by Gaelen Foley
“The truth is,” James continued, “Malcolm’s had us all, in his game. He thinks himself above our rules and our ‘strange ways,’ though they served our ancestors since the Crusades. No, he’s much too modern for all of that ‘medieval rubbish,’ ” James said bitterly. “But now look at what his cleverness has brought us. Failure. Destruction.”
He shrugged. “We’re the ones who chose him for our leader. A man without vision. A man who believes in nothing. I hate to say it, but I fear we got what we deserve.”
“He’s right,” the novelist spoke up. “We have brought this on ourselves.”
James sent him a nod of appreciation for the support. “If Malcolm Banks remains in power, in my view, we might as well give up. His foolish decisions as head of the Council have handed us defeat when victory was in our grasp. He has proved he does not deserve to sit in the principal chair. Removing him is our only hope.” He looked around at them.
“Believe me, brothers, our chance will come again, one day. We may not be alive to see it; it may take two hundred years. But the discovery of the Alchemist’s Scrolls after all the centuries they were lost is a sign from our dark Father not to be discouraged, not to give up the fight. With the hidden knowledge that Valerian has passed down in these writings, mark my words, we shall rise again to raise the torch of truth for a whole new generation. But first, the one responsible for our failure must be punished. Now is the time to strike.”
“Why now?” the Austrian asked.
“Malcolm’s faction is weakened at the moment,” James replied. “You may have heard that his pet assassin, Dresden Bloodwell, was killed in London by an Order agent a few weeks ago.”
“What of Malcolm’s son?”
“Yes, where is Niall?”
“Funny you should ask.” James cast Drake a knowing smile. “Gentlemen, it may startle to you to hear the most unsettling piece of news. Malcolm sent his son to kill me while I was in London.”
“What?”
“To kill you?” they exclaimed, predictably outraged.
“You, James? But you’re one of our most revered leaders!”
“Obviously, he sees him as a threat,” the Russian murmured.
James hesitated with a grim look. “The truth is, I don’t believe he meant to stop with me. It appears Malcolm no longer wishes to answer to the Council. I daresay he’s decided he can get along without us.”
“What exactly do you mean?” the French duke demanded.
“I’m saying Malcolm seeks to rule alone—he and his son. And he’s soon going to come after us if we don’t eliminate him first.”
“Would he really take it so far?” the cardinal murmured into the ominous hush that had fallen over the room.
“Why not? He’s got nothing left to lose.” James shrugged. “He knows we no longer trust him after his failure as our leader. The attack on me was only the beginning. Once I was out of the way, I am certain he planned to send Niall and his thugs after the rest of you.”
The room went silent as the members of the Council pondered these disturbing revelations.
“Don’t forget, at the last meeting of the Council,” James reminded them, “Malcolm tried to make one of us the scapegoat for his incompetence. Remember? He ordered Niall to garrote Rupert Tavistock right in front of us. Surely you knew it was intended as a warning to us all.”
The field marshal shook his head, marveling. “I can’t believe he sent his son to kill you.”
“Fortunately, Drake was on hand to protect me,” James replied.
“So—” The Frenchman leaned closer. “Is Niall dead?”
“No,” James answered judiciously. “He was captured by the Order. Suffice it to say that Niall will not be a problem anymore. I doubt any of us will ever hear from Junior again.”
Most of them seemed pleased at this news though a few looked slightly shaken by it all.
“Does Malcolm know the Order has his son?” the cardinal inquired.
“I don’t believe so. But it won’t be long before he starts wondering why he hasn’t heard from him, and why Niall hasn’t returned from London. That is why I called this gathering on such short notice, and I appreciate you all making it here so quickly. I hope it wasn’t too inconvenient. Septimus was kind enough to offer his hospitality here at Waldfort, and the location seemed central enough for everyone to reach with relative ease.”
Glasse gestured politely in welcome.
“So, here we are,” James said, planting his hands on the table before him, “and time is of the essence. We must decide what we intend to do, and if we are going to act, we must move quickly in order to take Malcolm by surprise. I would not give him time to marshal his forces against us. At the moment, he has not yet realized anything’s wrong, but I doubt we have more than a fortnight.”
“So, let us take a vote, then, and be done with it,” Glasse spoke up impatiently. “Those in favor of keeping Malcolm as head of the Council, say aye.”
The chamber was perfectly silent.
“Those opposed to his continued leadership?”
Hands lifted all around the table.
It was unanimous.
“Very well, then,” James said grimly. “Malcolm is hereby deposed as head of the Council. We will begin considering our plans on how to move against him at once—”
“But who will take the role of our new leader in the meanwhile?” Glasse interrupted.
Drake was well aware that Falkirk and his old friend, their host, the German count, had arranged in advance between themselves for this question to be asked at the crucial moment. “Someone has got to take responsibility as the next head of the Council,” Glasse added.
They all looked at James.
“It must be you, James, yes,” several of them murmured.
“Me, my lords?” He seemed genuinely shocked, but of course, this had been their plan from the start.
