The Fandom(92)

‘Sorry.’ I wipe my mouth with my sleeve and pass him the bottle.

Ash climbs into the Humvee and runs his fingers over the controls. ‘I’ve no idea how to drive.’

‘You didn’t know how to shoot a gun, but you managed that pretty well,’ I say.

Ash grins. ‘I missed. I was aiming for his balls.’ He flicks a switch and the headlights strike the alley wall, reminiscent of the helicopter searchlights.

We made it out of the sewers in record time thanks to the skipping rhyme; there should be plenty of time to get Katie and make sure they all reach No-man’s-land safely. So long as the canon keeps true to form, haunting us, pushing us down the right path.

Nate inspects the front of the car, his smile wide. ‘Still not the DeLorean, but it will do.’ He steps back into the alley to survey the vehicle as a whole. And the way the headlights fall on him – illuminating his skin, turning his hair to gold – lends him the appearance of some heavenly spirit. Something draws his attention, something in the alley hidden from my sight. Fright darkens the taupe of his eyes. The water bottle slips to the ground.

I hear his words, ridged with panic. ‘They’re here.’

I see the shadows first, three beasts reaching up the alley wall, a collection of frenzied spikes beneath the yellow glare of the headlights. I dash to Nate, thrusting his body behind mine. Only now do I see the eyes of the squaddies, shadowy beneath their helmets. Guns aimed at our heads. There were no soldiers at the bolthole in canon. How did they know where to find us? It can’t be a coincidence.

They drag Ash from the Humvee, twisting his arms behind his back, wrenching the pistol from his grasp. It skids across the ground, landing in a nearby gutter. I can hear the throb of a helicopter landing at the far end of the alley, stirring up the dust and the hairs on my neck.

Ash bashes into me, whirling from the force of a guard’s hands. I quickly do the sums. Three squaddies – heavily armoured, covered in weaponry, tall, broad and trained. Three Imps – all unarmed. Fear prevents me from crying, but I can still feel the tears forming in my lower lids.

‘On the floor or we shoot,’ a squaddie shouts.

We kneel, our movements disjointed, the lights of the Humvee burning our eyes.

A man runs from the chopper, initially no more than an outline, but he gains colour and form as he nears. He looks different from the squaddies. Something about the way he moves is more upright, more formal, and beneath his body armour he wears a pinstripe suit. He approaches me and a familiar leer twists his handsome face. Blond curls corkscrew from beneath his helmet. Howard Stoneback. It definitely isn’t a coincidence; Howard’s been gunning for me since the raid at the Meat House, and it looks like someone’s told him where to find me.

He stands over me. ‘There she is, the little bitch who drugged us.’

‘What shall we do with them, Mr Stoneback?’ a squaddie asks.

Howard takes his time, looking us up and down, prolonging the torture. Then, he leans in and strokes my cheek with a cold, dry finger. I feel like I’m standing back in that display room, zip clutched between my trembling fingers.

He straightens up. ‘I want to see this pretty thing spinning on a rope on prime time. I’ve just spoken with the President, and he’s reserved a special place for her at tomorrow’s Gallows Dance.’

This could work to my advantage. I’d hoped to see Nate, Ash and Katie safely to No-man’s-land before my capture, but I’m learning fast that things don’t always go to plan.

He pulls a pistol from a holster. I can see every line, every hair, on his hands, cast in the glare of the headlights, but his features become no more than a hotchpotch of shadows. His gun glints as his fingers lace around the trigger. ‘But I only need the whore.’ He looks at me. ‘Next time you piss someone off, make sure they aren’t related to the President.’

The cold water nips at the base of my gullet, threatening to climb higher. I push it down and find my voice. ‘Arrest me. But please, let the others go.’

He laughs. ‘An Imp issuing orders – interesting.’ He leans in close again. I can feel his breath against my cheek, hot and peppered with spit. ‘Do these Imps matter to you?’

I nod.

‘How sweet.’ He smirks and lifts the nose of his gun. ‘An important lesson in life: Imps don’t matter.’

I watch his finger compress the trigger. The noise rips through my head and bounces off the alley walls as though God himself is screaming. For a moment, I think I’ve been shot. I brace myself for the pain, glance downwards, awaiting the stain of crimson spreading across my stomach.

But I feel no pain, see no crimson.

I see only Nate – rasping, spluttering, clamping his hands to his abdomen.

A red patch spreads across his overalls.

I reach for him, but my fingers swipe only air as he topples to the side. The squaddies shove me into the ground and I watch as Nate’s blood colours the concrete, moving towards me like black, syrupy water.

My hearing goes woozy. I can just pick out Ash’s cries, travelling through a film of shock. ‘You bastards. I’ll kill you, you bastards.’ I see his face, mid-scream, splattered with Nate’s blood. The squaddies knock him to the paving with steel batons. I watch the steel shafts curving through the air, almost gold in the yellow lights of the Humvee. My gaze shifts to Nate’s body, slumped and bleeding. And something solidifies inside me. A singular Russian doll forged from anger and righteousness, a doll which belongs solely to the Imps. Its lacquered shell grows hard and strong, encasing me with a sense of purpose.