running the hell away was so likely as an outcome. And “overwhelmed” was never a good phrase to be throwing around. It was a short step from there to “overrun” or “outclassed” and a tiny little hop from that to “just plain dead.”
Well, we did what we could with the cards we’d been dealt.
Tara arranged for a small convoy of cars—we wouldn’t quite all fit in one, and if we did manage to rescue four werewolves we wouldn’t be able to make the return trip in two either—which met us out front. From there it was an early morning drive through deceptively idyllic woodlands and picturesque country lanes. At least until we got into the outskirts of the city at which point it rapidly turned into warehouses and tower blocks.
We left the convoy, along with Flick and Sofia, in a carpark off the A502, which is exactly the kind of glamorous and sexy thing that you do when you’re a private investigator slash not-exactly-professional monster hunter slash faery princess. With a probably disproportionate sense of smugness, I also remembered to leave my phone in the car so that it wouldn’t get trashed diving into ponds. I’d had this handset a full fourteen months, and I wasn’t about to give up on it now. Then we tromped off onto the heath.
Although a lot of it is technically “ancient woodland”, Hampstead Heath isn’t exactly the depths of the Black Forest and it didn’t take us that long to hike the half mile up to the bridge with the portal to faerie. Honestly, it was almost disappointing, I mean I was fairly sure that going on a vital mission of mercy with a pair of werewolves from an ancient bloodline of mystical defenders of Albion shouldn’t have involved a short walk up a mostly paved road past a picnic area and a set of well-signposted public toilets.
We got to the pond, and I skirted the edges feeling for an entrance with whatever uncanny senses you used to feel for eerie portals to other realities. I caught it, a glimpse of deeper shadow against shadow in the arches under the red brick of the viaduct.
“There,” I pointed.
Tara and the dowager both nodded. They were probably even more used to spotting these sorts of things than I was—ancient sacred birthright and all that. Then they stripped. I’d kind have thought they might wait until we were in faerie proper to do that, what with this being a fairly popular tourist spot, but then again their clothes would be safer on this side of the gate and it’d be better for them to be able to go full wolf as soon as possible once we were through.
Fuck it. I dived in. They followed me, and the three of us swam towards the doorway. I clung to a naïve hope that nobody was filming this.
As we passed under the arch I saw nothing but brick, and with a grim sense of inevitability I realised that our path into the Cold and Dark almost certainly lay underwater. Because of course it did. Because faeries were arseholes. I held my breath and porpoised down. I couldn’t see a fucking inch. Pondwater in London was not famous for its crystal clarity. There were probably all sorts of unpleasant things in here, most of them beginning with words like “discarded” or “used”.
Navigating by instinct and what I vaguely remembered from my failed biology A-level was technically called thermoception, I swam towards where the water was coldest. I was fast learning that my three least favourite activities were swimming in filthy, freezing water, swimming in clothes, and swimming in clothes through filthy, freezing water, with a broken arm.
I was beginning to doubt the advisability of this plan.
Walking into a faery realm is usually like plunging into an ice-cold lake, but since I’d already done that today I needed to find a new way to tell when I’d made it through to the other side. Turned out it was pretty obvious. I got this sick, rollercoaster feeling and down became up (graviception, my biology A-level informed me). My fingertips on my one good arm brushed something solid and frozen, and I saw faint bluish light filtering through what was unmistakably a thick sheet of ice between me and breathable air.
Fuck.
27
Ice & Beasts
Here lies Kate Kane. Should have seen this one coming. Beloved daughter, sorely missed.
Right. Fuck. Okay. Right. Get it together, Kate. You can deal with this. Fuck that is some thick ice.