The Queen's Viper Read online

“I have had to be many things to survive, Mistress. Many, many things.” Mouse’s eyes revealed pains Viper could have prevented. She stepped to him and gently cupped his chin, the silence between them longer than the centuries spent apart. Viper held her hand, aglow with elldyr creft, over his injuries. A laceration formed above her left eye, and a bruise tainted her jaw. Small cuts dotted the vertical ridges of her face. She removed the bandage from his forehead.

  “You were much wronged.” Viper kissed the newly healed skin of his enlarged skull. In his eyes, she beheld a picture of the words he longed to say. Before he could speak, she turned towards her dressing room. “I have attire from Camden. You need not attend me whilst I dress, nor whilst I feed. Make your preparations. We shall leave upon my return.”

  “As you wish, Mistress. I am yours; yours to command.”

  Viper turned and left him standing in the middle of the room, staring through the gauze curtains. She paused at the doorway.

  “Mouse?”

  “Yes, Mistress?”

  “Is your Ivy truly dead?”

  Mouse set his jaw. “Graeme is managing the details.” Mouse’s voice cracked his stoicism. Viper let him find his words at his own pace.

  “I regret that fate took your companion, much as I did not care for her attachment to you,” said the immortal. She inhaled and held her breath, ready to relinquish the control she held over Mouse for far too long. “I was afeared of the power that giving you a proper name would yield.” A small smile mellowed the angular ridges of her face. “You are a man, not a mouse. Your choice of Owain Henry is apt, and willingly will I honour your name, if that is what you wish.”

  “Thank you, Mistress.” Owain pulled his shoulders back with pride. “It is.”

  The Daoine Tor turned away, carrying the memory of the happy glint in his eye. She prowled the streets of London wearing a thin, nightshade, woolen pullover that clung to her torso. Its oversized neck cowl served as a deeply recessed hood. The sleeves covered three-quarters the length of her arms, and the shortened sweater exposed her lower midriff. Over this, she wore a theatrical tailcoat with a fine, garnet shimmer, from which she had torn off the sleeves. Its asymmetrical hem dangled over black leggings with silver piping and high-topped ankle boots. She kept her hair loose about her shoulders, parted on the side, as was her favourite.

  When Viper came back to the Gherkin a short time later, her skin flourished from the aeir she had absorbed. The surge of energy made her anxious to carry on. Owain insisted they regroup with the others, and she relented.

  He brought her to the floor that housed his private rooms, a hydro-therapy pool, and an expansive library with regulated atmospheric settings. Through the glass doors of Owain’s sparsely decorated office, Viper glimpsed a black rectangular conference table. Thin clouds meandering above the bustling afternoon streets appeared in its surface. Graeme sat towards the far end, on the right. He ran his fingers over a screen projecting from the desk. Clare and Dhillon chatted across from him. Clare shaped Dhillon’s fingers into her sign language symbols. He clumsily gesticulated words back.

  The doors opened automatically. Viper sauntered into the room, hands on her hips, and a rapacious swing in her step. She felt like the humans watched her for signs of weakness. She afforded them none.

  Viper paused and traced the back of Dhillon’s chair with her finger. “Hast thou found thy mettle?” He plopped his hands into his lap. Smiling to herself, she sat on the table next him, enjoying his discomfort at her proximity.

  Owain hobbled past Viper to the head of the table. “I know you’ve been through a lot. I am afraid that the attack upon us proves that we are in greater danger than I realized. Graeme, have you found a sliver of evidence from the Yard’s database?”

  “About that man with a face like the back end of a bus and his thug-a-day pals?” Graeme rubbed his bristles. “I could nae find anything.” Graeme turned the screen to face the others. Electronic surveillance archives with images identified by numbers and the words Scotland Yard filled the monitor. “My mercenary contacts dinnae know him either. If they’re paid Hard Men, they planked it well.” The Scotsman wore a snug, grey t-shirt and a black utility kilt that hosted several pockets for hidden weapons. An additional leather gun holster wrapped around his waist.

  Viper studied Graeme’s photos. Crime scenes flashed before her, two-dimensional humans forever locked in horror. She couldn’t take her eyes from the indecencies that humans inflicted upon each other.

  “I might be of better help if I knew something about this enemy we’re after,” Graeme offered.

