The Shadow Revolution

by Clay Griffith

  “No.” Nick took a deep breath. “As you often note, I am a dabbler. Possessor of many skills, master of none. I mixed a bit of this and a bit of that, necromancy and elementalism.”

  “I see. And what did it cost you?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “You must. Necromancy drains life from the user. Magic isn’t free, as you well know.”

  “What did you sacrifice, Simon? You gave up your life to stop Gretta, who may or may not have been stopped since we have no idea where she went. That seemed a stupid trade.”

  “I’d do it again tomorrow to keep everyone safe.”

  “That doesn’t make it any less stupid. You must be proud of yourself. You took out two of the Bastille Bastards. Your days of anonymity are over. Your pointless grandstanding just put you on the map for every crazed mage out there to notice.”

  Simon rapped the table with his glass. “You may have noticed we were not talking about me. Now, what did you do to yourself in order to save me?”

  “Nothing at all. I’m the same lovable Nick.”

  “You’re lying. I can look at you and tell you’re lying. I’ve always been able to tell when you’re lying.”

  “Oh have you?” Nick threw back his head and laughed uproariously. “Simon, your entire problem is that you can’t tell when anyone is lying, including yourself.”

  “Then just tell me, for God’s sake. Why play games? What did saving me cost you?”

  Nick pursed his lips in thought. He looked bemused. “Just a few years.”

  “A few years? It aged you? You look the same to me. Your magic always allowed you an extraordinarily long life span.”

  “It did. However, from this day forward, I will grow a little older every year until I finally die just like everyone else in this pub.”

  Simon sat back, stunned. “I’m sorry. I never wanted that.”

  “Stop it!” Nick snarled. “It was my choice, not yours. I can be noble, too.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you. Why don’t we head to Hartley Hall, where we can—”

  “No.” Nick drained his pint.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “No. Simon, I’m not staying.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m leaving London. It’s lost its luster.” Nick leaned forward. “Come with me.”

  “I can’t. Not now. You know that.”

  Nick rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Simon, there’s nothing to hold you here. You’ve done your Galahad bit. You did what you could for the Anstruthers, which was none of our affair from the beginning. And it nearly cost you everything.”

  “Kate needed help. She and Imogen would both be dead now if we hadn’t intervened.”

  “Job well done then. White is dead. Gretta is dead or gone. You owe those women nothing more.” Nick’s voice grew more insistent. “Come on. Come with me, old boy. We’ll go to Rome or Constantinople or Mandalay. If you miss England, we’ll come back when it’s over.”

  Simon paused, dread rising in him. “When what is over? We destroyed Dr. White and Gretta. Her army is dead or scattered. They were at the root of all the disturbances that have been troubling London. It’s done.”

  Nick rubbed his chin angrily and sat back. “Look, it should just be the two of us again. That worked well, didn’t it? Everything was easier then. Don’t you want it to be easy again? There’s so much more for you to learn.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Everyone forever doubts my intentions! I’m sick of it!” Nick shouted. Then he grew quiet. “Listen, Simon, you must come with me. The world is about to split open. I’m asking you, I’m begging you, come with me.”

  Simon frowned. “You know my answer.”

  “Why, for God’s sake!” Nick shook his head and closed his eyes, almost as if suppressing tears. “Simon, the next time you die, it’s final. You should do your best to ensure there isn’t a next time. So I’m telling you for your own good, because I’m the only one who will, you are not the magician you think you are. You’re not the man you think you are.”

  Simon stared angrily at his friend. His fingers clawed at the tabletop. Breath poured heavy from flared nostrils. His voice was strained with pain and hurt. “Thank you. Your confidence is bracing.”

  Nick stood up and started across the floor. A few steps from the table, he turned back. “Are you coming with me?”

  “No, Nick.” Simon looked at him as if he were suddenly a stranger.

  “Damn it, Simon, you don’t understand anything that’s going on around you.”

  “You’re certainly right about that.”

