Chapter 31
THIRTY-ONE
KAI
All those fucking weapons. On top of everything, that petty little detail is bothering me. All those fucking weapons I just rebuilt for all of us. Customized, perfectly balanced, dialed in, and we're just gonna leave them behind.
But I guess that's what it takes. I have no problem traveling light with my own shit—I crammed a duffel bag full in about ten minutes, and that’s only because it took me forever to find a third pair of socks—but I also realize that traveling light means not carrying ten thousand dollars’ worth of armory and kit with us.
And I guess that's what it's worth, too—no, I know that’s what it’s worth. Yet that doesn’t stop me from throwing a little pity party for myself as I dump my bag onto the couch in the Camlann House living room.
King looks up from an armchair, where he’s flicking through his phone. I drop onto the couch next to my bag and nod at him. “Taking some photos for posterity?”
“What?” He jerks his head up.
“Of your estate.” I wave a hand at the room, the fireplace, Camlann House in general. “Hard to say when you’ll darken these doors again, no? Figured you’d be getting nostalgic.”
“Oh.” Kingston blinks. Then he looks back at his phone. “No. I don’t care.”
“You don’t?” I have to say I’m surprised to hear it. “Aren’t you old money people all sentimental about your various properties?”
“Maybe.” Kingston scrolls. “Not this one.”
Hmm. I itch my neck, where the fucking Nicorette is burning into my skin. Maybe change the subject, I think. “Tickets?” I ask.
“Checked in.” He holds up the phone, the screen lit with barcodes. “Departure in four hours. I figure we just leave the Escalade in long-term parking, and then maybe—”
Bang. The front door slams open, practically bouncing against the opposite wall.
“Where is she?” It's Callahan, running in, practically gasping. “Where’s Gwenna?”
Kingston frowns. “She's not with you?” he asks.
Cal's face goes pure, bloodless white. “No,” he says. “Why?”
Something's not right. I jump to my feet, suddenly jittery. “What do you mean, why? She left right after you did. She said she was going to the chapel.”
Cal gapes, for once actually looking like a big stupid guy instead of just a big guy.
Then he shakes his head. “No,” he rasps.
“I saw everyone who was in there. She wasn't.” He looks wildly from his left to his right, as if she's hiding behind a couch and ready to jump out like it's a surprise party. “Where is she?”
“I don't know,” Kingston says, his voice tighter now. He looks at me.
I shake my head. “She definitely left. Unless she's with Lanz. Or maybe she came in the back and went up to her room?”
Now Cal's posture shifts again, like he's collapsing in on himself. Hands fidgeting together at his chest.
“What?” I say. Not too harsh. Not accusatory. Just the tone of someone who can tell when something's up, because I sure fucking can, and I really don’t like it. “Callahan, look at me.” I snap my fingers, point at my eyes with my two first fingers. “What. Is. Going. On.”
“I…” Cal stammers, licks his lips. “I thought...” He shakes his head slowly back and forth. “I thought it was a test. They said they did those with you guys. Tests. Like loyalty or something. They tell some of you something and not the other one—”
“Hang on.” I hold up a hand. “What are you talking about?”
“Who did, Cal?” Kingston’s on his feet now. “Who said that?”
“The Brothers,” Cal says. “The White Brothers. Like that was part of training, part of what we’re supposed to do, and so when they asked me to—”
“Slow down. Slow down.” Kingston barks. “What do you mean, when they told you?”
In halting, uncertain sentences, Callahan rambles out some tale about running into someone from back home down in town. About going back to Boston, his home parish. Some dedication ceremony. And when he did, there was some Consistory motherfucker waiting for him.
“And so I thought…I thought it was what I was supposed to do. To tell them to come here, that we’d found…something. Her.” His voice is breaking. He rakes his giant hands through his hair. “Fuck me.”
“Why would you do that?” Kingston says tersely. “And you wouldn't tell us?”
“I thought that was part of it,” Callahan says. “I'm sorry. He was going on about how I wasn't there in France with you guys, and…” He sucks in a quick, sharp breath. Glances up the stairs. “And I thought it would help, okay?”
There's a long moment of silence.
“Thought it would help,” I repeat, still flat, not angry, but curious. Because Cal’s face is stricken, plain with how badly he needs to have not fucked up, and God help me, but I am going to withhold judgment until he spits whatever the fuck it is out.
"Lanz," he says. “I thought it would help Lanz.”
My heart falls into my ass.
“I mean, you guys have seen,” Cal goes on. “He looks like shit, and he won't say what's going on. He's falling over, he looks like he's dying, and…I don't know." Cal’s voice gets very low. “I think maybe…maybe I misunderstood.”
I should haul off and hit him. Scream in his face for being such a dumbass.
But I can't. Because I'm looking at Cal's face again—that horrible, dawning understanding of what he's done—and I recognize it.
