The Book Eaters(48)
“She’s a princess.”
He shot her a quizzical look, one eyebrow raised. “Er … kind of? If you take a really loose definition of the word. Lara is aristocratic gentry, I suppose, which is pretty similar.”
Devon barely heard him. She could only look at the choppy, blue-shirted woman on the screen: a princess who rejected her castle in favor of adventures and muddy boots. Who went treasure-hunting with a gun strapped to her thigh and fought bad guys.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Why can’t I be a Lara Croft kind of princess? Why am I like … this?” The controller sat heavy like a misshapen stone. Her eyes grew hot from a toxic potion of beer and mixed emotions, too many for her to process or name even with the help of a dictionary in her brain.
Jarrow tugged at a curl. “I—”
The door banged open, making both of them jump. Matley Easterbrook walked in, to the sight of Devon sitting startled and drunk; and Jarrow next to her, jacketless and guilty.
“I’ve been scouring the house!” Matley said, jabbing a finger. “Have you both been here the whole time?”
“It’s my bad,” Jarrow said quickly. “I asked if she wanted to try a gaming console—”
“For two hours? You had one task, to take her down the hall!”
“The fault is mine,” Devon cut in. “We don’t have games in Fairweather Manor. My Family is a little old-fashioned about human tech. I was just curious.”
Matley shifted his gaze. “Your uncle’s having a fit, girl. He thought you’d done a runner. Again. Since apparently you have a history of that kind of thing. But here you are, hiding away with my little brother.” He sniggered, so juvenile for a grown man of his age. “Any other bloke, and I’d be questioning your fidelity.”
Devon blinked, confused; Jarrow had gone beet red. The context was missing but Matley was either mocking her, or Jarrow, or both.
“Anyway, you’re here and not gone walkabout.” He crooked a finger, as if she were a dog. “On your feet, love. The night’s only getting older.”
A buzzing filled her ears and her peripheral vision seemed to fall away; she could only see Matley, framed by long, hard lines and too much light. There would be no drink or drugs to mask this encounter, those small kindnesses Luton had carelessly offered. Her newest husband would be a thing to endure, not experience.
Devon stood up, swept with sudden nausea. “Catch you later,” she said over her shoulder, and strode from the games room at Matley’s side, held upright by the laces of her dress.
Jarrow gave a tight nod from his place on the couch, ensconced in silence and staring at the controller in his lap.
ACT 3
WITCHING HOUR
15
RAMSEY AND THE MOUNTAIN OF LIGHT!
PRESENT DAY
There’s a point, you know, where treachery is so complete and unashamed that it becomes statesmanship.
—George MacDonald Fraser, Flashman and the Mountain of Light
Ramsey had found the emergency stop easily enough and cut the wiring that controlled the lights. Most were out, the rest on the blink. The 10:15 to Edinburgh became a long stretch of dark, unmoving carriages.
He darted down the aisles, blade in hand and perfectly comfortable in the shadows that obscured human vision. A slice, a nick, a few close shaves. Screams and shrieks. A couple dozen humans bleeding lightly, badly frightened. The ensuing stampede was pure delight.
He’d discovered as a young man that humans, and indeed many ’eaters, had a propensity to take the known for granted. To believe that events or experiences would continuously remain predictable. Ramsey had learned to abuse this assumption. When he broke their expectations spectacularly, it was easy to seize control.
Like tonight, for example. A practical and reasonable thinker would pinpoint that a single man with a knife was hardly a threat to an entire carriage, let alone a whole train. If they tackled him en masse, he’d be done for, even with superior ’eater strength. But by acting unexpectedly, he had upended their faith in events remaining logical.
Rationality always went up in smoke at that stage.
A peek through the window. Devon loping off into the fields, Hester and Cai at her side. Job done, then, no need for excess violence. Better make himself scarce before the “chickens” grew courage. They did outnumber him significantly, even if they had forgotten that.
Ramsey backtracked toward the nearest exit, partially retracing Devon’s footsteps. Pushed through screamers and criers. Revolting cowardice, he thought.
Outside, finally. Some humans out here but not as many. Not so packed in. The air was refreshing and crisp; a break from the meaty smell of crowds. He took a good lungful. Stashed the knife back in its leg holster. Felt good there. Carrying a short blade was gentlemanly.
Something caught his eye, strewn on the trampled ground. Ramsey walked over, nudged it with his foot. A purse. One he recognized; Hester Ravenscar had been carrying something similar. Could be hers.
Expensive leather rubbed slick and dry beneath his hands as he picked it up. Rifled through it gently. Cold metal; aha. He withdrew the pistol, stared at it. A five-shooter. It’d been reloaded. Who kept a gun in their purse? Someone who wanted to conceal it not on their body. Who would leave it behind? Someone in a hurry.