Alice, The Player (Serenity House Book 3) Page 5

"I wish Elizabeth would show herself, so we can finally mobilise against her." Oh the irony—yet again I was waiting on the woman, except this time I wouldn't be holding a tea tray.

  A grin lit Seth's face. "What you need is a different distraction. Come see what I have some of the lads doing."

  He took my hand and led me from the room. Out the back of Serenity House, one of the enormous stable blocks had been converted to motor house for all types of vehicles. From skeletal motorbikes to Seth's sleek Silver Ghost sports car to the lumbering trucks used to transport soldiers.

  "Where are we going?" I asked. The grand old house kept reinventing itself. From aristocratic home to hospital for the war wounded or influenza victims—and now she transformed again into a command centre. Soldiers in khaki uniforms swarmed around and made sinuous patterns as they passed the deep green and silver-liveried staff. Every day, more soldiers arrived as Seth took control of a greater swath of Southern England.

  "We're not going far." Seth wheeled out a motorbike. "Do you feel safe enough to ride behind?"

  I snorted. I wanted a man who opened the throttle and tore across the countryside at breakneck speeds. This particular man knew how to power around a corner while balancing speed and precision. I didn't give a fig for safety. I would follow him anywhere as long as he did it with his foot down hard. When I finally gave myself to him, would he sweep me away with wild abandon?

  Heat rose under my collar and I stared at the ground in case he read my thoughts. I understood why Victorian women had been institutionalised for wantonness; being around Seth increased my preoccupation with the physical act, and I feared it would drive me crazy. I needed to either do something about it or join a convent and purge the idea from my mind.

  I swung a leg over the bike as he kicked the starter, and then wrapped my arms around his waist. I grabbed any excuse to snuggle close and press myself to him. In my mind, Elizabeth pointed a finger and accused me of being a strumpet. Turned out she was right about that.

  Seth pointed the bike out the yard and we roared down the driveway, but before we hit the main road he turned into an open gateway and took off across the paddock. I tightened my grip in case the bumpy ground catapulted me off the back. Up ahead stood an old stone cottage, the surrounding area devoid of any grass or trees.

  Seth stopped by the building and cut the motor. As the engine died down, hammering and voices came from inside the cottage. I frowned at Seth, but he just smiled and took my hand. I was learning that fully-grown men harboured little boys deep inside. Seth shared the same mischievous smile that meant he was up to something, and that it probably involved explosives.

  Inside, the old crofter's cottage had turned into some industrious production line. Benches dominated the space, with various bits of pipe, tools, and screws littered over them. Large metal cylinders were stacked against one wall. A man worked over fabric snakes with long pipe mouths. Another was doing something with leatherwork and a large rectangular frame. Seth was grinning as though Christmas had come early.

  "What are they?"

  "Flamethrowers," he said.

  "A flamethrower?" I had vague memories of seeing a grainy image of one on a newsreel. By putting the two words together, I could conjure a pretty good mental image of what the object did, and it also explained his boyish grin.

  "They were created for the Great War. It was bloody terrifying to see one coming at you. I'd rather take a clean bullet over flames any day." Seth laid a hand on one of the silver tanks, lost in his own thoughts for a moment.

  "Sod of a job having to carry one, too," one of the soldiers muttered.

  "Why?" I asked. I thought men would vie to take turns at dousing objects in flame. They probably used them to bake potatoes.

  "The men with the flamethrowers were the snipers’ favourite targets," another soldier replied.

  "Ah," I said. I still didn't quite understand, but their war had been slightly different to ours. At least vermin didn't take up weapons against us; they had to rely on their teeth and nails to inflict damage.

  Seth gestured to the framework that held two tanks strapped together. "Carrying the flamethrower makes you slow. It's heavy, and cumbersome. That alone would make you an easy mark for enemy snipers."

  The thing looked like it was nearly half my size. I wouldn't want to lug it across a battlefield. "So they would shoot the operator?"

