supposed to be held back by the barrier, the construct of fey magic and human ritual that prevented the Seventh Court from crossing from our world whenever they pleased, so how did they get here?
The barrier would stop them crossing between the worlds other than at the equinox and the solstice – the times when the world was in balance; this much Blackbird had told me. Those were the times when the world of exiled Seventh Court and the human world were closest and the barrier was at its weakest and they could cross, either in person, or by taking the thread of power from a newly dead corpse – someone who inherited the thread of dormant power that they could take and use to animate the corpse, using it like a puppet across the barrier. That was what they had tried to do with me when I’d had a heart attack on the London Underground.
Looking back, it was like another life. I’d gone to work, paid my bills, and met my commitments to my ex-wife and the child we shared. I’d done all that was expected of me, and yet it had left me empty, distant and numb. It hadn’t been a life, it had been an existence. I’d buried myself in my work because it was too painful to think about anything else. I’d done my duty by my family without ever connecting with who they were. Instead I had walled myself up and felt nothing.
For a moment, I wondered what would have happened if I’d never had the heart attack, had gone to work as normal, had a career, maybe even met someone else. But then Alex’s accident would have happened anyway, and I would never have found her without my abilities and Raffmir’s help and she would have been drugged up to her eyeballs in a cell at Porton Down for the rest of her unnaturally long life. Perhaps I should thank Raffmir after all, when next I saw him.
Dave eased his way through the traffic, adopting the relaxed approach of the professional driver. We came off the motorway and navigated through West London while I watched the planes climbing out of Heathrow. We made good time through the back streets, but we never appeared to hurry. When we reached the entrance to the National Archive car park, he didn’t stop, but rolled past.
“Did we miss the turn?” I asked him.
“There’s CCTV on the car park,” he said. “If you’re not worried about being tracked I can turn around and park, but they’ll pick up the registration plate. Otherwise I can drop you in a side street and cruise around the neighbourhood until you’re ready. That OK?”
“That would be better, Dave. Thanks. I’m not expecting problems, but it’s better if no one knows we were here.”
I exited the car on the corner of a network of streets in a permit-only parking zone, taking the black holdall I’d brought to carry the horseshoe, and watched him pull away in the long black car. It was a nice area, so the biggest risk was that he would get stopped on suspicion of casing properties for burglary, not that he would be found cruising for company.
I headed back towards the gates of the National Archive. The entrance was through a large glass atrium and staff were still coming and going. I waited for a few moments and then, cloaking myself in glamour, I tailed one of them inside. The man at the large circular reception desk barely registered my presence. I took a diversion off to the left, heading to where the public lockers were in search of the locker that Claire had used to leave her belongings. The doors to the lockers were transparent, allowing the contents to be viewed while the contents remained securely locked inside. Most of them were empty with the keys hanging from the locks ready to use the next day. I scanned them, looking for one without a key.
It should have been obvious. I should be able to feel the presence of the horseshoe when I got close to it, and the absence of any such sensation was a bad sign. In the end I found the locker – not because of the contents, but because although it was empty it had no key and there was a notice on the inside of the door. This locker is out of service. Please use another.
Someone had been there before me.
I checked the rest of