by Gaelen Foley
When Albert’s coach glided up to the entrance of the club, the duke discreetly handed a small piece of paper to his footman. After murmuring an instruction, he climbed into his carriage. In the next moment, it rolled away.
Jordan’s pulse beat swiftly as he considered his two options. The footman went one way and the duke went the other.
As the seconds ticked away, his vehicle pulled up next to collect him—the only one unmarked by a family crest. He had chosen a plain black coach that night for obvious reasons and had brought along two of the Order’s trusty foot soldiers, Findlay and Mercer, to play the part of his coachman and groom. They were from Sergeant Parker’s contingent.
When Findlay pulled the horses to a halt before the doors of Watier’s, Mercer jumped down off the back and marched forward to get the door for him like a proper groom. Both men had donned the Falconridge livery, the better to play their roles.
“Your carriage, my lord.” Mercer opened the door. “There’s news, sir,” he added in a lower tone as Jordan moved past him to step into the coach. “Master Virgil sent a messenger while you were inside.”
He paused. “What is it?”
“Lord Westwood’s escaped. He dodged Lord Rotherstone this morning by taking a servant girl hostage.”
Jordan was amazed. “That Emily girl?”
“Wouldn’t know, sir. They believe he’s headed back to Town to return to the Prometheans. Every man we’ve got is out searching for him. Word’s gone out that if he don’t surrender, we’re to shoot him on sight.”
Shoot Drake? He absorbed this in shock, then shook his head. I can’t think about that right now. The others would have to deal with their poor lunatic.
His concern at the moment was tracking Albert’s footman. “Tell Findlay to follow that servant,” he instructed, nodded at the liveried figure jogging down Piccadilly toward the intersection with St. James’s. “But not to get too close. I don’t want him noticing us.”
“Yes, sir.” Mercer nodded, shut the carriage door after Jordan, then went to tell Findlay what they were to do. Mercer returned to his place on the foot-bar in the back.
Pulling away from the corner of Bolton Street, Findlay turned the horses left down Piccadilly, then made a right onto St. James’s. Inside the carriage, Jordan quickly changed coats, shedding the impeccably tailored plum merino wool that would mark him at once as a wealthy gentleman.
He replaced it with a plain drab jacket, then donned his weapons, buckling on a belt that had a sheath for a large knife on one hip and a holster for a loaded pistol on the other. He tucked an extra pistol into the waist of his trousers.
Out the window, he saw the premier gentlemen’s clubs of St. James’s rolling by, then they turned left into Pall Mall. Ahead, Albert’s footman continued jogging doggedly down the pavement past the endless row of shops, unaware of the carriage following him.
At length, he went into the open lobby of a stagecoach inn not far from Charing Cross. Findlay stopped the coach, and Jordan jumped out, striding toward the entrance, with an order to the men to wait for him.
Because the London stagecoach service ran all night, even at this hour, weary, waiting travelers slumped in benches throughout the dimly lit lobby. Jordan prowled in, taking an inconspicuous seat in the corner. From there, he watched Albert’s footman furtively hand the duke’s message over to a weathered old clerk behind the ticketing desk.
The footman left, his part played, but from there, the message traveled on through a complex series of couriers.
Jordan shadowed each one to the next, until, at last, the path led him into the most unsavory part of London—Seven Dials, the infamous haunt of London’s hardest criminal gangs. White-chalked symbols scrawled on the grimy brick walls of corner buildings here and there proclaimed their territory and warned intruders away.
When the dark, dirty labyrinth of twisting alleys and winding lanes grew too narrow for a coach to pass through, Jordan got out again, left Findlay with the carriage, and beckoned to Mercer to come with him on foot. The sensible fellow paused to shed the Falconridge livery coat, which could’ve helped any Prometheans identify Jordan if they were seen.
Jordan took out his knife and sent Mercer a meaningful nod toward his weapons; the man drew his pistol. They trailed the final courier, keeping to the shadows.
Perhaps the cloaked man ahead had been born in Seven Dials, for he made his way through the London’s most treacherous neighborhood with an unerring stride.
When he suddenly ducked into one of the dismal boardinghouses that crowded the street, Jordan halted Mercer at the corner several yards behind their mark.
“What do we do now, sir?” his assistant murmured.
Jordan scanned the place. “Let’s try to get a better view.” He gestured toward the grim, closed shops and other shady establishments, all crowded together and shuttered for the night. “I’ll go round to the other side. If you happen across any of the locals,” he added wryly, “avoid ’em. We don’t need any more trouble tonight from one of these vile gangs.”
“Aye, sir.” Mercer nodded in full agreement, then Jordan stole off to explore the other sides of the ramshackle lodging house.
Given the hour, only a few windows glowed with light. He scaled a six-foot brick wall girding the property to glance into the first. A lowly and exhausted-looking seamstress was mending a pile of shirts.