  He held my gaze, his eyes coldly serious as he relived some memory only he could see. "No. They delighted in shooting the tanks and blowing up the operator."

  "Oh." I sent up a silent prayer that Elizabeth didn't have snipers at her disposal.

  "Do you want to see how they work?" Seth shook off the grim memories, and the boyish grin returned to his face.

  "Yes, please." It wasn’t just the boys who liked to see stuff blow up, and it sounded far better than marking latitudes and longitudes on our maps.

  One of the soldiers grabbed a set of tanks, and another helped him get his arms through the straps. The framework nestled against his back and buckled around his waist. Next, he donned goggles and thick leather gloves. Lastly, his offsider handed him the metal pipe that was the nozzle of the apparatus.

  We headed outside to a wide, clear area, the operator walking slowly behind us with deliberate steps as though he feared tipping over. Behind the cottage, a metal pole stood in a circle of scorched earth. It looked like someone had been burning witches, which made me wonder about the story of Millicent using witchcraft to rid herself of her first husband. I needed to find the full account of that to satisfy my curiosity, I told myself.

  A soldier dragged over a scarecrow made from stuffed sacks and attached it to the pole. Seth gave the thumbs up to the operator and we all took a few steps back until we stood well behind the scorched ring.

  The man primed the tanks and gripped the long pipe. He took a step toward the target and pressed a lever. Fire shot from the nozzle and leapt the several feet to the straw man. With an audible whoosh, it was engulfed in flame and burning brightly.

  "Gosh," I whispered. The wave of heat made me take another step back and hold a hand up to shield my face. It was a handy weapon. In my mind, I strapped Elizabeth to the pole and doused her limbs in liquid fire. Then I remembered that these were used against real men during the war. No wonder Seth would prefer a bullet. I imagined the fuel coating their limbs, men unable to brush the flames off as fire ate their bodies. How long did those men scream? I set forth a silent prayer that whoever had suffered—English, German, Turk or Russian—had died quickly.

  Seth pointed to the scarecrow, which was now a smouldering black lump. "This is the advantage we have in waiting, Ella. It means we have time to prepare. There are only two ways to stop a Turned, taking off their head or fire."

  That was precisely why I alone laboured to free our village of vermin. Quite apart from no one else wanting to risk their mortal souls, it took some practice with a sword to take the head off one.

  "While you are skilled with a blade and others of us are catching up, it's not the best way to deal with large numbers of the enemy. The flamethrowers mean we have a way to stop Elizabeth if she rallies an army of Turned against us." Seth pointed to crates piled up behind the cottage. The open ones showed more tanks and nozzles. They had been constructing these for a while.

  The soldiers helped the operator remove the tanks and set them back on the ground. I stared as he stripped off the gloves and goggles and the other men slapped him on the back.

  Seth took my hand and kissed my knuckles. "You don't fight alone, Ella. This is no longer a personal war; you will have squadrons of men to lead into battle when the time comes."

  My heart swelled. What had I ever done in life to deserve this man? He had just offered me a legion of soldiers wielding flamethrowers. The words I love you danced to the tip of my tongue. But at the last second I swallowed them back down. Was it too soon? What if he didn't feel the same way?

  "Thank you," I whispered instead.

&n
bsp; I would lead an army against Elizabeth. Would she rally troops that were already undead, or would she use the people of Somerset to grow her numbers? A painful lump dropped through my gullet.

  "How many do you have?" I needed to pull my mind away from maudlin thoughts. I couldn't turn back the hands of time and change my decision. I could only proceed and hope to reconcile my actions later. Act in haste, repent in leisure was the old saying, and once this was all over, I’d have a lot of repenting to do.

  "Ten so far, but we know what we are doing now, so the lads can make them faster. I'm hoping to have fifty within the next few weeks. And we are training the men in how to use them. Do you want to have a go?" The boyish grin was plastered all over his face.

  Did I want a go? What a silly question after that demonstration. "Yes. Have you got another scarecrow?"

