Rebel Angels (Gemma Doyle #2)

Rebel Angels (Gemma Doyle #2) Page 35

That's all it takes. I'm up and scurrying, pell-mell, like a frightened mouse, and I don't stop running until I'm back in my room with the door shut tight--though what I think I'm shutting out, I cannot say. I put on all the lamps in the room. When the room is bright, I feel a bit better. What sort of vision was that? Why have they become so much stronger? Is it because the magic is loose? Does that somehow make it bolder? I felt her hand on my shoulder. . . .

Stop it, Gemma. Stop frightening yourself. Who are these girls and what do they want with me? What did they mean,"Don't trust her"? It doesn't help that the school is so empty, or that tomorrow I shall be in London with my family, and who knows what real horrors await me there.

I've no answers to any of it. And I'm afraid of sleep. By the time the first light presses its nose against my windowpanes, I am already dressed, my trunk is packed, and I am ready to see London if I have to drive the horses there myself.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

TOM IS LATE, AS USUAL.

I've arrived at Victoria Station on the twelve o'clock train from Spence as expected, but my brother is nowhere to be found. Perhaps he's been in a horrible accident and lies dying on the street, begging with his last breath that one of the crying bystanders rush to the train station to rescue his most innocent and virtuous sister. It is the only charitable explanation I can muster. Most probably, he is at his club, sharing laughs and cards with his friends, and has forgotten all about me.

"My dear, are you sure your brother is coming for you?" It is Beatrice, one of the seventy-year-old spinster sisters who sat beside me on the train, talking incessantly of rheumatism and the joys of cabbage roses till I thought I should go mad. Unlike my brother, they are concerned for my welfare.

"Oh, yes. Quite sure, thank you. Please don't worry on my account."

"Oh, dear, Millicent, I don't believe we can leave her here alone, do you?"

"No, quite right, Beatrice. She must come with us. We shall send word to her family."

That decides it. I am going to murder Tom.

"There he is!" I say, looking off into the distance, where my brother is not.

"Where?" the sisters ask.

"I see him just over there. I must have been looking in the wrong direction. It was lovely to meet you. I hope we shall meet again," I say, offering my hand and sending them on their way. I march off purposefully and hide behind the ticket booth. When all is clear, I take a seat on a bench far down the platform.

Where could he be?

Another train whooshes into the station and unloads its passengers. They are embraced by smiling relations. Packages are handed over; flowers are given. Tom is a half hour late. Father shall hear about this. A man in a fine black suit comes to sit next to me. What must he think of me sitting here by myself? An angry scar mars the left side of his face, stretching from above his ear to the corner of his mouth. His suit is expertly tailored. I spy his lapel pin and my mouth goes dry, for I know what it is. It is the sword and skull of the Rakshana. Is it coincidence that he has sat beside me? Or has he come with a purpose? He gives me a slight smile. Quietly, I rise and walk away. When I've gone halfway down the platform, I turn back. He's left the bench as well. His newspaper tucked beneath his arm, he follows me. Where is Tom? I stop at a flower seller, pretending to inspect the blooms and buds there. The man comes as well. He selects a red carnation for his buttonhole, tips his hat in thanks, and drops a coin in the vendor's hand without so much as a word.

Fear makes my legs weak as a newborn kitten's.

What if he tries to take me? What if something has gone wrong with Kartik? What if Pippa is right and these men cannot be trusted at all?

I can feel the man in the black suit closing in. If I were to scream, who would hear me above the hiss and snarl of the trains? Who might help me?

I spy a young man standing alone, waiting.

"There you are!" I say, striding quickly toward him. He looks about to see whom I'm addressing."You're late, you know."

"I'm . . . late? I'm terribly sorry, but have we . . ."

I lean in, whispering urgently. "Please help me. That man is following me."

He looks confused."What man?"

"That man." I look behind me, but he is gone. There is no one. "There was a man in a black suit. He had a hideous scar on his left cheek. He sat beside me on the bench, and then he followed me to the flower seller.'' I'm aware that I sound slightly mad.

"Perhaps he wanted a flower for his lapel," the young man says.