I straightened up and they pushed me along to the hall. I tried to move as slowly as possible, exaggerating my injury and using the time to have a good look around. There had certainly been a battle here. Scorch marks up the walls and bullet holes everywhere.
Waiting on the stairs was a familiar figure. Clive Ronan. Ex St Mary’s historian. And murderer. He looked older than when I last saw him. Possibly the arse-kickings he’d had from us had aged him considerably. His dark hair was nearly gone, his thin face even more creased and lined. A nasty-looking burn puckered one side of his face, and it looked as if his ear had melted. So we hadn’t been wasting our time when we took him down in Alexandria, then.
He stood in my face. No greeting. No gloating. He never did. I’d get no helpful information here. I knew he hated me and I knew he hated St Mary’s. St Mary’s because he held them responsible for the death of his partner and lifelong love, Annie Bessant; and me simply because whenever things went wrong for him, I was never far away.
‘Where’s your pod?’
I looked around me as if expecting to see it in the corner. ‘Um …’ and his backhander knocked me to the floor.
Now that was personal. Maybe there was a chance after all.
Get up, Maxwell. If you don’t want a good kicking, get up. I staggered to my feet. He was already turning away.
‘Start waking him up. I want him conscious and aware as soon as possible. Take her downstairs. Give her some special attention. I want them both to know what’s going to happen to her if he doesn’t cooperate.’
No, no, no. This was too quick. Bloody hell, Maxwell, think. Think, think, think.
Then, suddenly, I didn’t have to.
I knew she wasn’t dead. I’d told Leon she wasn’t dead. I always knew she would be back one day. And just for once, I was pleased to see her.
Isabella Bitchface Barclay.
Another former member of St Mary’s. Strolling down the stairs as if she owned the place. Which, actually, at the moment, she did. Deliberately parodying the way I did it on the day I broke her nose. The day I exposed her for the treacherous bitch she was.
All right, I disliked and feared Clive Ronan. He was a bastard. But Barclay I loathed. Loathed and detested. And she loathed me. And it was personal. When I thought of what she had cost me … One day, it would be her or me. She’d already told me so. And if it was today – then all well and good.
I could see what was going to happen next – everyone could. I tried to tell myself this was good. It was drawing attention. She got close and drew back her fist. They were holding my arms, but I still had feet. I kicked her hard. It would have been more effective if she’d been a man, but it still hurts if you’re female.
I tore myself free from the suddenly loosened grip of my guards and waded in.
When you really hate someone, judgement and good sense just fly straight out of the window. And I really hated Bitchface Barclay. I seized a handful of hair and swung her round. She came back, clawing and biting. I kicked and punched. She nutted me. I fell to the floor, dragging her down with me. We rolled about and then I was on top, banging her head against the floor. She tried to scratch my eyes out. Both of us were screaming and spitting. Someone yanked me off and pulled me away. I tossed my hair out of my eyes and snarled at her, chest heaving for breath. Two men were holding her as well.
‘Enough,’ said Ronan.
She was enraged. ‘You promised me!’
He seemed genuinely disinterested. ‘She’ll beat you to a pulp, Isabella. Is that really what you want?’
She wiped the blood off her chin. ‘Not necessarily.’ She gestured with her head towards the library. ‘You two, bring her in here.’
They looked at him first, which told me what I wanted to know about their dynamics. If I lived long enough to take advantage of the knowledge. He shrugged and walked off. He’d learned not to make it personal. Sadly, she had not. I was due some of their ‘special attention’. But at least it wasn’t in the basement.
They’d really trashed the library. Piles of books lay everywhere. Some were charred. On top of everything else, these bastards were book-burners! Shelving units had been pulled off the wall. To what end was not clear. Just mindless vandalism. The furniture was tumbled around the room. Dr Dowson would have had a broken heart.
I put everything I had into making things difficult for them. Desperation gave me strength. If they’d had the sense to knock me out then it could all have been over in minutes, but she wanted me conscious and suffering, so I fought. I kicked, bit, scratched, punched, tore myself free occasionally, ran about, threw books and furniture, and generally flailed around. It didn’t buy me anything like as much time as I would have liked, and I got slapped more than once, but two men in here were two less out there. Barclay didn’t count.
I was face down on one of the tables when the explosions went off – three of them in quick succession – and suddenly, the pressure was released.
I gave silent thanks to the god of historians.
Someone said, ‘What the fuck …?’