  As the soldiers helped me don protective gear and the heavy backpack, I couldn't help the wash of relief through my body. At last, I held a weapon in my hand and I was doing something active to advance the Grim War.

  Let Elizabeth bring her army. I was no longer the cowering kitchen maid—I was a warrior.

  6

  I marked the days off the calendar as one week turned into two, and it was now three weeks since I had wrapped the rag around step-mother's arm. Elizabeth would definitely have changed. I pushed that thought aside for something far more cheerful, as Henry's twentieth birthday arrived and Hazel came for dinner.

  I liked Hazel. She was a woman who knew what she wanted from life. Henry still didn't talk much, but he smiled and laughed on occasion, and I would be eternally grateful to her for bringing that change to him. Hazel pulled Henry from the nightmare that had consumed him for so long and gave him new dreams.

  Alice and I decorated our little dining room with strings of tinsel we found in the Christmas decorations box. Father was well enough to sit at the head of the table, and I couldn't imagine a better evening. Well, apart from intimate dinners in libraries. We gave Henry a box of oils and canvases, but Hazel had the best present—an application form for the Royal Academy of Arts in London. His eyes misted up, and what few words he could speak abandoned him.

  Father pointed to Henry from his position at head of the table. With two men who spoke hardly a word, we became adept at reading intention and eyebrows.

  "Go on." I prodded Henry.

  He glanced at me and swallowed, then rose from his seat and approached father. Father raised a hand and his fingers grabbed the front of Henry's shirt. Silence dropped around the table as we all held our breaths, waiting to see what would happen.

  Inch by inch, father pulled Henry closer. Then he threw both arms around him in a clumsy hug. He thumped Henry on the back then moved him back so they were staring eye to eye.

  "Not. Your. Fault." Father laboured over each syllable, dragging them out like pulling the cat out backwards from the hen house. His voice was still harsh from disuse and he punctuated each word by jabbing at Henry's chest.

  I pinched my thigh under the table to stop from crying, and the other women misted up. Henry burdened himself with so much that was never his fault. The two men stared at each other for a long minute as a silent communion passed between them. Then both nodded and Henry looked away. A tear ran down his cheek, but he wiped it away before he turned back to the table.

  We all cheered and toasted Henry, and for the first time in years, we had a jolly evening full of laughter. The next day, we carried on with our lives. The Grim War still raged in England and around the world but for the first time in months, it felt like we were making progress. The incidents of vermin in Somerset diminished. But I didn't know if that meant they were dying out or we simply didn't find them as often. It gnawed at me. What if they had enough now? Perhaps they weren't roaming the countryside looking for new victims because some unknown tally had been met, and they were plotting their next step.

  I moved in a dream as my mind tried to unravel tangled strands and make sense of this war, vermin schemes, and how this had all started. If I could just grab the right end, everything would fall into place.

  I rode my mare over to the big house. I needed the quiet of her hooves on the road instead of the throaty roar of Trusty's engine. At Serenity House, I continued my personal war on boxes of reports. Summer faded and soon the crisp bite of autumn would snap at us. I buttoned up my jacket and waved to Alice. She had some grand outing planned with Frank that afternoon and brimmed with such excitement she couldn't stand still.

  I envied them their easy relationship; they seemed so comfortable with one another. Seth and I often danced on eggshells scattered around his lofty position. I worried I would make some terrible faux pas in public and embarrass him. How much easier life would be if he were a simple farmer or soldier. The role of a captain fitted him like a tailored suit. I loved stealing glances while he gave orders and pondered movements.

  If only 'Captain' was the sole title he carried. I could imagine life with a captain, discussing military tactics as we curled up on a sofa. Life as a duchess seemed so cold and lonely and consumed by table settings and dress embellishments. I would not want to become like Millicent deMage, a bitter witch who murdered her husband.

