No Hero (31 page)

“Look,” I say. “I’m trying to help you all. Just let me know what actually helps. Talk to me. Tell me about Ephie, about Ophelia. Tell me something so I can help them.”

The princess takes a slow step forward. Skull-face takes a quick one, then another. He waves her back as he stalks toward me. “Not your business,” he says, his voice dry and cracked. “Our business. Never should have been asked. Failed anyway.”

I look down at my feet. I need to be calm and collected. I need to not think about Ophelia in the hands of the Progeny. I need to not think about how that Progeny used to be my friend. I need to be calm.

“Maybe,” I say, still not meeting his eye, “I wouldn’t have failed, if I’d had a little more information.” My voice is still low, but my tone might be a little less than civil.

Nothing from skull-face.

“I mean,” I say, which is probably a mistake, probably I should calm down and appeal to the princess, but fear and frustration have control of my tongue for a moment, “you must have known that I couldn’t really protect anyone without knowing anything. You must have known how helpless I was. And you must—” I don’t know if this is true, but it suddenly feels true “—you must have known about Clyde. I mean, why would you not tell me that? If I’d known that then surely, I mean...” I blink at the enormity that change would have brought. Surely they knew. They hold reality together. How could they not?

But skull-face just turns his back on me.

And I forget myself, and grab his shoulder, saying, “Please.”

Bad move, Arthur. Very bad move.

Skull-face turns, sneers at me.

There is a crippling pain in my shoulders, my arms twist unnaturally, my bones become putty, the limbs twisting in looping curves. Then my bones harden again. I stare at my looping, useless arms. Like an uncoiled slinky. I can feel the muscles, triceps, biceps, whatever the hell else is in there, twisted to the limit of breaking, beyond the limit. I drop to one knee, bellowing.

“Hush.” Skull-face places a finger against my lips.

And then I do lose my temper. Finally. Utterly. Then I tap into whatever dark seam of energy fuels Tabitha. And fuck this guy. Fuck him to hell.

“You know,” I manage, “I am getting sick of people telling me that.”

And I nut him hard in the crotch.

He goes down hard, doubling over with a whoosh of pain. My arms spring back and for a moment all I can do is reel with him, the whiplash of reality returning. But I’m the one who recovers first and my fist catches him square in the sternum even as he tries to stand up, hands still buried between his legs.

He sits down hard. I grab him by the throat.

“Now,” I say. “Enough bullshit and avoidance. Ophelia, Ephemera. The kids. Tell me something that’s actually bloody useful.”

Someone catches my arm and I flinch away. I look up and see the princess.

“Hush,” she says.

“Don’t you bloody start.” But already the anger is leaking out of me. I look down at skull-face, still with his hands between his thighs, and I feel like an arse. That’s not how to get results.

“Calm,” the princess says. “I meant calm.” She speaks hesitantly, the slight hint of an accent that I can’t place.

She catches my arm again, pulls me away as skull-face slowly drags himself to his feet, a look on his face that acid might have etched.

“I’m calm,” I say. I try on a smile. But it’s a little early for that. A grimace comes out instead. I can still feel skull-face’s eyes moving over my back, charting exciting places to damage me.

“It is hard for him,” she says.

“For all of you, surely,” I say. I try to accept the olive branch she’s offering.

“For him, especially.”

“Why?”

“I have told you,” she says. “She is not what you think she is.”

Round and round we go.

“Who?” I don’t even bother hiding the exasperation.

“Ophelia.”

She says it as if it’s obvious, as if only someone with severe head trauma couldn’t see it.

Ophelia.

Ophelia.

Ophelia isn’t what I think.

What do I think she is? Some poor messed up little girl caught in the middle of some ungodly mess. But she’s not.

“She’s Progeny?” I ask, bewildered. Because how could Ephie have not known? Unless Ephie is Progeny too? But then... how does it work with Clyde? Is he still—

“No.” The princess cuts off the stream of questions in my head. There’s even something like a smile on her face. But sadness too. You’d think having control of all reality would cheer you up a bit.

“Her mother,” she says. “Her mother was Progeny.”

Another mental contortion as I try to wrap my head around that one.

“Infected,” I say. “Someone infected by a Progeny.” I so totally do not want to imagine alien mind worm love.

“Yes,” she says.

“It’s inheritable?” Do the Progeny get into the DNA somehow? Mix their eggs with ours?

