[fic] Occult Couture; or An American in America | 9
Grayson had offered him one of his spare bedrooms while he orientated himself, but Bart had turned it down. Now that he was over the shock of the news and had heard back from Tim, Bart was determined to be the master of events, rather than being mastered by them. There would be no more surprises, no more tricks. He was not just going to find Kon, but he was going to do it so thoroughly that there would be no question of where the American belonged once he did.
Bart enjoyed planning all of this very much, so it was rather annoying to discover that Grayson had taken the liberty of buying the train tickets for the pair of them even before Bart had gotten out of bed.
“I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty of deciding to go ahead to Smallville while you approach the University at Carnegie. It struck me that in a small town, strangers will be more noticeable so it is better that a professional makes the enquiries. Don’t you agree?”
“I agree that you’re obviously trying to avoid Roy,” Bart retorted. “What is the matter with this muffin?”
“It is rather baffling, isn’t it? But I have yet to find a muffin worthy of the name in this city.” Grayson had an arrangement with the hotel across the road; they sent over an ample breakfast that was more than enough for him and Bart. Satisfactory in every respect - save the muffins. “I’ve tried to drop hints about crumpets to no avail. Anyway, Harper isn’t exactly an uncommon surname. There’s nothing to suggest that the Professor that taught Conner has any connection to Roy-“
“Uncle,” Bart said smugly. “Roy said so.”
Grayson paused. “And you said the Uncle was an expert on the subject of lycanthropy?”
“You’re asking me? You’ve got his books in your precious Foundation library-“ Bart paused. Grayson didn’t need to ask him. They both knew that. So why unless - he was thinking, weighing the pros and cons. Encountering Roy was a risk but- “If Professor Harper knows about Roy, it would explain why he is so passionate about his lycanthropy research. And if he knows, then he can give you information about paranormal problems here in the States.”
“And here Tim said that you’d never make a detective. He’s got you all wrong, Bartholemew.” Grayson casually reached over to snatch another faux-muffin. “I suppose you won’t mind if I take Carnegie after all? I’m sure you’re anxious to make the acquaintance of Conner’s family.”
Bart was pretty sure that was a rhetorical question. “I never said I wanted to work with you,” he pointed out. “And it’s not like I need the train ticket.” Grayson’s raised eyebrow was exasperatingly direct. Bart’s gaze alighted on his travelling case. “I’m a novelist now, as it happens. So I should have an income soon.”
“Is that so?” Grayson somehow managed to make even eating a muffin provoking. Very like Drake, and Bart wished that he knew Grayson well enough to kick him. “I don’t suppose you have any samples of your work with you?”
Since Bart was feeling vindictive, he gave Dick the manuscript.
--oOo-
“I assure you, it’s not dissatisfaction with the care I’ve received at the hands of your staff, Doctor. In fact, you could even say it’s the opposite. I would not be feeling ready to leave if it wasn’t for their good services.”
The doctor bowed. “It is kind of you to say so, Mr Drake. I know our facilities here are not what you’re used to, but we’re delighted to have been of service to Lord Wayne.” As they reached the bottom of the stairs, reaching the lobby, the Doctor bowed. “I will see if your carriage has arrived.”
Drake bowed in acknowledgement, carefully pulling on his gloves. Moving was still somewhat awkward, and the many layers of bandages he still wore meant that Alfred had brought him some of Grayson’s clothing but it meant much to be dressed, shaved and standing on his own two feet. Better yet - he was getting out of the hospital.
He glanced curiously at the lobby. This was the first he’d seen of the place other than his room. It was clear to see the hospital had once been a fairly large townhouse and the lobby had once been the entrance foyer. The ornate lighting was long gone, but the fittings remained, and where once some status symbol in the form of a fashionable painting had stood, there was a gilt edged board, with the names of the hospital’s donors.
