Welcome to chapter 17 of Bird of the Gods, a project by Writer's Relay

Writer's Relay is a project for Wattpad writers willing to collaborate, plan and write a continuous story together in a larger group. In this first edition, sixteen selected writers contributed to Bird of the Gods, an archaeological spy-adventure mystery with a sprinkle of romance.

Each chapter of the story will be published on its author's profile. And like our protagonists, our readers will get the chance to travel across the world and Wattpad.

Ready for the journey of your life? Join us with the following schedule;

November 1st 2022 - Chapter 1 by basketballdemon

November 4th 2022 - Chapter 2 by DavidGibbs6

November 6th 2022 - Chapter 3 by jinnis

November 8th 2022 - Chapter 4 by johnnedwill

November 11th 2022 - Chapter 5 by lhansenauthor

November 13th 2022 - Chapter 6 by EvelynHail

November 15th 2022 - Chapter 7 by adretaRyder

November 18th 2022 - Chapter 8 by Carminity

November 20th 2022 - Chapter 9 by jinnis

November 22nd 2022 - Chapter 10 by Elisabeth_Long

November 25th 2022 - Chapter 11 by Cocosghost

November 27th 2022 - Chapter 12 by Reffster

November 29th 2022 - Chapter 13 by Eacomiskey

December 2nd 2022 - Chapter 14 by M_A_Hartman

December 4th 2022 - Chapter 15 by Sleepingdraco

December 6th 2022 - Chapter 16 by BrianMullin0

December 9th 2022 - Chapter 17, hello!

December 11th 2022 - Chapter 18 by Elisabeth_Long

The rain was falling relentlessly, a blind fury from the heavens that caught everything and everyone in its rage. Fiona ran from the taxi, newspaper over her hair, as water bounced off the pavement and the tourists huddled in their disposable plastic raincoats.

She dashed through the courtyard, dancing over the puddles as best as she could, until she reached the front door; the porters stepped out of her way, and she stood in the lobby of the Rosewood London hotel.

Conrad strolled up behind her, irritatingly unfazed by the lashing weather.

'Britain, huh. I guess they get, what, three days a year when it doesn't rain?' he said.

'Shush. It wasn't the last time I was here,' she said, but he wasn't paying attention.

It was half past four in the afternoon, but it was already twilight outside; London was a darkened blur of Christmas decorations, tail lights and phone screens as humanity shuffled past, trying to keep as dry as it could.

In contrast, the Rosewood lobby felt like a calm paradise. Walls of dark wood and glass, amber lighting, black and white tiles on the floor; it was impeccable and mannered and restrained, and it almost calmed her down. Almost.

She glanced at the Christmas tree in the corner of the lobby, a cheerful splash of green in a sea of brown and gold; that's what I feel like, she thought, normality surrounded by this grandeur. When this is all done I need to find somewhere where I can get a drink that doesn't come with a straw.

Conrad was carrying the bird in a box, a battered plastic thing, packed inside with newspaper. He strolled up to the reception desk, and put it down on the great wooden surface. Fiona knew that Conrad was hoping for a reaction from the receptionist, a shocked look of 'you aren't allowed here'; but he barely batted an eyelid.

'We're here to see Paul Grenville-Temple,' said Conrad.

The receptionist nodded, and ran his eyes over the computer.

'Good. Some of your party's already here. You're in the Sir James room. It's down there, up the marble staircase, and then look for the door signs.'

'Thank you,' said Fiona.

The hotel was quiet, but then this wasn't surprising on a Tuesday afternoon in early December. Fiona tried to remember if she'd ever been here before, as a little girl. Probably not, she decided. She'd have remembered the omnipresent marble.

The St James room was not far. It was not large, but it was as grand as everything else in this place; a chandelier, a long oval, dark wooden table, huge windows looking out over the courtyard.

There, at the farside of the table in his wheelchair, sipping a coffee, was Paul. Rhonda was pouring out some water.

