Page of Tricks, page 9
Frederick was trying to set him off again, wasn’t he?
Quentin felt sick at the thought that someone could intentionally trigger an episode, weaponize his own illness against him in such a way. No wonder Laurence had been so insistent that he run.
He turned on the balls of his feet and sprinted for the door.
He heard a soft hiss at his back, and then the splintering of glass and a sound like the stretching of a thousand rubber bands. It was a sound he couldn’t place, not quite.
Not until a rosebush snared his ankle.
Quentin stumbled, but caught himself telekinetically rather than land in a carpet littered with broken glass. He twisted and threw shards of that glass at the thorny vines that dug into his trousers, but more poured in through the ruined windows from the back garden.
Laurence stood with his arms wide, hands flung toward him, features pinched in concentration.
Frederick was using Laurence’s gifts, or forcing Laurence to use them. Either way, this was not a fight Quentin wished any part of. If he himself didn’t get horribly hurt, Laurence might, and that was untenable.
More brambles shot toward him at a speed only Laurence could make them grow, and Quentin flung everything he could at them to bat them aside as he backed toward the door.
Frederick wouldn’t risk exposure, would he? If this fight spilled out onto the street, would Frederick let it go, or would he allow the whole world to see what they could do?
It was a gamble, but if Quentin remained here, there was no way for this to end well.
He thrust a jet of flame at the nearest vines and dove backward through the doorway, rolling as he landed, and sprang to his feet the moment he was able. He tore the kitchen door off its hinges and jammed it into the doorway of the drawing room, then bolted across the hallway.
A loud smash sounded behind him, but he didn’t stop. Instead, he wrenched the front door inward and all but flew down the steps and out into the street, drenched through by the rain in a matter of seconds.
Quentin skidded to a halt and turned on the balls of his feet, looking back at the open doorway.
Laurence appeared, framed by it, lip curled in irritation.
They stood, chests heaving. Quentin heard his pulse banging in his ears, felt the tingle of adrenaline pumping through him.
But the park across the street failed to lash out and attack him.
That was it, then. Frederick wasn’t willing to take this out into the open.
“I’m doing this for your own good,” Laurence yelled. And Freddy’s accent was gone, just like that. It sounded so much like Laurence’s native cant that for a second Quentin hesitated. “There are things you have to remember!”
No. It was Frederick, and he was using Laurence’s body, and Quentin would make him pay for this.
Once he figured out how the hell to make him stop.
He slicked hair from his eyes and turned his back on the man he loved, then broke into a run. He knew his way back to the Dorchester from here, and he’d spent too long cooped up in one vehicle or another. He was good at running, and running was what Laurence had told him to do, so by God he was going to do it now.
Quentin sprinted as fast as he could and didn’t look back, and all the while he tried to ignore the fact that his heart was breaking.
14
Laurence
Relief flooded through him as he watched Quentin disappear into the gloom, his lithe frame obscured by the downpour until it vanished altogether.
“He’ll find a way,” he panted as he remained fixed in the doorway. Rain hit his front and left his back dry.
Who are you speaking to? Frederick’s voice was in his head now, which seemed even worse than having the guy in the same room as him.
“You’re an asshole.”
And you’re a hunter. So hunt.
Laurence shook his head briefly, then closed his eyes as he latched onto Quentin’s scent.
“You better hope Quentin finds you before I do,” he snarled as he slipped silently down the steps and began to track Quentin along the crescent.
How dare Frederick use him like this? The guy was picking and choosing which of Laurence’s gifts to take advantage of like he was browsing at a fucking boutique, and he was going to make Laurence track Quentin down and betray him.
Again.
Freddy wanted Quentin to know what his father had done, and he wanted Quentin to know Laurence had kept it from him, all because he wanted to break Quentin.
Break wasn’t a word anyone should use for people. The only time that word ever got used was during torture.
Laurence gasped in horror as he slunk around a corner and out onto a main road. That was it. That was what Frederick was doing, and there was no nice word for it, no polite way to put it.
This was torture.
The woodsy thread of Quentin’s scent was bright and true, a straight line as the earl ran for his freedom, and the rain had yet to wash it down the drain. If Laurence followed it, if he went unnoticed as he tailed Quentin through London, he would track his prey down and give Frederick yet more opportunity to torment Quentin.
Laurence’s anger flared. It burned. White hot, pure and bright, it seared his thoughts and made his skin burn. He screamed with mindless frenzy.
He stopped walking.
The thread of Quentin’s scent faded.
He dropped to his knees on the sidewalk, dizzy and exhausted. The fury in him gave him ideas he usually had the strength to brush aside, but now he allowed himself to wallow in them. He would tear Frederick’s heart out through his chest with his bare hands and shred it to scatter for the birds, and then he’d turn his vengeance on Mikey.
His muscles quivered as strength drained out of them. He screamed himself hoarse, then sagged and gulped down air.
But he still wasn’t tailing Quentin.
Laurence wiped the rain from his eyes with hands that were unsteady and weak, and he stood as carefully as he could.
