Odette was the first to open her eyes. She could practically feel her system burning away that yellow smoke inside her. Her metabolism was in overdrive, her amplified liver cells enthusiastically scouring the compounds from her blood. What on earth was that stuff? she wondered. I suppose the driver’s Checquy powers must have gone bad or something.
She looked around and saw that everyone else in the car was unmoving, slumped in their seat belts. Everyone except Rook Thomas, who was sprawled halfway down to the floor. She had one arm looped through the seat belt, and there was a good deal of blood in her hair — either from hitting her head or from smacking into something when the car crashed into the embankment. Odette herself seemed to be unhurt beyond a few aches. She undid her seat belt, crawled across the limo to the Rook, and checked the smaller woman’s pulse. Thomas was alive, but she wouldn’t be happy when she woke up. Odette smoothed her hair aside and checked the cut on her scalp. It was not actually very deep, and the bleeding was minimal. A quick examination revealed no sign of any other injuries.
Well, she won’t die from a scalp wound, Odette decided, but she retrieved a clean handkerchief from her purse and applied a judicious amount of pressure nonetheless. We should get her back to Hill Hall quickly. I don’t think Marcel’s repair work would have been damaged, but we need to make certain. With one hand, she dug her mobile phone out of her purse and rang the emergency Checquy number.
“Office of Qualifications and Examinations Regulation, notifications line,” said a cheerful voice. “This is Nigel Bonnington.”
“This is Odette Leliefeld. There’s been a car accident,” said Odette. She heard a pained sigh come over the phone. Sorry to inconvenience you, she thought.
“Are you okay? You sound all right.”
“I’m fine. However, Rook Thomas, Pawn Clements, and Rook Thomas’s executive assistant are all unconscious, and Rook Thomas is bleeding from the scalp. I’m not certain what other injuries she’s sustained, but I’m giving her first aid.” She couldn’t help smiling a little as she heard the sound of someone having an extremely quick nervous breakdown come down the line. Yeah, suck on that, mate. After a few seconds of compacted panic, Pawn Bonnington spoke. This time, his voice was a little higher in pitch.
“And you’re trained to give first aid?”
“I took out my own appendix when I was sixteen,” she said. “And I put two new ones in when I was nineteen. I think I can apply pressure to a laceration.”
“What’s your location?”
“No idea,” said Odette. “Fifteen minutes from Hill Hall.”
“I’ll alert the staff there. Help should arrive soon.”
“Great,” said Odette. “I’ll stay on the line, if you don’t mind.”
“And the driver?” Bonnington asked.
“Oh, crap,” Odette said guiltily, suddenly remembering that there was another person in the car. She carefully lifted the hankie off the Rook’s head and saw that the bleeding had stopped. Then she scooched forward. When she peered into the front of the limo, she flinched. The driver was draped over the steering wheel and twitching violently. The airbag had apparently gone off when the car hit the bank. However, while an airbag was generally a good thing for a person in an accident, it had not been good for a man who was in the process of inflicting terrible wounds on his own face. Odette was no stranger to blood, but the mess in the driver’s seat was stomach-turning. The yellow smoke seemed to have dissipated — she couldn’t even taste it in the air.
“He’s in very bad shape,” she reported over the phone. “Significant self-inflicted wounds to the face.”
“What?”
“I think he had a seizure of some sort,” said Odette.
“A seizure?”
“Yes, and then his powers went nuts — smoke everywhere. I think that’s what knocked everybody out.”
“My God. And you’re sure you’re all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” said Odette, “but everyone else is still unconscious.” I hope they haven’t been poisoned. She awkwardly put her hand through the hatch and fumbled at the driver’s neck. His pulse was erratic, and his skin was burning hot. Christ, this is not good. “I’m going to try to help him.”
Getting to him to render said help, however, would be difficult. The car’s impacts and scrapings with the embankments had left the sides dented and the doors jammed shut. I’ll have to try to wriggle into the front seat of the car. It wouldn’t be easy — the hatch was intended only for the transmission of imperious orders and, possibly, drive-through fast food. Matters were made even worse by the fact that the front of the car had crumpled in on itself. Still, I think I can do it. She put the phone on speaker, laid it on the seat, and was about to start when she heard distant voices outside the car.
Well, that was fast, she thought. I have to give the staff at Hill Hall credit.
“Miss Leliefeld?” said the voice over the phone hesitantly.
“Hmm?”
“The driver...”
“Yes?” she asked.
“He’s not a Pawn. He’s a Retainer.”
“What? So?” The Checquy seemed obsessed with ranks and titles.
“So he doesn’t have any powers.”
She froze. What the hell does that mean? Then she frowned. Is that laughter outside? She heard the voices of young men. They sounded elated.
What the hell does that mean?
Unless it’s... oh God.
Antagonists.
She fumbled to take her mobile phone off speaker mode, then froze as she heard footsteps coming toward the car. She knelt on the seats and peered cautiously through the window. It was tinted, so she was certain no one would see her, but it also meant that, on the sunken road in the twilight of the countryside, she couldn’t see much. Just silhouettes getting closer.
“Miss Lelie —”
“No time,” she interrupted in a fierce whisper. “Let Hill Hall know, men have come. They must have attacked the car, and now they’re coming toward us.”
“How many men?”
Odette risked another look. “Five, I think.”
“Weapons?”
“I can’t tell.”
“Please hold.” Tinkling electronic music ensued.
You’ve got to be kidding me. She looked up at the sound of someone trying the door handle.
“Bloody door’s not opening,” said a voice. Odette frowned in confusion — it was not at all the accent she’d been expecting. This was a young man with a very specific London accent. Cockney, it’s called, she remembered. So what’s the significance of that? Maybe I was completely wrong about who they are.
That would be nice.
“Well, what a fucking surprise,” said someone else. “Smash a window, then.”
“Nah, wait,” said another voice. “Let’s have a little play.” There was a grunt, and then Odette looked up at the sound of boots landing lightly on the roof of the car. Another pair landed, more heavily, and the roof dimpled a bit. Crap. She hunkered down on the floor and looked around anxiously. The back of the car seemed almost irresponsibly empty of weapons. Her new shotguns were in the boot. There was a little minibar, but all the bottles seemed to be made of plastic.
“Hello, Miss Leliefeld?” came a tiny voice. It was her phone. “Miss Leliefeld?”
“Do you hear that?” one of the voices on the roof said.
“No,” said the other one.
“Just move,” said one of the figures still on the ground. “Now. Help will be coming.”
“Right.”
A broad metal blade punched through the ceiling. Odette ducked her head and pressed the back of her hand against her mouth so as not to scream. She looked up and saw the blade directly above her. About ten centimeters of it jutted through the roof. It was as wide as her forearm and made of a dull black metal. As she watched, it began to rip along the roof, leaving a jagged tear behind it.
“Yeah, baby!” came the exultant shout from outside. “Fuck that shit up!”