Stranger (40 page)

Names and faces quickly flew by Gemma as Catullus introduced them to her. She met so many, she could barely keep track: Thalia’s father, as well as a man from Peking, a Blade from Constantinople, another from Brazil. She shook so many hands, she felt like a bride on the receiving line.

Bride? She cast a quick look at Catullus, then glanced away as her face heated. No—she couldn’t think of that now.

Samuel Reed asked, “What happened to Bracebridge? That damned magic of his cost us.” Starkly, he added, “We lost Mark Brown and Stephen Pryor. Isabel Rivera’s hurt badly, but Philippe Chazal is seeing to her.”

The names themselves had no meaning to Gemma, but she couldn’t help but be moved and saddened by this news. Fallen and injured Blades. Whoever those people were or had been, it was clear from the pain flashing on Catullus’s face that they had been his friends.

“What’s Arthur’s progress toward London?” Catullus asked, grim.

“Nathan Lesperance has been scouting for us,” said Cassandra Reed. “From him, we know Arthur’s almost to West Brompton. It’s our hope to intercept him in Chelsea before he reaches the Heirs’ headquarters in Mayfair.”

“Civilian casualties?”

“Thank God people have been fleeing ahead of him,” Thalia answered. “But several suburbs have been flattened, homes destroyed. Once King Arthur gets farther into the city …” She shuddered.

A screech above made everyone look up. Wings flapped overhead. Astrid, now dressed in comfortable trousers and boots and armed with pistols and a rifle, jogged out of the mist. She held out her arm, and a familiar red-tailed hawk alit upon her offered perch. Seeing Catullus and Gemma, she, too, gave a brief smile of welcome, but the pleasure in reunion was quickly lost beneath the growing threat.

“Where’s Merlin?” she demanded without preamble.

Briefly as they could, both Gemma and Catullus told of their journey through Otherworld. Neither decided to mention their interlude in the cottage—some things were better left unsaid.

“So, Merlin isn’t coming,” said Gabriel Huntley.

“No,” replied Catullus, “and perhaps that’s for the best. We cannot rely on anyone or anything so unstable. Not with the stakes so high. Yet he did entrust us with this.” From his satchel, he produced the silver wheel, and everyone pressed closer to get a glimpse of this peculiar artifact.

Sunlight pierced the fog. The wheel gleamed, the eye of a distant god, yet held in the palm of Catullus’s hand.

“Arthur will hear us with this,” Catullus said. “If we cannot make him an ally, at the least, he won’t be a threat.

I hope.”

A murmur of troubled agreement rippled through the Blades. That was all any of them had: hope. Nothing was certain. Blades had already fallen. More would be lost before the sun set. Gemma looked at their faces, each in turn, too many to count, yet too few. Who amongst them would see the next dawn? The thought pierced her heart.

“Catullus,” Astrid said, quirking an eyebrow, “if I’m not mistaken, we’re going to war, not a fancy dress party.”
She glanced pointedly at the chivalric clothes he and Gemma wore.

“Catullus Graves doesn’t
follow
trends,” Gemma answered before he could, tipping up her chin in defiance. “He
makes
them.”

His gaze met hers. She felt humbled and triumphant at what she saw there, in those dark depths: his pride in her, and love. Without reservation, love.

Astrid glanced back and forth between them. Slowly, she nodded, as if confirming a fundamental truth, yet happily surprised at its revelation. Catullus had changed within the span of a few days. But it was a change that made him, if possible, even stronger.

“Does that mean I get my own broadsword?” asked Gabriel Huntley. His rough-hewn soldier’s features softened as he anticipated this possibility with the eagerness of a boy.

His wife rolled her eyes, but smiled fondly.

“If we make it through the next twelve hours,” Catullus replied. “I’ll forge swords for anybody who wants one. For now, we have to reach Arthur before he gets to the Primal Source.”

Agreement, all around. A heavy silence fell in smothering waves. The upcoming battle would be the culmination of decades, centuries of warfare. Maybe they would all survive. Maybe none of them would. Gemma saw this understanding in each and every Blade as they clustered together in the middle of the charming, indifferent Kew Gardens. Those Blades that were married, or had lovers, reached out wordlessly to take their beloveds’ hands.

