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He was surprised when she leaned close to him, her lips to his ear.
“Fuck it, then,” Bea whispered. “The man was a bastard and we’re better off rid of him. That’s the bloody truth of it.”
Nigel nearly burst out laughing. The crass admission from his mom was just so out of character. First Jessa, now her. Nigel had to admit to himself that maybe he’d built up just how terrible his family was. Maybe closure—or a new understanding of one another, like that two-faced Dr. Linda liked to say—was actually possible. He warmed to the feeling of his mom’s hand on his arm.
“I want to hear everything,” Bea said. “About your new life. Once all these dreadful formalities are over, we need to catch up.”
“Yeah,” Nigel replied. “That’ll be good, mum.”
Eventually, a priest showed up and said some words, read a few Bible verses. Nigel zoned out. He found himself doing that throughout the rest of the day. He was overtired, it was hard to focus, and a big part of his identity had been called into question. He’d always imagined himself as the great rebel, running off on his family, leaving all the bastards behind. But now, they didn’t seem so cruel and distant. Instead, their lives seemed complicated and sad.
The funeral director handed out roses and everyone took a turn tossing one onto his father’s coffin. Nigel tossed his rose. After him, his mom picked up a handful of damp dirt and sprinkled it on the casket. She made a dramatic show of looking for somewhere to brush off her hands.
They went back to the manor, a whole procession of cars, many of them operated by hired drivers. The house filled up. There were more people there than there had been at the actual funeral. Waiters escorted around trays of hors d’oeuvres. People Nigel could barely tell apart stuffed their faces while having grave conversations.
Nigel stood to the side with Bea and Jessa. They let the room come to them, as was appropriate and expected. Handshake after handshake, sometimes paired with a squeeze of his upper arm. Dozens of dainty air-kisses to his cheek.
“Condolences, lad.”
“Truly sorry about your father.”
“He’ll be missed.”
And on and on. Nigel’s neck was sore from all the nodding, his mouth dry from saying thank you over and over again. It was a bombardment of sympathy. As the afternoon went on, his collar and tie got looser and sloppier.
At some point, his mom handed him a glass containing a few fingers of Scotch, neat. “Look like you could use that,” she said.
Nigel stared at her for a second, then shrugged and took an indelicate sip. The Scotch certainly didn’t help him focus, but it did blur the edges of things, made it easier for him to force smiles.
His mom didn’t have any problem with that. Bea was in her element. At some point, the reception turned into a networking event. She mingled, worked the room. There was a steady procession of men—usually the ones who hadn’t showed up with wives, but not always—who kissed Bea’s hand and professed their heartfelt sympathy. If she needed anything or, say, wanted to get a coffee and just talk, they were available.
“Can’t tell why most of these people are here. Certainly not to honor our father,” Jessa said to Nigel out of the corner of her mouth. “I’d say a good chunk showed up so they could hit on Mom, but then I also think there’s a sizable crowd here to catch a glimpse of the Garde.”
The back of Nigel’s neck prickled. “Huh? Really?”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”
“Been kind of . . . in my own head.”
“Up your own arse, you mean,” Jessa said with a laugh. “Look at those two,” she said, gesturing at an older couple across the room. “Right now they’re saying how they thought you’d be taller and glowy-er.”
Nigel pushed his fingers through his hair and found that he was sweating. Now that Jessa mentioned it, there were an awful lot of people staring at him. Waiting for him to do a trick, maybe.
“They did not . . .” Nigel paused. He saw black spots for a moment. “They did not say glowy-er.”
“I’m an excellent lip reader; maybe that’s my Legacy,” Jessa replied, then narrowed her eyes at him. “Nigel? You all right?”
Nigel steadied himself on a nearby end table. It had all hit him like a ton of bricks. The sleepless trip to London, the jetlag, the Scotch.
“Think I might need to lie down,” he mumbled.
His mom was at his side, her cool hands pressed against his cheek and forehead. When had she popped up? Nigel hadn’t even noticed.
“Go on up and rest, love,” she said gently. “You won’t be missing anything down here.”
Nigel nodded and did as he was told. As he stumbled out of the sitting room, he got the odd sensation that everyone in there had turned to watch him go.
When he woke up, it was night and the house was quiet.
Nigel sat up in bed—his bed, the firm mattress with the wooden frame that he always banged his gangly knees against—drenched in sweat and with a splitting headache. He felt like he might be coming down with something.
Someone had placed a glass of ice water next to his bed. He drank greedily.
Even though this was his childhood room, it had never really felt like his space. The walls were covered in bookshelves filled with musty old editions of classics he’d never read. There was a globe in one corner and an antique train set in the other. The wallpaper was a snowy woodland print, all big-eyed owls and foxes darting around trees. No records. No posters for punk bands. Not even an anarchy symbol. This place wasn’t him, it wasn’t—
Wait. What was that smell?
Nigel sniffed the air. He could swear that he smelled gasoline.
He swung his feet out of bed, crossed the room on wobbly legs, and poked his head outside. The hallway was dark, but the smell of gas out there was stronger.
“Mom?” He called. “Jessa?”
The floorboards creaked. It sounded like something was being dragged around. The noise came from downstairs. There were lights on down there, a faint glow on the nearby staircase.
“Oi,” Nigel said, rubbing his eyes.
“I miss the funeral pyre?”
No answer.
Something wasn’t right. Nigel regretted calling out now—like a dumb-ass in a horror movie. He crouched low into a fighting stance that Ran would approve of, ready to pounce if a threat came lurching out of the shadows. He crept to the top of the stairs.
There was someone lying on the floor down there. Was that . . . ?
Ken Colton. His Earth Garde escort. The man’s eyes were open, staring straight up at the ceiling. Open and unblinking. Dead eyes.
The front door was open, the portrait of his father knocked aside. Two men in black body armor walked through, carrying the body of another Peacekeeper. Nigel didn’t remember her name.
Their outfits were familiar. Just like the men Nigel had fought in Iceland. Blackstone mercenaries.
The armored men dropped the woman’s body next to Colton and went back outside. One of them was whistling.
A third mercenary came around the corner carrying a red canister of gasoline. He dumped some of it on the Peacekeeper’s body, then moved on, splashing it on the curtains and on the picture of Mr. Barnaby. Nigel could see the gas now, glistening and pooling all over the hardwood floor.
“Nigel?”
It was his mom. She stood in her bedroom doorway, head tilted. Nigel motioned for her to be quiet, to stay back, but she came towards him anyway. Nigel took a step in her direction, trying to intercept her before the mercenary noticed her.
“Get back, Mum, there are bad men here,” Nigel said, using his Legacy to direct his voice so only she could hear.
“You weren’t supposed to wake up so soon, love.”
“Huh?”
Before Nigel knew what was happening, his mom had stuck a syringe into the side of his neck. Nigel’s eyes widened. He grasped at her, then flailed backwards. His limbs already felt heavy, his vision blurry. It was like a more intense version of how he’d felt after she gave him that drink before.
He looked into his mother’s eyes and the truth hit him, piercing the fuzziness that was overtaking him.
