Thanks again for all your brilliant feedback, both for this and for the final stages of 'Home'. I love having fans. ;-)
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A week passed with daily visits from the renowned Lady Croft, and hours whiled away with the BBC World Broadcast in an effort to quell the torment inside me, before my doctor said that I was allowed to leave the hospital and go home, though only if there was sufficient treatment available for me there. That idea was quickly quashed when I pointed out that I no longer had a home and that my medical insurance hadn't been renewed, and therefore I couldn't afford any treatment even if the doctor was comfortable with me recovering in a trashy motel off a lonely interstate, which he wasn't.
He must have mentioned it in passing to Lara because when she visited that day the first words that came out of her mouth were, "You're coming back to England with me."
"Excuse me?" I flicked off the TV and settled back into my pillows, focusing my attention on what I was sure was going to be a very interesting explanation.
"Your doctor doesn't want you cooped up in a hospital bed any longer, the country air will do you good, and according to the nurses you can claim treatment off your travel insurance in England, since you'll still be in a foreign country."
"Country air? Just because I'm American doesn't mean that I think England is all farms and fields – I've been watching the BBC, y'know."
"I happen to live in the country, thank you very much." Lara folded her arms in mock offence, and fixed me with a challenging stare. "You are coming to England. Besides, it's a far shorter flight, you won't survive in economy class all the way back to America."
"What makes you think I travel economy?" It was my turn for the mock offence, but it was knocked back by Lara's playfully derogatory glance that clearly stated that she thought that economy was pushing the limits of my wallet.
"I've booked the flight, we leave tomorrow afternoon. I'll be by at midday to pick you up, so be ready. Goodbye."
She had barely taken a step when I asked, "Going already?"
"I have some more red tape to sort out with the police, and I have to pack what little effects I have," she explained. "You're booked under the name of Kurtis Trent, so don't go changing your identity. Bye."
She swept out of the room, and I watched her go, before taking in a shuddering breath and rubbing my hands over my face, tired, glad that I was leaving. There were too many memories in the city and far too little noise in the hospital room to drown them.
I'd always hated the waiting that came after check in. Most of it over my years of travelling had actually been spent wondering why in hell the waiting had to be so long anyway – why did they need a bunch of people to let them know they were there so long before they were needed? I was musing this point – again – when the call for business class boarding came over the tannoy.
"You know what I like about being rich?" Lara asked, as we started to file onto the plane with the other first class passengers.
"The ease it brings to the dating scene?" I offered.
Lara snorted. "First class travel."
I was prevented from answering by a very concerned and very pretty British Airways stewardess as I boarded the plane. "Oh, we weren't told that we had anybody who might need help!" she exclaimed, placing her hands on my elbows where they were bent to accommodate my crutches and forsaking the passengers behind me to guide me to my seat. "You poor thing! What happened?"
Lara raised an eyebrow as she sat in her own seat and I cocked one back at her before turning on the charm. "I got into a fight. The bad guy stabbed me." I winced for effect as I lowered myself into my seat, though I was genuinely in pain, and looked up at the stewardess through my eyelashes.
"Oh, how awful!" she cried, taking my crutches off me. "Is it very bad? I'll just have to put these in the forward cabin for take-off."
"Oh," I said, putting my hand to my stomach, "I'm ok, really." I grimaced and the hostess let out a small 'oh' in sympathy.
"If there's anything you need, anything at all, just let me know." She took my crutches and returned to her duties.
I turned to Lara and grinned. "I think she likes me."
"I think she proves the oft-thought theory that air hostesses are air headed," Lara replied dryly, and I grinned to myself as I turned back to the front. She was jealous.
About half an hour after take off, I was fighting to subdue the memories that had caught up with me again. I felt grief, anger, bitterness, regret and resentment over my father's death and the fact that I had allowed another to take my revenge, and the overwhelming feelings felt as if they were eating me inside. There was a continuous stabbing pain in my abdomen, not from my wound, and no amount of painkillers or rest would make it go away. I faced away from Lara, towards the aisle, and chewed my knuckles, my face set hard in an expression of pain.
"Are you ok, Mr Trent?" I looked up towards the voice and found my air stewardess chewing her lip worriedly as she looked me over. "You don't look well. Can I get you anything?"
"Actually, yeah, do you have any duty free?" I asked, knowing from past experience that the only thing that would help was alcohol.
"Of course," she said, smiling when she realised that she could be of help, and she disappeared into the rear of the plane, only to reappear two minutes later with a cut glass of brandy. "Will this be ok?"
"Yeah, thanks," I said hurriedly, dismissing her concern and reaching for my wallet.
"Oh, no, this one's on me," the stewardess said, reaching forward to still my hand and holding the glass out to me with a wide and flirtatious smile. I took it and thanked her, winking, and she giggled and looked away shyly before hurrying off. I downed the brandy in one, basking in the burning in my throat that detracted from my thoughts and numbed the pain in my stomach.