“Let us vote again,” Glasse urged, rising from his chair, the first to lift his hand. “Those in favor of James Falkirk as the next head of the Council?”
“Aye!” the others agreed before he had even finished speaking the words.
James appeared overwhelmed. “I do not seek this, my brothers.”
“That is why you are the perfect antidote to Malcolm’s self-interest,” the cardinal assured him.
The old man shook his head. “I don’t know what to say, gentlemen. I am just an old scholar.”
“Say that you accept,” the Russian author answered with a smile.
“Well, of course, I will serve in whatever capacity is required,” he said modestly.
“Everyone knows you, James. Everyone trusts you. You have given us all your wise counsel at one point or another over the years. If Malcolm had listened to you in the first place, the outcome with Napoleon might have been very different.”
James appeared to restrain deep emotion. “Truly, I am honored by your faith in me, and I swear to you on my life that I will uphold the creed and do my best to bring about the goals our forefathers laid out so long ago.”
“So, where do we begin?” the French duke asked, as James sank back down into his seat.
“Well,” James said with a wise, old, grandfatherly sigh followed by a thoughtful pause. “It seems to me that we need to make a fresh start, clean the slate. A new beginning before we set out on the next leg of our long journey through the ages. The Order decimated our ranks during the fall of Napoleon, and those who are left are deeply dispirited.” He pulled the box with the scrolls closer. “I say we gather them all here together and give them something to restore their flagging faith.”
“Like what?” the Russian asked.
James caressed the kingwood case fondly. “While I was studying the Alchemist’s Scrolls, I came across a magnificent ceremony, lost to us all these centuries . . . a ritual of renewal that Valerian carefully laid out for a time of defeat such as the one we now face. You know the persecution our forefathers faced back in his day.”
&n
bsp; “Yes.”
“He called it the ritual of rebirth, to be held at the lunar eclipse.”
“So, that’s why you wanted us to come now,” the Frenchman murmured with a rueful smile. “There is an eclipse of the moon in about a fortnight, isn’t there?”
James nodded with an enigmatic smile. “The past must be purged, the darkness fully embraced before the light can break again. After all we’ve been through—let us call it what it is, utter defeat—this is the perfect opportunity to bring our scattered remnants back together, all our poor wavering believers, and fill them up again with fire.
“If ever we have needed to come together, renew our vows to the dark Father, and offer sacrifice as we invoke his help and favor, that time is now,” James finished.
“What sacrifice does this ritual require?” the cardinal murmured while the others nodded in agreement.
James glanced at him, silent for a moment. “Only the very highest is acceptable for this ceremony. It calls for the blood of a virgin, pure of heart.”
Nothing the Prometheans did could surprise Drake anymore, but the words struck him with horror like a knife in the gut.
Emily’s innocent smile flashed across his mind.
The answer, meanwhile, had drawn the French duke’s cynicism. “Eh, are there any of those left on the earth, I wonder?”
“There would be if you had not seduced them all,” the Russian jested.
“Never fear, my brothers.” James shut the box of scrolls with a serene smile. “The Dark Father will provide. And when such blood has flowed, and our strength is renewed, then we shall set out to rebuild, just as we always have. The Order defeated us last time, but now we have a secret weapon against them, as well,” James said, with a nod over his shoulder at Drake. “In the meanwhile, we must send for all our believers so they can get here in time for the eclipse. Also, I will begin preparing a contingent to go and deal with Malcolm.”
The men were quiet, absorbing all this.
“At least the Scot’s greed has left our coffers full,” James added dryly. “We’ll need all our gold to reestablish our influence in the royal courts. Duping kings is easy enough—inbred fools—but wooing courtiers and bribing politicians, that, my friends, can get expensive.”
They laughed at his jest, then Glasse proposed a toast to the new head of the Promethean Council. James accepted their homage with a modest nod.
Drake, meanwhile, had tensed, a sickening knot in his stomach and only one thought on his mind.
Thank God he’d had the foresight to create the impression from the start that the untouched Emily was nothing but his own little whore.
Chapter 4
After cleaning herself up, as James Falkirk had haughtily suggested, from her weeks of hiking through the Alps, Emily washed her clothes in the washbasin, made herself busy oiling her boots, sharpening her knife, checking the string on her bow, and then, when there was nothing left to do, pacing back and forth across Drake’s room, beginning to feel rather like a caged animal.
None of this was supposed to happen. Drake was supposed to have come to his senses and fled this place with her. Instead, she was stuck here with him, and she still wasn’t even sure if he was mad or sane.
His words from earlier today still chilled her. Life is pain. That did not bode well at all!
If he was here on a suicide mission, then she had to stop him. But how? He wouldn’t even tell her whose side he was on.
She was beginning to feel very fortunate that she’d had the foresight to write to Lord Rotherstone after tracking Drake northward from the Bavarian capital of Munich and before returning to try to rescue him.
She had agonized over whether to take the risk, but now was very glad she had sent off that courier from the quaint German city though it had cost her the rest of her money.
There were no guarantees her message would actually make it to Drake’s old friend and fellow agent back in London, nor could she say how long it might take to reach the marquess.
