“Hawthorn,” said Maud.
It wasn’t quite a question. There was a thread of unease in her voice. It met a matching thread in Jack, which was then swamped by the rightness of their feet taking step after softly crunching step along the path of white stones, beneath the pink coral arch. This was where they were supposed to be.
They stepped into the grotto proper, and the unease flourished into outright fear.
“Fuck,” said Maud beside him.
“I completely agree, darling,” said Violet.
Violet and Robin stood in the centre of the grotto, this beautiful, mosaic-ridden space glowing in sea colours with another string of magic lights. Neither of them moved more than their eyes towards Maud and Jack. Both of them were grim-faced atop the stillness of their bodies.
All of which was explained by the glowing strings that looped around their wrists, the other ends vanishing into the slender central pillar of the grotto: dark rock adorned with smooth green tiles and a ring of real pink-and-white seashells.
And standing by the other entrance to the grotto, watching Jack and Maud’s progress with an expression of faint and malicious amusement, was Walter Courcey.
Fuck, indeed.
Jack felt his face shut down with anger and despair. Still his legs kept walking, as if his bones were working from a different script to his mind. As if someone had opened him up and engraved the runes of a compulsion there. He and Maud walked right up to the pillar, and their hands rose in unison towards it.
“Fight it, Maudie,” Robin said urgently. “Hawthorn, if you can…”
Maud’s hand trembled. If Jack knew her at all, she was fighting for all she was worth. It made no difference. The magic was too strong.
As soon as Jack’s fingers touched the first shell, the overwhelming urge to do so vanished, as if he’d been yearning for a specific food and it had turned to ash on his tongue. He’d have hurled himself away, he’d have turned and charged at Walter Courcey stick-first, except that—as he’d expected—a fresh Bridle appeared around his wrist. All control over his body sank away.
“Very good,” said Walter. “I must say, that worked even better than I’d hoped.”
There was a silence in which Jack realised he was waiting for Edwin to ask the question. Edwin wasn’t here. Edwin wasn’t here, and neither was Alan.
Dry-mouthed, Jack asked it instead. It seemed as good a way as any to buy time.
“How do you make a compulsion work without words?”
“It’s not strictly a compulsion,” said Walter. “Well, I suppose it is. It’s the Pied Piper. I hear you’re familiar with that one.” He sent a thin smile at Violet. “With the subject changed to an imbuement, thanks to the Vaughn woman. All it takes is a dab of powder on bare skin. And you have all made yourselves helpfully visible to the Coopers tonight.”
Someone pressing against Jack in the crowd. Mrs. Vaughn touching Maud’s cheek. Even with the layers of formal evening wear, it would be easy enough to brush gloved fingers against exposed skin if you were determined and quick. Then all it would take would be for someone to activate the Pied Piper on a single spot—such as this pillar—and bring the compulsion to life.
“And this is a neat little version of the Goblin’s Bridle,” added Walter. “Speech but no other movement, combined with a curtain-spell on the space, so nobody can hear or see what goes on.” He nodded around the grotto. “I’m told the Coopers favour this setup for interrogations.”
Jack gritted his teeth. Through the open-air windows of the grotto he could see the lake, the frozen surface now half-full of people, and could just make out figures moving on the raised stage at the end. Nobody at all would be watching the grotto; and even if they were, the curtain-spell was in effect.
“Oh, don’t look like that, Blyth,” said Walter. “Your tiresome blood-oath is still in effect. I can’t harm you or your sister. Nor do I need to interrogate you. You know nothing of value to us—none of you do. We only need you kept tidily out of the way. Now, excuse me, I must see what’s keeping—”
He was interrupted. Two people came in by the grotto’s other entrance, one holding the other tightly by the arm.
Joe Morris. And, hands shoved together in the priez-vous, white scarf missing, and entirely himself—Edwin.
“Caught this one outside,” said Morris. “The damn fool followed the others.”
“Ah, Win.” Walter’s smile grew. “I had a feeling you’d show up eventually.”
Edwin’s eyes widened as he took in the scene. He didn’t ask any questions at all. But he was clearly not under the same compulsion as the rest of them, because he tried to yank his elbow out of Morris’s grip—failed—and then stood still.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Edwin, why did you follow us? That wasn’t the plan,” snapped Violet, who was never at her best in a crisis.
“Forgive me,” said Edwin thinly, “for needing to know why the rest of you were walking in the wrong direction.”
Of course. Without Violet and the others as backup, he’d have been swarmed by Coopers as soon as he was seen going through George’s pockets, even if he did manage to send him to sleep.
And without knowing where Jack himself was, Edwin also couldn’t rely on their backup plan for if they failed to steal the contract pieces: let the ritual start, whatever form it took, and then have Jack remove guest-right as soon as the Last Contract was out in the open and visible. Difficult, and messy. Removing guest-right was unpleasant but not a compulsion on its own, and there was no telling what George might manage to do before it became unbearable.
Jack was still on his land, and could still speak. What would happen if he removed their guest-right now?
George would take the contract with him as he left, and potentially try to complete the ritual anyway as soon as he crossed the Cheetham border. Walter and Morris would likely take Edwin, and the rest of them would be just as stuck.
And where the hell was Alan?
“And very convenient of you to bring yourself,” said Walter to Edwin. “Bastoke planned to use Blyth here to draw you out. But here you are, ready to volunteer your services.”
“What services?” said Robin, nearly a growl.
Edwin looked resigned. “It is blood after all, isn’t it? I couldn’t see how you could make any of this work without it.”
Futile, furious cold gripped Jack at the word blood. But Edwin was right. It was only what they’d expected.
Walter nodded. “At first Seraphina Vaughn believed the ritual would have to involve the sacrifice of three people, one from each of the Three Families, as a sign of how seriously magicians were taking the request for power. But we’ve realised there’s no need for that. It’s been so many generations—there’s been enough intermingling that any British magician will have blood from all three.”
Edwin had gone even paler but still showed no surprise. If Robin’s gaze could kill, Walter would have been a smear on the floor.
“He’s your brother. You’re all so obsessed with blood—doesn’t that mean anything?”
“Robin, you’re wasting your time,” said Edwin, but Walter spoke over him, suddenly ugly and sharp.