"Anyone might think that you were looking for oblivion in drink and women," said a superior voice beside me and I leant down to drop the glass onto the floor beside me before turning towards it and raising an eyebrow at its owner.
"And anyone might think that you were jealous."
"Oh please," dismissed Lara, turning her attention back to the in-flight movie she was watching.
There was silence for a second as she pretended to be engrossed in the plot and totally unaware that I was staring at her, and then she gave up and spoke again, turning back to me. "Are you alright? Really? The way you drank that brandy..."
"Lara, I'm fine," I lied, "It's just that I'm in pain and being cooped up first in a hospital and now on a plane is driving me nuts, that's all."
"Oh," Lara said. There was silence again and then she said, seemingly uncomfortable with the way I was staring at her, "Maybe you should get some sleep."
I smiled to myself, laughing inwardly at the effect I could have on her. "Actually, I was hoping you'd fill me in on what went on after you left me with Boaz." My voice was casual, but inside I was shaking at the thought of covering the subject of Eckhardt. I needed to know what had happened, how he had died, what he had said, but I was terrified that it would make things worse – that I'd really realise that Eckhardt was dead and gone and that I would never again have a chance to avenge my father's death.
I got the impression that Lara had been expecting and dreading that request; she sighed and shifted uncomfortably in her seat, removing her headphones from the in-flight movie and regarding me for a moment. At last she made up her mind about where to start, and spoke.
"I didn't kill Eckhardt."
The full reality of the statement hit home with an unrivalled force, and I was paralysed for a second, just staring at her and gaping in shock. She looked upset, guilty, but her feelings barely registered against the magnitude of my own.
"You said he was dead," I spat, and Lara flinched.
"He is!" she quickly defended, "But I didn't kill him. I didn't tell you before now because I thought you'd be upset, I know how personal this was for you – "
I cut her off. "Lara, you're not making sense – what happened? Tell me!" I got the impression that Lara was not usually a woman to be cowed, but whether it was my sheer rage or the draining ordeal she'd been through, or any mixture of the two, she shrank back into her seat and refused to meet my eyes.
Her arms were folded protectively and when she spoke her voice was small and meek. "I was just about to stab him with the third shard when Karel wrestled it off me and killed him himself."
She was clearly expecting an outburst of anger at the revelation that my mortal enemy had not been finished on my behalf, and was not looking forward to the prospect, but all I felt was a deflating, sagging disbelief. All the scenarios I'd imagined in hospital about how Eckhardt had died, begging, apologising, pleading at Lara's feet as she'd plunged the final shard into his heart – none were even close to the truth. I swallowed. "Eckhardt's sidekick?" I breathed, trying to take it all in and make sense of everything.
Lara swallowed, herself, and then let out a shuddering breath, steeling herself for a painful explanation. "Karel was Nephilim, and had been using Eckhardt all along. Eckhardt had the powers necessary to reawaken the Sleeper, and as long as everyone thought he was the true leader, Karel had total anonymity, always a good thing."
I absorbed this for a moment. "Wow," was all I could manage.
Lara blinked, a little surprised that I hadn't just tried to strangle her, maybe. I directed my gaze towards her and gave her a small smile. "Not your fault, Lara."
"You're alright?" she said.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'll be ok." I considered asking for more duty-free, but thought it probably wasn't the best course of action after assuring Croft that I was fine. At least Eckhardt had been betrayed, and at least, no matter who'd done it, he was dead. They were the only consoling thoughts I could muster at that time, and I quickly cast my mind around for a distraction, something to stop me from thinking. Looking around for inspiration, my eyes fell on Lara, who was sat chewing her fingernail and looking troubled. "What's the matter?" I asked.
"Oh, nothing," she said, shaking her head to dismiss my query. She was clearly dwelling on something, but I decided not to push it further. It looked like we both needed a distraction, and after all we'd been through together I thought that maybe we should get to know each other better.
So, "Pearl Jam or Nirvana?"
We left the baggage area, Lara pushing our luggage trolley ahead of us, still filling in each other's questions on our separate versions of events for the past few days. After we had dispelled the uneasy atmosphere with some casual conversation and a few video games on the airplane entertainment system, the topic had turned back to the Cabal, and I had had been pushed to relive my own story to mirror Lara's tale. We had considered Karel's exact motives, worried over whether or not he was dead, and related every minute detail to each other. I had worried that maybe it hadn't been Karel that had killed my father, but Lara had insisted that Eckhardt had said that it was he who had hunted down the Order, and I allowed her assurances to calm my nerves. I had enough emotional baggage to work through already.
We had landed at Gatwick, the same airport that Lara had left from, and I followed her through the unfamiliar maze of the arrivals lounge to the exit to one of the parking lots, and from there to a Bentley.
