Playing God (Helford #2)

(4) Rebel

I reached Traitor’s Gate fifteen minutes early—punctuality only seemed to become at all important when it came to falling a little back into Caitie—so I had time to burn while I waited for my source to appear. I leaned against the metal railing and looked down into the waters of the Thames, listening behind me as tour guides went past, discussing the dark history, telling the horrifying tale that came with the landmark, and the group listened with interest.

Now that I was somewhat free, I found a better appreciation for histories like the one with Traitor’s Gate. Symbolically, perhaps more ironically, it became one of my favorite places to go in London.

Traitor’s Gate was built by Edward I and accommodated the many enemies of the Tudors to enter the Tower of London. On barge, people such as Anne Boleyn were taken in a route that crossed under London Bridge, where the heads of recently executed prisoners sat on spikes watching those who passed. The gate, partially hidden beneath the water, tended to give an uneasy feeling, at least to me. All I thought about around the Tower was betrayal and execution.

I suppose my connection to the Gate was my twisted form of acceptance.

My hands shook as I reached into my jacket pocket, shakily pulling out a package of cigarettes and a matchbook. I clumsily struck the match and lit the cigarette, breathing in deeply.

I leaned my forearms back on the railing, breathing out the smoke, watching it curl and twist in the wind. It was a horrid habit, truly horrible, but I only took to indulging in it when I was seconds away from screaming, from tearing into my own skin, from throwing myself over and letting myself drown.

I took another deep breath and let out a lungful of smoke.

“Smoking is extremely bad for you.”

Accent was from north England, rural. I considered the footsteps as they got closer—the source was about five foot eleven inches, give or take. He was wearing Royal Air Force-grade boots. I took another long drag and caught the smell of forest and fresh air and I released the toxins in my lungs, smothering the cigarette and tucking it back into the carton.

I turned to face him, smiling, the perfect pretend person again; I was finally coming back to life.

“I told my boss I would try to quit smoking,” I told the source, “but I thought about it and decided one every once in a while would only kill me eventually.”

He smiled.

MI6. There was no other person he could possibly be, with the way he held himself. He might be in a division that works with Interpol, but his shoulders were too square, too military. His eyes held too much fire.

There was a lot of rebel in him.

He held out his hand. “I’m Meade.”

I shook it. “I suppose you know who I am.”

“You have caused too much of a stir to remain unknown around these parts—the lovely spitfire of Oxford, straight into Parliament, now having access to the heads of the highest in the British diplomatic hierarchy? Miss Abraham, you are the assassin that everyone wishes they could be right now.”