by Gaelen Foley
From the window, Mara watched him ride away on his fine white horse. Still smiling to herself, she couldn’t help wondering if perhaps there really was some Prince Charming left in him, after all.
But she wasn’t getting her hopes up. Time would tell.
Maybe he’d come back, and maybe he would not.
For her part, she was still astonished at how he had single-handedly held off a mob swarming her carriage. And then could boast medical training, to boot? Her mild-mannered diplomat!
When he disappeared down the street, she turned away from the window shaking her head to herself, intrigued.
Where on earth did he learn to fight like that?
Chapter 6
Two A.M.
The white winter moon in a black velvet sky turned the streets of London blue. The stars paraded over the equestrian statue of King Charles I at Charing Cross.
The familiar landmark crowned the broad, three-way intersection where the Strand met Whitehall and Cockspur Street. The normally busy crossroads seemed like a foreign place, deserted at this late hour; but, as Virgil had informed them at the meeting earlier in the day, it was the spot James Falkirk had designated for the exchange.
The Alchemist’s Scrolls in exchange for Drake.
At any moment, Falkirk was expected.
Jordan stood at full alert, pistol drawn, his sword also at the ready, his foot resting atop the kingwood case containing the Alchemist’s Scrolls. The dim streetlamps lit his dissolving clouds of breath as he waited in the stillness for the enemy to show.
Virgil was with him, a few feet away, leaning against the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the imposing monument to the murdered king. Meanwhile, hidden amid the shadows around the intersection’s sprawling plaza, Max and Beauchamp waited with rifles to give them cover if needed: There were no guarantees this wasn’t a trap.
Jordan continued scanning the dark streets through narrowed eyes, but his thoughts revolved around the rumored power struggle taking place among the Promethean elites.
The Order’s sources indicated that Falkirk had begun quietly building alliances with other Promethean lords to make a stand against their current leader, Malcolm Banks.
Who, in turn, happened to be Virgil’s brother.
Malcolm Banks was notoriously brutal; the Order viewed James Falkirk as the lesser of two evils. Therefore, Virgil had made it clear at the meeting that afternoon that their chief objective for tonight was to get Drake back.
Falkirk was not to be touched.
“If he really means to overthrow Malcolm, we will not stand in his way,” Virgil had instructed them earlier at Dante House. “Falkirk can do more damage from the inside than we can from without. Even if he fails to take over the Promethean Council, all of them will be weakened by their internal struggle. We’ll just stand back and let the two factions tear each other apart for a while. Then, when their strength is spent, we’ll descend and finish the bastards off. But above all, first we’ve got to get Drake out of there.”
Jordan suddenly tensed, hearing the distant rumble of a carriage. Virgil and he turned toward the sound.
As it grew louder, the Highlander sent him a dark nod. Jordan lifted the deep, shapeless hood of the black cloak spilling from his shoulders. Then he concealed his face with an expressionless black mask, like those worn by Carnival revelers. The Order had invested too much time and effort in every high-placed agent to risk needlessly exposing their identities.
Virgil did not follow suit, for his face was already known to their foes.
As the hackney rolled closer, Jordan’s heart beat faster to think he was actually about to meet the second-ranking member of the Promethean hierarchy.
James Falkirk was something of a legend. Even some in the Order believed that the old eccentric could actually make the Prometheans’ black magic work, as if he were some sort of latter-day sorcerer.
Malcolm’s only interest in the centuries-old Promethean cult was as a means of gaining raw, worldly power, but Falkirk was a true believer in all their occult mumbo jumbo. Jordan wasn’t sure which was worse.
In the next moment, the hackney rolled to a halt right in front of them, the moonlight sliding over its ebony surface. The driver kept his place up on the box, staring straight ahead, but the door swung open.
A small light glowed from within.
Jordan was keenly attuned to his watching brother agents posted in the shadows, covering them, as Virgil stepped up cautiously into the carriage.
Jordan holstered his pistol, picked up the ancient wooden box of scrolls, then followed the Highlander into the coach. He sat beside him, resting the wooden box on his lap.