Drake looked immediately for the Wayne name, and was not surprised to find it amongst the earliest sponsors. Wayne senior then? As a medical practioner himself, he’d felt strongly about the availability of medical care to all. If that was the case, there would be a second donation made, by the son-
Scanning the list, Drake’s gaze dropped down to the last name on the list. For a long moment he simply regarded it. Coincidence? Or the clue he’d been waiting for?
“Your man has arrived with the carriage, Mr Drake.” The doctor had returned. “Ah, you’ve found our list of sponsors? We are most indebted to your Lord Wayne.”
“I was wondering about this last name,” Drake said motioning to the list. “The majority of names here are familiar to me, but I don’t believe I know a C. Kent?”
“An American,” the Doctor explained. “A young man. It seems he had been travelling Europe and was about to return to the States. It was a brief interview, but he seemed a personable fellow. He was set on making the donation. In fact,” and the Doctor chuckled. “He warned us he was not to be dissuaded from it.”
“Was he now,” Drake said. “That’s interesting.” Conner was a sentimentalist, and not immune to a hard-luck story, but charitable work was not exactly his thing - and of the incidents that had taken place the day of Conner’s departure, only one of them had involved fire.
“We’re close to Harley Street, are we not?”
“A few blocks walk - although in your condition-“
“Yes, you’re quite right.” Alfred would not approve. Although-- “Mr Pennyworth didn’t come in with you?”
“I didn’t see him in the carriage.” The doctor bowed again. “Once again, I can see it has been a pleasure, Mr Drake.”
Mr Pennyworth not in the carriage? Drake paused a few moments, mentally nerving himself. He would not be able to put up a struggle in his current condition, and the crowded street made using his revolver unwise. His magical amulets were defensive only, easily removed should he be physically over-powered. But if he didn’t appear -
Well, the Ripper had not spared civilians and Jason did not seem inclined to offer them any more respect. If he was lucky, Drake could at least contain the situation somewhat.
Drake jotted down a quick note in his pocketbook and folded it over. “Have someone relay this by phone to Lord Wayne or a representative at the Foundation,” he instructed. “It’s urgent.”
And pulling on his last glove, Drake went outside to meet certain death.
The death was indeed certain, but it was not Drake’s own. The coachman was one of the Foundation’s, nothing but his pallour and the fixidity with which he held the reins to indicate his demise.
And if Jason was sending a servant to fetch Drake, then Drake still had a chance. He nodded curtly to the man, keeping his thoughts off his face. “The Foundation,” he ordered briskly. “As quickly as possible.” He stepped past the man to the carriage body, closing the door loudly.
The man lifted the whip, and the horses obediently moved forward, leaving Drake standing on the pavement.
He was a little insulted that had actually worked.
Ignoring the bemused gazes of some of the pedestrians around him, Drake drew his walking stick and walked as determinedly as possible down the street. Jason must know the risks of sending undead labour to deal with a Foundation member. He would be close by to intercept the carriage as quickly as possible, so he didn’t have much time to get where he needed to be.
An omnibus heading in his direction was the perfect solution. Much harder to find a single man amongst many, and Drake hoped that his plan was enough to catch Jason off guard. He would expect Drake to head to the Foundation or the Manor, perhaps even the authorities - but the enemy?
It almost worked.
The omnibus rattled to a sudden stop, along with exclamations of alarm from Drake’s fellow passengers.
“One of those new fangled automobiles - a collision.”
“The poor horses!”
“Is anyone on board a doctor? Those men need help-“
It was the Foundation carriage, the one that had tried to abduct Drake earlier. He stood quietly, slipping unnoticed from the omnibus to join the crowd. Deliberate sabotage and murder, all to what end? Blocking the road, forcing all vehicles to a halt and their passengers to take to the street. Once he was on foot, Drake would be able to be singled out, identified and targeted.
Jason had to be close then. But where?
