The stairway emptied into a square room. To her left, a heavy oaken door barred the way. Suits of armor stood sentinel in each corner and, to her right, arched windows flanked a floor-to-ceiling tapestry depicting a scene from the Battle of Ager Sanguinis. She glided behind the tapestry and her hand went automatically to the trigger stone.
The door swung open on silent hinges, revealing a jarringly bright room. Built in an octagonal shape, it was thoroughly modern, from the soft, blue carpet, to the fluorescent lights, to the high-definition television set high on one wall. In contrast, a medieval-looking rack of weapons lined the wall to her left: swords, long knives, a mace, a morning star, and staffs of varying lengths and thicknesses.
Jacob stood watch over a handcuffed man in his late twenties, who scowled at her when she entered. Morgan looked him up and down. He was tall and solidly built, and the scarring on his knuckles indicated he’d done his share of fighting. Dark stubble dusted his shaved head and cheeks. He wore sagging blue jeans, jack boots, and a West Ham United football jersey.
“So who is she, then?” he growled. “Why’d you bring me here?”
“Why are you here?” Morgan echoed. “That is an excellent question, for which I shall give you an honest answer.” She accepted a black leather portfolio from Jacob, opened it, and flipped through the contents.
“Richard MacKenzie, originally from Liverpool, late of Falmouth” she read. “You came to our attention because you beat your girlfriend two weeks ago.”
“Them charges didn’t stick, now, did they?” He grinned, his crooked, beige teeth gleaming like jagged fangs in the artificial light. “If you’re one of them bizzies you can just bugger off and let me go on my way.”
“You set a car on fire during the riots,” she continued, “and you have an impressive list of criminal offenses.”
“That’s not all that’s impressive about me, blondie.” He moved his hips suggestively.
“I do not see here that you have a job, or have ever held one.” She cocked her head and waited for a reply.
“See now, I’ve worked here and there.” His smug grin flickered. “It’s hard, you know. Not many jobs to be had.”
“You have never held a job for which you earned a salary or paid income taxes.”
“So what if I haven’t? That’s not a crime now, is it?”
“You are a parasite, Mister MacKenzie. Britain has provided you with support for your entire life, yet you repay her by preying on good and decent people.”
“Most of them wasn’t decent, Miss. No more than me, anyhow.” His grin was back.
“Give me one reason I should let you leave here alive, Mister MacKenzie.”
His face turned beet red and he trembled, not with fear, but rage. “Bollocks. You ain’t going to do nothing to me.” The man was either too arrogant or too lacking in imagination to understand he was in her power.
“Let us try again. If you ceased to exist at this very moment, give me one example of how Britain would be the worse for it.”
“Piss off!” If his hands had not been cuffed, Morgan was sure he would have attacked her right then and there. Good!
“Nothing, then? Because I can think of several ways in which your death would improve our country immensely.” She sniffed. “Not the least of which would be the absence of your foul stench.”
“Let me go or I’ll…” He glanced down at his handcuffs.
“What? You’ll hit me, like you did to your girlfriend?” She nodded to Jacob who produced a key and removed MacKenzie’s cuffs. “That is exactly what I want.”
“What?” The confusion in his eyes was comical.
“I want to fight you, Mister MacKenzie. You may use any of the weapons you see here.” She nodded to the rack. “I shall be unarmed. If you fight me and win, Jacob will drive you home and give you one hundred pounds for your trouble. Should you lose, you may still walk out of here.”
“What if I don’t want to?” He looked all around the room, searching for a way out. “There’s some kind of trick here. Let me go.”
“If you do not fight me, Jacob will shoot you and bury you in the moor.”
“You’re out of your mind.” He took two steps toward her and froze, recognition dawning in his eyes. “I’ve seen you before. You’ve been on television and whatnot. Just wait until I tell my story. Somebody’ll pay me nicely for it.”
Jacob glanced at her and she smiled.
“Fight me, and you will be free to go and tell your story to anyone you like.” In one swift movement she closed the gap between them and slapped him across the face. The loud crack and sharp sting felt good. “Hit me.” She struck him again, this time with a closed fist.
Richard reeled backward, pressing a hand to his split lip. He raised his bloody hand, eyes filled with disbelief.
“You crazy bitch!”
He swung a wild right cross that Morgan easily ducked. She sidestepped and drove a fist into his side where his ribs ended. He grunted in pain but managed another swing, which she ducked. This time she drove a roundhouse kick to the inside of his knee and followed with a right cross to his nose. Her fist struck home with a satisfying crunch.
Richard flailed blindly, trying to grab hold of her, but she was too fast for him. Another kick to the knee and he stumbled to the floor.
“You fight like a Frenchman,” she hissed. In an actual life and death situation she would have finished him, but this was something else entirely.
Richard found renewed strength and, with a roar, leapt at her. He almost managed to grab hold of her, but she sprang to the side and he crashed into the wall. Now, mad with rage, he went for the weapons. He grabbed a longsword and charged.
Morgan easily eluded his clumsy strokes and feeble thrusts. It was not long before he began to tire— he struggled to keep the sword aloft, and his breath came in ragged gasps. Summoning the last of his strength, he raised the sword and rushed in for a vicious downstroke. Morgan dodged and drove a roundhouse kick into his unprotected middle. The breath left him in a rush, and he dropped to one knee. Knowing he would offer no further meaningful resistance, she delivered an axe kick to the back of his skull.
It took Richard ten minutes to recover whatever wits he had at his disposal. Jacob wiped the blood off from his face, congratulated him on a “bloody good fight” and offered him a glass of water. He sipped it, staring daggers at Morgan.
“I’ll show you out if you’re ready,” Jacob said.
“Where’s my hundred pounds?” Richard snapped.
“You didn’t win.” Morgan said. “But you do get to leave here alive.”
Richard didn’t bother to argue. He lurched to his feet and followed Jacob out.
Jacob returned a few minutes later. “I assume you want to watch.” His voice was as dull as the look in his eyes.
“Of course,” Morgan said. Her eyes turned to the television on the wall. Jacob turned it on, revealing a wide-angle shot of the formal garden. Jacob zoomed in on Richard, who was limping toward the wood. “Your disapproval saddens me, Jacob.” Morgan kept her eyes on the screen as she spoke.
“I don’t mind the fighting,” he said. “These blokes all deserve an ass whipping, and you’re more than fair about it. But this…” He gestured at the screen. “I just don’t know.”
“We are culling the flock. Can you honestly say our nation would be better off with him and the others alive?”
Jacob shook his head.
“Besides, the children need to hunt. It is their nature.” She smiled as the feed switched over to a camera in the wood. Richard was already jumping at every sound. He sensed danger.
“I would respectfully argue it is their training, not their nature, Ma’am.”