Irregulars - lanyon Josh (книги онлайн полные .txt) 📗
Jason sensed other people there as well: grim men and women in black uniforms standing far back in the shadows. Jason thought Gunther hunched among them, his terrible goblin face distorted further by anger. He couldn’t see that, but he sensed it in the way of dreams.
Before him, Falk held out his hands. One of the men in green encircled his wrists with iron chains. Then the rest closed ranks around him and they led him away.
Jason wanted to sit up and call out. He tried to shout, but Princess crouched on his chest. She bowed her scarlet face close to his.
I am sent here to hide you until the regent’s guards have taken the bait and flown home like so many swallows carrying poison back to their nest.
Sleep.
***
Jason woke suddenly and with a cry of alarm. Princess startled off the divan and Gunther—with a cigarette in his ragged, toothy mouth—glared at him.
A dizzy, unreal feeling moved through Jason as he attempted to work out what was going on. Bright afternoon light poured in through the windows of Phipps’s shop. Empty beer bottles and the remains of a chicken dinner lay a yard from the divan where Jason sat naked.
Falk’s trench coat lay across one of his legs.
“This has got to be a low point—even for you,” Gunther growled at him. “How could you let them take him? You know what they’re going to do to him when they get him back to the sidhe realm.”
“What—” Jason began, but Gunther cut him off.
“They’re going to cut him up with rusty razors and shove his remains through a fucking sieve until they find the damn Stone of Fal.” The phone in Gunther’s pocket sounded, but he ignored it. “If you were going to go ahead and let him get diced, you might as well have handed him over to our people. At least the guys in R&D use anesthesia. At least they would have tried to keep him intact…”
Jason just stared at Gunther, trying to understand what he was talking about and feeling disturbed that he just allowed his phone to keep ringing.
“Where’s Henry?” Jason asked.
Then it was Gunther’s turn to gape. His phone let out a last tone, then went quiet.
“What did you say?” Gunther moved closer and instinctively Jason grabbed Falk’s coat and pulled it around his naked body.
“I want to talk to Henry. Where is he?” Jason asked again.
Gunther narrowed his red-slit eyes, dug into his suit pocket, and pulled out what looked like a small flashlight. He shone it on Jason and then swore in a crackling, grumbling language that Jason didn’t need to know to understand.
“Doesn’t work. Must be a glamour. A genuine faerie dust glamour. Damn it.” Gunther flicked the light off and considered Jason. “If you’re here, then who—” Realization showed on Gunther’s face and at the same moment a terrible knowledge dawned upon Jason.
Falk had asked for three pinches of faerie dust from Buttercup. He’d used the last two on Jason and himself last night while Jason had dozed.
The whole time that he’d been offering Jason easy advice and helping him pack he’d never intended to leave with him.
“That stupid son of a bitch,” Jason snapped.
“Oh yeah,” Gunther agreed. He crumpled his cigarette in his hand and then tossed its crushed remains into his mouth. “He could actually get himself killed this time. Damn him.”
“Princess can find him, though, can’t she?” Jason asked.
“Of course. She’s blood of his blood.” Gunther considered Falk’s familiar, then added, “No one at HQ is going to sign off on this, though. If they find out what Henry’s done…”
“No. They can’t know,” Jason agreed.
Gunther fished a phone out of his pocket and began to dial. His toothy expressions were difficult to read, but Jason thought he looked strained or perhaps furtive. Suspicious fear moved through Jason. He tried to sound casual as he asked, “Who are you calling?”
Gunther turned his attention back to Jason.
“My boyfriend. He hates it if I don’t call when I’m going to be late for dinner.” Gunther paused, looked Jason over, then added, “By the way, you’ll probably want to put some pants on.”
Chapter Nine
A stinging salt rain lashed Henry as he raced for the shelter of an overhang. The green-garbed assassins Cethur Greine had sent to retrieve Jason surrounded and led him as they had for the entire day’s journey through archaic portals, across the ragged sea cliffs, and now up through the dim twilight to the white walls of the high king’s citadel.
They sneered at the pelting rain. Their commander—a lustrous-skinned, dark-haired bastard who addressed Henry obsequiously in English but referred to him as miolra, vermin, in his own tongue—caught hold of Henry by the hood of his red sweat jacket.
“You cannot stop here, young prince,” the commander told him in thickly accented English. “We must climb to the parapet wall and cross over to the Hall of the Throne before the King’s Star rises.”
“Why?” Henry asked because Jason would have. He already knew the answer—not that these men would tell him the truth. They planned to murder him under cover of darkness, before word could spread across the Tuatha De Dannan Islands that the prince had returned to the sidhe realm.
His armed escorts played at polite only because it suited them not to have to drag him kicking and howling up the high walls before them. And Henry went along because every minute he kept them fooled meant a greater distance for Jason to put between himself and Greine.
Jason might have reached Atlantis by now. Princess would hate the water but love to chase the flying fish.
Overhead lightning cracked at the darkening sky and Henry heard storm waves breaking against the cliffs below.
“You must take part in the ceremony of your father’s coronation.” The commander raised his voice to carry over the sudden crash of thunder. His gaze moved over the glamour of Jason’s face as if he were sizing him up for sandwich meat.
“It would be easier for me to keep pace with you if you removed these bracelets.” Henry held out his wrists, displaying the iron manacles and engraved chains that linked them. The binding spells etched into the iron unnerved him. He’d seen them before, written on leather restraints and a bronze blade. Under any other circumstances Henry would never have submitted to the power of these iron manacles—but he’d needed Greine’s men to take him before Jason woke.
“They are necessary for the ceremony,” the commander informed him.
Yeah, Henry thought to himself. Necessary as a sack when you’re drowning kittens.
The man on Henry’s left—a scarred sidhe who Henry guessed was old enough to just remember the earthly realm—added, almost apologetically, “We couldn’t remove them in any case, my prince. Your father holds the key. You are his to bind or set free.”
“We must move,” the commander stated and he shoved Henry towards a tower of weathered white stairs. Henry climbed and his keepers followed like hungry dogs.
Flurries of wind pelted Henry with rain as he rose to the spectacular heights of the outer parapet. He shuddered in his soaking clothes and swore under his breath. But even so the view before him momentarily absorbed him.
The Tuatha De Dannan controlled only a string of verdant islands in all the vastness of the faerie realm, but their audacious defiance of the violent, black sea besieging them testified to the magic at their command.
The high king’s alabaster citadel rose from bare stones and jutted over jagged cliffs like the prow of an immense ship. Its towers shot up as straight as vast masts topped with turrets for crows’ nests. Above every tower the famous storm banners, emblazoned with the high king’s gold crest, billowed in the wind and traced trails through the dark clouds.
Forty years ago, when Henry had last stood on the citadel walls, the high king had held the throne and those storm banners had ensnared the rage of typhoons and hurricanes, raising the entire island so that it sailed across the seas. In the lee of the citadel, the island cities of the Tuatha De Dannan, with their exposed fields and golden orchards, had sheltered in perpetual summer.
