by Sophia North
"Is it necessary to waste time like this?" Gabe asked his host, throwing a pile of chips into the centre pot. "I see your three thousand and raise you seven."
"You've got shite. Stop trying to buy the pot," Vlad accused, signalling for another round of drinks from a passing waiter. "We won't attract our target if you are intent in pissing away my money. Those Lowerton bastards took me for almost everything, and it was a fucking substantial amount let me tell you."
"The accumulation of wealth is the preoccupation of an unrefined mind...haven't you bored of it yet? Although, we who enjoy the fruits of your obsession appreciated the donation," Gabe remarked, rubbing salt into the wound.
"Arrogant fuck. I call."
Gabe flipped over his cards to reveal a full house. Eights over aces.
"Blind fucking luck," Vlad growled, unhappy to have been proven wrong. Gabriel had a winning hand all along.
"I am still unclear on how exactly our losing ridiculous amounts of money to one another is going to attract these supposed Brotherhood operatives."
Vlad rolled his eyes. Did Praetors have no sense in the art of diplomatic machinations? Power players never sought out the weak. They looked for exclusive circles, usually characterised by a 'fuck off, we care for no other company but ours because no one else is worthy of it' nature.
"Trust me. If Maggie says there are Brotherhood sympathisers in Ebony's, then they are fucking well here. Now shut up and deal the cards...from the fucking top this time. I know all the tricks, remember."
Apparently not. Gabriel had been cheating since they'd sat down. He could deal cards from anywhere in the pack he so desired without the slightest hint of doing so. But Vlad was human again, poor soul. He could be forgiven his inadequacies.
"Vlad MacGregor! Hi, it's me. Pierce...we met the other night at Claridge's."
Unfucking believable. Did this Yank have a death wish? Gabe was beginning to question if the man had any brains whatsoever. After his display at Hannah's the other night, one thing was for certain, things were not going to end well for Nelson-Fuckhead the third if he kept pissing Gabe off.
Yet, here he was, all toothy white smiles, trying to pretend Gabe's presence was not bothering him in the least.
"You have got to be fucking kidding me," Vlad ground out through gritted teeth. "This prick will not take the hint."
"May we join you? This is John Hancock, fellow American and Yale classmate. He's over for the upcoming show. Brexit should be renamed 'Fucking Brilliant'. It's going to be a bloodbath, stay or go, and Johnny here is one helluva a shark."
"The table minimum may be a bit too rich for your taste, Aldrich," Gabe drawled. "Ante is five thousand and another five for the pleasure of the next card."
Pierce's smile stayed firmly affixed to his sprayed-tanned preening health-conscious face. "Let's raise it to ten for each. Why not really enjoy ourselves?"
"Gentlemen, take a seat. I'll take your Greenbacks just as easily as his Queens," Gabe offered graciously.
Pierce accepted the challenge. Shortly after he took his seat, a very attractive, scantily-clad red head arrived with a case of chips for Pierce and his friend. One of Maggie's better class of lady, her bright blue eyes gleamed in delight as Pierce tucked a hundred pound chip between her breasts. Vampyre. The place was full of them.
They shimmered from table to table acting as dealers, servers and predators with the human patrons none the wiser.
"Come here often, Aldrich?" Gabe asked, curious to know how far the man would go to indulge his darker tendencies. Not that he was one to judge such things given his long list.
"Never. A few of our fellow Bulldogs came here last summer. Said it was the best place to gamble in Europe. Johnny and I thought we'd check it out. Thus far, it doesn't impress. I am more of a Monte Carlo kinda guy."
A Monte Carlo kinda guy? Gabe thought not.
"Evening gentlemen, my brother and I are looking for some worthy opponents. Is there room at the table for two more?"
Vlad leaned back in his chair. "Fuck me, it's the Lang brothers. Pup, you letting your older brother be top dog over you now? Thought you were your own man with a real big City job. The Yard come to their senses and kick your ass out?" Vlad’s eyes gleamed with barely concealed sarcasm as he spoke. He'd had a rather unpleasant run-in with Inspector Ethan Lang recently. And relations were no better with the eldest member of the Lang clan, Marcus. He had an annoyingly consistent habit of being a right cunt.
