Seattle. I felt sick as I wondered what was happening in Pioneer Square, down in the dark where the dead are. And Quinton. It was where Edward held power, but things were falling apart and vampires were attacking one another with tools built to look like Quinton’s. I couldn’t breathe; my chest felt crushed in a grip of icy steel, squeezing my heart. I wanted to cry with fear for Quinton and my home, but I couldn’t let Marsden see me fall apart. I didn’t think he was completely on my side and he’d take advantage of any weakness.
My impulse was to flee back home and save my lover and my friends if I could. But I didn’t know what was happening or even if my fears were grounded. I knew there was something happening here, in London, but I didn’t know how it connected to Wygan or to Seattle, except that it had to and Alice had to be involved. She’d worked for Wygan before. If he’d saved her from the fire, then she owed him everything, and Wygan being what he was, he’d make sure she paid him back.
There was a link between Seattle and London, between my father and me, and the vampires of both kinds—and they all came together in a single plan of Wygan’s. Before I could stop it, I’d have to know what it was. I couldn’t just run back to Seattle half-cocked with hostages left in London, business left undone, and Alice walking the night. I had to move faster, but I couldn’t be stupid about it.
What was I supposed to do for Wygan that Marsden couldn’t—that my father was supposed to have done but hadn’t? And what was I going to do about Will? I had to get him back—the rest be damned.
It was a nightmare. Wygan running the asetem, who seemed to be central to the whole puzzle of who and what I was and what was happening now. Alice in Wygan’s debt. Alice who hated Edward and hated me more. If she had Will, I’d have to negotiate with her or find a way around her. It all whirled in my head and left me fatigued and unquiet.
Michael had the boat warm and lit when we arrived. The sun hadn’t been down long, though it felt like hours to me.
“Sorry,” Michael said. “There’s no food. And I’m starved.” He looked me over. “You look awful.”
“Thanks.”
“Umm. no, I mean. ummm. ” He gave me a significant look and touched the corner of his mouth. I touched mine and felt something sticky. Blood. I didn’t recall having bit my lip or been hit in the mouth, but there it was.
He pointed the way to the “head” when I asked: a compact little room—cabin, I guess—with a small toilet and a shower and a sink with a metal mirror over it. I looked like I’d been dragged backward through a wood chipper, and I had no idea how I’d gotten so filthy, cut, rumpled, and bruised. The shower was very tempting, but I put a hold on that and settled for washing my face and finger combing the worst of the rats’ nests from my hair.
When I’d washed and brushed enough dirt and anxiety off, I snuck out into the kitchen, listening to the lap of water on the hull and the mutter of Michael and Marsden outside, and paged Quinton. I left an urgent reply code and hoped he’d call soon. I waited but no call came.
I forced my fears down and rejoined Michael on the aft deck. Marsden was sitting on the edge of the railing as if he’d jump off and vanish any second. He might at that, I thought. I put one hand on his nearest forearm to keep him still. His skin was cold and felt like paper.
“Michael, do you think you can get this boat moving?”
He gave me a puzzled look. “Sure. but why?”
“Some things don’t like water. I’d like to reduce the number of things that might show up unannounced. I think we’ve had enough for one day.” The gods knew I had.
“Oh. OK. Yeah. The fuel gauges show full, so I suppose we could go a while if you want.”
“Any place we could tie up and buy food?”
“Umm. I think there are a couple of inns and pubs that have docks in both directions, but it’s a bit late for the shops.”
I glanced at Marsden.
“Head for Little Venice—we shan’t have to go through the lock,” he said, his eyes darting about and not meeting anyone’s.
Michael pottered around and had the boat ticking happily away within ten minutes. I helped cast off, forcing Marsden to stay aboard. I still had a lot to discuss with him, and I didn’t trust him, but he seemed disinclined to swim for it.
Sailing in the dark on the unlighted canal was eerie. Only our quiet chuffing and the lap of our wake bounded from the brick embankments. Light reflected off the water’s surface from buildings and distant sources, and streamers of colored Grey power lines drifted, distorted by the waves, just beneath us. Occasionally, eyes peeped at us from corners of the towpath or within the water itself. I told myself they were cats and fish and reflections, not the luminous saucer eyes of Jakob’s kin.
The boat moved along the canal for less than an hour before Michael spotted a lighted building above the dark jut of a small dock. As we drew near, it became obvious that the restaurant was floating on the water, moored to the canal side, on a long barge. Another narrow boat and a small motor cruiser were tied up to the water side, but Michael reversed the engine and our yellow vessel stopped a foot or two from the float. I grabbed a mooring line and jumped across the gap as someone trotted out from the restaurant and offered to help tie us in. With his help, we were safely docked within minutes.
We were in luck: since it was Friday, the place was busy and not inclined to close any earlier than it had to. I sent Michael in with the stranger to get a table and order some food. I hooked my hand into Marsden’s collar and kept him beside me on the boat’s stern.
“Now,” I started as soon as Michael and our assistant had gone inside, “tell me more about my dad and the Pharaohn-ankh-astet and his followers.”
He heaved a disgusted sigh. “You’d be better off out of it.”
“I like to know what I’m into before I bail out. So start talking and I’ll make up my own mind. Or I can pitch you in the canal and see how well you swim.”
CHAPTER 33
In the darkness of Regent’s Canal on that cricket-serenaded summer night, Marsden chose to talk rather than let me teach him to swim. I guess he knew my technique would involve a lot of holding him under. “The asetem-ankh-astet are a type of vampire,” he started.
“I figured that out from what Sekhmet said. What makes them special? Why do you seem a bit more freaked out about them than Edward’s kind?” Not that I wasn’t, but I wanted to know if my heightened fear near them was just my problem or if it was their effect on everyone.
“They have a glamour of terror. And they feed on more than blood.”
“All of them do. Sekhmet said these feed on souls—the ka, she called it.”
“Not that I’ve seen, but I suppose you could think of it that way. They dine on emotional energy—on the psychic component.”
“Isn’t that just another kind of Grey power?”
He scoffed. “That’s an expression of the energy. Blood’s just a. a fuel source, so t’speak. What makes the Pharaohn so hideous is he eats, he breathes, he lives chaos. It gives him power beyond the ordinary vampire sort of guff. He breeds mayhem, havoc, and destruction. He uses his people to create it through devastation, death, pain, terror. whatever it takes. Y’can imagine other vampires don’t care for that.”
“Yeah. So what?”
“The current Pharaohn seems to have some longer-range plan in mind that involves the Grey itself. Something that either breeds chaos or feeds on it to do something else. He’s been looking for a tool that’ll make the Grey. flow the way he needs it to—a Greywalker with a special ability plying it as he directs, in the right place. We’re a rare enough bird as it is that he decided not to wait until the right one come along but to grab a few and see what he could do by force. You could say he’s been working on his technique awhile at our expense.