Red, White and Blue (Book Two of The Powder Trail)

Chapter Forty Eight: The Powder Trail

The old man hesitated, as though he wasn't sure whether or not to run. His bodyguard was dead, but there was only Ellini to threaten him, and she must have lost at least two pints of blood already. She was also pinned down by the gargoyle's body. Its blood was pouring over her, completing the process of dyeing her white dress red.

He must have thought she wasn't strong enough to threaten him. In fact, Jack could see him thinking that – he could see the cogs turning in his head, behind that grotesque tan. And he was obscenely pleased that the old fool had come to that conclusion, because he knew exactly what Ellini was going to do next.

She didn't need to fight the old man, or even catch him. He was all the way over by the doors. But she was just a footstep away from Jack.

He saw her grit her teeth, slide the gargoyle off her lap, and drag herself unsteadily to her feet. She didn't make eye-contact with him. Either she couldn't stand to look at him, or she was too weak to turn her head, because the instant she seized the sickle by its handle and yanked it out of the wall, she collapsed at his feet.

That was when the old man started to run. He flung himself out of the door without a thought for the dignity he'd been so carefully preserving up till then.

But Jack had one hand free now, and he had been tensed for this moment almost as soon as he'd seen her stab the gargoyle. He yanked out the sickle that had been pinning down his other wrist and sprang after him, through the doors and out into the church gardens.

Memories were teeming behind his eyes again, threatening to eclipse the chase. But even if they did – even if he couldn't see – he vowed that he would sniff the old bastard out and use the sickle to chop off every appendage he could find.

When he reached the gardens, the American flag unfurled in his mind's eye, blotting out the darkness. He threw out a hand to steady himself against the church-wall, trying to shake it off.

It wasn't a memory, as such, but the symbol of a memory. And when it fell away from his eyes, it revealed that dark, ecstatic night in the cabin of the steamer, listening to the sailors on the docks playing the Star-spangled Banner, while meaningless French phrases poured into his ears. He remembered staring up at the cabin ceiling – mildly concussed from the shock of all that pleasure – thinking he could see the stars, if not the stripes, blossoming before his eyes.

Jack tried to grind his hand against the wall in an effort to wake himself up. The memories were constricting his chest and making his palms sweat, but he had to catch the old man. There was going to be plenty of time to regret what he'd done, without adding regrets about what he hadn't done.

Gradually, the dark gardens came back into focus. The old man was at the end of the path – almost at the cobbles of Radcliffe Square – when Jack threw the sickle. He tumbled forwards, with the half-moon blade embedded in his back.

Jack followed after him, his ears still ringing with all that remembered bliss. The contrast with the here-and-now was frightening. 

He yanked the sickle out and rolled the old man onto his back. It seemed important, somehow, that the bastard saw death coming – that he had time to dread it.

"I told you," he said, sitting down on the path beside him. "I always get out. It's not luck – you think this is luck?" He gestured round at the flames and smoke and darkness. "It's just nature."

He wanted to tell the old man that his Order, his Master, his demon-slaves would be next. He wanted to promise the old bastard that he would find someone he cared about, and make them suffer for what he'd done. But the old man probably didn't care about anyone. And, besides, Jack wasn't very confident that he  would live through the night himself. It was probably best just to put him out of his misery.