“No,” says the princess. “Nothing from her mother’s side. Just human on her mother’s side.”

Which leaves...

“Who’s her father?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer at first, but I follow her eyes. And the words echo in my head.
“It is hard for him.”

“Skull-face?” I ask incredulously. It only occurs to me after I’ve said it that that’s probably not what she calls him. Then, as my brain does more work, “Ophelia is a Dreamer?”

“She will be.” The princess nods slightly, looking pained. “When her time comes. When the blood comes on her.”

Blood. Blood in the water.

Menstruation. Puberty.

I don’t know how to tell them. How to tell them it’s too late. I’m not even sure if I can admit it to myself.

She’s not who I think she is... A prophetic girl spending her whole life in a swimming pool full of octopuses and squid, and I thought she was human. What sort of fool am I?

“How?” I ask, because it’s the easiest question to ask. It’s the question I don’t need answering.

The princess’s hand comes out again. She doesn’t touch my arm this time, but my cheek.

The room vanishes. A feeling like vertigo. I’m suddenly nauseous. And then my body is not my own. There’s something in my head that is not my own. A terrible need, a terrible desire. A feeling like power and hatred.

And there’s a woman too. Oh my God is there a woman. All curves and softness exactly where you would want it. My head is lost in her blond hair. She’s naked. I’m naked. Our bodies together. Thrusting. And there is pleasure, such pleasure, in the tight embrace of flesh, but it is a pleasure in taking something, the kleptomaniac’s joy in theft. This is something forbidden, something terrible.

The woman arches her back, throws her head back. Bright red lips. Large green eyes, pupils throbbing and wide, the slight upward curve of a petite nose. The exhalation of her breath. And in that cresting moment I recognize her. The part of me that is still me in this strange emaciated body recognizes her. I’ve seen her before.

Then something that is not quite here—something that is touching
my
body, not this new one—is removed. A hand abruptly removed from my cheek. And then—

I come to lying on my back. Shaw is bent over me, a look of concern on her face. Her hand is reached out toward my face, as if to replace the one the Dreamer removed.

“Back?” she asks.

My tongue doesn’t feel like working. I cough and try to bring my systems back online.

Shaw turns away. “He’s OK, Ephie,” she says.

Sorry Ephie, I want to say. The last thing she needs is more scaring. Instead I just splutter at her.

“Robert,” I croak when I finally get things going.

“Who?”

“The budget man,” I say. “Didn’t want to pay for Peru.”

Shaw looks confused. “What about him?”

“There’s a woman,” I say. “She... works with him? For him? His boss? Pretty. Very pretty.” A frown creases Shaw’s brow. “In a magazine sort of way.” I don’t know why I feel compelled to say that.

“Yes,” Shaw says, perhaps a little too fast. “I know her. His assistant.” She purses her lips with something approaching disdain.

“Progeny,” I say.

Shaw’s eyes go wide. “What?”

“Progeny,” I say, “and—” Then I see Ephie staring at us. Ephie. Ophelia’s sister. Twin sister. And that should have been obvious. I shake my head. “Not here,” I say

“What?” Ephie says immediately.

“Nothing.”

“What aren’t you telling me?” Ephie’s voice is shrill, almost a scream. I half expect Kayla to swoop down out of somewhere and threaten to stab me for upsetting the girl. But Kayla isn’t here. She’s out hunting monsters. Trying to protect her other charge.

I pull myself up off the ground. “Not here,” I say to Shaw again, backing away fast.

“Tell me!” Ephie is furious now, splashing the water. The squid and octopuses swirl around her, thick tendrils of ink stretching out through the water. I press the elevator button. Shaw stands between the two of us looking torn. The elevator door pings open. Shaw follows me. Behind us, Ephie shrieks.

“What’s going on?” Shaw asks. “What happened? And are you serious that the airhead with more inches on her chest than IQ points is infected?”

“They showed me,” I say. “The Dreamers. She’s Progeny and she’s the Twins’ mother.”

The expression of confusion, of horror, on Shaw’s face gives me a good idea of how I must have looked pretty much since I joined MI37. I pat her arm. It’s awkward.

“No wonder Robert is so happy to back our closure if it makes his little whore happy.” The depth of Shaw’s bitterness catches me by surprise.

“There’s more,” I say.

“Of course there bloody is.” Shaw shakes her head.

