The Book Eaters(35)
This whole situation was so typical of Devon. Even when they were children, she would charge ahead into the woods, into ravines, over cliff edges and up sheer walls, never thinking of what awaited. Never giving thought to whether a tree branch might snap beneath her feet, whether gutters and pipes—not made for climbing—could hold her weight, or just whether whatever-the-fuck-she was-doing was a good idea, full stop. She didn’t bloody think.
And it had always fallen to him, this job of chasing her down, of bailing her out or rescuing her sorry arse when she got into trouble. She would have disagreed with his assessment and spun her selfishness as a choice on his part. So, stay at home, then. Would have argued that she’d never forced him to participate in their escapades. I never asked you to come with me, dummy. But she thought that way because she lacked responsibility and insight.
Ramsey lacked neither. It was the responsibility of men to rescue women from themselves, and men of the Families did not shy from duty. Duty bade he run after her.
He just wished she didn’t run quite so fast.
Shops, faces, and peeling-paint walls flew by as he bounded and sprinted in her footsteps. He stormed through it all, aggrieved by the chaos and sloppiness.
Wasn’t all Devon’s fault, if he were being honest. In fact, his commander—Kingsey—bore the lion’s share of the blame. If Ramsey had been in charge, they’d have hung back, followed at a distance. They should have tried to find out why Devon was traveling with a Ravenscar, and where she was going, rather than leaping to accost the woman.
But Kingsey hadn’t been around to lead the men himself, nor had he left any specific instructions other than intercept any Ravenscars you find even though that was clearly a stupid course of action. The only Ravenscar who knew anything worthwhile was Killock himself, and capturing one of his useless siblings would only have risked scaring the bugger off.
Too late now. The most senior knights had panicked, acted reflexively to follow Kingsey’s tentative orders, and got shot for their trouble. Now their quarry was spooked, the humans had noticed them, disaster and mess everywhere. They’d be lucky if Killock didn’t go into hiding after this.
Ahead, Ramsey caught a glimpse of Devon’s tall form as she flung herself and her two companions aboard the 10:15; saw, as he forced his legs to pump a faster speed, how the doors to their carriage slammed shut. Engine beginning to gather momentum.
Helluva jump, from here to the train. He went for it anyway; was out of options, otherwise. Carriages pulled away from the station and he leaped in a great, muscle-tearing bound. Fifteen feet near enough and it worked.
He landed, hands clamping on to the external handrails that bracketed the doors. Feet scrabbling for purchase on the hanging step, sweat breaking out across his skin.
The 10:15 to Edinburgh departed from Newcastle Station into the darkness of a Northumbrian winter night, gathering to a pace that even a knight would have found impossible to match. ’Eaters were fast, but not that fast.
A few seconds to breathe while his heart slowed to a reasonable beat. Feet braced firm, Ramsey wrenched the doors partway open. Half squeezed, half stumbled inside, panting from exertion. Relieved to have salvaged something from this mess.
The last carriage was not meant for passengers. A staff-only compartment with machinery, lockers, and a broken snacks trolley. The one occupant—a lone middle-aged ticket collector—shot to his feet, pale with shock. Humans always had a kind of nervous energy that reminded Ramsey of chickens.
The ticket collector fluttered at him. “Sir! Passengers are not supposed—”
Ramsey swung a hard punch to the temples.
The man dropped.
“Nothing personal, mate.” He bent over the unconscious figure and scavenged himself a new identity.
Knight, begone. Ramsey shed his appearance as a snake sheds its skin, tossing aside his own clothes to don the conductor’s kit. A black uniform jacket, buttons intricately rough. Didn’t fit well, though. He was both leaner and broader than the man whose clothes he’d taken. Fabric pulled tight across his back. Seams pinched his shoulders.
Small considerations. He pushed them aside, kept dressing. The transmitter under his shirt pressed its hard edges against his ribs as he changed. His secret weapon against Dev, for keeping her in check. He patted it fondly.
Flat cap next, pulled low across the forehead. Changed the shape of his face. He liked that. The jaunty angle made him look harmless. The trousers and shoes he left alone. His own dark slacks and leather brogues would do.
The ticket machine came last, slung over one shoulder. The heavy metal weight of it felt good. Could pretend he had a gun, like lads in films. Like that Ravenscar bitch.
A red scarf hung from a peg. He plucked that off, wound it around his neck. It hid his mouth, made him look stockier. Hopefully enough that Hester wouldn’t recognize him, if she saw him again.
Disguise complete, he hoisted the semi-naked ticket collector under the armpits and tossed the man, still unconscious, through the half-open carriage exit.
The soft body tumbled and rolled, soon out of sight along the disappearing length of track. Perhaps the man had survived, or perhaps not. It didn’t matter. What did matter is that he would not wake up on the train at an inconvenient time and cause problems.
Ramsey checked for the emergency hunting knife strapped to the inside of his leg, and relocated it—still sheathed, of course—to an inside jacket pocket.