  Owain tapped his smart phone, a piece of technology Viper now recognized without apprehension. “We seek one of the ancient dwellers of Britain,” he said. He activated a monitor on an interior wall, displaying a black and white etching of a woman with wild, black hair and long nails who reached over a thatched roof to the window of a rough-hewn stone cottage. She chased children with screaming mouths and wide eyes.

  “The common folk named her Blue Annie,” said Viper. “I know her as Annys. She is an immortal Daoine Tor, such as I. Annys is most masterful at exploiting humaines to her will.” Viper’s spiteful eyes boiled at the betrayal by her kin, and of the humans Annys manipulated.

  Dhillon crossed his arms over his chest. “Daoine Tor? You mean Daoine Sidhe,” he corrected, with the pronunciation Dhee-nè shee. Clare looked at him blankly. “In 1850,” he explained, “Thomas Keightley wrote a book about fairy myths. He said Gaelic Scots called faeries the Daoine Sidhe, the folk who live beneath the hills; the Good Neighbours. Only, he shortened the description, calling them simply the sidhe. His name for fairy-folk stuck, even to modern day.”

  “Like banshee?” Clare asked.

  “Except, banshee is two words put together. It comes from the name of a particular Daoine Sidhe named Ban. Therefore, ‘Ban Sidhe’ meaning, ‘Ban, the Sidhe,’ became the single word banshee used to describe a type of fairy creature.”

  “Mr. Keightley took some liberties with the information I provided him,” Owain scoffed. Viper glared at her Foundling and he blushed with embarrassment.

  “In Scotland we call a high hill that’s bare and rocky a tor,” Graeme said.

  Owain nodded. “It’s an archaic word. They used to spell tor with two ‘r’s in Old English. A sidhe is a mound of earth. The meaning of the words is, essentially, equivalent.”

  “The bottom line is that Blue Annie is from fairy tales,” Dhillon said flatly. “You’re hunting a character from folklore, a lie to keep kids in bed at night.”

  “Then what would thou say of me, boy?” Viper flared her elldyr at him, taunting his skepticism. “Mayhap thy craven-livered philosophy would diminish me to myth?”

  Dhillon blanched, mouth agape.

  “You are proof that the truth is more formidable than the lie,” Clare said. She put her hand on Dhillon’s arm. Clare’s shrew diplomacy and generous flattery reminded Viper of Elizabeth’s tactics. “If the other immortal is Blue Annie, then who are you? Which legend are you come to life?”

  Viper felt their eyes seeking her innermost secrets, and the truth she could not name. She slid from the table and approached the window saying, “Until I am rid of Annys, I hath only one name of consequence, given to me by Queen Elizabeth I.” She heard the echo of the word in her head before the name escaped from her mouth. “I am Viper.”

  Dhillon pressed his hands into the table. “You’re Queen Elizabeth I’s snake?” he squeaked. “I thought she used serpents to represent how well educated she was.”

  “What are ye on about, lad?” Graeme asked.

  “I can show you with my research,” Dhillon said, his academic nature in full swing for a second time. He pushed out of his chair and reached across for the monitor in front of Graeme. He tapped on the computer and a slideshow of images displayed on the main screen as he spoke.

  “Queen Elizabeth I utilized symbolism within her portraiture to convey political propaganda. Scholars sti
ll aren’t sure why she used serpentine imagery, because the snake has a dual meaning of wisdom and evil. For example, the Devil’s serpent in the Garden of Eden represents the fall of man and has negative connotations. The cadeus, two snakes wrapped around a staff, is positive, because it means healing and medicine. Queen Elizabeth obviously incorporated snakes in her pictures, like these, the Rainbow and Hardwick Hall Portraits. See how on the Rainbow portrait she has a snake specifically embroidered on the more dominant arm? Here, in the Hardwick portrait there are snakes on her skirt. So, do they represent her wisdom, or her dominance over evil?”

  Viper flexed her long fingers, remembering a painting she once presented Elizabeth. She wondered if it survived, equally scrutinized by befuddled historians.

  Dhillon continued, with increased passion. “If the queen’s portraits didn’t have actual snakes, they had serpentine, curving cords or pearl strands decorating some part of her body. Even her Coronation portrait has a serpentine curve in the trimming of her cloak.”