Across from them, the coach held only one other occupant: a lean and patrician older fellow with a shock of pewter hair. “Welcome, gentlemen,” said Falkirk. “No sudden movements, please. As you can see, I am armed.”
Jordan had already noted the pistol aimed at them from amid the folds of Falkirk’s black greatcoat.
“That won’t be necessary,” Virgil growled.
Falkirk smiled serenely. “I trust you brought my prize.”
“It’s here,” Jordan said in a toneless voice from behind the mask.
“Good.” Falkirk turned to his handler. “You must be Virgil Banks. Yes, I can see the family resemblance. By Lucifer,” he said with a soft laugh, “did you know that Malcolm’s grown son, Niall, has that same fiery red hair as yours? A Banks family trait, I presume?”
“Where is my agent?” Virgil answered dully.
“Let me see the scrolls first.”
Jordan obliged him, opening the case.
Falkirk leaned closer; reaching into the box, he poked among the scrolls, examining them, murmuring to himself over certain symbols that must have confirmed to his satisfaction that, indeed, the documents were authentic.
His gray eyes lit up with incredulity as he met Virgil’s stare. “Is this the full collection, on your honor?”
“This is everything we found,” Jordan answered on his handler’s behalf.
“But of course you made a copy for yourselves.”
“Of course,” he said.
“You were the one who did the translation?”
“I was,” he said.
Falkirk smiled wanly, the lines of age in his bony face deepening. “Well, there are subtleties in these texts that your kind will never grasp.”
Jordan shrugged, on his guard. “I did my best to decipher them in the limited time I had.”
“Order whelp!” The old eccentric snorted. “You could study these Scrolls for a lifetime and still not penetrate their mysteries. Valerian the Alchemist was a brilliant thinker—”
“And a bit of a lunatic, what?”
“Nonsense, his genius rivaled the likes of Leonardo da Vinci’s!”
“To the best of my knowledge, Leonardo was not a proponent of human sacrifice,” Jordan said dryly, but Falkirk merely laughed.
“Ah, you disapprove of our revered Alchemist’s writings? What would you say if I told you the bit about virgin sacrifice was just a metaphor?”
“I wouldn’t believe you.”
Falkirk’s smile widened. “Then perhaps you’re smarter than you look. But tell me, my fine scholar-knight, were you not at all tempted by the ancient knowledge you glimpsed in these papers?”
“Not really. At least now I know how to summon a demon if I should ever need one.”
“You mock me!” Falkirk reproached him lightly. “Why do you dismiss what you do not understand?” He shook his head. “It is a sad thing to find such a lack of imagination in one so young.”
“Where is Drake?” Jordan repeated Virgil’s question.
“Nearer than you think.” Falkirk nodded toward the intersection. “Just there, at the Golden Cross Inn. You will find him in Room 22.”
Virgil nodded to Jordan, who jumped out of the hackney at once and stalked over to where Max was leaning against a building with his rifle in his hands and impatience gl
eaming in his silvery eyes.
Jordan quickly relayed the message, gesturing toward the nearby inn. “Let me know when you’ve got him,” he said tersely.
They nodded, Max beckoned Beau over, then both agents dashed into the famous coaching inn at Charing Cross.
Jordan stalked back to the carriage. He was not about to leave Virgil alone in there; moreover, he was determined to pick Falkirk’s brain while he had the chance. There was one problem in particular Jordan needed to solve.
Dresden Bloodwell had wandered the streets of London long enough, roaming through the shadows like a wolf, looking for those he could devour.
“What can you tell me about Bloodwell?” he asked Falkirk as he rejoined the two older men.
“I did not come here for an interview,” Falkirk huffed.
“Come,” Jordan insisted. “Is Bloodwell loyal to Malcolm, or have you persuaded him to join your little insurrection? Oh, yes, we know all about your plans,” he said, bluffing as to the degree of certainty the Order had about Falkirk’s scheme.