  “Well, I’ll not be the one to teach you.” Nick looked at Simon for another moment, then he shook his head and left the pub.

  Simon glanced up from where he sat pondering. Kate and Malcolm stood beside his table. The crowd was thinner now in the Devil’s Loom. His half-finished ale was still in front of him.

  Kate eyed Nick’s empty glass on the table and the displaced chair. “You found him?”

  “Yes.”

  She scanned the crowd at the bar. “Where is he?”

  “Gone.”

  “Gone where?” Malcolm asked casually.

  Simon shrugged.

  “Oh.” Kate raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Do you mean he’s gone, and not coming back?”

  “That’s what I mean.”

  “No loss,” the Scotsman said. “From what I could see, the only good he ever did was bringing you back to life. And it’s still up for debate whether that was good.”

  Simon prepared an angry retort but gave an empty laugh instead.

  Kate slid onto the bench next to him. She tapped his glass. “How many is this for you?”

  “Just the half.”

  Kate gasped theatrically and placed a cool hand on his forehead. “You don’t feel feverish.” She allowed her hand to gently run back across his hair. “Malcolm, fetch a round.”

  “Here?” The Scotsman looked disgusted. “Can’t we go somewhere that’s been aired out since the Great Fire?”

  “I like it here.” Kate regarded the warm, jubilant faces reveling in their daily life. “It’s homey.”

  Malcolm went to the bar, muttering.

  Kate leaned on her elbow. “I’m sorry about Nick. I know he was your friend, but it’s not really a surprise, is it?”

  “I suppose not, in hindsight.”

  She shoved his shoulder. “You’re not going to have some romantic poet’s collapse while you mourn his departure, are you?”

  “I may mourn the death of your sense of tact. Beyond that, I suppose it depends on what happens next.” He searched her face and the warmth in her eyes was like being held in her arms again.

  “The future is bright, Simon.” Kate laid a comforting hand over his.

  For a second, Simon saw Beatrice’s face staring at him across the table. He then broke into a cynical grin at Kate. “I once thought I had a very bright future. A man of vast potential. Years later, that’s still what I have. Potential.”

  “Nonsense. You’ve created a remarkable thing.”

  “Have I?” Simon laughed quietly. “I can’t think of it.”

  “Look at me.” Kate gripped his hand. “Me. Malcolm. Penny. You’ve taken those separate things and made them into something stronger and more resilient than any of us could’ve imagined. We did an amazing thing. Together. You did that. No one else did. No one else could have.” She dipped a finger into her collar and pulled out a chain with the gold key. She looped it off over her head. “And we have this.”

  Simon laughed. “Ah yes. The key. What did White say it was, a device for instantaneous translocation? That’s grand, and there it is. And what does it do? Nothing. I’m suspicious of that thing, Kate. Magic is full of philosopher’s stones that turn out to be merely stones.”

  Kate ignored his bitterness. She dangled the key from her finger, letting it swing back and forth.

  His intense eye
s tracked the object. “Really, Kate, we have no idea about that key. White was obviously insane; why should we believe anything he said?” However, a glimmer of begrudging interest replaced the anger in his gaze.

  Malcolm abruptly returned, carrying three pints. He settled into a seat and slid ales to the others. “So, why did Barker run off? He hated Kate?”

  “What?” Kate snapped, dropping the key to the table.

  “No,” Simon replied casually. “Well yes, but that’s not why he left.”

  She scowled. “Not that I care now, but do tell.”

  “He was frightened.”

  Kate and Malcolm exchanged glances. She asked, “Frightened of what?”

  “I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me.” Simon looked at the two with concern. “If there’s something that has Nick scared, it’s certain to be unpleasant.”

  Malcolm drank. “That’s too bad because what we’ve seen so far has been delightful.” He set the glass down heavily. “I’ve something to say, and I’d best do it now or it won’t happen.”

  Simon and Kate regarded the Scotsman, whose quiet frown was the only betrayal of his troubled emotions. Finally Malcolm said, “Thank you.”