Drake scanned the rooftops, his eye falling on a wire that ran the length of a business. A private telephone line? If he could just get hold of Oracle-
Quietly using the crowd as his cover, Drake made his way to the grocery store. It was entirely deserted, and while the tumult outside provided easy explanation for that, Drake couldn’t feel entirely easy about the situation. It felt too much like-
He just dodged the bullet, ducking back behind a shelf of general supplies. Flour fell like silent snow in the empty store. Drake drew his own pistol, the preternatural calm that always settled over him in these moments coming instantly to the fore. Every instinct was at full alert, waiting for the shift of floorboards, the intake of breath that would let him know where his silent attacker was.
But then Jason didn’t need to breathe now, did he?
“Calling for help? You are a disappointment on so many levels, Drake.” For Jason to be so open in announcing his presence, meant he was secure in his own safety. And for good reason - bullets might slow him, but would not harm him. “Your instinct is terrible. Being caught by a window? Downright sloppy. Look at the state you’re in now. There’s not enough in you to make this interesting.”
“Your concern is touching. Mr. Todd, I take it?” Fleeing was not an option, not with Jason liable to fire into the crowd.
“He warned you? Such paternal care.” Some instinct warned Drake to move at those words and he did, diving forward in a roll that Grayson had taught him to find new cover behind the meat safe as three bullets followed in all too close succession. “And for what? Certainly not filial loyalty. How will he react to learn that his precious adopted son is fraternizing with the enemy?”
“Being the enemy in question, I’m not sure the argument is yours to make.”
The reflection of raised metal was the only reason the fifth bullet did not meet Drake’s skull. He hit his injured arm as he pressed himself to the floor, clamping a hand over his mouth so as not to give Jason the satisfaction of knowing him rattled.
“And here I thought you were supposed to be the intelligent one. Just making you a disappointment in all respects. Not that it matters now.” That shifting of weight was close - much closer than Drake had anticipated. Gritting his teeth, he forced his body into movement - to no avail. Jason had sent the shelves he was sheltering behind toppling over with a hefty kick and Drake found himself effectively pinned by the wreckage.
Jason approached deliberately, the time for hiding past. “I had plans for you. But after meeting you, I think I might just do the old man a favour, end you now. He doesn’t need another liability after all.”
It wasn’t Jason. Or it was - but not the man Drake knew by reputation. From the man’s apron and attire he had been the proprietor of the shop before his death, the neat bullet hole in the centre of his forehead explaining that mystery. “Using the dead to do your dirty work while you watch from afar? I don’t think you can accuse me of being a disappointment. Or sloppy - you intended to get me directly from the hospital didn’t you?”
“You want to play this game?” It was unmistakably Todd’s voice. There were recordings in the Foundation’s records still from Grayson and Todd and the Director’s earliest missions. Listening to them, familiarizing himself with the protocols had been a large part of his early training. Not that this provided any measure of comfort as Jason’s host reached down to yank Drake out of the wreckage by the collar of his shirt. “Fine then. Let’s see how mouthy you are with your neck snapped.”
The man was large and dead, he didn’t feel things like the protestations of muscles given too great a load. That was Drake’s chance. The man was already close to over-balancing, and it didn’t take much for Drake to kick back off another set of shelves and use that momentum to tip the two of them. Jason’s control over the man was not complete enough to compensate the shift in weight in time. Drake and the shopkeeper went sprawling, the fall breaking the man’s grip on his neck.
But while the fall jarred Drake’s existing injuries, his opponent had the advantage of no longer feeling much of anything. It only took a few seconds for Jason’s control to reassert itself and then it was a desperate game of cat and mouse as Drake fought desperately to keep out of the man’s grip. Drake swung himself up onto the top of the shelves of wine, throwing a few bottles directly at his opponent before hastily abandoning the shelf as the shopkeeper brought the shelf down. He was running out of places to go-
“And I thought young Bartholemew had untidy habits.”
Finally. The reinforcements.
“He’s already dead, being controlled via some sort of psychic link. You don’t need to hold back.”