  Graeme eased the academic away from the table. “Oy, swot,” the Scotsman said, “forget the history lesson. Viper, if we don’t act fast, they’ll get ahead of us and give us a right sore in the bollocks. Tell us how to defeat this Daoine Tor of yours.”

  Viper faltered, unable to admit that she didn’t know the answer.

  Before the immortal spoke, Clare held up her drawing. “To find your answer, Graeme, we need to go here.” The sketch showed the River Medway bending in the face of the Archbishop’s Palace, at the heart of Maidstone, in Kent.

  Viper smiled broadly, an eyebrow raised with amusement. “Owain, you were right to defend the value of this humaine. Clare hath drawn the home of the Sisters of the Maiden Stone, the Daoine Tor who did save us from those attackers. We must away to them with due haste.”

  Owain shook his head. “I won’t be joining you. The queen still holds the amulet that you need to overcome Annys. If those attackers knew of me, they’ll know of it. Who knows what’ll happen if it gets into their hands.”

  His statement made Viper’s stomach tighten with apprehension. She didn’t want to rely on anyone, however, she conceded that the changes she had seen in technology both amazed and frightened her.

  As if he read the trepidation about relying on humans in Viper’s mind, Owain said, “It would be best if I went to the palace alone. I can get in and out silent as a mouse. The rest of you need to go with my Mistress. Clare, I’ve devised a special processor for you that acts as a two-way radio. You’ll be able to keep in touch with me from Kent.”

  Viper studied the man who grew up without her, the once adventurous boy locked deep beneath the layers of the lives he had lived in her absence. He gave his instructions without hesitation and spoke kindly to those loyal to him.

  Elizabeth would be proud.

  The world closed in around Viper. Compared to the freedom she found standing astride the convertible car, the corporate panel van in which she now rode was a pen on wheels. She longed to see the changes along the Old Kent Road, and the countryside she had known so well. Sorrow crept into her face as she wondered what, if anything, lasted of the years when she last walked the royal road south-east of London to Maidstone.

  Resentment brewed at the back of her throat. Annys’ prison had deprived Viper of her liberty and her integrity. After the first time she had been overpowered by human ingenuity, she swore to herself that she would never be in the same position. It was a promise she had failed to keep because she fell prey to Annys’ plans. Viper still didn’t fear harm from humans. However, she felt exposed by her lack of understanding of their technology. She thumped the side panel, then ran her hand over the resulting dent. At least, she could rip apart the van if she wanted.

  Graeme had been describing methods of incapacitating an assailant while driving with Dhillon up front. The sound of the impact interrupted the impromptu lesson.

  The Scotsman stopped his sharp gesticulation, and said, “Don’t ye worry there, Viper.” He winked at her in the rear view mirror. Compared to Dhillon, Graeme was a mountain of muscle. “I personally designed this van. Boring O & H logo on the outside, steel-reinforced bullet-proof everything on the inside. I’ll keep ye safe.”

  “And who will protect thee from me?” Viper replied with palpable sarcasm.

  The slightest hint of a blush graced his cheeks. “Malinky Longlegs here’ll do just fine after I’m done training him up.” Graeme guffawed with a light punch to Dhillon’s arm. “If ye want a real man, ye want what’s under me kilt. Aye, there’s the money,” he said with a suggestive pat of his thigh.

  Dhillon rolled his eyes and rubbed his deltoid. He peeked over his shoulder at Clare in the furthest back seat, his glance skipping past Viper. Dhillon gave Clare a small wave, then made two fists with his thumbs extended. He touched the thumbs to his chest and rotated his hands away from himself into a “thumbs up” position, curled fingers at his midline.

  Hi. How are you? He had signed.

  Clare nodded approvingly at him. She repeated the same action with her thumbs, followed by touching the fingertips of her right hand to her chin, then arcing her hand downwards.

  I’m fine. Thank you. She signed back with a toothy smile.

  Viper wasn’t surprised that the girl flirted with him. Dhillon made an effort to become part of her world and learn how to speak to her without technology. Viper felt a pang of dismay. Clare reacted to Dhillon the way Viper had seen countless young women, including her queen, succumb to flattery. This modern woman wore armour on her head, not her heart.