  Though only eighteen years old, I had held a variety of positions over the last few years. Scullery maid, scrubbing the fireplaces with torn nails and red damaged hands. Nurse tending first those brave men injured in the Great War and then the influenza pandemic victims. Village slayer, protecting the eternal souls of others but damning my own by dispatching those who cheated death.

  Now I added clerk to my résumé. Or more accurately, shepherdess of paper. I sat on the floor in Seth's office with a box in front of me and paper and pencil in my lap. We were slowly making progress in our pursuit of other possible hives. Deaths, the march of the returned, and those dispatched were all marked on the map with little coloured tokens. Working out who had returned from the original pandemic and who had been bitten and turned in the subsequent waves was more problematic.

  I tsked under my breath as I drew out another piece of paper. Their record keeping really was appalling. Surely I can't have been the only person who thought to identify and track vermin? We relied on second hand accounts that read more like gossip column entries or conversations shared while pegging out the washing.

  Edith Lyle turned up on my doorstep looking a fright and wailing like a stabbed cat. The entry told me nothing—had Edith been Turned, distraught, or dressed inappropriately? Although it would be excessive if poor Edith was dispatched because of her choice of dress and hat.

  Lieutenant Bain placed another box on the floor next to me. He looked apologetic at adding to my workload. At least this one was smaller and appeared lighter.

  "You might find this one more to your liking, miss." He took out a knife and sliced the top open.

  Within were journals, all neatly stacked—and even numbered! I pulled one out and flicked through the pages. Dates, names, locations, and even pencil drawings of faces and clothing were neatly recorded on every page.

  "At last, organised information." I let out a sigh and turned to the front page, keen to know the identity of my fellow scribe. Then my gaze sought out Seth. "Commodore Josiah Abrahams. Who is he?"

  Seth looked up from the miniature battlefield before him. "A navy man in Dorset. He treated the pandemic and its aftermath like a military campaign. He recorded everything in minute detail, including approximate direction of travel. I believe there is sufficient information in his journals that we will be able to determine if his county holds a hive. At last we might know if queens exist elsewhere."

  Excitement beat in my chest; at last we would be able to confirm the existence of other hives. Then I scowled at my excitement over tracking vermin. I glanced up at Seth. Did it prove I wasn't fit to be by his side in life, that I relished such an unsavoury event as finding another hive?

  On the map of Somerset pinned to the wall we added a new marker, following the commodore’s example. To
supplement where we found each vermin, we added their direction of travel, shown with a small purple arrow. We hypothesised that those within a certain radius would be drawn to Elizabeth and heed some invisible call to join her. If we drew together enough strands of this web, we would find her at the centre. We didn't know how big an area she might control, another question yet to be answered.

  The map laid out on the table showed the pattern of activity for Southwest England, the layers built up as we worked with the boxes of reports and tallies. Seth also researched death roads, or ley lines, and they would be added by using red thread.

  "Did the commodore draw any theories of his own?" I asked. That we knew, no one else had drawn the bee and hive comparison. The War Office liaised with other countries to learn if they had discovered any queens, and we awaited their response.

  "He was close to your bee theory, but not quite there. One of these journals contains his thoughts and notes. He speculated that they acted on instructions from an unseen party, who kept them functioning while using them as its eyes, ears, and limbs. I believed he likened them to a puppeteer controlling a multitude of marionettes." Seth poked through the orderly box, and then drew out a slim red volume. He placed it in my hands.

  "I shall start reading it tonight." At least the commodore had a neat hand. His penmanship had no flourishes or extraneous touches; it almost appeared mechanical or type-written in its regularity.

  "Not the usual bedtime story for a young woman." A frown crossed Seth's forehead. He could be so proper at times, which made him easy to tease.

  "Should I be reading tales of desperate romance and unrequited love instead? Or perhaps I should study Mrs Beeton's Book of Household Management?" Although that was more my idea of a horror story. Thanks to Elizabeth, I was already intimately acquainted with the work required to keep house. I didn't need to ponder the complexities of seating plans for dinner parties and the correct height for floral arrangements when I knew how to scrub the privy.