“Freddy?”
There was no response. No sarcastic taunts, no pressure to do anything, no loss of control.
Laurence shook his head slowly. Either this was another trick, or…
Or he was free.
He hurried to the side of the street. There were so few people out in this weather that hardly anyone else was around, and none of them were looking at him. Knowing the British, it was because none of them wanted to get caught looking at a crazy person, for which Laurence was thankful.
If Freddy wasn’t in his head right now, that didn’t mean the guy wouldn’t be back, and he’d know anything and everything Laurence had done. So Laurence better make sure it was something Freddy couldn’t undo.
He closed his eyes and reached for the sense that had called on him so long ago.
“Where are you?” He whispered it under his breath, unsure whether he needed to voice it at all.
The connection softly roused itself, eager to answer.
I come!
Laurence hadn’t imagined it. It wasn’t a voice, nor a conversation, but just the profound feeling that he received a response which he understood.
“Windsor?”
Yes! Excitement chased the word.
Laurence took a deep breath and drew on his connection to his familiar. “Thank the Goddess. Don’t come here, Windsor. Get Rufus. He’s got to find a spell to stop Freddy getting into my damn head again!”
Windsor’s response was quizzical. With Rufus.
Laurence bit his lip. The feeling was definitely that Windsor meant right now, not that he was confirming Laurence’s request.
Rufus had said that Laurence’s connection to his familiar was as potent as a blood connection for the purposes of magic, that Laurence could understand the bird when others couldn’t, and that he could see through Windsor’s eyes.
He’d never tried it, and he didn’t know where to start, but if it was a way to communicate and get help, he was willing to try anything, and he didn’t have time to worry about whether or not he could do it. He branched out, as though pushing his energy into a plant to make it grow.
Windsor reached toward him with glee, almost dragging Laurence the rest of the way, until he blinked and everything changed.
He was in Rufus’ library.
It was bright, filled with light and color, the San Diego morning sun just peeking in through the windows. Windsor could see the yellow tint to the sky outside more vibrantly than Laurence was able to with his own eyes, and as he looked around, other parts of the library seemed to have more color to them than usual.
Windsor cawed with excitement and flapped his wings, then hopped toward Rufus and cawed again.
Rufus plucked a book from the shelves to add to the pile in his arms, and frowned down at Windsor. “I’m going as fast as I can!”
Laurence strained to speak, but Windsor’s beak didn’t move like human lips; his throat didn’t do what Laurence’s own did.
He cursed inwardly.
“Poop!” Windsor declared. The bird seemed to think he was being helpful by translating Laurence’s swearing into the only naughty word he could say out loud.
Nice try. Can you tell Ru I’m in London?
Windsor tipped his head back and forth as he searched the room, revealing the presence of Myriam at the table as he turned.
Mom!
Windsor flapped proudly and made noises that sounded like an engine.
You got her to drive you all the way to Ru’s house?
Windsor clacked his beak in agreement.
Goddess, you’re a smart little bird, yes you are!
Windsor cooed with pleasure and hopped his way over to Myriam, then pecked at her thumb.
Myriam leaned in close and peered at the raven.
I don’t know how long I have. Tell them where I am, Win. Tell them Quentin’s brother is a telepath, he’s trying to break us. Tell them they’ve gotta find a way to stop him getting into our heads! Can you do that?
Windsor clacked his beak and hopped up Myriam’s hand onto her forearm, then pointed toward the door with one wing.
Laurence could’ve cried, if he weren’t so dehydrated and sore from doing so for what felt like forever already.
“What’s he doing?” Rufus’ voice came from behind, and for a moment Laurence almost thought the witch was in the street with him.
“He wants me to go this way,” Myriam murmured as she stood.
Fatigue gripped Laurence. He was still deep in withdrawal, and now the adrenaline crash was taking its toll, too. He felt the connection slip through his grasp, and he was cold and wet and shivering in a grey afternoon in a city he didn’t know.
Had he done of that of his own free will, or had Freddy influenced him? He couldn’t know for sure, but it had to be his own mind, surely? Why would Freddy want Laurence to reach any kind of help at all, especially if that help could stop Freddy retaking control of him?
The press of the tin in his pocket was cold and hard.
Laurence pushed his hands into his hair and gripped it, then tugged hard. The stab of pain helped him think for an extra couple of seconds.
Mikey had given him the tin, which meant Freddy wanted Laurence to have it. Was it there to taunt and tempt him, or was it Freddy’s ultimate goal to have Laurence relapse?
Either way, if Laurence was high as a kite, Frederick might not want to be inside his head. Heroin addiction was a psychological thing more than it was physical, and touching an addict’s mind during a high might have long-term effects Freddy wasn’t willing to expose himself to.
Or maybe it would just make Laurence more pliable. Controllable.
Fragile.
How much of the stuff had Mikey brought with him? If Laurence ditched this, would there just be more of the shit waiting for him whenever Freddy recaptured him?