Gabriel caught the two men's scent. Werewolves. An interesting turn of events, though he'd never had much time for them. All bark and no trousers, in his opinion.
Flashing the pair a welcoming grin, Gabe waved at the two final chairs by the table. "By all means, please. It's always a pleasure to host the Law in town. I am here on business and may require the services of the famed law firm Lang & Associates."
Pierce's eyes nearly bugged out of his Ivy League ponce head. To have his acquisition target and the best Commercial law firm at the table was a hedge fund on the make's wet dream.
The Lang's were renowned for their legal minds and closing incredibly profitable deals for their clients. Add-in the tension between Vlad and the Langs and Pierce felt certain he could secure their legal services. Especially if matters turned hostile, which given MacGregor's attitude towards Pierce's advances over the merger, were clearly on the cards.
"And what business would that be..." Ethan Lang inquired, taking his seat. He was fishing for a name, but didn't need to be quite so officious about it. The Langs were going to be all too aware of his presence in London soon enough.
"Gabriel Rosetti, trader of rare and unusual Antiquities."
Ethan's cool glare transferred over to Vlad when he replied. "You moving away from art into artefacts, MacGregor? By the by, my congratulations on your recent nuptials. Your bride left a lasting impression on me, quite the firebrand, that one."
The pup was at it again. Little shite. Vlad wondered to what degree the Werewolf clans were in the know about what had gone down in the vamp world. His miraculous transformation back to being human had been kept a well guarded secret, but all parties involved knew it was only a matter of time before the news got out.
Gabe listened to Vlad's thoughts and went to work on finding out more. Probing the two werewolves minds, he shifted through their thoughts like a library card catalogue. Once satisfied they were there on an intelligence gathering mission and knew nothing...concrete, he released his focus.
They were neutral players for the time being, but would need to be watched to ensure they stayed that way. At least until Gabe could suss out whether or not the Lang werewolf clan may be of any present, or future, use.
As for their impressions about Gabe himself, they were completely oblivious to his vampyre status. As a Praetor, he could mask his true nature to match whatever a situation required. Call it their chameleon ways.
"Recently married?" Pierce remarked enthusiastically to Vlad. "May I too offer my best wishes. I hope to be made a happily married man myself soon. You must allow me to introduce my soon-to-be future wife, Lady Hannah Woodville, Countess Mowbray. You met her at Claridge's the other night, but I didn't have the opportunity to introduce her to you properly. What with Beka's, her youngest sister, fainting spell and all that drama."
Gabe's fist tightened on the deck of cards he was holding. He didn't like hearing the man's possessive tone. He'd not even proposed to Hannah and yet, here he was boasting about it like it was a fait accompli. Not in this century would Hannah ever belong to this pathetic excuse of a man.
In an effort to keep the discussion civil at the table, Gabriel sent a clear order to Vlad. Restrain yourself. Be pleasant.
Vlad gave him a sharp look of reprimand and thought: Fuck you, Consul. I told you, no more mind-control shit.
Gabe's 'oh well' smile said it all. He didn't give a toss about what Vlad wanted. He was running the show.
"I had the pleasure of her company when escorting the Woodvi
lle sisters home and have little doubt my wife Penny and she would get on famously," Vlad replied magnanimously, a trait one would have never equated to being in his repertoire. But as a dig at Gabe, he added: "Shall we arrange dinner for the four of us? Finding suitable couples to dine with whilst in town is difficult."
Surprised by Vlad's about face attitude towards him, Pierce seized the moment. "We would be honoured."
"Have your assistant ring mine to make arrangements."
Gabe could have happily punched Vlad in his arrogant, rule-bending, face. The man was looking to exploit his weakness for Hannah for his own ends. Bad form, Gabe would not forget the slight anytime soon.