  Clare moved a stubborn lock of hair behind her ear away from her receiver and returned to her newest sketches of Viper’s face. Her aeir brightened momentarily with a softness reminiscent of Viper’s early days with Elizabeth, before the disputes began.

  “Tell me child, why art thou unbothered by these strangers, who did take thee from thy home?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Clare reached over the Viper’s seat, showing her the pictures. “Because of you.” Since meeting Viper, Clare enhanced her portraiture, now incorporating the variations in Viper’s green and black eyes. The immortal paused at a version of her face from which tears descended. That was a face she rarely showed, with eyes she didn’t wish to remember.

  Short lines of aquamarine aeir crossed the inner aspect of Clare’s right forearm. “Thy arm bore scars from injuries afore I healed thee. Why harm thyself so maliciously?” The wounds the young woman had inflicted upon herself marred her aeir.

  “My adoptive parents said they loved me. I never felt it. It didn’t help that they constantly strove to fix me, to make me ‘normal.’ Only two things seemed real to me, you and the pain of cutting myself.” She shrugged a shoulder. “You were intangible. Losing myself in the feeling of the blade slicing my skin buffered the emptiness inside.” Clare pursed her lips together. Viper kneaded her own rune-scars, waiting for the girl to continue. “I’ve seen you my whole life without understanding why. When you finally showed up, I knew I had to follow you.”

  Viper gave back the book, her lying face apathetic. A chill seated itself in her core. She didn’t want to explore what connection she had to this humaine, nor any humaine. Seeking revenge had raised too many questions in the world that had forgotten Viper, and her kindred. She raced towards the Daoine Tor who held her best hope for giving her answers, with the worst chance of understanding them.

  14: Lady Dudley

  September 8th, 1560.

  On the road to Cumnor Place.

  The warm morning smelled of prosperity. Beyond the city of Windsor, the road west from Hampton Palace wove through living tapestries of agricultural charm. Children played hide and seek among wheat sheaves while farmers heaved bundles onto ox-pulled wagons. Soon, the peasants would winnow the wheat, separating the grain for the winter’s stores. The aeir of the rural people, enhanced by Elizabeth on the throne, grew ripe for Viper’s harvest.

  Viper denied herself the temptation of feeding upon t
he farmers until she finished the self-designated task that took her into the countryside. She wanted to hasten her pace, but her heavy skirts and the low-lying point of her corset prevented her. The long, black velvet dress, trimmed with red ribbons, was a gift from Elizabeth, as was the accompanying stomacher that pushed Viper’s breasts up to her chin. Beneath these she wore a crimson petticoat and sheer silk chemise. Viper refused to be collared by the stiffened neck ruff that grew in fashion.

  She reached behind herself and loosened the laces of the overlying corset. Once freed, Viper’s breath resonated so loudly, she feared the farmers heard her panting. She removed the corset and velvet dress, disguising them in the roadside bushes. She continued on the dusty road towards her target, her shocking state of undress hidden from humaine eyes by her elldyr creft concealment.

  As she broached the Cumnor property line, Viper encountered nine people wearing the plain clothes of indentured servants. The ladies wore brown dresses adorned with bright blue hems. A man wore a matching blue vest. The youngest chittered with excitement about their destination, Abington Fair, a celebration of the Virgin Mary.

  With a glance over her shoulder, the woman with greying hair at her temples said, “’Tis not fitting for Lady Amy to be left alone without attendants.”

  “Mryna,” said the man walking arm in arm with her, “Syderstone, the Lady’s family home, lies in ruin and her husband lies with the queen. Why would the girl want to be with the gossip mongers at the Fair?”

  “Since she came to live with Doctor Owen and Sir Forester at Cumnor, Lady Amy hath become recluse,” Myrna said. She kept a quick stride behind the enthusiastic youth ahead of her. “She was happiest at Throcking with Lord Robert.”

  “The Lady hath made her choice, Myrna,” the man said. “Keep your mulling for wine. Widow Odingsells, or perhaps Mrs. Owen, shall sup with her in the eventide, as they both remain at the house. Take the gift these ladies of stature hath given unto us and enjoy the day.” He led the matron past Viper so closely, the immortal smelled witch hazel salve on the matron’s skin.