Get high.
You think better when you’re high.
It was a lie, but it felt true. The only thing he could cling to was the knowledge that shooting up on the street was a bad idea, but he had nowhere to go.
Except back to Freddy.
He scowled and dug through his pockets. He didn’t think he had his wallet or cellphone on him, but it was better to check.
No.
Just the tin.
Which was in his hand now.
If Mikey didn’t have any more with him, this could be Laurence’s last chance. Just this one shot, and then it’d be over. He’d be free of Freddy for a while, and the pain would go away. He could come up with a plan, figure things out, all right under Freddy’s nose.
Quentin would save him. All Laurence had to do was hold on to hope.
He stared at the tin, then flung it into the street and ran as hard as he could to get away from it, away from Freddy, away from the rain and the heartache and the voice in his head that told him he could just turn around, get the tin, take a hit, get high…
Horns blared at him. Lights flashed in the grey. He weaved and ducked, but his mind was back in the gutter.
Back where he could escape.
So when the car hit him, he didn’t even see it coming.
15
Quentin
Quentin locked himself in his hotel room and finally got a look at it.
It wasn’t too bad, he supposed. It was larger than Laurence’s above the Jack in the Green.
He leaned against the door and exhaled as the world, which had been on pause, finally came crashing down around him.
No.
No.
Laurence needed him. Quentin did not have time for this self-indulgent claptrap. He had to… he had to do something, for God’s sake! He couldn’t just stand here crying like a child.
He was crying.
He leaned his head back against the door and struggled for control. Bad enough to destroy Freddy’s drawing room, but if he wrecked a room at the Dorchester, of all places, it would get back to Father faster than lightning, and then matters would go from bad to considerably worse.
Quentin sniffed and wiped his eyes, then pushed away from the door and headed for the bathroom. He had to get out of these drenched clothes and switch into fresh ones that he could subsequently get soaking wet when he next went outside.
Was there any cause to go outside right now, though? What would it achieve? He had no idea where Freddy was, and until he tracked his brother down, there was nothing Quentin could do to stop him.
There was nothing he could do.
Unless he called Father.
Quentin leaned against the sink and scowled at himself in the mirror. That was not a viable solution, even though it was what all this was about. There was no guarantee that Father would call Freddy off and leave Laurence alone, even if Quentin were to walk right in through the doors of Castle Cavendish this very evening.
Strategically, Quentin was in a weak enough position without capitulating to the enemy.
He pursed his lips and began to peel his jacket and shirt off, but had to turn away from the mirror to do so. He wasn’t robust enough for that sight. Not right now. He emerged back into the bedroom and placed them on separate hangers from the wardrobe so that they could dry out a little, then emptied his pockets onto the bed.
Phone. Wallet. Keys. Hotel room key card. Passport. Drenched boarding pass. Luggage receipts.
He sifted through the small pile, picked up his phone, and switched it on.
It seemed to take longer than usual to get itself ready, and then he received a flood of text messages about roaming call and data charges, none of which he cared enough about to decode. So long as the bloody thing worked, he didn’t care what it cost.
He turned to the case, which had been placed on a luggage rack by the wardrobe, and carried it to the bed, then unlocked it and laid the contents out across the soft duvet of the queen-sized bed.
These were his assets. The sum total of what was available to him right this moment. He could get more, but this was what he had to hand, so he took a moment to catalogue them and prioritize his requirements.
Making the list helped calm him, push aside the fear that he could have lost Laurence forever, and the worry about whatever could have happened to trigger his blackout.
He would need a charger for his phone. In the rush to leave the house, he had neglected to pack one. That was no problem. He could have the hotel concierge fetch one for him. But the phone itself gave him access to far more resources than those merely present on the bed before him.
He pursed his lips and picked it up, paused to do a little mental arithmetic, then called the Jack in the Green. London was eight hours ahead of the shop, so it should be open now.
“The Jack in the Green.” It was Ethan’s voice. “How can I help you?”
“Ethan. Quentin. Is Myriam available?”
“Oh! Hey, Quentin! No, she hasn’t come in today. I figured she was at the farm.”
Quentin nodded faintly. “Could you try to get in contact with her and let her know that I’ve arrived in London, and that there are… complications with regards to the situation here.”
Ethan swore quietly. “Okay. I tried to call Laur, but his phone goes straight to voicemail.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if Frederick has removed his phone,” Quentin agreed. “I believe Myriam knows Rufus. If he knows any way of locating someone without the use of their blood, that would be lovely.”
Well, hardly lovely. It would involve magic, after all, but needs must.
“Okay. I’ll pass it on. You’ll be on this number, yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Great. Anything else?”
“No. If I think of anything, I shall let you know.”
“Right on. Be careful, dude.”
“I shall do my utmost.” He hung up and set the phone down, then moved to the hotel phone and called the concierge for a spare charger to be sent to his room. For a brief moment, he considered calling room service, too, but he was even less interested in food than usual, so instead he helped himself to a bottle of water from the minibar.