  Simon raised a confused eyebrow. “Are you talking to me? It’s difficult to know.”

  “I am talking to you, you ass.” The Scotsman stared at the table. “You saved my life at Hartley Hall. Gretta pulled half the house down on me and I would have been crushed to death had you not saved me.”

  “Hardly half the house. A bit of a wall, part of the upper floor. And recall, I saved myself too.”

  “Aye, but you could have done so without including me. I’m grateful to you. I can tell you that once I thought little of you, but I was wrong. You are an honorable man, and while there are times I would as soon throw you through that window, I’d stand with you if you need me. And let’s say no more about it.”

  Kate drank and slammed her glass down like a sailor. “Yes, these maudlin scenes are so emasculating.”

  Simon smiled. “Thank you, Malcolm. I appreciate your words.”

  The Scotsman grunted and drank.

  Simon looked at Kate’s fingers. Her knuckles were still raw from the battle. Her usually flawless face was marred by bruises and scratches. He winced at her unconsciously. “Kate, I’m bound to say that you should think about your safety, and that of Imogen. I have no idea what I’ll be involved with in the future. There’s no reason you should put yourself in danger.”

  “No reason?” She yanked her hand free. “You’re the one always standing in the line of fire, like some stalwart knight of old. I learn from your bloody example. I will do all I can for Imogen, and I damn well need your help for that. I don’t care how dangerous you think the world will become, we are connected now. Do I make myself clear?”

  “You do,” Simon whispered, caught up in Kate’s passion. She was extraordinary.

  She recovered her demeanor with a slight clearing of her throat. Then she pushed the key across the rough table. “Here. I want you to have this. It was your mother’s.”

  “No. I suspect your father gave it to her to hide it. Anyone who was chasing your father or my father to find this key would’ve had no idea my mother was connected to them. It doesn’t truly belong to either of us.”

  “Then it belongs to both of us.”

  Simon touched the key reverently and nodded at her. He then regarded the Scotsman. “Malcolm, will you be staying with us?”

  The Scotsman gestured toward the ale. “Well, almost certainly until I finish my drink. Then I’ll decide about a second one.”

  Simon grinned and lifted his pint. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers,” Kate and Malcolm replied.

  The glasses clinked together as the key glittered in the candlelight, casting sharp reflections on the three faces.

  If you loved Shadow Revolution, be sure not to miss the next book in the thrilling Crown & Key trilogy:

  The Undying Legion

  by

  Clay Griffith and Susan Griffith

  Here’s a special preview

  And stay tuned for the final book in the Crown & Key trilogy—The Conquering Dark—which will follow next month!

  Chapter One

  Malcolm MacFarlane let the frigid London night swallow him. A cold hard rain had begun to fall. His thick, wool coat had soaked up so much water that it felt like he carried an additional load of ammunition on his broad shoulders. He wiped the excess water from his face, brushing it back over his coal-black hair, which was pulled and tied with a strap of leather. Tonight, he would do what he did best. Hunt. He had spent the last few months tracking down the stragglers from Gretta Aldfather’s werewolf pack and putting silver bullets in their animal brains.

  Malcolm had hunted the wild places of the Highlands and beyond all his life, studying the spore of monsters until it was his art form. Here in this city, however, he found it was not so easy. The maze of filthy hovels and wash of humanity made such skills almost worthless. So he had created makeshift ways to track quarry here. He found that the poor and wretched were fonts of information. Like water holes or game trails, he learned to go where unfortunates huddled to sniff out hints of monsters.

  Malcolm liked to believe it was the prospect of information and not the warm glow and promise of a dry place that led him to the soup kitchen in St. Giles. He was surprised to see it open since it was well past midnight. He had made a habit of haunting the poorhouses and soup kitchens because the people of the street heard and saw a great many things. They were the first to know when something was amiss, or a beast was stirring. This place would make the third one this evening. He stepped inside and the frigid cold lifted. Unlike the other hovels that made him despair over the condition of man, this one made him feel safe and contented.

