I did have to nix the idea of the Patrician planting the explosives, cool and character-developing though it would have been. As Garfunkel noted, you'd want the demolitions expert to be the one doing it.
Chapter 14 - Preparation's Everything
“A white Ford Fiesta,” Humphrey says. He sounds tired; almost resigned. “Licence plate – BD51SMR. The boot’s locked, but if I know your people, that won’t give them any trouble. Cavendish Square car park, on the second level. There aren’t any cameras. Everything you requested is there.”
“You’re a good man, Humphrey,” you tell him.
He simply sighs.
“Can I tell you something, Patrician?” he asks, after a moment.
You wait, patiently, for him to put his thoughts into words.
“There was a time,” he murmurs, “when your world had allure to me. When I thrilled at the thought of another world beneath our own...a power only I had any idea existed. But now...now I find myself awake every night, turning, worrying – what deal with the devil has been made here? I sweat beneath the covers, thinking I’m going to open my eyes and find one of you things standing over the bed. And my wife strokes my forehead and whispers in sympathy about the pressures of power. She doesn’t know my guilt. She can’t understand…whatever foul deeds you get up to in the darkness.”
“We need the materials you acquired for us,” you say, soothingly, “to stop innocent people like your wife from learning about us. The deaths in Millbank? The explosion-”
“Yes, yes,” he replies, but he doesn’t seem convinced. “I’m sure you know what you’re doing. I’m sure you’ll do what’s necessary to maintain your…masquerade. Good night, Patrician. I’m a little tired. That’s all.”
*
“White phosphorus,” the Nosferatu says. With the slightest of grunts, she lifts the crate down from the boot of the car. “More than we’ll need. Got the rest of my tools and the electric charges in there too. And that stuff in the boxes? That’s torpex. Kine military always said it was too expensive to use.” She grins at you. A scabby, half-stitched smile. “You got some contacts, boss.”
“Simone,” Eames drawls, “Simone, dearest, how long do you think you’ll need? Just a rough estimate?”
She sits, comfortably, sprawled out across the tarmac, fiddling with a pair of antiquated-looking wellies.
Simone shrugs.
“With all these gizmos?” she says. “Ehhh, gimme an hour. Maybe longer. Depends on the quality of the rock down there.”
“Simone’s a trooper,” Eames says, proudly. “Not that I really…care for explosives myself, of course. But there’s an artistry to it – isn’t there, darling? The alchemical process, the care and the caution of combining each ingredient, of applying that final spark…”
Fellowes emerges from the car, grinning. He carries, strapped to his back, what appears to be an old Ack Pack flamethrower, lifting the barrel with unmistakeably boyish enthusiasm.
“Er…” you begin. “There’s no chance of that museum piece exploding and killing us all, is there, Edgar?”
He looks a little sheepish.
“The old toys are the most reliable,” he protests. “Anyway, Jamieson’s got a rucksack full of aerosols and a cigarette lighter. Go tell him we need to be careful, why don’t you?”
“As long as Mr Jamieson understands,” Eames says, “that these are to be used as a last resort only. Otherwise…we use the poles and the meat to keep the worms busy. If Simone’s really in danger, I have a few tricks that won’t leave a trace.”
She stretches out a hand, and flaps it at you. You help her to her feet. As she stands, she clasps hold of your arm, pressing herself into the hollow of your body.
“You can control him, can’t you?” she whispers into your ear. Her gaze remains upon you, steady.
You nod. From somewhere behind you, you can hear Jamieson giggling to himself in delighted anticipation.
*
It takes you all a little longer, burdened with the explosives – and, worse, the sacks of cow flesh – to reach the caves.
Jamieson and Fellowes spread out across the cavern floor, glancing into the shadows, checking in case any worm has escaped from the pit.
Eames traces her fingers slowly across the faded Ogham runes.
“There’s an old temple just like this one,” she says, “under my chantry in Greenwich. What dark, unknown foundations we build our world upon…”
She breaks off suddenly, and turns, strolling towards the pit edge. Slowly, you follow.
The body-worms wriggle excitedly below. One of them leaps up into the air, as if catching as a fly. The great mother-mass itself remains unmoved by your presence, pulsating slowly to its own private rhythm.
“The Tzimisce,” Eames snorts, disapprovingly. “So much power, so much creative potential…and yet they invent horrors such as these. Oh, this is distressing, darling. What a filthy thing.”
One of the larger worms shifts upwards, slipping up across the backs of the others. The twisted face of Karthik juts out of its neck, sightless and stretched. One of the Ravnos’ empty eye-sockets spreads wide, opening up, sphincter-like, revealing a set of tiny bone-teeth.
Eventually, working with a drill, Simone manages to hook the harness up into the roof of the cave.
“All right,” she says, adjusting the tool-belt around her waist. “If I should be horribly torn apart by these things, think only this of me – at least I’ll die pretty.”
She smiles; but there’s a nervousness in her eyes.
Fellowes hefts a sagging mass of cow-leg, with the smallest of grunts, and tosses it. It falls into the farthest corner of the pit.
Almost immediately, the worms begin to writhe away across the pit-floor, swarming towards the meat.
“Let’s go,” Simone says.
*
Each hunk of meat lasts roughly fifteen minutes beneath the teeth of the body-worms. Simone works, quickly and calmly, only occasionally raising her voice over the sound of the drill to request someone pass her down one of the charges. Fellowes and Jamieson take turns at the rope, switching over to stand at the pit edge and watch for any stray worms inching towards the Nosferatu.
“Almost done,” Simone says, at last. “We can set up a relay in the – fuck’s sake, watch it!”
A body-worm snaps up out of the darkness, straining towards her leg, balanced against the rock.
Fellowes swings his pole, striking the creature hard in its open mouth. With a wail of pain, it tumbles back down.
“All right,” Simone snaps, after a second. “We’re done here. Lift me back up.”
Jamieson yanks on the rope.
Simone pulls herself up.
“Whew,” she says, patting down her hands. “Take a look, Patrician. See what you think.”
You gaze down into the abyss. The cliff edge looks entirely untouched.
“Perfect,” you tell her.
*
Fellowes says, as you reach the car,
“Next move, Patrician?”
You consider it.
“Get Wilkinson to Eames’ place,” you tell him. “Give her some time to settle in. Make her feel comfortable, and part of the team.”
“Then what?” he asks.
You smile, to yourself. The moon is high, over the lights of London.
“Then we die, Edgar,” you reply. “Then we die.”
*
But when will you fake your own death?
A) There’s no time to waste. The longer this sting’s drawn out, the higher the chances of it being discovered, or of Wilkinson overhearing useful information about my other plans. Tomorrow night it is.
B) We wait. Having Wilkinson around is dangerous, but if we want this set-up to be credible, having Jamieson gun me down so soon after she arrives might seem suspicious to Angelos.
