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clear the frost and bring the rain. I hadn t moved,
couldn t move. He d been here, at the window,
laughing at the danger. From my window I could see
almost every tree in the orchard, but I couldn t find
a sign of his grave. Nor was there any mark on the
fence. That was all I could make out unless I closed
my eyes. And then all I could see was him.
Four large Rottweilers patrolled the course of
Fox s last run, stiff-legged and rough-hackled with
suspicion, but they did not go into the orchard,
though the fence would be no obstacle.
I didn t turn round when the door opened. A
blanket was put around my shoulders and a steaming
mug was placed on the window ledge in front of me.
The scent of fresh-ground coffee laced with brandy
rose to my nostrils, making my stomach churn with
incipient nausea.
Our employer, said Tweedledum, has every
confidence that in the light of recent events you will
have reconsidered your position, bearing in mind
that there are others available for your persuasion.A
Michael Rees, a Joseph Wells, not to mention Lisa
and Simon Rees-Lockyer and their daughter. Drink
the coffee, Mr Rees.
I drank it. After the first couple of sips it actually
settled my stomach and brought me some inner
warmth. I wrapped both hands around the mug
and stared at the Tweedles, memorising every line
of their features. If the weight of my regard made
them uncomfortable, they didn t show it. I was no
threat to them, or so they thought. They were wrong.
I was Nemesis. Sooner or later I would work out how
justice would be done on all three of them.
I was taken down a couple of floors and into a
warm bedroom. My holdall was on the bed, along
with my shirt, my jacket and sweater. Fox s clothes
were there, too. I dressed, then carefully folded his
things into the holdall and zipped it shut.Sandalwood
and myrrh drifted faint as a distant dream and was
gone.
Breakfast is ready for you in the workshop, Mr
Rees, Two said. I nodded and went with them.
Left alone, I sat down at the bench, ate bacon and
eggs without throwing up, drank a vast amount of
tea.
The portrait lay there, waiting for me.
I took the dirty crockery into the kitchenette,
washed them up and dried them.
The portrait was still there. Adam s blank blob of
a face seemed to be watching me. So I wandered
back to the bench and sat there, staring back at him.
But I wasn t seeing him at all. Fox, lying in the cold
earth, body stiffened with rigor mortis and soon to
be invaded by maggots and decay, the body that had
been so incredibly alive in my arms - grief began to
twist in me again, and a hunger for revenge brought
a snarl to my throat.
I glared at the bland oval face and hated it. If it
hadn t been for that portrait Fox would still be alive- I
stopped the Stanley knife millimetres away from the
painted surface. I couldn t do it. Wendlow s living
face, perhaps, but not this centuries old piece of art.
Sickened and shaking, I dropped my head into
my hands and squeezed my eyes shut. There was
another consideration as well. My own life. Once I d
finished this commission, I doubted there would be
others. I d seen murder done - I literally knew where
the body was buried. Could Wendlow afford to let
me live? Hardly. Unless I used Ann as a bargaining
piece. Fox s Ann. God help me, I couldn t even think
coherently.
I was on automatic pilot. Some time later I
discovered I was working on the portrait. I couldn t
even remember making the decision, let alone
starting. Before it could clearly register, the door
opened and Wendlow came in.
Good evening, Robert, he said smoothly,
keeping the width of the bench between us.
Evening? I d lost a whole day? I m glad you
have decided to be sensible. You ll explain this, if
you please, holding up his hand. Fox s ring was on
his little finger. This is the same coat of arms as in
the painting.
Yes. I was shocked at the sound of my voice. It
was thin and croaky, like an old man s. I coughed to
clear my throat.
How did the boy come by it? Did Jerry Hancock
sell it to him?
By right of birth, I growled. He s a descendant.
Was a descendant. I glanced at the portrait - and ice
grew like a knotted fist in my gut.
Chapter Twelve
I hadn t realised how much of the panel I had
cleaned up. The painted face was no longer an
almost featureless blob. His hair was now bright
copper, waving back from his forehead and looking
as if hands had just been raked through it. From his
left earlobe hung an emerald. Green eyes laughed
out at me from a handsome proud-boned face, the
smile charmingly awry. And from the edge of his
left eye-socket ran a ragged scar angling across his
temple to disappear into his hair.
I think Wendlow was saying something, but I
couldn t hear him properly.
Likenesses I could accept, even an identical twin
image despite the four hundred odd years between
them, but the same scar? That was an impossible
coincidence - I couldn t understand it.
No, it wasn t really there. I was imagining it.Shock.
That was it. I was in shock and hallucinating&
Wendlow barked my name and I looked up at
him. He was glaring at me, on the edge of losing
his temper, but then I started hallucinating again.
I thought I saw the door open and Fox step silently
into the room. Mud and fresh blood smeared his
upper body and leather trousers, but not enough to
hide the raw wounds in his chest and belly, though
they weren t bleeding. There were fresh grazes on
his arms, as if he had been clawed. Blood smudged
bright about his mouth and nose. His lambent Fenris
eyes were locked on Wendlow s back, his bloodied
lips drawn back from sharp white teeth -and I forgot
to breathe. No ice, now, in this Loki s child, he was
all fire and fury and hunger. How in God s name
could Wendlow not be aware of the danger stalking
him?
Probably it was my fixed stare that alerted him.He
spun round and froze in his tracks, jaw slackening.
Then he snatched for the gun inside his jacket but
Fox was moving with inhuman speed.One instant he
was poised on the room s threshold, then he was on
Wendlow and the man was falling, brought down by
the flying weight.
I was glad my view was blocked by the bench.
Wendlow screamed once, a horrible gurgling sound
that bubbled into silence.
After a while Fox stood up. He wiped the back
of his hand across his mouth, smearing blood. He
didn t look at me. Would not. His breathing was
ragged, shallow, the burning anger gone now and
taking with it his vitality. He pushed his fingers
through his tangled, dirty hair. His hands shook a
little. He looked - defeated.
That ice was still in my belly, crawling trails of
terror up and down my spine, but I stumbled round
the end of the bench, refusing to look down at
Wendlow, and I got my arms around Fox. Briefly he
tensed against me, but then he gave a shuddering
sigh and sagged in my embrace, hands clutching
my lapels while spasmodic shudders racked through
him.
I don t like being buried, he whispered. I
couldn t stop myself, I began to laugh. At least I
think it was laughter.
And all the time my brain was bellowing questions
I wasn t sure I wanted answered, because none of it
made any kind of sense. There had to be a rational
explanation for this unholy craziness, but I retained
enough sanity to know this was neither the time nor
the place to start trying to find it.
We ve got to get out of here, I said into his
hair.It smelt of earth and blood, making me feel
slightly sick. He nodded and pushed away from
me, staggering a little as he did so. Have you got
a bullet in you? I demanded. Those raw, seemingly
half-healed wounds looked awful.
No, he said. He crouched beside Wendlow,
touched fingertips to the man s temple. I forced
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