BLUEMANTLE, Karen Langston [best classic romance novels TXT] 📗

Breathless, they reached the fifth floor. The corridor was deserted. A piercing wail blared from all directions as the curfew siren cried.

“Down here,” whispered Wella, crouching low to duck pillbox apertures that opened onto the corridor. She stopped outside an unmarked door and knocked three times. Then once. Then twice more. The door opened the inch of security chain. “Wella Newell,” she whispered through the crack. “The minstrels sing to me.” The door yawned and they were drawn into darkness.

A small form cloaked in shadow led them down a dark corridor that dog-legged abruptly. They passed through a door into a narrow passage, then through a smaller second door into a box room. The low glow of an oil lamp illuminated the space. Beside it stood their guide: an elderly woman, long silver hair hanging limp over her stooped spine. She didn’t say a word. Instead, she smiled warmly at Wella and cast a suspicious glare at Chase.

As soon as she left, closing the door silently behind her, Chase grabbed Wella’s arm and whispered, “Are you sure about this? Did you see the way she just looked at me?”

“Trust me, you’re safer here than anywhere in Wydeye. I’ve known Quince for years. She’s a champion of the Scene. Her den is the most secure hide that we have overground. As long as you stay quiet and don’t leave this room, no one will know you’re here.”

Chase grunted and sat on a low bunk, squinting at their surroundings. The room was cramped and aperture-less. Above him was another bunk. In the centre of the room, two rustic chairs and a small wooden table, on which stood the oil lamp. Against the opposite wall, a standpipe and bucket. To the right of that, in the corner, another bucket covered over with a piece of cloth. The walls were bare concrete block, the floor and ceiling, cast concrete slabs.

“At least it’s cool and dust-free,” said Wella, watching her brother’s expression.

Chase shrugged.

“Okay. That’s enough,” she said, straining to keep her voice low.

“What?”

“Sit.” She pointed at one of the chairs.

Stunned, Chase complied.

She sat down opposite him, the lamp flickering in the space between them. “I help you escape from the raid. I show you the way through the woods to avoid crossing the city. I use up a not-insubstantial lifeline and bring you here. You have shelter, running water and the luxury of two square meals a day. You are safe. And yet you sit there, turning your nose up and shrugging like an arrogant fucking arse. It’s your turn to give, big brother. So, tell me. What’s the score?”

“What? What do you mean?”

“What do I mean? Are you fucking serious? The A, Chase. What’ve they got on you?”

“I told you—”

“You told me bullshit.”

“I swear, Wella.”

“Don’t go down that route. If this arrangement is going to work, if our relationship, for all that it is, is going to last, then you have to tell me the truth. I saw your face out there. In the stairwell. You were terrified. The A aren’t watching you for some minor misdemeanour. They’ve got you so on edge, you can barely hold it together. An oppressive, autocratic state it may be, but it doesn’t tend to instil that level of terror among the innocent. Even followers aren’t that afraid. So, what is it? What’s the real story?”

Chase faltered. He couldn’t face the truth himself, let alone admit it to someone else. Gagged by guilt, he sought to deny. “Listen, I honestly don’t know.”

“You’re lying. For crow’s sake, Chase, I’m giving you the chance to explain. To come clean, whatever this is about. And believe me when I say this, you won’t get the opportunity again. When the truth does come out, whatever it is you’re hiding, it’s going to go down a whole lot worse if you lie about it now. Because I’m convinced. You’re hiding something. Not about the A. About you.”

Chase rubbed his temples, staring at grain lines in the table, following their flow as they came together and pulled apart. He wanted to tell her, to expose and expel his guilt, rather than leave it gnawing at his conscience, devouring him from the inside out. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to say it; he couldn’t put into words the betrayal he was gradually coming to comprehend.

Wella watched, witnessing the battle. She stepped up the pressure. “What about Ursel?”

Chase jolted, eyes wide. “Ursel? What do you mean?”

“I presume you care enough for her that you don’t intend to stand by while she is tortured to within an inch of her life for information that, I absolutely believe, she will never give up?”

“Oh no… Ursel… But what is there…?”

“How to save her? I’ve no idea. But as far as the A are concerned, she’s just another ‘User’, so she stands a chance. Not like…” She faltered, then shook her head, forcing back her grief.

The Troubadours had shared word of Cole’s reported capture, which had left the underground community devastated. They were under no illusion as to what would become of him in the hands of the Authority. To Wella, he had been both Bluemantle and a good friend. The news had hit hard.

She looked up at Chase, pulling herself together. “There’s hope for Ursel,” she said. “You insisted on saving me, who you’ve cared little about over the years; me, who didn’t need or want to be saved. So, I’m assuming, given whatever fondness you have for her, that you’ll at least want to try.”

“Of course. I’ll do anything.”

“Then you have to tell me. Don’t you see? I have to know what we’re up against.”

Chase’s face crumpled. He held trembling hands to his eyes.

Wella softened her voice. She reached out and placed her hand on his shoulder. “You can’t do this alone. And I want to help. But I can’t do that unless you tell me the truth. It won’t work otherwise.”

Dropping his hands to the table, Chase took a