He smiled at them both.

'So glad to see you, Fiona. And you must be Mr Williams, I presume? I'm delighted to make your acquaintance.'

His eyes fell on the box. He nodded.

'Thank you so much for bringing this to me. I appreciate it more than you realize.'

Conrad set it down on the table; then, he sat on one of the chairs, and stared hard at Paul.

'So I finally get to meet the famous Paul Grenville-Temple,' he said. 'I'm a big fan of your work.'

Paul ignored the barb, and instead looked at Rhonda, who had seated herself next to him.

'Rhonda, could you pass me the package, please? I don't think I can quite reach that.'

But before she was able to move, the door swung open; Amanda swanned in. She stopped as soon as she saw Fiona and Conrad. Fiona's blood went cold.

Conrad leapt to his feet.

'What the hell are you doing here?' asked Fiona

'I could say the same,' replied Amanda. 'I'm here because I got a message that you had the package.' She looked at Paul. 'Who's the boomer?'

Paul smiled at her. 'Thank you so much for coming. Come, sit down, Miss Lewis. My name is Paul Grenville-Temple. I'm Fiona's grandfather, although that is a relatively unimportant detail. We're all friends here.'

Conrad frowned and sat down. 'All friends? Is this opposite day, then? In which case, it's great to see you, Amanda.'

Amanda ignored him, and instead focused on Paul.

'Who exactly are you? How do you know my name?'

Rhonda's jaw tensed slightly, but Paul shifted back in his wheelchair and smiled.

'I invited you because I understand we share an interest in a certain soapstone bird, and I was hoping to reach a mutually beneficial agreement. As for your name: I believe it's on your social media feed.'

Amanda looked at Paul, and then at Conrad and Fiona.

'OK. But no funny business, old man.'

'Oh, Miss Lewis, my days of business, funny or otherwise, are long behind me. Please, join us. There's coffee over there, if you wish,' and he gestured to a coffee machine on a table at the side of the room.

Amanda sat, glowering at them all.

'Returning to the matter at hand,' said Paul. 'Here it is. Fiona, Mr Williams. I must extend my gratitude to you. May I take a look?'

Rhonda walked around to where Conrad had left the box. She opened it, and lifted the stone bird out; and brought it to Paul.

'Wait a minute...' said Amanda.

'Don't worry, my dear; I have no intention of keeping it. When you leave here, you'll have everything that you need, and more,' said Paul. 'My, it's heavy, isn't it?'

He ran his hand along the grooves in the stone.

Fiona looked at him, at how his eyes lit up as he ran his fingers over the statue. She remembered so much from her childhood, at this kind, calm old man; and what Nigel had said to them. Robber baron, was what he had called Paul.

'Why did you do it, Grandpa?' she asked him.

'Thank you, Rhonda. Would you be so good as to return it to its box?'

Rhonda took the bird back from him. As she did so, Paul looked back at his granddaughter, and she felt the full weight of the intelligence behind those bright eyes.

'Do what, my dear?' he asked, mildly.

'I heard a lot about you from Nigel. About what you used to do. You killed people, and you stole, and Jackson...' she looked away.

'Nigel told you about me being some sort of international criminal, did he?' replied Paul. He dabbed his lips with a napkin. 'Well, he's free to believe that.'

Conrad frowned. 'What if I believe that, old man? What if she does?'

Paul shrugged and wheeled himself to the window.

'This is sweet and all, but I'm here for my stone bird,' said Amanda. She reached for the box, but Rhonda silently drew it towards Paul.

'Please, wait your turn Miss Lewis,' said Paul. 'I promise we'll get to you. I did do things I wasn't proud of, yes. The cold war was not so cold in Africa: two superpowers were fighting a vicious proxy war across the entire continent. We extorted, and we stole, and, yes, occasionally we killed. But we did it because we had to.'

'"You had to?" You always had a choice,' said Fiona, but Paul shook his head.

