Resistance (Dark Realm Series) (6 page)

BOOK: Resistance (Dark Realm Series)
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At the far end of the room, General
Margaret Thatcher loomed over a mahogany desk examining a map. From the top of
her gunmetal grey bouffant to her beige pumps the general was a woman of
imposing size and presence even in her tweed suit and pearls.

"General Thatcher," I called to
her as I rushed past my companions. Surely, the no-nonsense stern leader, who I
admired, would take control of this mess with her iron fist.

"General," Driscoll interrupted
me. "We have survivors from the Hampshire Section."

"You don't know that," I said through
clenched teeth.

"I do know that," Driscoll
shouted. "And don't think I've forgotten your insubordination.
Corporal
Amy."

"You're a horse's arse—and a
cowardly arse at that!" My shout echoed off the ceiling.

"Both of you," the general
scolded. "I will not have two soldiers squabbling and insulting each other
like recalcitrant children, particularly in front of guests." She turned a
critical eye on Marlowe and Cam.

Marlowe stepped forward, his mouth
widening into a grin, which exhibited every one of his straight, white teeth.
"Is this the face that launched a thousand ships and burnt the topless
towers of Ilium?"

Huh
?

"General Thatcher."
 
Marlowe held out his hand. "Your
fame as a strategist precedes you, but no one told us in Hampshire how regally
beautiful you are."

Ridiculous.
The general despised false flattery.

When the general placed her hand in his,
instead of gripping it into a handshake, Marlowe brought it to his lips and
brushed her knuckles with his sensuous lips.

He's stepped in it now.
I almost laughed just imagining the
mayhem the general would wreak on the sad blighter's head.

But to my surprise, General Thatcher's
stern, tight-lipped expression melted away, softening into a pleased smile and
she emitted a sound I'd never heard and never thought to hear. She giggled.

After that the only concession to
protocol was that Cam was taken to another room to be debriefed so his story
could be compared to his father's for consistency later. But Marlowe
effortlessly turned his own debriefing into a tea party, complete with cups of
Earl Grey.

Driscoll poured a dollop of milk into one
cup before adding the tea. When he thrust it toward me, the contents slopped
over the cup's rim onto the saucer. I had a difficult time avoiding the
temptation to knock it from his hand.

The thought that we'd allowed an enemy to
invade our territory and dwell amongst us so easily nagged at me. But what
could I do? If even the general was smitten, what hope was there?

I decided to give the interview a more
interrogational tone. Perhaps under some hard questioning, the general would
see we had a potential double agent in our midst.

"Well, Mr.
  
Marlowe McAlvy—" I began.

"My surname is Marlowe," he
corrected.

My eyes narrowed on him. "You say
you're Cam's father but you don't have his surname?"

Now as he mentioned the difference in
their last names several other inconsistencies struck me. Not only did
  
Marlowe appear much too young to
be a teenager's father—no more than twenty-five—but also their
looks were vastly different. Cam's hair was a curly blond and his eyes emerald
green, whereas
  
Marlowe's
straight hair gleaming inky black and his eyes were like the dark swift waters
of the English Channel. A Greek sculptor could have chiseled Cam's face and
figure. Marlowe, by contrast, wasn't classically handsome. His features were
much too angular for that, his physique too powerful. Yet, I had to admit
Marlowe had a palpable charisma that could almost make you think he was the
most gorgeous man you'd ever seen.

"I adopted Cam when he was a
toddler," Marlowe answered, his brown eyes appraising me for my response.

"Adopted?" The outrage in my
question was palpable. I suppose I was too sensitive because I'd been adopted.

The general spiked me with a sharp
glance. "Adoption is to be admired, particularly in these dangerous times.
We must all band together as we may."

Brilliant. I had managed to turn the
general into Marlowe's advocate.

 
I tempered my tone. "Well, Mr. Marlowe?"

"Please," he interrupted again.
"Just Marlowe." He reclined in his seat and cocked his head to one
side.

"You only use one name?" I
asked.

"Vanity I know," he said,
shrugging. "Insisting upon one name is a most self-aggrandizing
affectation."

A bark of laughter escaped from Driscoll,
which I quelled with a narrow eyed glare.

"You came to us from Hampshire I
understand." The general held out a plate of biscuits in offering.

Marlowe smiled and selected one before
taking a bite. After chewing with obvious enjoyment, he swallowed. "Mmmm.
These are most delicious."

The general smiled. "I'm so happy
you like them. The recipe—"

"You claim to be from the Hampshire
section." No one was supposed to interrupt the general, but I couldn't
help myself. The general glared at me but I continued, "But the prince's
rifle regiment wiped them out a month ago. How do we know you are who you
say?"

"I admit there is no one left to
confirm my words." Marlowe glanced from me to the general, seeming amused
by the byplay. "My son and I are the last free survivors."

"Why didn't you just tell me who you
were on the rooftop?" I questioned.

"You were pointing a gun at
me," Marlowe answered. "You can be very intimidating."

I snorted. "Ha."

"You did shoot at me and throw that
haymaker." Marlowe rubbed at his face with one hand.

Oh right. I bet my knuckles hurt more
than his jaw. He hadn't been at all afraid of my little gun or intimidated by
me. Nevertheless, I could tell from their nodding heads the others accepted his
excuse.

I tried another tack. "If you're one
of the good guys, then why did you let the Amalgam use your cloak to ambush
us?"

"I never said I was a good guy.
Although I am good at
many
things," Marlowe said with another enticing chuckle. The
others chuckled with him.

Brilliant. He'd manipulated them, twisting
them all around his elegantly long fingers in under an hour. What was it about
this man? They all seemed almost drugged by his charming presence. All that is
except me. At that moment, Marlowe turned his penetrating attention on me. For
a moment I was lost in the depths of his eyes almost as if I were lost in a
fog. Swaying, I stumbled before mentally slapping myself back to alertness.