“And here I thought it was merely another of Lord Wayne’s admirers.” Lord Queen raised his bow coolly. The arrow it held was one of his signature custom models - effective against all manner of preternatural creatures.
The shopkeeper snarled. Clearly, Drake was not the only one to recognise the arrow. “Don’t think this ends here, Drake. And Queen - you’ll regret interfering with Foundation business.”
Lord Queen merely raised an eyebrow. “I always do.” The arrow was precise, quick and final.
Drake let out a deep breath. Reaction would be setting in, and he’d want to get himself off the shelves first. This was harder than anticipated. Landing jarred his injuries again, and he barely managed to keep his feet. He ended up leaning on Lord Queen’s arm as the man guided him through the store to the back entrance.
“He trains you to be tough. He doesn’t train you to be sensible, I see.” Queen’s mouth was pressed into a thin line and he jerked his head back towards the shopkeeper’s remains. “I take it that was the work of the Ripper we’ve heard so much about?”
“That was the Ripper. After me,” Drake said, deciding it was better that Queen have all the facts. “I realised he was targeting me as I left the hospital and so I thought I’d come to you for help.”
“For my help?” Lord Queen gave Drake an arm up into his waiting carriage, before climbing up to take the reins. “Well. At least you have some sense. Figured that my people would know some of the same anti-paranormal tricks your lot does?”
“Once a month, you have to keep a full pack of were-wolves in,” Drake said. “Stands to reason that you would know how to keep a necromancer out.” He paused. “I know how you feel about deaths in your territory,” he said. “I didn’t anticipate-“
“I know you didn’t. I smelled the necromancer. That’s why I was able to find you when I did. He really did a number on you, didn’t he, lad?” The shoulder slap was entirely too hearty and too jovial for either Drake’s comfort of mind or his recovering injuries. “Still, dousing him in wine was a good thought. Given the chance, you’d have ignited him?”
“Fire’s a purifier. Basic, but very effective.” And on that subject … “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about why Conner went back to America?”
Lord Queen took his eyes off the road ahead of them a moment to glance back at him, green eyes glittering with amusement. “Took you long enough. But no. He was obviously upset, but he didn’t say what it was about.”
Drake nodded. He suspected as much. Kon respected Lord Queen a great deal, but the man was too confident and assured to make a comfortable confessional.
“If the kid’s in trouble, I want to help.” Queen continued, with a sharp glance at Drake to see his message was taken seriously. “Kent’s not Foundation business. He’s a friend.”
Drake’s smile was rueful. It said much for the effect that Kon had on people that not half an hour since he and Lord Queen had been battling an agent of a necromancer, they were both more concerned for the American than themselves. A sign of the innate charm Kon had often referenced or knowledge of his tendency to get himself into trouble? “I’ll keep that in mind. I’ve got - one lead. One that I’d like to look into without the Foundation being aware of it.”
Lord Queen’s smile was all teeth and Drake was reminded suddenly that the man wasn’t just a keeper of were-wolves. “I’m your man, Drake. But first, the Ripper.”
“Yes,” Drake agreed, with a frown. “The Ripper.”
It took him the rest of the ride back to Lord Queen’s manor to put his finger on just what was bothering him. Jason had known that Tim planned to take shelter with Queen’s pack when he’d accused him of fraternizing with the enemy - but how had he known?
“The note I left to be relayed to you didn’t mention it,” Drake told the Director courtesy of Lord Queen’s private line. “So we can eliminate both him tapping into our communications, or an inside accomplice. Either Todd deduced it from my route, or there’s something else at play here.”
“Agreed,” the Director said grimly from the other end of the line. “I’m not happy that he found you.”
“If it was an inside tip-off, he had time. He might have wanted me conscious and awake. Said he was disappointed I wasn’t going to make it interesting.” Drake tried to ignore Lord Queen smirking at him from the bar.
“Trying to rattle you. Interesting is not as much of a concern to him as dead.”
