Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ORION
The blood magi marched us through the streets, weaving through the debris and weeds, the rotting vehicles of days gone by.
Amazingly, we managed to avoid the zombies.
Beads of sweat dripped down my face, my feet on fire. Every bench or wall we passed called to my buttocks, my legs begging me to rest.
No such luck.
Where are you taking us? I asked for the twentieth time.
These streets were familiar. Painfully familiar.
Don’t you know? one of the women responded.
And then it came into view, tall and dark in the distance.
Aragon Tower.
If I’d been permitted to gasp, I’d have done a loud one.
Why are we here?
Haven. The place I’d briefly called home.
The magi laughed in my head. Don’t worry your handsome head. We’re not going in there. It’s compromised. Too many zombies wander its halls now.
Yet we still walked closer to it.
I’m lost, I said. If it’s so dangerous, why—
Stop talking! Her voice was a shrieking drill in my skull, sending pain to my molars.
They marched us onward, bringing us to a stop at the end of a street connecting to the Pepys Estate—Aragon Tower at the end of it, looming over the river Thames.
Three zombies blocked the street, in stasis, kind of like they were sleeping standing up. They were swaying silently, no indication as to whether they were a slowie or a speedie. If we made a noise, or they caught the scent of the blood magic, we’d soon find out.
Pink eyes looked our way.
All three hissed.
Speedies. Oh, crap.
The blood magi laughed as one, their melded voices as loud as headphones with the volume turned up too high.
I missed relaxing on the beach with headphones, listening to music in skimpy swim shorts, the sun making love to my skin.
Those were the days.
The lost days…
The speedies barely made it a few feet before their bodies changed. Their limbs moved in a less dead way, almost as if they were alive.
They even blinked.
“Excellent,” one of the women whispered. “Finish it off.”
The other woman stepped into my eyeline, pulling back her hood to reveal a dark brown complexion and a bald head.
Blood leaked from her tear ducts and dripped from her nostrils.
She narrowed her gaze, her features contorting with serious focus.
Her fingers flexed, arms jolting with sudden, sharp movements every few seconds.
Each zombie turned to face the other as if they were three neighbors catching up on the local gossip.
One of them even put her hand on her hip.
The blood magic was controlling the speedies.
You are witnessing a miracle, the man’s voice echoed in my head.
No. No. No. Not blood magi manipulating zombies. Not a potential new weapon for Lance. That would be horrific. That would change the world for good, plunging it deeper into a horror story.
I watched on as the speedies moved their arms, striking different poses. The magi woman’s eyes gushed blood, her nose a bloody mess.
“Strike,” the woman said.
On her cue, the speedies attacked each other. Within minutes, they’d torn so much flesh, broken so many bones in a frenzy of unparalleled violence they were now nothing more than twitching bodies on the ground.
The man went to finish them off with a screwdriver to their brains.
The bleeding magi fished a handkerchief from her pocket, the white cloth useless against the crimson leakage. “Did I do good?”
The other woman, revealing her bald head and pale complexion by removing her hood, hugged her. “Amazingly well, Becky.”
We were on the move again.
Impressed, fae?
I ignored the man, trying to wrap my aching brain around this latest development. First some speedies spoke and climbed ladders, now this.
Talk to me, the man pressed, revealing fair, sun-kissed skin of a similar hue to mine. Oh, and the standard blood magi bald head.
I don’t understand the need show off when we could’ve sneaked past them, I said.
He laughed. You’re just jealous.
Hardly.
Are you being cheeky?
I—
He cut me off. Anyone can sneak past a speedie. But to control them… He didn’t finish his thought, walking the rest of our journey with a grin on his face.
My chest constricted once we reached Haven. The fences that once protected the entrance were all down, a scattering of truly dead bodies on top of them. I heard the moans of zombies in the unwelcoming shadows that now took over the building.
The blood magi didn’t take us inside. Instead, we were marched to the river wall, ordered to be as quiet as possible.
Too many of the bastards here to control, the man told me.
Hmmm. So not so much of a miracle power after all. Good. I hope it failed.
The magic in my system eased somewhat, giving me access to my neck again. I looked around, Basil given the same physical grace.
You’re welcome, the man responded.
He expected thanks, did he?
I offered it up anyway.
He blew me a kiss.
Bobbing on the Thames was the pack’s speedboat, still moored to the wall. They kept the boat fueled in case of emergencies.
Did these magi have the key?
