‘I’m honoured to have been, um, invited into the family like this,’ she dissembled. ‘But I have other responsibilities, which I need to discuss with my colleague—’
‘Of course. After you’ve sworn an oath of loyalty in our basement chapel,’ Mrs Walker broke in. ‘And made the usual formal pledge of blood. I wouldn’t want you changing your mind between here and London.’
Awkward. Irene was quite capable of lying, but the ‘formal pledge of blood’ sounded potentially dangerous. Besides, she didn’t want to see what sort of chapel a houseful of vampires had in the basement. ‘I’d like a few minutes to think,’ she said. ‘It’s a very big decision for a young woman to make.’
Mrs Walker didn’t look at all convinced, but she did nod. ‘Yes, Miss Winters. But I’d advise you not to wander around the house on your own. The inhabitants receive their food from the local hospital’s blood depository, but there is such a thing as provocation. Your wrists—’ Irene looked at the lacy cuffs of her blouse. ‘Are what I would call indecently exposed.’
Irene decided to give reason one more try. ‘Let me ask you to reconsider before this goes any further. Please don’t put us both in a . . . difficult situation.’
‘Begging will get you nowhere,’ Mrs Walker said coldly. ‘I will expect you downstairs in a few minutes. If not, we will be coming to look for you.’
She swept along to the head of the staircase, her watered silk skirts hissing against the thick carpet, then turned to give Irene the sort of measuring look which counted every drop of blood in her veins. ‘And that includes my husband.’
Irene watched Mrs Walker glide down the stairs and considered her dwindling options.
The Webster had been her latest assignment from the Library, and this swap had been the quickest and easiest way to get hold of it. Losing this opportunity was inconvenient, but not disastrous. Her priority now was to get herself safely out of here. She put down her briefcase; it would only be a hindrance to her escape. She’d obtained the copy of the Marlowe play that it contained in an alternate world, where the play was commonplace. So that wasn’t a significant loss.
The portrait they’d been standing beneath seemed to frown at her, its imagined gaze a cold spot on her back. She turned to glare back. The dim lighting and the picture’s age made it difficult to judge when it had been painted – or, indeed, what the figure was wearing, or even what the features were. There was an impression of swooping brow, beaky nose, dark mantled clothing and terrifying eyes.
Like everything else in this household, it showed the signs of age. She crossed to the window and dragged back the heavy brocade curtains.
Behind the curtains, in front of the glass, were heavy iron bars.
Irene finally smiled. Cold iron could stop a human. It could seriously inconvenience a Fae. But it was nothing at all to a servant of the Library.
Rain slapped against the window from outside. It was night, it was raining, she was several miles from the nearest town, and she was probably going to be chased cross-country by vampires the moment they realized she’d left the house. And the River Ouse was flooding again – apparently a regular occurrence in these parts – so there wouldn’t be any traffic on the roads.
She should just stick to taking books in the future, rather than trying to make a fair exchange. Quicker, quieter, and less trouble with vampires.
She leaned close to the iron bars, keeping her voice low, and addressed them in the Language. ‘Iron bars, bend apart quietly, wide enough for me to pass through,’ she murmured.
The bars quivered in their sockets for a moment, then slowly curved like warmed wax, dried paint flaking off them to rustle to the ground.
The windows were locked – but again, that wasn’t an issue for the Language. ‘Windows, unlock and open, as quietly as possible.’
The lock scraped as it released itself, the dry tumblers grating as they fell into the open position, and the hinge rasped as the window swung back.
There was no drainpipe, but the thick ivy running down the side of the house would do.
Irene bundled her skirts round her waist – quite indecently for this time-period and culture – and climbed out of the first-floor window. The ivy was sodden wet, making it treacherous. She paused, hanging outside, to murmur, ‘Iron bars, resume your former shape: window, close and lock,’ before starting to climb down. The longer she had to make her getaway before they realized she was gone, the better.
Half a minute of heart-in-mouth scrambling later, she stepped on something wet and squishy, lost her balance and sat down in the mud. Rain poured down on her. It was very dark.
The problem, Irene decided as she struggled through abandoned lavender bushes – she could tell by the scent – was that she’d become far too used to having backup. As a Librarian, she shouldn’t expect that. But oh, right this minute it would have been so useful.
Lightning flashed overhead, and thunder rumbled two seconds behind it. Irene listened for pursuit. Hopefully the weather would obscure her trail.
Something called in the darkness behind her. It was a hollow sort of call, somehow lungless, avid, thirsty. Another cry like it answered the first one, further off. The hunt was up, and she was the quarry.
Rain soaked through her pinned-up hair and dribbled over her face, ran down her jacket and skirt and did its best to get into her boots. North to a probably empty road, or south to a swollen river and more fields?
Right now, the river was the fastest means of transport around. Her research on the house had mentioned a boathouse . . .
A convenient flash of lightning showed her a shed-like building, positioned on what would have been the river bank. It was now a foot under water.
It also showed her a dark shape crouched between it and her. ‘You’re not leaving,’ Mr Harper snarled, drawing himself up to his full height.
‘Get out of my way,’ Irene shouted, angry now, raising her voice to be heard over the wind. ‘I’m declining Mrs Walker’s request.’
‘I don’t think so.’ The water trickled down the vampire’s long bony fingers and dripped from his nails, and his eyes glowed like coals as he gazed at her. ‘I don’t think so, Miss—’
‘Earth, open and seize his feet and ankles, and hold him fast,’ Irene ordered. ‘Boathouse door, unlock and open!’
The muddy ground beneath Mr Harper’s feet gaped like animate jaws, and Irene felt the Language draw energy from her as the world adjusted itself to her words. As Mr Harper sank shin-deep into the mud, she dodged past his furious grasp.
The boathouse opened onto the river, and there was just enough light to see by. Rowboats previously dry-docked on rails now balanced just a few inches above the shimmering flood-waters. Irene splashed towards the closest one.
Behind her, outside, Mr Harper called, ‘She’s here! She’s here!’