.’

He swallowed and loped on ahead. His gait had been becoming visibly more animalistic over the last few minutes. Either the Language’s hold was wearing off, or it had worn off some time back and he’d only just realized it.

‘You could simply walk away, ma’am,’ one of the remaining werewolves said. He and his friend were still carrying their unconscious compatriot between them. ‘If you were to head straight out from here, there’s a ladder to the north—’

Irene adjusted her hat. It was battered, dust-smeared and probably ruined, much like her coat, and any professional cleaner would have them both burned on sight. ‘Gentlemen, you seem to think that I’m a lady of fashion,’ she said. ‘I’m not. I’m a professional, and I am the sort of professional who has just thrashed all four of you together. And then I let you live, because you’re not a threat to me and I don’t have any quarrel with you.’

She’d spent most of her life playing the invisible underling in the background, creeping around in the shadows to avoid attention. Over the last few months she’d come to realize that taking the initiative and acting like someone who deserved respect might also be a valid strategy. She was not someone who was going to walk in there and apologize for the intrusion. She was a professional, a Librarian, and thoroughly dangerous. She was going to demand an apology for kidnap and theft. And if that failed, she’d damn well drop the ceiling on them.

They would listen to her. Or else.

The light ahead of them grew. It was a dim shade of reddish-orange, but compared to the tunnels it was practically midday. Well, midday on an overcast October day with a fair amount of cloud, but still an improvement. It was accompanied by a growing animal wet-dog smell, which made Irene breathe carefully so as not to wrinkle up her nose.

The archway they came to was flanked by two piles of clothing, each with a large wolf nesting on top of it. They looked up and dropped their jaws in a growl, but didn’t try to stop Irene as she walked forward.

The room beyond was an amphitheatre of sorts: it was large and circular with a sloping base. The floor was covered with tangles of werewolves. Some of them were in human form, naked or clothed, while others were in animal or part-animal form. Huge wolves were draped over their pack members like puppies in a litter. The place resounded with their breathing and panting. It caught in Irene’s throat and made her pulse stutter. A battered chandelier hung from a hook that had been screwed into the ceiling, decorated with burning oil lanterns that flared red and orange. The place was full of an animal heat and danger, which even Irene – the most human person in the room – could feel.

At the centre of the room, in the middle of the amphitheatre, sprawled a well-dressed man in a city gentleman’s clothes, right down to the bowler hat and striped waistcoat. He reclined on a throne made from battered Tube signs, patched together with wire and scrap and draped with fragile-looking velvets and lawns. Several other werewolves clustered around his feet or lounged beside him. The ones nearest him were either in wolf form or in fully-clothed human form – a mixture of men and women in comparatively normal clothing.

One of them rose to his feet, a bruiser in half-animal form, with a human stance but a wolf’s muzzle and paws. His pale fur was a bloody orange in the lantern-light. He cleared his throat in a parody of a formal butler’s manners.

‘You may approach Mr Dawkins,’ he announced.

A growl rippled around the room like surf on the beach, and animal and human eyes caught the lantern-light as the inhabitants turned to look at Irene. These were not tame werewolves, or even romantic werewolves. Imminent violence hung in the air as thickly as the animal smell that filled the room.

Irene stamped down on the immediate urge to back out of the room and make a break for freedom. Running from a group of predators was the very thing guaranteed to get her killed. And I am not prey. I am a Librarian.

She stepped into the room.

CHAPTER TEN

Irene strolled forward, keeping her pace nonchalant and casual. She had to pick her way across the piles of sleeping or watching bodies to reach the centre, and her skirt trailed across werewolves who couldn’t be bothered to move. Her unwilling escorts hung back by the entrance, but didn’t try to run for it.

Mr Dawkins sprawled in his chair, watching as she approached. As she came closer, Irene could see that his face was scored with claw marks – he might be able to pass for a city gentleman, but it would have to be a very battered one, possibly with a prior career as a lion-tamer. Unlike most of the werewolves she’d met so far in this world, he wasn’t sprouting random tufts of hair.

Irene stopped about six feet from him: further away would have been rude, but closer would have put her at too convenient a distance for a casual attack. She wondered what the proper etiquette was for visiting werewolves. She’d done vampires, Fae, dragons and even university students, but never werewolves.

‘So.’ Dawkins’ voice was a deep rolling bass. Probably the hint of a growl behind it was only natural. ‘Is Mr Vale sending his spies into our tunnels now?’

‘No,’ Irene said. ‘I’m here to reclaim property that was stolen from me. One of your people said it could be found in the throne room.’ She jerked her head to indicate the battered quartet near the door. ‘I hope this isn’t an inconvenience.’