But when the old fellow raised his eyebrows, Jordan took it as confirmation.
“The Order has no plans to stand in your way,” he assured him, determined to win a little of Falkirk’s trust. “That’s why we haven’t taken you captive tonight,” he added in a reasonable tone. “We easily could have.”
The old man eyed him suspiciously. “You want to know about Bloodwell?”
“Actually, I want to kill him,” Jordan said.
“Do you, indeed? To be sure, I would find that most convenient, myself. But can you? Dresden Bloodwell is as ruthless as they come.”
“Well, Falkirk,” he answered softly, “I can be rather ruthless myself when the occasion calls.”
“Let me see your face, and I will tell you what I know,” Falkirk challenged him.
“No,” Virgil ordered, but Jordan weighed the risk against the possible gains and slowly lowered his mask.
Virgil growled his disapproval while Falkirk studied Jordan’s face, looking pleased. “Well, you are brave, aren’t you?” the old man murmured.
“What of Bloodwell?” Jordan prompted.
“Bloodwell answers to Malcolm for now. But I do not think his loyalty runs deep.”
“Does that mean you intend to persuade him to your side?”
“No.” Falkirk shook his head with a slight shudder. “I keep my distance from that creature. Malcolm believes he can keep control of his pet assassin, but if you ask me, Bloodwell is out for himself alone.”
“Where does he make his headquarters?” Jordan pursued.
“He doesn’t stay in one place for more than a few days. Bloodwell knows what he’s doing. He is not a man whom I would lightly cross,” he added with a warning look.
Virgil nudged him. “Go and see what’s happening with Drake.”
Jordan obeyed, leaving the carriage again. They could not let Falkirk leave until they were sure he had kept his end of the bargain.
He jogged across the square to the Golden Cross Inn, where Max and Beau were just now maneuvering out of the establishment’s front door with a semiconscious Drake sagging between them like a drunk.
“Is he hurt? What’s wrong with him?” Jordan exclaimed as he opened the door of the Order’s waiting carriage.
The other two carried Drake toward it.
“Drugged, I think,” said Max. “Not sure yet.” They hoisted Drake into the coach.
Beau turned around, standing guard, while Max stepped up into the carriage and checked Drake’s pulse, listened to his shallow breathing, and pulled up his eyelids.
Drake mumbled incoherently and tried to brush Max off with a vague wave of his hand.
“His pupils are dilated. They’ve definitely given him something.”
“Poison?” Jordan clipped out.
“Could be.”
“I’ll go find out,” Jordan said in taut anger, dashing back to Falkirk. That bastard! Wouldn’t it be just like a Promethean to give Drake back to them with hours to live from poison in his blood? As soon as he reached the hackney coach parked in the shadows at Charing Cross, he threw open the door. “What have you done to him?” he demanded of Falkirk, then glanced at Virgil. “Drake is unresponsive.”
“There is no need for alarm,” Falkirk soothed. “I merely slipped a bit of laudanum in his drink—and I daresay, you should thank me. You’d never be able to control him otherwise.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean that when he wakes up, he is probably going to fight you.”
“Why?” Jordan demanded.
“He does not know you anymore! He’ll wonder where I’ve gone. Do not be surprised if the poor lad pleads with you to see me.”
“To see you? After you tortured him?”
“I’m the one who made his torture stop,” Falkirk clipped out. “You must understand, Drake has forgotten everything from his old life. He trusts me because I removed him from his prison cell and had our doctors nurse him back to health. He has become quite devoted to me, he looks on me like a father, and I’m warning you now, he is not going to like being parted from me.”
“That is preposterous!” Jordan spat.
But Falkirk eyed the Highlander ruefully. “You trained him well as a fighter, Virgil. I’m told when he was captured, it took half a dozen men to bring him down. You spoke of summoning demons,” Falkirk added with a glance at Jordan. “Well, Drake is like one himself, or a wild creature, at its most dangerous when cornered.”