Shuffling the cards, he announced: "The game is five card stud, ten thousand a card...and there is no table limit. Chips in, gentlemen."
Two hours later, the markers in front of Gabriel were piled high. It had been incredibly easy to lure the Americans into betting with their passions rather than their heads. The Lang brothers conversely were much worthier opponents. They used their betting as a way to assess those at the table. A most artful display of cunning.
The other bonus to the night was their high stakes game had garnered a lot of attention inside the club. A large crowd had gathered round to watch in amazement at the vast sums of money being wagered on the simple turn of the cards.
But thus far, Gabriel had not been able to detect even the slightest hint of any Brotherhood connections. Vlad's infallible Maggie appeared to be lacking regarding the reliability of her intelligence. The allure of riches offered should have drawn out those looking to find an untraceable source to fund their uprising.
In an effort to really put on a show, Gabe pushed his chips into the centre of the table. "All in to you, Aldrich."
Pierce, who had been losing heavily for most of the night, studied his cards intently.
Gabe knew exactly what the man was holding. A pair of Knights - Hearts and Diamonds. And it wasn't much of a hand. Not that his was much better, with the pair of black Jacks to match Pierce's reds. But Gabe had Ace high, whereas Pierce's King of Hearts fell short in beating him. A fitting way for the Yank to lose.
"I call," Pierce replied. "What have ya got?"
"Two Black Princes, with the Ace to match."
Gabe felt a simmer of energy waft over the table. Something was afoot, but he had no idea who was behind the burst. As quickly as it had emerged, its source was masked.
"Looks like the Royal Reds take it. Kings and Queens do make the best couples." Pierce turned over his cards to reveal the two pairs. "And I'll be taking my winnings to my very own Queen of Hearts shortly."
"Well played, Aldrich," Gabe said, careful to keep his tone free from the fury he felt. He didn't know how the switch had happened, or Pierce's involvement in it, but he wasn't going to give anything away. This unexpected twist had been a deliberate display of power and he knew one thing for certain. Fuckhead the third may be reaping the reward but he wasn't the responsible party. He was as human as they come and incapable of such a feat.
The attractive red head from earlier approached the table with a tray. Coming to stand beside Gabe, she presented him the tray. At its centre was an envelope with the Transatlantic Telegraph logo on it. It was a telegram - a Praetor's preferred form of communication when on mission out of quick flight range.
Scanning its contents, Gabe stood. "It would seem the markets really don't ever sleep. It's been a night, gentlemen. Vlad, I will catch up with you later."
Tucking the message into his breast pocket, Gabriel strode from the table. Lash's telegram required immediate attention. The Serpent Brotherhood was on the move and had recruited a powerful new ally. Mother-fucking Warlocks.
The card trick now made perfect sense. It was their way of signalling they'd joined forces with the Brotherhood. The vampyre hierarchy was hereby officially put on notice. The Warlocks were in it to win.
Long live Haan and all his minions.
Chapter Eighteen
THE BLIPS OF HER LAPTOP scouring through the museum's vast database were strangely soothing. Each 'ting' another match for her latest needle in the haystack search criteria.
Exhausted, Hannah listened to the beeps, pleased by the prolonged periods of silence between search finds. The art of research laid in the ability to refine search criteria until distilled down to but a few avenues of investigation. The fewer the blips, the more refined one was getting.
With her head cradled atop of crossed arms, the only light visible in the archive vaults came from the illuminated examination table where she sat. She'd been there for ages, preferring to conduct her research outside regular hours.
It wasn't unusual behaviour. Hannah was a known night owl and found her best hours of work occurred in the early hours of the morning.
The Lyonsford household had long been acquainted with its heir's preferences and had adjusted itself accordingly. And to the surprise of many, the British Museum's Director had been equally flexible. But then, Sir William Glengarry knew an opportunity when it presented itself. Accommodating a future generous patron made good business sense and so he'd happily handed over the 'keys'.
Drifting in and out of consciousness, dreams formed and disintegrated in her mind's eye, until sleep finally won the battle, and victorious, started its favourite reel.