Ashamed. Naive. Faithful to a fault.
Of course he thought the Consistory would help. Because they’re supposed to. They’d always said that’s what they said they do.
And I just…can’t find the anger for him.
It’s just not there. I know it should be, but no—404, page not found, this number is no longer in service.
Maybe because I’m no longer such a vindictive asshole myself.
Maybe it’s because I know Cal and I know he’s just genuinely that…
caring, I guess. Or maybe because I know what it's like to do terrible things when you’re in love with someone that bad, to make the best of shitty choices even when you’re pretty sure the tradeoff will be brutal.
Because I've done that, and I'd do it again.
"How did they do it?” Kingston says. "Did they—"
"They gave me a candle,” Callahan says. “I guess some kind of beacon, a way to reach them. Said I would know when I was supposed to use it. And then Gwenna wasn't making any progress on her stuff, and then Lanz told me…he said…” Callahan trails off.
“Okay. Fine. Bygones.” I don't have time for this. I might not be angry, but I am impatient. And scared. I’m really fucking scared right now.
“Where the fuck is she?” There's no heat to my voice, which is scary in and of itself. “We have to find her. Now.”
Footsteps behind us. Faint. I spin around to see…Lanz.
And God, but Callahan's right. He looks like death warmed over. Worse than he did yesterday, somehow. Like, exponentially.
"I can feel her," Lanz says. "I can just—" But he doesn’t finish the thought, just clutches at his chest. I stare, astonished.
What the fuck is going on with you, Lanzelin?
I think, more in wonder and dismay than anger.
Because again, I can't be mad. I can only fucking problem-solve right now.
I can only do things that will get me closer to Gwenna and Gwenna closer to safe.
"She's still on campus," he says. "She's not that far. I think she's like—" He gestures vaguely toward the heart of campus. The chapel. “There."
We all move all at once. A little mini stampede for the door, Cal practically knocking me down by accident and Lanz loping behind me, but Kingston gets there first, to the door handle.
He pulls it. And pulls it.
"What, is it fucking locked?” I say, anxiety bleeding a little sharpness into my tone. "Come on.”
“I can't," Kingston says. "It's—fuck. Fuck." He rattles it harder, and it barely even moves. The big, thick door and its swirled antique glass, hardly even budging enough to make a sound as he yanks on it,. And Kingston's no weakling.
"Move." I push him away without waiting for him to answer and grab the handle myself. Pull.
And...
“Shit.” It's like iron encased in cement.
I wrench it with my fingers, with my biceps, my whole back and legs, and it barely, barely moves.
"What the actual fuck?" I mutter under my breath. I jump back, hands spread. “Someone else figure this. I can’t.”
Callahan doesn't wait for any more instructions. He charges the thing, shoulder down, and just slams into it, full-speed. Hard.
And then crumples. Like he's run into cinderblock.
"Jesus, Mary, Joseph," he says, stumbling backward, clutching his shoulder. "It's—"
No one waits to hear the rest of it. I scramble for the living room, climb onto the window seat, shove my fingertips under the sash, and pull, yank. It doesn't move either.
"The fuck?" I half mutter, half yell.
Gwenna, I think. Gwenna Gwenna Gwenna.
I clench a fist, cock back, and punch right into the center of the window pane. But…nothing. My hand flattens against it with a crunch, like I’ve just punched steel.
"Jesus." I rock back, clutching my hand to my chest. Raw flaps of skin are seeping dots of blood on my knuckles, and flexing my fingers is blisteringly painful. I don't think I broke it, but that was sure fucking stupid.
"They won't move either," Kingston says from across the room. "The windows are all stuck. Like some kind of…”
The sharp edge of panic skims over the back of my neck like the fine edge of a knife.
"Like magic," I say.
King just nods.
"Fuck!” I yell, and slam a kick into the little brass holder of fireplace tools, sending them clanging in all directions.
So much for self-control. So much for anything.
No, I am a wild animal snared in a trap, and she is out there, she is out there and she is not safe, and I need to get there if I have to gnaw off my own leg to find her, because I cannot and I will not let her fall into their hands.
Not if I can do anything whatsoever about it.
Kill me, kill all these guys, burn the place to the fucking ground, I don't care.
Just do not touch a hair on her goddamn head.
Let. Me. Out.
Bring. Her. Back.
"Magic?” Lanz says. Now he's gaping. "But who? Why?"
Callahan’s face is grim, like he knows the answer even though he isn't certain, a lucky guess that's not so lucky after all.
"The Consistory," he says, “Right? They built this place.
They could have done—" He sweeps his gaze up to the ceiling, the arcing double entrance from the foyer to the living room, the staircase, the oil paintings and antique vases and swords everywhere.
"Some kind of protective something, maybe,” he finishes. “To keep things out.”
“No,” Kingston says. "Not to keep anything out. To keep us in.”