“No,” Drake agreed slowly. “I suppose not.” Dead, he wouldn’t be Jason’s enemy. He would be his tool. “Is it possible,” he said slowly. “That what led Jason to me was - me?”
The Director’s side of the line went very quiet.
“What if there was something in that attack, something that got hidden by all the glass? I was conscious for a few days before he attempted to get at me. This morning, a nurse casually mentions the full name of the hospital in my hearing as well as the time I can expect Alfred, and right on cue, a carriage shows up. He then proceeded to set a trap for me, including the bait of the phone line to ensure I left the safety of the crowd, along the projected course of the omnibus I happened to choose at random.” Drake started as Lord Queen suddenly stepped close, relaxing as the peer merely set down a glass on the table beside him. He picked it up, with a wry grimace for his own reaction. “Thanks, Ollie.”
The silence got frostier.
“Lord Queen insisted.” Drake took a sip of the drink. Scotch - and quality, at that. Very welcome. “Until we can definitively prove or disprove my theory, I’m staying here. Todd’s targeting me, but he’s after you. I’m not allowing him to use me to bring you down.”
“Let me talk to him.” Lord Queen didn’t wait for permission to take the phone. “Bruce,” he said with his trademark brusqueness. “We don’t see eye to eye on a lot of things. Never have, and I doubt that’s going to change in future, but you know where I stand on people getting hurt on my turf.” He paused to listen, giving a short bark of laughter at the Director’s reply. “Only you could have the gall to say that, and to a man that just offered to help you too. Don’t worry. You’ll get your protégé back in one piece.”
Drake winced. With any luck, Miss Gordon was not privy to this particular call. And what memories was this bringing back for the Director?
Lord Queen set the phone down. “You really think the necromancer’s got a window into your mind?”
“It would make sense,” Drake agreed, cautiously. “It might just be nerves. After all, I have been under a good deal of strain since my injury.”
Lord Queen snorted. “Nerves. With your teacher? Come on, to the library. I was thinking of showing you the mansion, giving you the grand tour as it were, but it makes no sense to warn our friend of what is waiting him should he try to join you. Instead, let’s see that your mind is occupied.”
The Queen library was not as extensive as the Foundation’s collection, but it was home to several rare treasures. Only open to visitors upon written application, rumours of its contents had spread and Drake was pleased to find they were not unfounded.
“Why, this is incredible! Knowne Beastes and Ghoules of Olde -- the Director himself has complained of this book being impossible to find!”
“I know,” Lord Queen said smugly. “I went to a lot of expense to see I got it before him. Make yourself at home. I’ll send up one of the pups with some food and a reading lamp, and we’ll get you a bed made up in here.”
Drake couldn’t have asked for a better solution, and as Lord Queen left to arrange matters, Drake wondered if the man knew. Anticipating the actions of another in his head … That was very like living with the Beast within, wasn’t it? The only difference was that Todd was very calculating and in control of his actions …
His sleep was unsettled, his dreams dark. Often he started awake with a movement, stepping onto ground that wasn’t there. An ordinary reaction to a dream of walking? Or Todd attempting to physically take control of his body as he did those of his dead servants?
Drake lay still, trying to calm his heart-beat. He wouldn’t heal without rest, and he couldn’t do that if he wasn’t calm. It was to no avail, however, and with a sigh he sat up in his cot, reaching for the candle beside his bed. He turned listlessly through the pages of The Untold Americas: the True Tales of the New Worlds Old History trying to find a worthy distraction when the door creeped open.
“Everything all right, Mr Drake?”
It was the younger man, the one who’d been raised in a Tibetan monastery. “Just fine, Connor. Couldn’t sleep.”
The man nodded. “If you need anything, just call. One of us will be out here all night.”
A guard? It was strangely reassuring. Drake nodded and thanked Connor. A couple of minutes later, he found he could put down the book entirely, ready to try sleep again. This time it took and held.