Catullus sought and found Gemma’s hand. They wove their fingers together, holding tightly.

“Before we head out,” Catullus said, “does anyone have something to eat?”

Between the fifty or so Blades massed in Kew Gardens, a meal was put together for Gemma and Catullus. It consisted of slightly stale bread, a few bits of cheese, four apples, cold fried potatoes wrapped in paper, a flagon of ale, two sausages, and a partially eaten sweet biscuit.

“I didn’t know the biscuit had currants in it,” a Blade named Paul Street explained sheepishly. “I don’t like currants.”

As the assembled Blades readied themselves and their gear for their push east into the city, Catullus and Gemma sat at a picnic bench and ate. It didn’t matter that most of the food tasted like it had been stored in a shoe closet. They were both ravenous, and ate with no attempt at manners.

Gemma, gnawing on a heel of bread, realized that this might be her last meal. The dry bread stuck in her throat, and she coughed.

Catullus patted her gently on the back. He offered her the ale, which she gratefully took. He resumed attacking a leathery apple.

After she drank, she found her appetite suddenly diminished. She turned the flagon around and around, thinking, mulling, her mind and heart and pulse all clamoring inside her.

“What’s it like,” she asked, “for mixed-race couples? In England?”

His chewing stopped. Started up again. Then he swallowed hard before throwing the apple aside. Almost conversationally, he said, “It isn’t illegal for them to marry, if that’s what you are asking.”

“So, there are many of them?”

“Mixed couples aren’t common, but not so uncommon as to provoke criticism. Not a
lot
of criticism, anyway. There are small-minded fools everywhere.” He picked at the weathered wood of the tabletop, while his eyes remained focused on the Blades milling on the lawn. “My grandmother,
on my father’s side, is white. And my uncle on my mother’s side married a white woman.”

She started. “I didn’t know that.”

He shrugged, inured to his own history. “The number of black men to black women in England has always been disproportionate. A consequence of slavery and migration.”

Gemma, too, kept her gaze on the activity in front of her, watching the men and women of the Blades prepare themselves for battle. She felt time slipping from her like ashes.

“But those couples … those marriages …” Her throat tightened. “They find ways to be together. To be together and … happy.”

“It isn’t always pleasant,” he said, slowly, “but, yes, they find ways. If it is truly what they want.” He turned to her, and she felt him—his presence, his gaze, desire, masculinity, and quality of mind that made him all exactly who he was, who she needed. “This isn’t a journalist’s curiosity that makes you ask.” His words were a statement, but held a slight undercurrent of wariness, as if afraid to hope for too much.

She was afraid, too. So much could be lost, and soon after it had been gained, too. Which would make the loss even harder to take. “Not a reporter’s curiosity. Ever since Mab’s Cauldron, I’ve been pulling it apart, racking my brains. Trying to figure it out. To figure
us
out.” She abandoned her pretext of watching the Blades, and faced him. Words started tumbling from her as if trying to form and be heard before they could fly away. “And I knew it would be thorny, as long as the world was … the way it was. But I didn’t care what anyone said or did. So long as I was with you. And what you just said about what it’s like here, in England, maybe … that is” —she gathered her faltering courage and pushed ahead— “if we make it through this coming battle … I want to live with you here. Or wherever you want to be or need to go.” She drew in a breath. “I want you to be my husband.”

He was almost motionless, staring at her. “Are you proposing?”

She thought about it. “Yes. I am.”

Gemma hardly saw him move. They were both sitting side by side, and then his arms were around her, and she’d been pulled into his lap, and they were kissing. Sweet saints, did they kiss. His body was tight and solid against her, and his mouth was hot and demanding, and hers was, too, and she knew in that kiss she had her answer. And her heart didn’t know whether to rejoice or break.

She knew that, as her husband, he would not try to force her into a role she wasn’t meant to play. His love was for who she was, not who he wanted her to be. This wouldn’t alter once they exchanged vows.

Whistles and claps finally broke them apart. Gemma managed to lift her head to see the Blades of the Rose watching, smiling. They grinned like people who knew they had only a few moments left, seizing joy before it burned away.

“We’re to be married,” said Catullus to the assembled Blades.

Another round of applause rose up, most loudly from Astrid. Lesperance gave his high, fierce hawk’s cry as he circled overhead.