  His eyes found, at the far side of the dingy hall, a mouselike woman who was cleaning up after serving late supper to the unfortunates. Her bonneted head and her small hands focused on gathering dirty utensils and used plates. She was dressed in plain clothes and wore small round spectacles. When her gaze lifted briefly to Malcolm, it fell again toward the pile of dishes in front of her. Next to her were baskets of extra clothing, and odds and ends for those in need. The woman left her place behind the table and snatched a wool scarf from the basket. She held it out to Malcolm as she approached.

  “We have finished serving for the evening,” she said with a smile, “but I can find a bowl of soup for you if you’ll wait.”

  “No, thank you. I’m not hungry.” Malcolm dripped water from his sleeve to the floor. Drops glistened on his dark hair and thick eyelashes. “And I am not in need of your scarf.”

  “Please.” Her voice had the timbre of a frightened rabbit. “I made it myself, and you will have need of it before this night is through. I can’t have you falling into an ague from the damp.”

  He stared at her homely features. “I’ve seen worse weather in Scotland, and me in nothing but a kilt.” She blushed but still she wrapped the soft grey wool around his neck.

  She had seemed so unassuming that her sudden boldness took Malcolm aback. He wasn’t one to accept charity, but he wouldn’t offend the young woman. Perhaps he looked like a bedraggled vagrant after so many nights on the streets. He would give the scarf to someone more in need than he but let the woman think she had helped his poor soul.

  “Tell me then, miss, have you seen anything strange about? Anything out of the ordinary?”

  “Aside from yourself?” she asked, obviously judging his accent. “You are far from home, I hear.”

  “Aye, that’s for sure.” Malcolm let a little extra lonely brogue pepper his words to stir the tender heart of this woman. “But I’m here to do a job. And it would help me if you could say if you’ve heard talk of unusual events about.”

  The woman sized up Malcolm and took on a look of sadness that actually disturbed him a bit. She whispered, “I take your appearance as something of a sign then. Because some of the peopl
e here have been sorely frightened.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Tonight, a man said he saw figures robed in red with a young woman in white.”

  Malcolm exhaled in disappointment at the story. Clearly not a sign of Gretta’s old pack. “Is that some local haint?”

  “Not to my knowledge, sir. He seemed quite disturbed by it. If you’re here indeed to help, you might look into it.”

  “Where was this weird visitation?”

  “St. George’s Bloomsbury, sir.” The young woman swallowed hard as if gulping down her terror now that she had spoken it aloud.

  “I thank you for your information.”

  “Bless you, sir.”

  Malcolm opened the frightened woman’s hand and placed coins into her palm. “For the poor.”

  She grasped Malcolm’s arm tightly and the gratitude in her eyes moved the hunter. “The Devil has great power.”

  “Well I know it. Perhaps after I take a look, I’ll return for some of that soup.”

  She bowed her bonneted head shyly. “It will be waiting when you need it, along with a friendly word.”

  Malcolm smiled at her, thinking that her face could have been pleasing if not tightened in some permanent grimace of penance. “One can’t have too many friends, eh?”

  “No.”

  “Thank you for the scarf.” With that, he went back out into the cold, miserable night, where he was more at home.

  The great white block of St. George’s Bloomsbury looked serene in the misty lamp glow. Malcolm could barely make out the odd, pyramid-like steeple around which the haunting dark shapes of lions and unicorns clambered while King George I looked down disdainfully in his pagan Roman attire. The church squatted between two tall neighboring edifices, enhancing its resemblance to a classical temple.

  In its shadow, Malcolm saw two dim figures lurking under the massive colonnades by the south doors. Not too surprising. The spiritual presence of the church called vagrants and the poor to its doors whether they were open or not. But when Malcolm went round the side, he saw three more shapes in the narrow space between the buildings. There was a flare of a cigar end as well as a faint trace of spicy smoke. Malcolm came closer.