The steps came into the bedroom, the soft tapping of heels on concrete, and Scarlet took a deep breath, holding it in case they could hear her. Six weeks ago, she’d faced down a demon in hell, and here she was cowering beneath a bed in some scuzzy estate in west London. It was worse, here, somehow. In Hell, she’d been fighting for her mum, and Martin had been with her. Unconscious, yes, but present just the same.
But Martin wasn’t here now, and based on what those two had said, he’d been taken somewhere, by someone. Maybe if she listened hard, and didn’t wet herself from fear, they might tell her where he’d been taken.
They were turning the place upside down, ripping apart anything the last searchers had left. There wasn’t much though, and in only a few minutes, the second joined the first in the bedroom. There was even less in here and soon one grabbed the mattress, heaving it into the air.
He stared down at Scarlet, but his eyes never blinked, and he dropped it again, leaving her wide-eyed and panting. What the hell had just happened? She looked down at herself. Yep, definitely here, and hard to miss.
The two stomped back out into the other room, one sniffing almost constantly. ‘There’s magic ‘ere.’
‘Of course there is, this is Martin we’re talking about. You know his history, of course?’
A moment’s silence, in which Scarlet could clearly hear the Londoner deciding whether to admit his ignorance, or play it cool. Surprisingly, he came clean, which was awesome. Maybe she’d actually find something out about him now.
‘Nah, not really. Just know the name. Why, who is-e?’
Another moment of silence, and without ever even seeing him, she knew she wanted to punch the American. The sound of his voice was just as she suspected, knowing and smug. ‘Martin was one of the Council, high up, in his time. Then, well, you know, the thing happened with his wife, and he went a little… crazy. Started accusing all sorts of all sorts of things. Wasn’t popular, not at all, so out he went.’
The American paused, and Scarlet could imagine him crossing his arms, leaning against a wall, wanting the other man to ask him more. When nothing was forthcoming, he continued anyway. ‘They let him be, until the files went missing. Now, well, now we have to find him.’
‘If who we think’s got ‘im, ‘as, how do you propose we do that?’
More silence. Who do you think’s got ‘im? Him? Whatever, come on, say it, say it.
‘It could be anyone in the Underworld, and any one of them has every reason to avoid us like the plague, so your guess is as good as mine.’
The Londoner sniffed, kicked something that slammed against the wall and made her jump, and walked out. The American followed him, and she gasped out a breath. The footsteps paused, and she winced, screwing up her eyes and toes, waiting. Eventually, they resumed and the squat fell quiet.
She waited, another ten minutes or so, just to be sure. And another five, you know, just in case. Finally, she pulled herself out from under the bed, and leant against the wall, taking deep breaths. What was the Underworld and why did it make her skin crawl? For that matter, who were the Council, and what had they done to Martin’s wife?
She had more questions now, and not enough answers to go round. More importantly, she still didn’t have a clue where Martin was. She pulled the spell book out, and thumbed through until she found the spell.
For the rescuing of those trapped.
Seemed a good a bet as any. She read down the ingredients list. He should have it all here, there wasn’t anything unusual. She crept out into the other room, still expecting the two men to reappear at any moment, and gathered together what she needed from the stuff strewn around the floor. She was getting better at this, and soon it was laid out, the symbols drawn on the concrete, the pungent sage making her nose tickle as the smoke filled the room.
She should possibly think about this, before she did it.
OK, that was enough.
She cleared her throat, and said the words, and stepped through the bright light.
The floor was solid this time, stone or concrete, something other than spongy and gross. It was dark, darker than she would have ideally liked, given the things she could hear. She was about to pull out her phone, when a voice boomed through the darkness.
‘Welcome, little girl. Tell me, are you the entertainment?’
