“Can we get her up to the safe house in the lift or fire stairs, then? I think I can carry her—”
“Under the eyes of whoever’s monitoring the cameras in the corridor? I don’t think so. Anyway, we don’t have a card key for the lift and taking the fire escape would be a really bad idea—too many right angles, and the hounds are out upstairs. The only way is the lift, and for that we’d need to get a card.” The collar padlock releases with a metallic click and Persephone gently pulls it away from Angela’s neck. “How do you feel about extemporizing?”
“About—” Mhari looks at Persephone and sees the older woman watching her, poker-faced. “What. You’re thinking of extracting her through the portal and leaving one of us here? To do what?”
“Schiller’s expecting to find a drugged-up helpless woman on his bed, waiting for him to apply the, the thing in the fridge, or something like it.” Persephone’s eyes are burning. “Those guards—we can grab the recording of them bringing her in, we captured them discussing leaving her, we’re miked up, there’s the thing in the fridge—we’ve got the evidence we came for. This is what we need to nail him, once we’ve cleaned house. Assuming he gets away from Nether Stowe of course.”
“Right, but if he isn’t alone—”
“I’ve got a booster to install for Gary’s optical bug, and some transmitters like the ones Cassie was passing around at last month’s party. We put in a call for the OCCULUS crew at Target One as soon as they’ve wrapped up there. They can get here before Schiller. So, there’ll be backup—” Persephone slows. “Shit.”
“What?” Mhari raises an eyebrow at her expression of frustration. “Are you going to unlock that gag thing or am I?”
“Oh, sorry.” Persephone goes back to testing padlock keys. “I wanted it to be me,” she explains. “I’ve got unfinished business with the preacher-man. But he’ll probably remember me from last time we met, and anyway, I’m not blonde.” She finds the right key and unlocks the bridle and bit. Angela’s breathing evens out, then speeds up slightly.
Mhari clears her throat. “Am I not blonde?” she asks rhetorically.
Persephone looks at her dubiously. “Yes, and you’re absolutely fabulous, sweetie, you’re exactly Schiller’s type, but you’re not trained for Field Ops, you’re a Human Resources manager—”
Mhari hisses and extends her canines. “And you know what they say about HR, don’t you? Let me do it, ’Seph, you get her out of here and I’ll be your bait. If Schiller tries to fuck with me he’ll regret it, that I can promise you. We’ve still got twenty minutes to set it up—you can patch the OCCULUS team into my headset when they arrive and I’ll take it—”
“Set what up?” croaks Angela. She clears her throat. “Who, who are you people? Ow. My head. Where—”
Persephone nods at Mhari. “Let’s do it.” She turns her attention to the other woman. “Uh, Ms. McCarthy? I’m afraid you’ve been roofied and abducted. We’re from the Security Services and we’re here to arrest the bastard who did it.” She looks past Angela, who is making an uncoordinated effort to sit up, and shakes her head silently at Mhari, who is mouthing words at her vehemently: cardiac arrest. “Can you move? We need to get you out of here. Mhari, I’m going to update the SA on what we’re doing here. You should go and check the wardrobes in the other rooms, see if you can find something more suitable”—McGuigan’s little black dress is a far cry from Mhari’s webbing vest and combat pants—“otherwise he might suspect something. Angela, can you stand? I need you to stand up, if you can, so we can get out of here—”
Mhari hurries next door to rifle Overholt’s wardrobe for a disguise. The clock is ticking, the game’s afoot, and she surprises herself at how hungry she is for Persephone’s improvised plan to succeed.
ELEVEN
NIGHT AND MAGIC
“Don’t let go,” Mo tells Cassie; “whatever you do, don’t let go of my arm.”
“ButBut—” Cassie is so tense she’s vibrating. All around the lounge angry and concerned voices are rising. Bodies sprawl and glasses roll and smash on the floor as hands slacken in release.
“They can’t see us,” Mo tells her, although it’s a prayer as much as it’s an assertion of truth. “No, really. We need to go back up the stairs, Zero is on his way with the car, if anyone tries to stop us leaving Alex will cover—”
The rising shrieks of damned souls resound from the open doors of the chapel. Mo tries to turn, but Cassie is rooted to the spot. “Come on.”
“Feeders,” Cassie says in a dialect of Enochian that Mo can just about make out. Looking at the middle-aged movers and shakers as they struggle to extricate from beneath the insensate bodies of their host-ridden seducers, Mo sees immediately that she’s right: the abortive ritual has opened the way for an infestation. Heads turn, directing a luminous green gaze on their surroundings; hands rise before faces for the curious inspection of the newly incarnate.
“Okay, we are leaving right now,” Mo says firmly. She grabs Cassie’s wrist with her free hand and turns, forcing her to move. “Quick march, work that catwalk, whatever gets you moving—” Something has clearly gone very wrong indeed with Schiller’s project. The tongue-eaten communicants have collapsed and Schiller’s ritual has been damaged. That invocation has in turn attracted an invasion of feeders, whose nibbling at the walls of the universe has been repaid with sudden success and a breakthrough to the rich buffet pickings in the lounge. “Come on!”
Cassie breaks into a trot and nearly leaves Mo behind—her feet are sore from the unaccustomed strappy heels, while Cassie, as catering staff, gets to wear sensible shoes—but Mo leans on her and manages to keep up. With her free hand she taps her earpiece. “Zero, extraction now! Alex, front gate, cover us! Backup, I need backup—”
Behind them the naked dead are rising, struggling to control their unaccustomed bipedal locomotion and to navigate their peers. The feeder-possessed are little better than zombies until they learn control, but once they’re fully integrated they can run—and their touch is lethal: the feeders can transfer by skin-to-skin contact. And Mo is coldly certain that her ability to go unnoticed only works on conscious, self-aware beings: the effect happens in the observer’s mind, not their eyes. As Cassie rushes towards the stairs Mo recalls the usher. “Stop,” she commands, holding the younger woman back. “There’ll be guards—”
“FuckFuck.” Cassie stops dead and Mo barely manages to stop in time. “Can’t go there.”