Basil and I boarded the vessel first using a ladder, followed by the bleeding Becky. She was losing so much blood and looking rather woozy. When she climbed into the boat, she collapsed onto a bench, passing out.
The other woman came next, quickly seeing to her friend. “Hold on, Becky. You will have tea and warmth soon.” She stroked Becky’s sweat-dappled scalp.
The man joined us, working on getting us moving, fiddling with the ignition wires in lieu of a key. While he worked, the other woman undid the ropes before returning to whisper soothing words to Becky.
The boat bumped into the wall, then began to drift under the force of the current.
Hissing sounded from above.
“Paul?” the woman said.
“Almost there.”
Pete and Paul. Wasn’t there a human nursery rhyme about birds called Pete and Paul sitting on a wall? Possibly Peter, not Pete.
Hmmm.
Who cares?!
A speedie launched itself off the river wall, missing the boat by a meter. She went headfirst into the water.
A second speedie joined her, then a third. The fourth smacked her head on the side of the boat, her half-rotten face breaking open, spraying the deck and my jeans with gore.
The engine roared to life. Paul got us moving, tearing away into the river with a cheer.
“Be quiet!” the woman who most definitely led this group spat.
Oh, because now was the time to worry while a boat’s engine gurgled away. Yes. Made perfect sense.
“Sorry, Sharon.”
Paul took the boat east, passing the Cutty Sark and the Greenwich foot tunnel. I shuddered at the memory of that place and the dalliance with death.
Yes, like every other day.
We sailed around the Isle of Dogs past the dome of The O2 Arena bathed in the bright moonlight, its famous white tent design now torn and covered in filth. Tall weeds choked the Greenwich Peninsula in a spectacular display of nature reclaiming the lands.
Stars only knew where we were headed.
Eventually, we approached a boat in the middle of the river—halfway between two ferry docks on the north bank and south banks. I recognized the blue and white vessel in need of a clean. I’d wanted to ride the Woolwich Ferry after reading my London travel guides back in Faery. It sounded fun.
Not anymore.
Paul brought the boat up alongside the anchored ferry, securing it to the side, then ordered us to climb up a sturdy rope ladder onto the deck. He left the women on the boat, telling them he’d be back.
Move it! he snapped in my head.
He lit candles, turned on lanterns, then forced us inside what appeared to be a narrow passenger area with plastic seats and chains hanging from the ceiling. The latter were obviously a new addition to the vessel.
Blood stained the floors, the seats, spattered the grubby windows. It stank of decay and some rancid perfume I couldn’t quite place. Sour yet sweet, assaulting my sense of smell.
But the worst smell came from the iron chains—fatal to my fae sensibilities.
Iron.
Yuck.
“Now then,” Paul said out loud. “Time to secure you properly.” He’d developed a nosebleed. “Can’t be inside you twenty-four hours a day.”
His laugh hurt my soul.
He started with Basil, lifting his arms above his head, securing him around the wrists with the shackles attached to the chains. Basil winced, the toxic metal burning into his skin.
Paul chuckled as he pulled more chains out from under the seats, locking Basil’s ankles together.
My turn came, positioned opposite my ex so we faced each other. The metallic burn against my skin ricocheted through my body, temporarily stealing my breath. A ripple of nausea made the boat seem rockier than it actually was.
Oh, stars…
The iron touched my wind watch. It short-circuited, releasing a wisp of white smoke before dying.
Wonderful. There went my floating abilities. Only the king’s clock-smiths would be able to repair the watch now, and that wouldn’t be happening any time in my immediate future.
“There,” Paul said, done with my ankles. “Iron is important for a healthy diet.” He roared with laughter.
Where was his award for the worst joke ever?
Blood magic completely left my system, though my body remained out of my control against the iron.
Sharon arrived with Becky in her arms.
“Is she okay?” Paul asked.
“Good work,” Sharon answered, leaving.
“That didn’t answer my question.” Paul pouted, glancing between us. “You can both piss off too.”
He left us.
“Are you okay?” Basil asked.
“I’ve been better.”
“I’ll get us out of this.” He grimaced against the iron’s burn as he struggled for freedom.
He soon stopped. “This is not how I wanted things to go.”
“Does King Damien really want to see me?”
“Let’s not discuss that yet.”
Crap. Was it true, then?
“Too many ears on this boat,” he added.
How else would he coax the gates open without a very, very good reason?
“Fine. Do you have any escape plans?” I asked.
“Not yet.”
“Same.” Iron complicated matters, but freedom wasn’t impossible.