‘Know about what?’ Vale asked, scrutinizing the scratch marks on the floor.

‘The evidence about the “emperor of crime”.’ Irene was deeply, deeply irritated that Vale hadn’t mentioned these theories earlier, but unfortunately it was true to his character. He was the sort of person – the sort of detective – who wouldn’t mention his theories until he had evidence to back them up. Vale had Fae blood somewhere in his family tree, and at times he strayed regrettably close to the archetype of the Great Detective – for worse as well as for better.

‘Shortly after you planned to visit Guernsey and I agreed to accompany you.’ He turned to give her the full focus of his attention. ‘You believe it’s a trap?’

‘Either that, or our timing is extraordinarily unfortunate.’ Irene nodded at the corpses. ‘What are the odds that we’d walk in just at the moment when they’ve been controlled and are attempting to kill intruders?’

‘If so, then we shouldn’t remain here any longer than necessary.’ He experimentally flicked a couple of switches and scrutinized one of the viewscreens. ‘The submarine is still docked here. Be ready with that Language of yours, Winters. I have no desire to find out first-hand what it feels like to be controlled by one of those creatures. You’ll have noticed the scratches on the floor come from the direction of the submarine airlock.’

Irene nodded and stepped back, willing to let Vale take the lead – he was the one with the electric swordstick, after all. She was an agent of the Library, an interdimensional organization that collected books to preserve the balance of worlds. As such, she could use the Language to force reality to her will. But only if she wasn’t distracted by cerebral controllers.

However, her stomach remained knotted with tension. If this was a trap, every moment they were down here was a further risk. And they were under the sea here. Even if Kai – dragon prince, colleague, friend and lover – had a natural affinity for water and mastery over it, she didn’t. Being unable to speak due to drowning could be a great drawback when attempting to use the Language. This all made it an excellent location for an ambush . . .

Of course. ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘What aren’t we noticing?’

‘Clarify, Winters,’ Vale said impatiently.

‘We come down here. We’re attacked. Our first impulse, so we could get out as quickly as possible, would be to go directly to the submarine to collect the letter. That’s where you were supposed to meet your contact. If your reasons for being here have been discovered, are you sure we want to be that predictable?’

‘Cogently argued, Winters. Unfortunately, I need that letter.’

‘I know,’ Irene countered. ‘I’m just trying to think like a master criminal.’

‘You hardly need to try, Winters.’ But there was a certain affection to his words – he knew all about her frequent book thefts. ‘Hmm. My logical next step would be to radio the surface and report the situation. Let us see . . .’

He indicated one of the consoles. ‘This is the one radio link to the surface. So if I were to think like a master criminal, this is where I would place my trap. Can you use your Language to deactivate any such unpleasant surprises?’

Irene knew her mentor Coppelia would have approved. You only needed to be blasé once to be dead. ‘All explosive devices or dangerous traps, deactivate,’ she ordered.

There was a tiny but satisfyingly audible click from behind a panel.

Irene and Vale shared a nod. He slid his fingers behind the edging on the right-hand side, pressed two buttons, and the panel swung open. Behind it was a narrow recess, carefully stacked with sticks of dynamite. A wire ran from the small stack, through a tiny hole drilled in the panel and snaked towards the lever that opened the airlock. Positioned on top was a phonograph, loaded with a record and ready to play.

Irene was disturbed. This was very elaborate. First the controlled men, now this dynamite – what next? ‘Those men who attacked us – in their condition, there’s no way they would have had the intellect to set this up.’

‘I agree.’ Vale switched on the phonograph. ‘Let us see who is leaving us mysterious messages.’

A click. The record began to revolve, and the needle dipped to touch it. There was a noise of rustling paper. ‘Good evening,’ a male voice said. ‘Or possibly afternoon. I’m not sure what time it is where you are. But since you are listening to this and not dead, my congratulations to you, Peregrine Vale.’

Irene’s fingers bit into her palms hard enough to hurt and the colour drained from her cheeks. She knew that voice. She’d killed its owner. ‘Lord Guantes . . .’ she said in horror, staring at Vale. He was Fae – a manipulator and plotter who’d tried to touch off a war between the Fae and the dragons. That was why she’d killed him. Irene remembered, uncomfortably clearly, the feeling of the knife sliding between his ribs and the blood on her hands. There was no way she could have been mistaken as to his death.

‘Of course,’ the recording went on, ‘like all things in this life, my congratulations are strictly temporary. You have caused me a great deal of inconvenience, and you are about to pay for it. Don’t bother looking for that letter, Mr Vale. It has already left the premises. Which is more than you’ll do.’

The blare of an alarm suddenly split the air. Irene spun round, trying to determine where the noise was coming from. Red glass shades slid over the ether-lamps, which flashed in a panic-inducing strobe.

‘According to my arrangements, that noise will be the base’s self-destruct signal,’ Lord Guantes said helpfully. ‘I imagine your friends back in the town will have an edifying view of any underwater explosions. Goodbye.’ The record clicked off.

The alarm continued to shriek.

CHAPTER TWO

Vale strode to the control panels, flipping switches with the certainty of a man who knew which ones did what. Irene had to admire his thoroughness; very few men would memorize a subterranean base’s self-destruct protocols before visiting.

Unfortunately, it didn’t pay off.

Vale pressed his lips together in what Irene recognized as a sign of extreme bad temper. She decided it was time for her to attempt their salvation. ‘Self-destruct system, deactivate!’ she ordered the air.

Sudden silence fell across the room like a benediction, and the lighting returned to normal.

Irene rubbed her forehead, not sure whether her incoming headache was due to her use of the Language or the alarm. It had been very shrill. ‘Your friends back in town, he said. Lord Guantes didn’t expect me to be here.’

‘Your presence is greatly appreciated,’ Vale said. But there was an undertone to his gracious words, something which suggested he felt somehow . . . cheated?

I’ve stepped into his private duel with a master criminal, Irene realized. It feels like an intrusion, however much common sense tells him otherwise, and however much he hates the suggestion he might be affected by Fae archetypes.

‘Do we need to do anything to make sure that the self-destruct doesn’t, well, self-destruct again?’ she asked.

‘We must assume that the entire control system is compromised.’ Vale eyed the panels of switches with irritation. ‘And, as you’ve just demonstrated, Winters, you can deactivate a trap with the Language. But the normal functioning of equipment – such as the self-destruct switch – might not seem like a threat. You may not be able to turn it off fast enough next time.’ He moved in closer, inspecting the phonograph. ‘Yes. There’s a wire behind here – once it finished playing, the stylus lifting off the disc triggered the signal to the self-destruct. He correctly assumed we’d play it to the end.’