Long Live the Queen (Book 5 of The Powder Trail)

Chapter Eighteen: Own It

Jack sat at the top of the church-tower, his back ramrod-straight, his axe laid carefully across his lap.

From time to time, he glanced down at the faint glow of the blade, soft as starlight, winking like water. To the casual observer, it was just reflecting the streetlights, the lanterns, the uneasy blue glow of dawn. But it wasn't. It might have collected light from these sources, but it would still glimmer if they were gone. He thought of the rays that had scythed out from the axe's blade, splitting the darkness down in the demon realms, and he smiled.

He had mapped out the old town walls – there were plenty of local historians eager to help him with that – and he'd stationed lookouts all along them, but he knew Ellini would return by the north gate.

He hated that he knew this, because he didn't care for Faustus's prophetic way of speaking, and he despised Myrrha's magic. But both of them had branded him 'the Watchman at the North Gate'. It wouldn't be worth a title if it wasn't significant. Something was going to happen here.

Everything below him had been bled pale by the moon. He thought sometimes that the Oxford martyrs were behind him, breathing their cool, dead breath on his neck. But he had to fight the cold, and the bleakness, and the irresistible call of sleep. When Ellini came back, with Myrrha behind her – either in chains or in pursuit – he was going to be ready.

Time blurred in front of his eyes – but not too much, because the sun still hadn't risen. He listened for church bells, unwilling to take his eyes off the road, and then gave up and fumbled for his pocket-watch. If he held it up high, he could easily switch his focus from the clock-face to the road. It was just after five.

Someone behind him said, "Time for breakfast?"

Jack smiled to himself, but didn't look round. The voice went on.

"You know, it's far too soon for her to be coming back."

"Yes," he admitted. "I'm just... getting used to things."

A freckled hand appeared, and rested on his shoulder. Jack's smile broadened. "I knew it would be you. When I tried to kill my friends, and then tried to adopt three hundred homeless women, you were the only one who stood by me."

"No," said Manda sniffily. "Mr Danvers stood by you."

"But I had to ask him to. You just turned up and started giving orders."

"Hmm. Well, this time, I hope you'll listen to them. And I'm not the only one who's standing by you. Dr Petrescu sent me, and this one insisted on coming along."

This time, Jack did look round. Sita was standing beside Manda, balanced on a pair of crutches, her plastered leg wrapped up in sacking to keep it from the dirt of the street. She was mirroring Manda's body-language almost exactly, from the defiant scowl to the impatiently tapping toe.

He smiled again. He felt as though a thin layer of frost had settled over him in the night, making his skin tight and his muscles uncooperative, but he managed to hold out his arms to Sita. She half-hobbled and half-leapt into them, letting her crutches clatter to the floor, while Manda hissed at her not to go too near the edge.

Jack pulled her close and ruffled her hair. "We've seen worse than this, haven't we, Chatter-pie?"

Manda narrowed her eyes, but she must have decided to ignore the provocation, because she went on, in a businesslike voice, "The deacon and his wife probably deserve some credit too. They're the ones who are making porridge." She looked at the axe laid across Jack's lap, and wrinkled her nose. "Are you still carrying that horrible thing around with you?"