Chapter Eighteen: The First Battle
Joel woke to shouts and tumbled off the couch. Were they under attack? He didn’t hear gunfire. The soldiers rushed away from the lounge, the wolves woke or ran in.
“What happened?”
“No idea,” the leader-wolf said. Will.
There was a minute of uncertainty in which everyone checked that the pistols they’d been given were loaded and ready. Everyone was on alert, watching the windows with more vigilance than they had over the last hour.
When Truman returned with Skylar and Mitchell, Joel asked. “What happened?”
“Someone killed Ianthe,” Truman said.
It wasn’t exactly a Look. They didn’t turn as one and stare. But there was an Inching. Everyone’s heads seemed to inch – almost imperceptibly – toward Paddington. Even his wife’s eyes flicked toward him for an instant.
“I thought we were keeping them alive,” said the young, dark-haired werewolf. He sounded put out that he hadn’t been allowed to kill her.
“We were,” Truman said. “Mitchell, guard Themis. No one goes in without me standing beside them. Everyone else, watch those entrances. This might be a surrender or it might be a trick.”
The people dispersed, except for Truman, who rubbed his eyes with his hand. “You’ll never find out, you know,” Joel said.
“What?”
“Who killed her. You want to speak to everyone, get alibis, right, but no one was watching each other. Half of us were asleep. And besides, if it was one of the werewolves, do you really think the others will hand him over?”
“That won’t stop me trying.”
“Maybe it should. Should you be putting your attention into uniting them against the vampires or sowing division and suspicion?” Joel ordered his thoughts and started again. “If you do this, just… don’t get your hopes up.”
Truman looked set to send Joel on his way when there was a knock at the front door. That didn’t seem like an attack strategy, but a number of guns aimed at it anyway.
Joel still had his gun in his hand, but he wasn’t sure why. Even the werewolves looked more proficient than he did. Truman stopped in front of the door, counted down from three fingers, and threw it open. Woe betide the vampire at the door if it said anything unlikeable.
Highly probable: the vampire at the door was Clarkson.
Instead of the Team’s black fatigues he wore a tailored dinner suit, but there was still something soldierly in his stance. Not predatory – not like a cat ready to pounce, as the Andrastes had been in the club – but ready. His body, angled to present the smallest possible target; his hands, held slightly away from his body, ready to snatch a weapon away. That said, Clarkson’s eyes said it would be a pretty massive annoyance for him to bother.
“They’re willing to trade,” Clarkson said. “Themis, alive, and Ianthe’s body for the Book of Three. Oh, and if you don’t go for the deal they’re going to start applying ‘liberal doses of malevolent lead’ to the house.”
“Nice to know that even in anger he’s eloquent,” Truman muttered. He weighed the decision for a moment, nostrils flaring, then said, “Fine. We accept.”
Clarkson turned around and gave someone a thumbs up. “They’ll be ready in five minutes.” Clarkson returned to the trees. Truman shut the door so fast it was almost a slam.
Joel didn’t follow him as he went back into the house; no point. Everyone would be coming here anyway: front row seats for the coming trade. A few others still lingered, including Paddington.
“They all think it was you, you know,” Joel said. He tried to sound neutral. Not judging. Not condemning. Just… letting him know so there wouldn’t be surprises later.
“Well, why would I have respect for life? After all, I am a demon who’s going to murder his brother.” He sounded bitter. Joel supposed he would have been too, if he was being judged without evidence and on things he hadn’t done yet.
“But you don’t even know who your brother is,” Joel said.
A hesitation. “Know? No. But I can guess. It’s you.”
Joel laughed. Then baulked. Then frowned for a while. “Wh… Me? What makes you think it’s me?”
“You only knew your father; I only knew my mother. We both became police officers. We both live in cities controlled by the Andrastes. We have similar coloured hair; same age. And in case you haven’t noticed, we share some personality traits.”
“Well, that’s…” Joel was going to say “ridiculous”, but actually it was pretty convincing. “We have our differences! Our facial structures and surnames, for a start. Or how about personalities? You’re successful: a wife, a career, a life. I don’t have that.”
Wow. That wasn’t meant to depress him.
Most of the others were returning, Mitchell dragging the vampire by her still-cuffed hands, so Paddington leaned in to avoid being heard. “A few years ago I didn’t have the girl, I was working for my mum, and I had no social life.”
Joel found that hard to believe. Conversations stopped when Paddington entered rooms. He commanded attention. Something about him was… different. Special. Dangerous? Joel didn’t have any of that. Was he supposed to believe Paddington had ever lacked it? By comparison, it wasn’t nearly as hard to believe that Paddington might be his brother. They were cut from the same cloth, as his dad would have said…
Their dad, he supposed.
Now that was a thought.
“Quiet,” Truman said to hush the clumps of conversation breaking out around the room. “Paddington, make the trade. Everyone else stay inside; this could all be a trap. We have,” he checked his watch, “three minutes left. Mitchell: if they attack, I want your best guess where it will be from and how we retaliate. Skylar: you’re on prisoner watch. McGregor: keep the door covered.”
The Team dispersed: Mitchell to near the window, Skylar to the prisoner by the wall, McGregor out of the door. He returned a moment later with an assault rifle. It looked bigger in his hands than it did in the other soldiers’, and more awkward, until his fingers flew over the instrument – ejecting the magazine, checking it, slapping it back in place, readying or disengaging the safety, adjusting the scope.
“What about us?” asked Will.
“Spread out around the house; make sure they can’t sneak in behind us.”
More people dispersed. They seemed to be doing that a lot of late. And, once again, Joel had been given no instructions.
“And me?” he asked Truman.
“Stay inside.”
“I’m not useless, you know. You can give me a job to do.”
Truman glanced at Paddington over by the door
“He told me,” Joel said, “if that’s what this is about.”
Truman nodded like he’d expected this, but still wasn’t pleased about it. “Then you understand that because the Andrastes want that prophecy fulfilled, they want you dead. Which means your job is to stay safe. As long as you’re alive, we’re thwarting the Andrastes. But if you die because of something Paddington does, they win.”
“Stay alive. I can do that. I have years of practice at it.” Not in a warzone, admittedly.
Truman smiled. “Good man.” Then he left to do something else, so Joel returned to the window and drew the curtain aside. He supposed he shouldn’t; he was giving the Andrastes a clear shot. But they didn’t fire. Were they respecting the truce or did they need him alive for their prophecy?
Did they need Paddington to pull the trigger?