“A Dreamer is their father. And that, unlike infection, is apparently inheritable.”

“You’re saying—” she starts then stops. I don’t think she really wants to know what I’m saying.

“Ophelia became a Dreamer when she hit puberty.”

Shaw’s eyes are as wide as saucers. Then she closes them. “Blood,” she says. “Kayla was screaming about blood in the water.”

“The Progeny have themselves a Dreamer,” I say. And there it is out in the open, a statement to sum up how completely screwed we all are.

“The Dreamers knew,” Shaw says slowly. “They’ve always known.”

And it makes sense. It’s all starting to make horrible sense. “They wanted me to keep her safe,” I say. “To stop her from falling into the Progeny’s hands. To stop her from being... being...” I can’t say it.

“Infected.” Shaw fills in the blank. “God, no wonder they got away from you fast as they could when Clyde brought them onto our version of reality. They knew he was infected.”

“Shit,” I say. “Oh shit and balls.”

“She can...” I try to think through the possibilities. “Can she bring the Feeder through?”

Shaw thinks about it, one palm pressed to her brow.

“No,” she says. “I don’t think so. The other Dreamers would fight the addition of a new reality. The Progeny will have infected her, but I don’t know if one Dreamer could overcome the will of all the others.”

Which is good for us. But... But... “What if the Progeny have another way to bring one in? A spell or something? Can she stop them from evicting a Feeder from reality?”

Shaw chews a lip. “Maybe. Maybe yes. Hold them at a standstill.”

“You think the Progeny have a spell to bring the Feeders through?”

Shaw doesn’t answer. Doesn’t look at me. The elevator pings. The doors slide open. A corridor stretches out before us, seemingly without end. Just door, after door, after door. None of them offer an exit. Just empty dead-end rooms. Shaw stares off into space. I stand there next to her frozen just as still. The doors slide closed. Slide open again.

Shaw jerks to life. “Call Kayla,” she says. “Get her back here. Then find that Progeny bitch and find out where they have Ophelia by any means you see fit to use.”

I nod. “Sounds reasonable.”

Shaw takes a step toward the exit of the elevator, then pauses. “Oh, and Arthur?” she says.

“Yes?” I try to read her expression.

“I think it’s about time you were issued a gun.”

In my mind’s eye I can see Kurt Russell standing behind Shaw. I can see him nodding and smiling that lopsided grin.

“Yes,” I say. “Yes, maybe it is.”

Despite the unaccustomed new weight of the gun sitting beneath my jacket, tracking down the Progeny feels reassuringly familiar. It’s nice to be doing something where I feel I have some actual experience. I’ve tracked down a fair number of lawbreakers across Oxford, and while today’s lawbreaker may be a disgusting space worm hiding in someone’s head, the principles seem to be the same. Known address first, then place of work, then regular hangouts that you’ve found out from co-workers, family members, friends. There’s a process. Process is comforting.

I raise my hand to knock on the mailbox-red door of 11 Chapel Street, registered address of Madeline Ellman, assistant to budget director Robert Felkin. Before I can bring the fist down, Kayla kicks the door off its hinges.

It flies back across the small hallway and cracks in two as it hits the wall.

She sees my look and shrugs.

“Not complaining,” I say. Though it’s definitely a breach in standard police procedure.

“Better feckin’ not be.”

And it’s not a joke the way she says it, but it’s not quite as definite a threat either. We’re not friends, but I think neither of us is as convinced we’re enemies.

There’s a door off the hallway and a staircase leading up. Kayla kicks the next door off its hinges too.

“I’ll take upstairs,” I say.

“Whatever.”

I hear her methodically crashing through each room downstairs as I make my way up. I’ve got the gun out, and I’m holding it in both hands, feeling the surprising weight of the thing.

And whatever felt comfortably police-like a moment ago is gone now. The gun, freed from its shoulder holster, changes that. This is not police work. And it’s only been two weeks... a week, but I’m not a good British bobby anymore. I’m Agent Wallace. Kurt Russell wannabe. Inaction hero.

I have to admit, I was kind of hoping for a revolver really A big old Clint Eastwood job, all barrel and cylinders. And a hip holster. Instead it’s a sleek black semi-automatic that sits in the shoulder holster. Still, beggars can’t exactly be choosers. And with Kayla downstairs, it’s nice to have firepower all of my own. All I have to do now is to work out how to hit something smaller than the side of a barn.