Shrike (Book 2): Rampant (32 page)

Taog's hand clutches mine. "I should be out there with you, not stuck in here."

"Aye, well if it's danger you want, you've got it." I don't have to continue down that track for him to catch my train of thought.

"You think they might try to hit us here."

"I think Britannia will do anything they think will cause pain and chaos, just because they can." I tell him about the riot control police shooting socialists on Prince's Street, and then I know I need to go. The best way to keep him safe right now is to stop Britannia, and I can't do that here. And the longer I stay here in the quarantine area, the more likely someone will realise that the woman who spent Sunday here is the same one who's traipsed into the hospital in dark grey spandex and a mask. 

Taog seems to know I've got to leave. 

I remember our talk about how each time I left the flat, each of us wondered if it'd be the last time we saw each other. We should have treasured those moments. I don't want to say goodbye, but I don't know what else to say.

He knows. "Gwen."

I look at him and squeeze his hand again. "Aye?"

"I love you."

I remember my mum and da, and how I never got to tell them those three little words. How I should have told them more. Some mistakes I've had to learn over and over, but this one, I'll learn from now.

"I love you, Taog."

thirty-one

The next morning I wake up to a voice mail from the hospital. 

I steady my breath before listening to it, trying not to imagine the worst.

"This message is for Gwen Maule. One of our patients, Trevor McLean, is requesting that you visit him. Normally, we don't make calls like this, but as he's a bit of a special case, we told him we would ring you. He's in critical care, and it would mean a lot to him if you would visit."

That's all the message says, and it makes my heart crunch. Trevor. 

Gina, who has slept on our sofa again, lets me borrow her Fiat. She's elbow deep in news articles about the explosion and yesterday's shooting. Before I start the car, I ring my office and let them know that I've got to visit an injured friend in hospital and that I'll be a couple hours late. I only do this as an afterthought, and that fact chills me. If I'm not careful, I'll forget I have a job.

The nurses at ERI direct me to Trevor's room when I arrive, and from the looks of pity on their faces, word has already spread about who he is and how he came to be here. 

I find Trevor hooked up to every possible monitor and tube, his face almost completely bandaged, but his eyes open and as alert as anyone could expect someone in his condition to be. I can't believe he's awake, but he looks at me with relief when he sees me. 

I'm bloody sick of seeing people I care about in hospital, and even if Trevor and I have been a bit prat-like to one another in the past week or two, he's on my top five list of favourite people and seeing him here makes me angry.

"I'm glad you came," he says. His voice is a worse croak than Taog's. I can almost hear the ashes in it.

"I met your colleague, Miranda Heinlein," I tell him. "She put out the word about Church and Abbey."

Trevor closes his eyes and leans back. "She's a good person to have on your side."

The way he says it makes me think he's not going to be on my side anymore. "Trevor, you're going to be fine. You'll get back to work in no time."

He snorts, and it comes out like a cough mixed with a sneeze. "I'll never walk again, lass."

"Don't be daft. They have prosthetics these days, ye ken. It's the twenty first century. Before you know it, you'll be the bionic man."

He looks at me, and for a moment I'm not sure if he's going to laugh or cry, and I wonder if keeping my upper lip stiff was a good idea. But then he cracks a smile. "Aye, well, I reckon I have that to look forward to."

The quiet in the room is punctuated only by the beeping of his machines and the whir of their fans. 

"I'm sorry I didn't believe you about Britannia," Trevor says. The words seem to stick in his throat, and I can't tell if they're getting caught on pride or the ashes of last night.

"It's all right, Trevor. Don't worry your head about it."

"No, let me wallow in my stupidity. If I'd listened sooner, maybe we could have stopped this."

I know what he means by this, and it's not his leg. "We didn't figure out about Grant Church until last night. You couldn't have known."

My words don't sound convincing to me, but maybe that's because I've been trying to convince myself of the same sort of thing for months. 

"They sent in a bomb squad to look through the hospital," Trevor says suddenly.

"They told you that?"

"I made them do it. As soon as I woke up."

I pat his hand. "You're a good man, Charlie Brown."

"If my luck holds, and another bomb goes off, maybe I'll just lose the other leg." Trevor gives me an unexpected grin, but I see the pain behind it, and my hand patting turns mechanical. 

I swallow. "Let's just hope there are no more bombs."

I make it to work by ten o'clock, even after dropping off Gina's car at my flat. 

There are a crowd of people at the entrance to the office, and I edge by them, heading up to the fifth floor. I say hello to our receptionist and take a step toward my office.

"Gwen," he says. "Francis wants to see you." 

Our receptionist, Scott, is a nice lad just out of uni who is still studying to get a masters in business in the evenings. He's usually rather studious, but at the moment he's staring at me wide-eyed.

"All right," I say, confused at the look he's giving me. "Was there something wrong?"

He blinks, tossing his longish blond hair out of his face. "No, nothing."

I give him a suspicious nod and walk past him, bypassing my own office and heading to the suite at the end of the corridor where Francis stakes his claim on his the building. I knock politely, and after a moment, he calls me in.