'Do you know what it's like to be in love, Fiona? To be in love with the most magical, terrifying man on the planet, and for that to be illegal? Not just forbidden, but also hated by the moral majority. The Service knew, and they kept it a secret on the condition that I did what they wanted of them. Then, by the time The Sexual Offenses Act went into law in 1967, I was married to your grandmother. She knew that something was remiss, that I never really loved her; but I had to. It broke her, I think. And I have always regretted that.'

Fiona was astonished at how calm he was. It was as if he was discussing dessert choices or the weather. She wondered how little she had known him.

'So what has this got to do with us?' asked Conrad. 'I'm enjoying all this, but I have places to go to.'

'For once, I agree with the knucklehead,' said Amanda. 'This really must be opposites day.'

Paul smiled. 'What was Jackson's name?' he asked.

'What?' said Conrad. 'Isn't that obvious?'

'Oh don't be so foolish. Back in 1944 surnames weren't used as first names. Jackson was a nickname. No, his real name was "Peregrine". Peregrine Taylor. We all called him Jackson because of some joke from Cambridge.'

Conrad looked at the stone bird.

'And a peregrine falcon is a...'

'Very good Mr Williams.' He winked at Fiona. 'Your new boyfriend isn't just a pretty face, is he?'

'Woah, wait a minute...' said Conrad, but Fiona cut over him.

'He stole this because this was his name? How does that make any sense at all?'

Paul shrugged and continued. 'Very few people knew his real name. He liked it that way. The rest of the world knew him as Jackson Turner, the man with two surnames. But sometimes he would write letters to me, make silly jokes, and sign them with a bird. Leave clues to secrets and things. One day, he would always say, I will lead you a merry dance across the world. You haven't found the last code yet, have you?'

'This is enough,' shouted Amanda, standing up. 'My people are coming here, and I am going to take the statue, and you are not going to stop me, any of you!'

Rhonda calmly pulled out a gun from the back of the wheelchair and pointed it at Amanda.

'I don't think so,' said Paul, gently. 'I think you should tell your people to wait another half an hour. Maybe they could have a drink in the Cittie of Yorke? I understand it has a very pleasant fire.'

'You wouldn't use that here,' said Amanda.

'Oh, believe me, Rhonda would. Because I think we can finally get to you, Miss Lewis. I am so grateful to you for sending this young man. He has done a fine job at keeping my granddaughter safe. Well done for reading my recommendation.'

'What...?' asked Amanda. Conrad swore.

'Yes, that was me, I'm afraid. He's very good, isn't he?'

'Where is this going?' demanded Amanda.

'Miss Lewis: you can't keep doing what you were doing and not attract some attention. The fine-art black market is a very small world. I'd been a part of it a long time, and when someone pushes their way into it as clumsily as you did, it raises some eyebrows. So when a friend in interpol mentioned they would like some help finding the person who was killing to get what they wanted, I thought I could combine it with my final treasure hunt from Jackson. And here we are.'

The color drained from Amanda's face. She dashed out of the door, straight into the arms of a policewoman. There was a brief struggle, but a second officer stepped up and cuffed her.

Rhonda nodded cooly to them all.

'Thank you, Paul,' she said.

She walked out and led Amanda away.

Conrad looked stunned; Fiona was exhausted.

'So you set all this up,' she said. 'I could have been killed!'

'But you weren't, were you?'

'Wait, what was the last code?' asked Conrad.

Paul smiled. 'Do you know morse code, Mr Williams?'

'I do, yes.'

'So, run your hand along the groove on the bird. The long one that demarcates the wing.'

Fiona leaned over, and stared; there were indeed little dimples in the groove. She had never noticed them, because they were so subtle, and looked like mistakes in its construction. But she could see that they perhaps had a pattern to them.

Conrad shrugged; he copied what Paul had been doing, just minutes ago.

