Read Online God Save the Queen (The Immortal Empire) by Kate Locke - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kate Locke
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hand. “Then I’ll help you.” He didn’t just mean at this moment, he meant inside as well, and I loved him even more for it.
I’ve always prided myself on being a bit of a kick-arse, confident – perhaps overly so – in my ability to fight and win. There wasn’t much that scared me other than goblins – and you had to be a special kind of stupid not to be afraid of them. Even then, Bedlam terrified me more.
Because I honestly believed that one day I would be an inmate here. This was where I would die if some Human League zealot, whose mission was to ensure that humans were the last race standing, didn’t take me out first. This place was my destiny. Sounds like bollocks, but I felt it in my bones.
“You’re going to break my fingers,” Val whispered as we crossed the threshold into the awful place.
I eased up on my grip, but didn’t let go of his hand. I wasn’t even embarrassed – that’s how freaked out I was. Inside we found ourselves in a small but impeccable foyer, separated from the rest of the building by gates and a security station. Val was right: if it weren’t for all the tech, this place would look like a country house, right down to the oak panelling, ornate plaster ceiling and Axminster carpet.
There must be good money in madness.
We were greeted by halvie guards, both in black trousers and red frock coats with “ ASYLUM SECURITY ” stitched on the left breast. Val and I flashed our respective official identification. Neither guard looked terribly impressed; they simply nodded and gestured for us to move on to the hounds – machines fitted with sensors that smelled the person walking past the “nose” posted on either side of the frame. It could tell in a few seconds if a visitor had a weapon, drugs or anything else that might be considered dangerous.
I’d left the Bulldog at home, but Val had to give up his handgun. They told him he couldn’t take it inside, not unless he was there to arrest someone.
Fortunately, lonsdaelite had no odour, so the dagger hidden in my corset didn’t register. I wasn’t about to sashay on into Bedlam without some kind of weapon beyond my own hands and teeth. Although I was fairly certain I could chew my way out of this place if necessary.
“Are we done?” I asked, standing toe to toe with the rougher-looking of the two guards. “We’d like to see if a body in your morgue is our sister.”
The guard’s eye twitched. What do you know, a hint of remorse. “We’re done. My associate will escort you to the morgue.”
The guard who’d searched Val led us to the lift. Behind us I heard the other bloke radio ahead to let them know we were coming. I stepped inside the antique cage, turning so I faced the front. The guard inserted a key into the control panel, turned it and pressed a button marked “B”. The gate crept shut and the floor beneath my feet shifted, dropped.
The morgue was underground. It was a well-known fact that London, nicknamed the “Necropolis”, was built on graves rangingfrom pre-Roman times to historically preserved plague pits to nineteenth-century tombs. Dig deep enough almost anywhere in the city and you’d find bone fragments of some kind. So it seemed only natural that this place associated with death should, like the pits and ancient graves, keep its dead like a dirty secret, buried deep.
There was a bit of a draught – I felt it along my hairline where my skin was damp with perspiration. The place made my flesh creep, my breathing shallow and my heart race. Silly to be so afraid of somewhere I’d never set foot before, but I was. A little fear was a good thing – it made you sharper – but too much made you a wreck. Made you weak.
I was not going to let this pile of stone and madness make
me
weak.
The lift jolted to a stop, wavering beneath our feet before stilling enough for the gate to jerk open. The corridor was dimly lit, with a low ceiling and a worn floor that looked shabby compared to the
I’ve always prided myself on being a bit of a kick-arse, confident – perhaps overly so – in my ability to fight and win. There wasn’t much that scared me other than goblins – and you had to be a special kind of stupid not to be afraid of them. Even then, Bedlam terrified me more.
Because I honestly believed that one day I would be an inmate here. This was where I would die if some Human League zealot, whose mission was to ensure that humans were the last race standing, didn’t take me out first. This place was my destiny. Sounds like bollocks, but I felt it in my bones.
“You’re going to break my fingers,” Val whispered as we crossed the threshold into the awful place.
I eased up on my grip, but didn’t let go of his hand. I wasn’t even embarrassed – that’s how freaked out I was. Inside we found ourselves in a small but impeccable foyer, separated from the rest of the building by gates and a security station. Val was right: if it weren’t for all the tech, this place would look like a country house, right down to the oak panelling, ornate plaster ceiling and Axminster carpet.
There must be good money in madness.
We were greeted by halvie guards, both in black trousers and red frock coats with “ ASYLUM SECURITY ” stitched on the left breast. Val and I flashed our respective official identification. Neither guard looked terribly impressed; they simply nodded and gestured for us to move on to the hounds – machines fitted with sensors that smelled the person walking past the “nose” posted on either side of the frame. It could tell in a few seconds if a visitor had a weapon, drugs or anything else that might be considered dangerous.
I’d left the Bulldog at home, but Val had to give up his handgun. They told him he couldn’t take it inside, not unless he was there to arrest someone.
Fortunately, lonsdaelite had no odour, so the dagger hidden in my corset didn’t register. I wasn’t about to sashay on into Bedlam without some kind of weapon beyond my own hands and teeth. Although I was fairly certain I could chew my way out of this place if necessary.
“Are we done?” I asked, standing toe to toe with the rougher-looking of the two guards. “We’d like to see if a body in your morgue is our sister.”
The guard’s eye twitched. What do you know, a hint of remorse. “We’re done. My associate will escort you to the morgue.”
The guard who’d searched Val led us to the lift. Behind us I heard the other bloke radio ahead to let them know we were coming. I stepped inside the antique cage, turning so I faced the front. The guard inserted a key into the control panel, turned it and pressed a button marked “B”. The gate crept shut and the floor beneath my feet shifted, dropped.
The morgue was underground. It was a well-known fact that London, nicknamed the “Necropolis”, was built on graves rangingfrom pre-Roman times to historically preserved plague pits to nineteenth-century tombs. Dig deep enough almost anywhere in the city and you’d find bone fragments of some kind. So it seemed only natural that this place associated with death should, like the pits and ancient graves, keep its dead like a dirty secret, buried deep.
There was a bit of a draught – I felt it along my hairline where my skin was damp with perspiration. The place made my flesh creep, my breathing shallow and my heart race. Silly to be so afraid of somewhere I’d never set foot before, but I was. A little fear was a good thing – it made you sharper – but too much made you a wreck. Made you weak.
I was not going to let this pile of stone and madness make
me
weak.
The lift jolted to a stop, wavering beneath our feet before stilling enough for the gate to jerk open. The corridor was dimly lit, with a low ceiling and a worn floor that looked shabby compared to the
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