He doesn't have his own assistant, and I've always liked that about him. He gets on just fine.

"Gwen!" When he sees me, he gives me the same wide-eyed look Scott did. Francis motions to the chair in front of his desk. "Do sit, do sit."

I sit. Six months ago, getting beckoned to my boss's office would have triggered my fight or flight reflexes.

On second thought, if that happened now I could choose between the two with equanimity.

Any equanimity evaporates the second I see what's on his desk.

It's the Scotsman, and there's a full page picture of me in Shrike costume emblazoned on the front page. That's not even the worst part. 

EDINBURGH'S OWN SUPERHERO IDENTIFIED

And right below it is my name in black and white, printed clear as the sun through a raindrop.

Gwenllian Maule is her name,
the article begins.

My eyes raise to Francis's, and I can't think of a single word to say.

I've been outed. I'm outed. Somebody sodding
outed
me.

I take a step backward, and Francis hops up from his chair. 

"Gwen, wait."

"I've got to go."

"Is it true?"

If I'd wanted to convince him it wasn't true, the smart thing would have been to burst out laughing at the headline. But I'm coming from a hospital where the man I love is penned up after being fed germs through his water cooler and one of my only real contacts in the police force has had his leg blown off by a terrorist planted inside the police precinct for years.

So aye, I didn't think of laughing it off.

My brain doesn't always work as fast as I need it to, and my slow backing away is confirming every printed ink letter on that front page. Well, probably. I haven't read all of them yet, and frankly, I haven't the time.

I force myself to make eye contact with Francis. In that moment, I'm both Shrike and Gwen, never mind the fact that my costume is in the briefcase slung over my shoulder. I could pull it out and show it to him, but I won't.

"It's true."

I turn to leave, letting my words hang there. 

"Gwen, wait," Francis says again. "Please."

I stop. My feet swivel back toward him. I'm not sure if I'm waiting for him to sack me or what.

"You're a fantastic worker, and we are lucky to have you here."

I wait for the but. When he doesn't continue, I raise an eyebrow at him. "Thank you?"

"I mean it. This is going to be an odd time if you're really Shrike. There might be some media attention." Some CEOs would be slavering on their bottom lines at the idea of that kind of publicity, but Francis doesn't look like that matters to him. "If you'd like to take a wee leave of absence — paid, of course — I'll give you two weeks. Wait until things die down. We'll manage here."

"Excuse me?" His words are such a sharp contrast to what I'm used to from de Fournay, even after months of working for Francis, that I find myself continuing to wait for another shoe to come dropping out of the sky. Or an avalanche of shoes.

"With the press outside—" Francis motions with one hand, and I remember the gaggle of people I walked right by who must have been waiting for me and didn't realise who I was, "—I thought you might want to give it some time. Call it our gift to you."

"Gift?" 

Francis gives me a blank stare. "You saved our city from a bomb."

Oh. That.

I swat at a water drop on my cheek. I can't be crying. I'm crying. He's made me cry. 

"I…appreciate all of that, Francis. I'd be honoured." I'm not sure honoured is the word I'm looking for, but he stops fidgeting and covers the distance between us in two long strides, reaching out to shake my hand.

I take his hand and shake it, and he smiles at me. 

"You're doing just fine, lass. We're grateful."

There are water drops on my blouse now.

Damn it.

thirty-two

Leaving work fills me with a dual sense of trepidation and relief. Part of me is glad to have a bit of a reprieve, but I wonder how I'm to get anything done if people know who I am. I make it through the corridors of my office with only a few stares from my staff and one wave so tentative I think he thinks I'm about to eat his hand off his wrist. I wave back, unnerved.

I have a sudden flashback to the tabloid topless photos of Kate Middleton snapped by some wanker paparazzo, and my heart almost stops in the lift to the lobby.

As fortunate as I was on my way in to not be recognised, I sincerely doubt I'll make it out the same way. I'm suddenly thankful I don't keep up with any social media and that I don't have an album of eight hundred photos of me with duck lips plastered about the internet for every blogger in Edinburgh to gleefully dissect.

Miraculously, no one does stop me. Now that I see the gaggle of people outside, I see a camera or two hanging around necks and duck off to the side before anyone even really looks at me. 

It's a strange added paranoia, walking around my city and wondering if someone will recognise my face.

I take back streets home, even though the distance is longer than I usually like to walk. It gives me time to think about what I'm going to do next.

I can't just leave Trevor and Taog in a death trap with a giant target right on the helo pad. And unless that pub in Aviemore is secretly Britannia's hideout, I haven't any idea where to start looking. The only member of Britannia I can locate is Rosamund Granger.

The thought stops me short, an idea germinating. I've thought of following Granger, but she's never gone to the Britannia hideout since I slapped her with the tracer. As if to prove it, her white pulsing dot is firmly stuck on the house in Falkirk when I check. 

But I could go talk to her. 

The concept is laughable in its simplicity. I've thought of her as a monster, so I've treated her as one. Unpredictable, irrational, evil.