“Go on. If I wanted you dead, you never would have woken up.”
“Maybe you’re cruel,” Finch said. But he drank. The water was cool on his throat. Drove away the lingering nausea.
“Do you know why you’re here, ‘Finch’?” she asked, leaning back. An appraising look.
“Only you know that.” The way she said “Finch” made him feel naked, exposed. His awe was fading. Replaced by a kind of perverse resentment. This woman had helped ruin his father.
“Bellum omnium contra omnes,” she said, and the little hairs on Finch’s neck rose. “Maybe I say those words to you three times and you wake up from this dream you’ve been living and remember your mission.”
“I don’t believe you,” Finch said. Waking up to the fact that he’d been kidnapped. That he was in a dangerous situation. She’d hinted she knew his real name. She knew he worked for the gray caps. Knew he’d been at the rebel safe house.
The Lady in Blue laughed. “Of course you don’t, because, unfortunately, you’re correct. You’re not a secret agent for the resistance.”
“What do the words mean?” Asking questions meant he didn’t have to answer any.
“Maybe it’s in a language from another place, a place the gray caps don’t know about. Maybe we’re the only ones who can understand it. ‘War of all against all,’ that’s what it means. Though we won’t be using it again after today. You’ve made sure of that.”
“Never lost is the countersign.”
“Part of the countersign.” She wasn’t smiling.
“We were just doing our jobs,” Finch said. “We were going to ask some questions and leave. We wanted to stay alive.”
The wind coming from the city below had faded. Finch could hear strange mewls and moans. Then a sound like a million leaves rustling.
The Lady in Blue folded her arms. “Maybe we should talk about your murder investigation instead. Such as it is.”
“You’re not the first to be interested.”
Her smile was as humorless as a knife blade. “Then one more won’t hurt, will it? Tell me what you know.”
Remembered the transcript Stark had given him: “There’s a weapon in the apartment where we found the dead man. You, the rebels, lost a weapon there.”
“We lost an agent there, Finch,” the Lady in Blue said flatly.
Duncan Shriek.
“What’s his name? The man?” Finch asked.
A look of profound displeasure from the Lady in Blue.
“Now that is disappointing, Finch. Disappointing in three ways. First because I don’t have much time and you’re wasting it. Second because I suppose this means you’re going to try to survive by giving me scraps. And third because I’m not your unimaginative little gray cap boss.” Unable to keep disgust out of her voice.
“You left,” Finch said. “You left all of us behind. We’ve had to live in that city for six years. Survive any way we could.”
You abandoned us. Curled up inside that outburst all the bottled-up frustration from nearly eight years of playing a role. A role inside of a role.
The Lady in Blue nodded as if she agreed, but said, “Do you think we’ve been having a party out here, Finch? Do you think we’ve been sitting out here waiting for the end times? No. We’ve been learning things. We’ve been gathering our forces. Waiting for the right moment. It’s been as hard for us as for you. Harder maybe.”
At least you’ve had a change of scenery.
When he remained silent, she said, “Tell me the name of the man in the apartment. Think of it as an exercise in trust.”
They already knew. He had no leverage.
“It’s a man named Duncan Shriek. Except he died a hundred years ago. That’s what I don’t understand.”
The dead man sat in the chair next to him, smiling.
“Was there anyone with him?”
“Half of a dead gray cap.”
Falling through cold air and couldn’t feel his legs.
“Is the body still in the apartment?”
“Not the gray cap, but Shriek’s is.”
“Is there any visible sign of injury to Shriek?”
“Not really.”
“How did he die?”
“I don’t know. He looks like he might have fallen. Twisted his neck a bit.”
“Don’t you feel better, telling the truth?”
“Yes,” he said. Meant it.
She paused for a moment, as if marshaling hidden forces. Then said, “While we’re telling the truth, Finch, I should let you know something: I knew John Crossley. John Marlowe Crossley.”
A sharp intake of breath he couldn’t control. Too long since he’d heard that name spoken. Hadn’t uttered it in years, either. Had tried to unthink it.
The Lady in Blue continued: “John had a strange idea of honor. He had genuine disagreements with us. With everyone, really. That’s why he fell so hard. Why no one could protect him. It would have been easier if he’d been a simple spy, one side against another, not working for the Kalif.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Finch said. Although he knew it was hopeless. He felt like a hermit crab being pulled from its shell.
The Lady in Blue nodded, but not to Finch.
A slamming blow came down on Finch’s bad shoulder. He cried out, fell from his seat into the grass. Moaning in pain. Turning to protect his shoulder.
The Lady in Blue had risen. Stood next to him. Suddenly more threatening, more terrible, than anyone he had ever seen. “You do know what I’m talking about, James Scott Crossley. You do know.”
Like looking in a mirror and seeing a double that didn’t really match up. He’d been Finch for so long that he didn’t know James Scott Crossley anymore. Not really. Some stranger who hadn’t survived the Rising. Some poor bastard who’d never made it back, like so many others.
She pulled the chair away from the table and sat down. “Do I have your attention?”
Through gritted teeth. “Yes.” He didn’t want to remember Crossley. Crossley was dead. Both of them.
“You’ve changed your look. Your hair is lighter, and you’ve shaved the beard. You’re heavier. Older, of course. But it’s still you. What would people do if they knew? With your father’s reputation for treachery? Even now, maybe they’d be firmer with you. Maybe they’d stop what they’re up to long enough to settle old scores. One thing to protect the key to a weapon. Another to find out the key has close ties to someone who betrayed the city to a foreign power. Maybe you’d wake up to a bullet in your brain. And know this, too, John: your father brought it on himself. Don’t delude yourself about that.”
“Fuck you,” Finch said. “Fuck you, Alessandra Lewden.”
Got a kick in the ribs for that. Lay there, saying nothing. Pinned to the ground by her words. Shoulder knifed through with broken glass.
She relented then. Said in something close to a kindly tone, “But that’s not why you’re here, ‘Finch,’ if that’s what you’d prefer I call you. A year ago? Maybe. But now? No.”
Through gritted teeth, “What do you want, then?”