Nor could she predict the Order’s reaction with any certainty once they received the news.
Her choice to give Drake’s former colleagues this information could cost her dearly if things continued going as wrong as they had earlier in the day.
After all, Drake was now officially considered an agent who had gone rogue.
His brother warriors had instructions to shoot him on sight before he revealed Order secrets to the Prometheans.
But Emily had to believe that loyalty would at least compel them to give Drake a chance to explain himself before they sought to put him down like a rabid wolf.
After all, they had been friends since they were boys.
Back in England, she had seen firsthand how much Max, Lord Rotherstone, had cared for his damaged friend, and how like a brother he had tried to help Drake regain his memory.
Whatever commands they had received from their superiors, Emily did not believe his brother warriors could bring themselves to pull the trigger on one of their own. Surely his friends could not give up on him any more than she could. And when Drake told them he had come for revenge, they would understand.
Maybe they would even arrive in time to help.
Now, however, she was beginning to have doubts.
If Drake was here for revenge on these fiends, then why wouldn’t he just admit it?
Didn’t he trust her to keep his secrets?
Or was she merely deceiving herself, refusing to face what was right in front of her—that Drake had indeed forsaken all sanity to embrace their twisted creed? Was he good or evil? Had he become a true Promethean?
Emily needed answers, the sooner the better.
So, naturally . . . she searched his chamber while he was gone, hunting for any clues that might reveal his true motives.
She went through his belongings, opening the same drawers from which she had borrowed one of his shirts, sifting through his clothes and shoes, his extensive collection of weapons and his personal arsenal of ammunition, looking for anything he might have hidden in the room that could give her a clue to what was going on in his head.
But the canny ex–Order agent had covered his tracks too well, leaving her no way either to confirm or deny her fears. She read every page of his barely legible notes in the small logbook he kept regarding his activities as James’s head of security.
This was how she learned that Drake had hired the majority of those black-clad guards in Paris, on behalf of James. They were a mercenary band of battle-hardened veterans of Napoleon’s army, from a mixed regiment made up of men from different areas where conscripts had been demanded as the emperor’s due. Most were French, but some were German, some Italian. One was Belgian.
Now they fought for hire, and the older one, Jacques, had been their sergeant.
Emily put his notes away in frustration, unsure if Drake was still the person she had known and loved since childhood or if he had resigned himself to darkness.
After all he had been through, she could not have blamed him, in a sense. But if he had started dabbling in evil, what did that mean for her, sharing this small chamber with him?
Night was already falling as she hastily put away his things after all her snooping. She lit two candles in the room, beginning to wonder if she had made a serious miscalculation in coming there.
Then her thoughts were interrupted as the low, metallic scrape of the iron door latch heralded his return.
Still unsure if he was altogether friend or foe, she was torn between relief and trepidation when the door opened and he came in, tall, dark, and dangerous.
Much too dangerous if he had ill intent.
He did not smile at her as he closed the door behind him, carrying a tray of food with a covered dish and a tankard of ale. When his glance flicked over her with a startled smolder in his eyes, she folded her arms across her chest nervously.
Keeping her distance, she watched him cross to the chest of drawers, where he set down the tray.
; “What’s that?” she asked, following him at a wary distance.
“Your supper.”
“Oh. That’s all for me?” She offered a cautious smile. “What about you?”
“I ate already in the Guards’ Hall.”
“Oh.” She ventured over to him by the chest of drawers, peering into the pewter tankard of good German ale he had brought her, then peeking under the lid keeping her plate warm. “It smells good.”
She suddenly noticed him eyeing her chest. She stepped back, wide-eyed, clutching the white linen shirt against her throat.
He sent her an idle frown. “You took my last clean shirt.”
“Oh. Right.” She realized in nervous relief that he wasn’t staring at her body. He was only staring at the shirt. “Sorry. It was all that I could find. I-I’ll give it back as soon as my clothes are dry.”
He shrugged and turned away. “Don’t worry about it. Looks better on you than it does on me.” Then he nodded toward the tray. “Eat. You must be starved.”
“I am a little hungry.” As he turned away, Emily removed the lid from the plate, then glanced at him in question. “What is it?”
Drake was taking off his coat. “Bavarian cuisine,” he said dryly.
She furrowed her brow, studying the unfamiliar food. The plate held a pale white sausage with a blob of mustard beside it, a little pile of pickled red cabbage, and . . . “What is that?”
“Potato dumplings,” he informed her in wry amusement. “Go on, you’ll like it. And if you don’t, too bad. It’s all we’ve got.”
She flicked her eyebrows upward briefly at his matter-of-fact tone, but broke off a piece of the potato dumpling with her fork. “So, what have you been doing all day?”
“My job.”
“What’s that? Protecting James?”
He nodded, unbuckling the weapons belt slung around his lean waist.
She shook her head, feigning a casual air, when in truth she was fiercely determined to draw any scrap of information out of him she could. “I can’t believe you’re helping them,” she remarked in an idle tone.