'I,' he said. 'L, O, V, E, U, P, X, X, P' He shook his head. 'P for Paul, P for Peregrine. It was a love letter. That was it. A stupid little game to keep you entertained, with a copy of a precious artefact as the bait. You are a crazy old man, and your boyfriend was even crazier.' He sat down heavily. 'Well, so much for that.'

Paul smiled, tiredly. 'Yes, we were crazy. I was in love. I don't know if he ever was, but he had an energy that swept everyone along with him; me, Nigel, anyone else who met him. We all loved him, equally. I had always hoped I was the one.'

'You could have walked away, you know,' said Fiona. 'You can't pretend you did the things you did for love. Or for anything else.'

Paul wheeled himself part way to the door. Then, he stopped, and turned around to face her.

'There's a quote, by Nietzche. "He who fights monsters should see to it that he himself does not become a monster." It's a piece of advice that was too late for me. But there's hope for you, you know. You don't need to make my mistakes. You live in a better world, a freer one. You should enjoy it,' he said.

He took one last look at the bird.

'Thank you,' he said.

And with that, he was gone, the bird still on the table. Outside, there were shouts as police apprehended Amanda's goons.

Fiona sat down, and for the first time in a long time, wept.

Conrad put his arms around her, and held her.

An hour later, Fiona was sitting in some burger place on High Holborn, looking out the window as the rain drew stripes down the glass. It was properly dark now, the early winter night having draped itself over London like a lover. The puddles sparkled with reflected lights, and the raindrops danced.

Conrad sat down next to her at the table. He put down two bottles of beer, and pushed one over to her.

She smiled at him, gratefully.

'It's shitty British beer, but you take what you can get,' he said, taking a swig. Then he peered out into the darkness beyond. 'I can see the sunbathing has properly started. Britain, man, what a hell hole. It's like Canada but without anything good.'

Fiona didn't drink anything. She felt empty somehow; drained of everything, just a vessel for nothing. She looked up, and saw that he was looking at her, reflected in the glass.

'He was so lovely to me, Conrad,' she said, eventually. 'Such a lovely grandfather. I couldn't believe what Nigel said. Not really. But then, in that room, when I asked him about it, he didn't deny it. Barely cared. Just treated it as another little annoyance like the service being slow at a restaurant. Like it didn't matter.'

She picked up the bottle. It was cold and solid, and felt like an anchor into reality. She ran her finger over the paper, over the rim.

'I always wondered what had happened between him and grandma. Now I know. He never loved her. Never loved anyone, really. Including me.'

She took a sip from the bottle. The beer was good, no matter what Conrad said. It was blunt and unhurried, and warmed her core.

'I'm sorry,' said Conrad gently. 'It hurts when you lose someone you thought you loved.'

She looked at him, then, at his profile. He glanced at her, smiled, but then resumed staring into the wet night.

'Yes,' she said. 'It is loss, isn't it? It's grieving for the person you thought you knew. Thank you Conrad.'

She sighed, and rolled her head.

'I thought you said you had places to go? This must be all over now for you. Onto the next adventure,' she said.

'I mean, I was mostly hoping to go places that those two weren't. This works. Why, you got something better to do?' he replied.

She turned on her stool, facing him properly. He had a half smile, and was holding the beer to his lips. You know what, she thought. I could do worse than him. A lot worse.

'Yes,' she said. 'Yes I do. It's London in December. I am going to show you exactly what is good about it. We are going to go and get hammered, and then go sightseeing, pissed, in the rain. Because, I have had quite enough of doing other people's dirty work, and I'd like to do my own.'

He laughed, and raised his bottle. 'To dirty work,' he said. 'Although I'm not so sure about the sightseeing.'

She raised hers in turn.

'To dirty work,' she said. Then she stood, and held out her hand. 'Come on, you stupid American lump. Let's get some culture into you.'

He took hers, laughed again, and the two of them stepped out into the night.

But that's not all folks! Make sure you read the final chapter by Elisabeth_Long , published on December 11th!