"Amazing," remarked Lara, "A Bentley in an airport car park for eighteen days and not a scratch on it."
"No offense, but who's stupid enough to risk leaving a Bentley in an airport parking lot for eighteen days?" I asked, lowering my case into the open trunk.
"I wasn't in much of a mood to care when I left," Lara said, and I was amazed that she had allowed herself to give that much. It had been clear to me when I had first laid eyes on her that she was in a very dark place, and that the events in Paris and Prague had cleansed her somewhat, but I didn't think she'd even give a clue to that around someone she barely knew. She seemed to be a very closed off personality, guarded and careful not to show too much. I didn't push the issue, and checked myself into heading to what was usually for me the driver's side of the vehicle, sliding awkwardly into the seat and letting out a low whistle as I took in the luxurious interior and leather seats, settling back into the ample cushion and running my hands along the understated arm rests. Lara gave a half-smile in thanks for the unspoken compliment and turned the keys in the ignition, roaring the engine into life and checking her mirrors as she eased the car out of its space.
To begin with the journey was passed in silence as I allowed Lara to concentrate on the busy city traffic, and allowed myself to stare mindlessly out of the window, not thinking or feeling, only taking in the unfamiliar sights of London – everything from the different road markings to the different style cars to older buildings and unfamiliar business names. As we left the city limits and the town gradually gave way to country roads and greenery, I turned my head back to Lara and spoke.
"Amazing, how even a field can look different in a foreign country."
"Hmmm," agreed Lara, her attention still mostly on the road, "even a hotel room can constantly remind you you're not on your own shores anymore." There was silence for a few moments longer, and then Lara spoke again. "We'll be there in about half an hour. I live with my butler, Hillary, and my technical assistant, Bryce. I should imagine you'd get on with them. You'll have your own room and be allowed to do as you please, and I'll see about getting a physiotherapist to come out and visit you at the Manor."
"Cool," I replied. I hadn't broached the subject of Lara's residence purely out of shyness, the fact that I didn't like having to depend on people or accept their charity, and that always left me a little uncomfortable when staying anywhere I wasn't paying for board.
"So you live in a big mansion then? With horses and servants and stuff?"
Lara gave that half smile again and, glancing at me slightly, said, "Hillary's my only household staff, I have two horses, and as aristocratic mansions go, Croft Manor is actually rather modest. It has eighty three rooms, though quite a lot of it has been converted to accommodate my training requirements."
"Eighty three rooms? Really? Is that all?" I asked with humour, and Lara smirked.
"My parent's house has a hundred and nineteen rooms."
"Wow." I was quite looking forward to seeing this manor, and even feeling a little excited about getting to stay in such a huge and magnificent house, as I was sure it was.
My suspicions were confirmed when Lara turned right down a gravel driveway and stopped at two huge wrought iron gates. Reaching out to a small security post on her side, she keyed in a number, and the gates swung open, welcoming the lady of the manor home. The car moved forward, rolling smartly down the drive, rounding a small fountain and pulling up outside a large oak door.
I couldn't take my eyes off the place, and I continued to gape at the size and grandeur as Lara opened my door and helped me out, setting me back on my crutches and locking the door behind me. "We'll get the luggage later," she said quickly, spinning to face her home, a grin emerging on her face. She was obviously very happy to be home, and she strode forward confidently. I followed her as fast as I could, and I heard her yell, "Bryce! Hillary! I'm home!" as she flung the doors open and marched into the biggest entrance hall I had ever seen.
A scruffy looking man, apparently in his mid thirties but dressed like a computing student, appeared at the top of the stairs to our left, grinning widely. Lara announced that she was home, and his expression darkened, and I thought for a second that it was me that he was staring at, but when he spoke, a strong London accent coming through, and asked if I was feeling better, I quickly realised that it was Lara that was having this effect on the man, and that he was obviously worried that she was still depressed or traumatised or whatever it was she had been.
Lara's answer was to hold her arms in greeting and the man, whom I guessed to be Bryce, hurled himself into them. I stood awkwardly as they exchanged words, admissions of feelings, apologies and a short discussion about the butler flitting between them. I distracted myself by staring around at the huge hall, taking in the height and intricacy of the ceiling, the quality of the material and make of the staircase and landings, the beauty of the floor that shone through the scuff marks and dirt, that were easily explained when I heard Bryce mention that Hillary was away. I was suddenly aware that there was quiet again in the room, and I glanced up to find Bryce staring at me curiously.
"Oh, Bryce, this is Kurtis Trent. Kurtis, this is Bryce. I met Kurtis in Paris, he was caught up in the same business as I. We worked together," Lara interjected.
I smiled and held out my hand to Bryce, who leant forward to shake it. Lara motioned to Bryce for something, and Bryce, acknowledging, moved a hand to behind my back to guide me towards a room over the back left of the hall.