Slowly, reluctantly, Gemma and Catullus released one another and stood. She felt dizzy, buffeted by happiness and sorrow and fear and courage.

Before this day was done, she knew she would find herself either up amongst the clouds, or cast down to the depths.

Gemma had never been to London. With her insatiable curiosity and need for information, she had read about the city, its past and complex lacework of streets, each corner and alley containing a breadth of history she could hardly grasp. She once thought Chicago to be a grand and old
city—though some of the oldest and most beautiful buildings had been destroyed in the terrible fire. Learning about London made her reevaluate Chicago’s greatness.

It had been a city she dreamed of visiting. To see the places where Dickens, Shakespeare, and Dr. Johnson lived and worked, scribblers like her who had become more than writers. She had pictured herself wandering the tangled streets, the worn faces of centuries-old buildings all around, the sense of history palpable. She would stand on an anonymous corner and simply absorb decades, centuries of experience.

“This isn’t exactly how I pictured my first visit to London.” She panted this as she, Catullus, and the Blades ran along riverside embankments. The Thames, she knew that much. A thick gray course of water, filthy and regal. Names of neighborhoods, streets, these passed by. No time to play sightseer. Her views of the city consisted of flashes of parks, homes large and humble, warehouses—everything moving too quickly.

“When this is over” —Catullus ran beside her, his long legs making quick work of the miles— “I’ll show you everything. The pelicans in St. James’s Park. The columns of the Theatre Royal Drury Lane. Buckingham bloody Palace. Anything you want.”

He said this with the strength of a vow, more serious than simply offering to play guide.

“Thank you,” she answered, “but if I have to choose, I’d rather see your home.”

His stride didn’t falter, and neither did his steady gaze. “You will.”

There wasn’t time or breath to talk. Everyone ran, knowing they raced to avert disaster. Signs of Arthur’s progress teemed, a path of chaos the Blades followed. A stately house’s chimney writhed like an eel. Black-eyed elves leapt from rooftop to rooftop on the backs of pony-sized grasshoppers, knocking shingles to the street and punching holes in walls. Glistening green creatures, half-man,
half-fish, swam through the river, causing terrified watermen to crash their boats into each other. Pixies, faeries, and goblins swarmed. Over all this hung a thick blanket of yellow fog, so that there was no way to know what was real and what was imagined.

Panicked people swarmed the streets as they fled. Carts and carriages rocketed, clattering, over the pavement. Horses whinnied in fear. Gemma dodged and wove through the crowds, as did Catullus and the other Blades, fighting the tide of citizens fleeing London. Several times, she nearly was trampled or fell underneath speeding wheels and hooves. But her reflexes had sharpened over the past week. Either she got herself out of harm’s way, or Catullus protected her. A few Blades limped from collisions with fleeing, fear-maddened Londoners.

The anarchy of Glastonbury and its destructive infestation of pixies was a Sunday spaghetti dinner compared to this.

She and the advancing Blades shouldered and shoved their way through the mass of people. Gemma had no sense of where she was headed, but the others clearly did. She kept up, covering ground—though her feet ached. She wished Merlin had given her shoes that were a little more substantial. Dainty silk slippers might suit a princess for dancing or sighing over rescuing knights, but they were useless when it came time for a princess to run into battle and fight.

To distract herself from her aching feet, she took stock of her location. She, Catullus, and the Blades ran the length of an embankment. Nearly new lights blazed atop the wall fronting the river. Tall houses in a revival style faced the Thames, some in stages of construction. Walled gardens and trees also looked toward the river. A sophisticated, quiet neighborhood that spoke of wealth and taste.

Quiet. The chaos had been deafening. Now the absence of noise grabbed her attention. “Catullus,” she said, “where is everyone?”

He glanced around. The panicked citizens of London
were nowhere to be seen. Only the Blades sped along the embankment. “Damn it,” he growled. Over his shoulder, he barked, “Blades, prepare for attack.”

No sooner had these words left him, a nerve-shredding shriek tore the air, followed by the beating of massive wings. The Blades skidded to a halt as the fog ahead swirled, stirred by an unknown wind.

Gemma gripped her derringer and her knife. Beside her, Catullus took a ready stance. The sounds of guns being loaded rose up from the Blades.
Something
was coming.