Jordan swore under his breath, shook his head, and turned away angrily, wondering what the hell the Prometheans had done to their brother warrior. He leveled a bitter glance at Falkirk. “So, you’re saying he’s out of his head.”
“More or less, I’m afraid, yes. But he’s really very dear, at least when he’s calm. What can I say? I have grown fond of the boy. I wish him well.”
“But the only reason you’re giving him back to us is because he’s of no use as a source of information without his memory! You’re just using him as a pawn so you could get the Scrolls.”
“It’s nothing personal. Besides.” Falkirk paused. “I owe the lad. He saved my life, as you’ve probably heard.”
“Aren’t you afraid of what he might tell us after you have gone?” Jordan challenged him.
“You are not hearing me!” Falkirk said with a burst of impatience. “The Drake you knew is gone! I cannot speak of the agent he once was, but the man he is today, well—you will soon find he has become—how shall I say?—like a child.”
“A demon, a wild creature, or a child, Falkirk—why don’t you make up your mind?” Jordan bit out.
“Fine. You’ll just have to see for yourselves when the laudanum wears off in the morning.” Falkirk glanced at the Order’s chief. “Do not put him back in the battle, Virgil. He’s already been through enough. Drake is finished as an agent. I only want him returned to his family so he can live out what’s left of his life in peace.”
“Oh, that’s very big of you,” Jordan muttered, shaking his head.
Falkirk suddenly lost patience with him. “Begone, both of you! Out of my carriage! And do not attempt to follow me,” he snapped. “I must be on my way before I’m seen by any of Malcolm’s spies. Especially Bloodwell.”
Jordan stepped aside so Virgil could climb out, but the red-haired Scotsman paused.
“Falkirk, if my brother should learn of your plan, you know he will kill you. We can offer you protection, if you’ll turn informant—”
Falkirk snorted in derision at this offer, pulling the door shut in Virgil’s face. Jordan and he exchanged a cynical look as Falkirk’s hackney pulled away.
They then ran over to the carriage where Max was still sitting with their unconscious fellow agent.
“Laudanum,” Jordan confirmed. “If Falkirk is to be believed.”
Virgil got into the carriage and began examining Drake. “Poor lad,” the Highlander said gruffly under his breath. “Let’s ge
t him back to Dante House.”
“Sir, if you can spare me, there’s something I have to take care of now that the mission’s complete.”
“What is it?”
Jordan shook his head. Trusted agent that he was, his somber expression was enough to gain his handler’s cooperation.
“Very well. You played your part in the exchange. We’re unlikely to make more progress until this one wakes up.” He glanced sadly at Drake. “We’ll meet tomorrow morning, and you’ll all receive your next orders.”
“Aye, sir.”
Max cocked a curious eyebrow at Jordan, but in answer, he merely sent his team leader a wry look as he cast off his cloak. He tossed it into the carriage along with his mask.
Beneath the cloak, he was clad all in black and armed to the teeth.
He shut the carriage door, nodded farewell, then watched them drive away. When they had gone, he cast a cold, speculative glance eastward toward the City.
It was time to pay a little nocturnal visit to the newspaper editors.
The next morning, Mara waited on tenterhooks as her butler, Reese, scanned the morning edition of the London Times.
She couldn’t bear to look for herself.
While Thomas circled the breakfast table towing his wooden pull-toy pony after him, she watched in nervous agitation as her butler read the paper.
His spectacles perched on the bridge of his pointy nose, Reese stood by the window poring over each page by the golden morning sunlight streaming in.
“There is an article on the riot, my lady,” he announced at length, “but it has no mention of you or Lord Falconridge.”
“Really? Are you sure? Here, try this one.” She handed him the Post—the newspaper notorious for its Society gossip page.
This was the hateful journalists’ chance to tell the whole world that her carriage had been attacked because the mob had believed her to be the Regent’s mistress. If the lie took hold, who knew if there would be more attacks on her, thanks to the people’s dislike of the Regent?
Who could say, moreover, what damage the rumor’s exploding like this could do to her reputation in Society?
What her mother would say, she could barely bring herself to imagine.