The smell of smoke assailed her senses. The fires had started, but the heat she always felt... was already intense.
The sky filled with great plumes of black smoke as the fires ravaged the tiled roofs of the clay bricked town surrounding the great fortress where Hannah was trapped. She didn't know how she knew the palace, but had no doubts that it was her home.
"Hannah," a man's voice called.
Her heart started to race. She was in danger, terrible danger.
Fleeing down the corridor, she attempted to open each door along but all remained locked. She was trapped!
"Hannah," the man called. "There is no escape."
The scrape of metal along stone.
He was coming for her.
A loud crash jolted her awake. Shifting her gaze around in a blind panic, Hannah scanned the area looking for the source of the sound but saw nothing. Eventually her racing heart slowed. Rising from her stool, she tentatively inched her way towards the stacks.
"Is someone there?” she called out nervously. "Hank, is that you?"
Silence. She must be hearing things. Perhaps the mysterious crash was more an act self-preservation by her subconscious trying to put an end to the dream that haunted her. The peculiar thing was, the dream's reappearance usually signalled a period of profound change in her life. And if ever there was a time of change, this was it.
It started with her reunion with Simone and Penny and ended last night, when she'd finally ended her relationship with Pierce.
Liar, her inner voice accused. It started the night you met Gabriel.
Hannah sighed. Her inner devil was right. Gabriel Rosetti did play a significant role in changing her perspective. In more ways than one.
The memory of their kiss-fest had not diminished in the slightest, and if anything, had grown more intense. She'd wake most mornings aching for him.
Her desire for him was one of the major reasons for her breaking it off with Pierce. The thought of anyone but Gabe touching her, making love to her, left her with a feeling of distaste. And it was not fair of her to keep stringing poor Pierce along.
Not that Gabriel seemed to share the same sentiments about her. He'd not even bothered to see her since their night in the library. Ah, how fickle was the heart of a vampyre.
Dismissing her errant thoughts, Hannah returned to her research. On the illuminated table the message 'Search Complete' flashed on her laptop's screen.
Thirteen matches found, it read. The lowest number yet. Excellent, hopefully one of them would prove to be useful.
Clicking through to the results screen, she scanned the options. Her eye drawn repeatedly to number eight: Norse ceremonial silver sh
ield. Inscriptions include:...chalice, dragon... Circa 889 AD. Card Catalogue: 113.39
Sadly, there was no digital image to view. The restricted collection was not permitted to be catalogued by modern technology. The high level descriptions database had been considered a step far enough for the 21st century by the powers that be. And that was pushing it.
No one wanted the information contained within the vaults of the British Museum hackable. Ingenious thieves were problem enough without handing them the keys to all the secrets the museum held.
Hang the low productivity researching the old fashioned way wrought. The best things in life take effort.
The card catalogues lined the far end of the long lit corridor of retractable shelves. Yet even in the low light, the bright white of the shelving and walls emitted an eerie glow. Like snow on a calm winter night reflecting the light of the moon, it made the darkness brighter than one would expect.
As Hannah walked its length, a cold shiver coursed through her as she passed an opening in the wall of shelving.
Bang!
She stopped. The sound had come from the aisle she'd just passed.
Drawn back to its opening, she nervously peered down. On the floor lay an open wooden box.
Curious. Perhaps a colleague had left the box precariously perched on a shelf and gravity was the culprit? Yes, that had to be it. Boxes didn't just launch themselves off shelves.
Hannah made her way to the fallen object, but as she was about to place it back onto its shelf, the patterns carved into its surface made her pause. They looked very similar to the markings on the cylinder Gabriel had brought for her to give an opinion on.
Bringing it back to the table where she'd been working, she placed it on the illuminated surface to get a better look.
A strange wisp of wind brushed against her cheek as it went on to rustle the white sheet draping a marble statue nearby. Another involuntary shiver went through her and a distinctive sense of being watched tickled the back of her neck.
Spinning round, convinced she'd find someone behind her, Hannah found no one.