 
Marlowe's mouth slanted into a brief smile and he gave a half
nod, half shrug as if to say he'd almost got me.

What was he? Some older vampires could
exert a kind of hypnotic "glamouring" effect. He didn't have the
pallor of a vampire and I'd seen his grinning teeth enough to know he didn't
have fangs. He ate human food. And his body definitely wasn't cold. I'd
determined that much when I'd straddled him during our wrestling match.

Heat invaded my cheeks and I realized I
must be blushing just thinking about lying against Marlowe's hard muscular
body. Lord. What was wrong with me?

Looking down and away from those hypnotic
eyes I posed the question again. "So why did you let the Amalgam use your
cloak?"

"As I approached Fenwick's shop from
the front, the ravens attacked and drove me away." Marlowe sat straight up
in his chair and placed the teacup and saucer he'd been holding on the desk.
"The birds herded me some two blocks past to where a ghoul awaited. While
I battled the ghoul, the birds escaped with my cloak."

"And what happened to the
ghoul?" I asked.

Marlowe smirked. "I dispatched him,
naturally."

"Naturally," I glanced up and
his eyes met mine. At his gaze I flushed and looked away.

"By the time I returned to the shop
I saw the two of you leading my son away." Marlowe sipped his tea before
continuing. "Not knowing who or what you were I followed at a
distance."

"Sensible," the general said
with an approving nod.

Truly? Was I the only one that could see
this Marlowe was a liar? Smooth, but a liar nonetheless. I wondered whether my
reaction to him was a result of the fact that he had adopted Cam. But why would
a young and virile man like Marlowe adopt a toddler? Could there be any good
reason? Cam seemed to love him but what was Marlowe's ulterior motive for his
actions? There had to be one.

"I think Marlowe has given adequate
explanation," the general suddenly interjected. She stood and motioned to
a guard stationed at her back. "Show our guest and his son to rooms so
they may freshen up and rest."

"What?" I asked outraged and
then at the general's angry expression I backtracked. "What I mean is,
there are a few more topics we need to cover. We haven't talked about what
brought Marlowe and his son to London after the extermination of the Hampshire
Section. We don't even know his rank."

"My son was a private," Marlowe
replied. "I didn't seek rank. I acted as a consultant."

"A consultant? What does that mean?
What did you
consult
about?" I demanded.

"That is utterly unimportant."
Marlowe frowned. "You should be concerned about what Prince Leopold is up
to and why his workers are transporting large patches of the Hampshire countryside
to London."

Just as I was about to respond, a
commotion near the entrance to the room diverted my attention. A gasping
fighter stumbled in, spotted with dirt and blood. Four other equally
blood-spattered soldiers entered the room behind him.

"Sergeant Riley," the general
said. "What's happened?"

Riley was our resident weapons maker.
Although bombs were his specialty, he could fashion anything out of common
household products. As a result of his expertise, Riley didn't fight on the
front lines. He planted his bombs and retreated to fire them off at an
opportune time. For him to be battle scarred like this meant our mission had
gone shambolic.

"The prince's guard was waiting for
us," Sergeant Riley managed to choke out. "We were ambushed before we
reached the target."

"How many casualties?" the
general demanded.

"Only the five of us returned,"
Riley replied inclining his head toward the others.

"But you were a force of
thirty." The general shook her head sadly. "So many killed."

"No," Riley contradicted.
"The prince's ghoul guard took care not to actually kill us. They seemed
intent on capture. Twenty-five of us were
taken.
"

"Then we must mount a rescue."
The general pounded her fist against the palm of her other hand.

Riley shook his head. "I don't know
what will be left of them to rescue."

"What do you mean? Be plain,
man."

"Bring in Hoskins," Sergeant
Riley directed.

A female soldier stepped forward dragging
a comrade. The comrade trudged in our direction taking stiff-legged steps with
a blank expression, open-mouthed and drooling.

"Zombies," Sergeant Riley said.
"They're making our people into zombies."

Chapter Five
 

"Supreme
excellence consists of breaking the enemy's resistance without fighting."

Sun
Tzu,
The Art
of War

 

The section's medic peered into Hoskins'
right eye through a magnifying glass as I stood over his shoulder shining a
pinpoint light into its depths. The medic had already examined Hoskins' other
eye, his ears, his nose and his mouth, with lights and various probes. Through
it all, the victim said nothing. He just stared, with eyes dead of expression,
breathing heavily through his mouth.

Inexplicably, the general had sent
Marlowe to help us. I suppose he was "helping" by holding up the wall
of the clinic by lounging against it for the last ten minutes. But if Marlowe
was the picture of nonchalance, Sergeant Riley hovered like a nervous father
waiting for his wife to give birth.

I hadn't introduced Marlowe to the medic.
The medics in our section had a tendency to die pretty quickly after
recruitment. By now I'd stopped bothering to even learn their names. Less
emotion to suppress when they were gone. One of the medic's
predecessors—the physician who'd been long dead by the time I'd
joined—had fashioned the clinic out of the mansion's enormous master
bathroom. The bath must have been quite a luxury over a hundred years ago, in
the days of Queen Victoria. Back in the days before her son, Prince Leopold,
became a vampire and the Empire became overrun with every supernatural creature
imaginable.

"No discharge." The medic sat
back with a huff. "No decomposition coming out of his nose, no cataracts
forming over the eyes, no rotting of the teeth. Other than a relatively shallow
stab wound to his side and a slight burn on his chest, I can't find
anything."

BOOK: Resistance (Dark Realm Series)
7.34Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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