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Dawkins leaned over her shoulder, with enough rolling power to his movement that it nearly burst the seams of his city gentleman’s suit. ‘Perhaps you’d like to explain,’ he said. There was a non-optional tone to the suggestion.
‘It’s on my newspaper!’ one of the nearby werewolves complained, holding up a sheaf of newsprint, which Irene recognized, from her acquaintance with Vale, as the agony page from The Times. ‘All the same stuff that’s on there!’
Irene spared a moment to hope that Davey – and her folder – were well out of the effect’s range. ‘It’s from a man named Alberich,’ she said. ‘He’s tried to kill me in the past.’
‘Why?’ The tone of Dawkins’ question acknowledged that people no doubt had perfectly good reasons to kill each other. It seemed he was asking merely to satisfy his own curiosity about their motivations, rather than from any moral imperative to prevent a killing.
Irene shrugged. ‘I stole a book, he stole it back, he betrayed us, these things happen—’ She broke off at a new surge of power, and the writing on the throne changed again. Join me, tell me what the book said, and be safe. Or perish with the Library.
‘Oh, you don’t need to make excuses to us,’ Dawkins said. There was a thin round of applause and snarling from the mob. ‘So, you going to tell him what he wants to know?’
‘No,’ Irene said. A sudden headache was rising to a blinding intensity. I’m interested, she scribbled. I want to live. Tell me more. All of which were true in themselves. One couldn’t lie in the Language. She just hoped that together they’d give a totally false impression of surrender.
There was a pause, and then the words re-formed. You’re probably lying. But we’ll talk later. If you live.
The humming weight of power grew, swelling around Irene. She couldn’t shake the feeling of being in the cross-hairs of some impossibly large gun. The metal Tube signs were beginning to shudder on the throne’s framework, rattling against their fastenings in a rising screech of metal.
Her next conclusion wasn’t born from logic. It was a leap of imagination, combined with a very vivid mental image of what would happen when the energy levels down there rose too high. ‘Everyone get back and get down!’ Irene shouted, following her own advice.
The throne exploded. Shattered Tube signs scythed in every direction, humming through the air and slicing into everything in their way. Irene hugged the ground, her arms over her head, hearing screams and crashes, but not daring to raise her head till the noise had stopped.
At least the bursts of power had ended too. Her headache was draining away, and she could think clearly. And her first thought was, Dawkins is not going to like this.
She looked up. Dawkins was standing above her. His coat was split down the sleeves, and his arms rippled with muscle. A healing gash dribbled blood from his forehead to his jaw, and while his face was still human, there were too many teeth in his mouth, and his eyes were pure red. Saying sorry would have implied that this was her fault. ‘I’m glad you’re not seriously hurt,’ Irene said as she stood up.
‘I don’t like people bringing their fights into my territory.’ Dawkins was echoed by a rising growl from the surrounding pack. Pieces of shattered metal were embedded in the floor, walls and werewolves, and the throne couldn’t have supported a poodle now. The chandelier was still in one piece, but that was only because none of the flying metal had spun directly upwards.
Irene met his glare. ‘And I don’t like having to come down here to get my property, after your pack attacked me.’
The place stank of blood now, as well as dust, werewolf and heat. If she showed weakness, they’d take her down. So she couldn’t afford to show any weakness. She wasn’t just one human in the middle of a mob of werewolves. She was a Librarian.
Dawkins thought about that, and a little of the fire in his eyes ebbed away. ‘Fair point. So what’s the Library, and who’s Alberich?’
Irene weighed things I should and should not tell outsiders against possibly unfortunate reaction of lead werewolf, if I refuse him in his own den, especially after that explosion. ‘The Library is the organization I belong to,’ she said. ‘Alberich is an enemy of the Library. Mr Dawkins, I ask you: am I really worth your time, when so many people are queuing up to kill me anyhow?’
Dawkins snorted. ‘I have to say that’s not the sort of argument people usually give me.’
‘What do they usually give you?’ Irene asked.
‘Oh, their throats or their bellies, and whimpering about how they don’t want to die. And that’s the oddest thing about you, even for a friend of Mr Vale.’ The brief amusement drained out of his eyes like sunlight from behind stained glass. ‘You’re not scared. You’re in the middle of the home turf of the biggest pack in London, and you’re not stupid, but you’re not scared, either. I’m starting to think that you may be right. Maybe I should let you go.’
‘Mr Dawkins—’ one of his closer followers began, a man in a butcher’s rough clothing and blue apron.
Dawkins lashed out, catching the man by the back of his neck in one suddenly larger and clawed hand. He shook him from side to side, jerking him off his feet until the man’s teeth rattled. ‘Did I ask for opinions? Did I ask for any fucking opinions?’
Nobody moved.
Dawkins released the man, dropping him to the ground. The man rolled over onto his back, panting for breath, and tilted his head back to bare his neck. ‘Right,’ Dawkins said. His voice echoed from wall to wall. ‘I’ve led this pack for five years now. And one reason why we’re the biggest pack in London is that I know when not to get into a fight. Is anyone challenging me on this?’
Dead silence flowed through the room like a living thing. Irene could hear her own breathing. Then, one by one, the werewolves began to flatten themselves on the floor among the fragments of shattered Tube signs, heedless of their clothing or injuries, their heads lowered and obedient.
Dawkins nodded. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘That’s right.’
The woman who’d been sent to find Davey rose and stepped forward, dragging another man by his hair. Her victim stumbled forward, clutching an overcoat and a bagful of items to his chest. ‘This is Davey,’ she said. ‘He’d like to be . . . helpful.’
‘Hand them over,’ Dawkins snarled.
Davey dug into his bag and pulled out the folder. Irene almost snatched it off him, she was so glad to have it back again. She flicked it open and was relieved to see that the papers inside all looked as they ought to, and that the contents listing matched the number of pages.