Jordan moved on. He prowled atop the edge of the brick wall until he reached a spot where he could jump onto the low, slanting end of a gabled roof above a rag-and-bone shop.
He sprang onto it in catlike silence and began climbing up its steep, angled pitch. As he neared the crest of the old, creaky roof, he heard a baby crying; feeble light glowed in the window above, where he spotted some poor woman who was up in the middle of the night, tending her squalling infant.
But he was in luck—for the noise bothered the neighbor above. At that moment, Dresden Bloodwell himself suddenly appeared in the third-story window.
Jordan froze as the Promethean assassin slammed the window shut with a look of annoyance, blocking out the noise. Then he disappeared into the lit room again.
Jordan’s heart pounded. After all these weeks, he had finally located his primary target! But he exhaled with relief. If Bloodwell had paused to look around outside his window, Jordan would likely have been seen. To be sure, he would have made a very easy target exposed as he was on the roof.
Without a second to spare, he climbed to the apex of the gabled roof, but he still could not see inside Bloodwell’s window. He had to go higher—and fast.
Balancing atop the slim apex of the roof, he walked to the end, then took a few running steps onto a fire-escape ladder affixed to the brick face of the next building.
He winced at the dull, metallic bang, but Bloodwell did not come to the window. Mounting the rusty ladder, he climbed in swift stealth until he reached the flat roof of the tenement house and immediately crossed it, creeping up to the back edge of the building.
When he peered over the side, he had a straight view into Dresden Bloodwell’s shabby apartment, and what he saw confirmed beyond all doubt that Albert was indeed working with the Prometheans.
He could see the cloaked courier in the room, handing Bloodwell the note that had originated with Albert, carrying Jordan’s lie about the king’s return to sanity straight to its intended recipient.
The courier bowed out immediately after accepting a few coins from Bloodwell. Bloodwell locked the door behind him, then turned around, opening the note.
Jordan saw him look up from the note and address someone else in the room. This surprised him. Bloodwell had a guest?
Determined to find out who else was there, he moved a bit to the left along the roof’s edge, changing his angle to be able to see into the other side of the room.
It was then that he made the most astonishing discovery of all. A large, brawny, young man with flame red hair reclined in a lazy pose on the couch.
My God.
Niall Banks—the Promethean heir apparent!
Malcolm Banks’s son, second in power only to his father in the enemy’s hierarchy. Virgil’s nephew.
What the hell is he doing in London?
The Scottish-born Malcolm and his son had long based their operations out of France.
Jordan had to learn what was afoot. Clearly, Niall’s presence in London was an even bigger find than the current location of Dresden Bloodwell’s headquarters.
Damn, he mused as he stared at the next Promethean leader, James Falkirk was right. That is quite a family resemblance. Virgil and his red-haired nephew looked exactly alike, but thirty years apart.
Drawings that Jordan had seen of Malcolm, by contrast, had depicted a smaller man with spiky, white-blond hair.
From the rooftop, Jordan beckoned impatiently to Mercer. As soon as he got the Order guard’s attention, Mercer joined him on the rooftop.
Jordan informed him of the red-haired man’s identity, and Mercer was duly impressed, but quick action was suddenly needed.
Niall rose from the couch and sauntered toward the door. Bloodwell moved to show him out.
“He’s leaving.” Jordan stared, not taking his eyes off them. “I need to follow him. We’re going to have to split up. You stay here and keep both eyes on Bloodwell. We can’t afford to lose track of him again. I’m going to follow Niall and try to find out what he’s doing in London. You lie low here and don’t try any heroics,” he warned. “Bloodwell’s too dangerous to take on by yourself. At the first possible moment, I’ll return with Beauchamp or whoever I can find. We’ll handle that Promethean filth.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Now, Mercer, I don’t think Bloodwell will go anywhere, given the hour, but if he does, you’ll have to follow him. Send word to Dante House of your location when you’re able, and we’ll come to you there. You can do this?”
The guard nodded uneasily.
“Good man.” Jordan clapped him quietly on the back, already in motion, gliding away to the other side of the roof. In a trice, he was on the fire-escape ladder, descending as quickly and silently as he could move.
He dropped to the ground, then vaulted back over the brick wall below and ran through the darkness toward the front of the lodging house.
Jordan caught sight of the brawny, red-haired man just as he was leaving by the front entrance. As he walked away from Dresden Bloodwell’s tenement house, Niall hid his distinctive red hair under a black hat and pulled the brim low to shade his face. Hands in his coat pockets, Niall strode southward out of Seven Dials.
Jordan shadowed him a stone’s throw behind. When Niall came to the intersection at Long Acre, he approached the corner hackney stand and hired the only driver in sight. As soon as the carriage door closed, the hackney set off down St. Martin’s Lane.
Jordan turned with a curse and cast about for any mode of transportation; but at that moment, Findlay came thundering along in his coach.
“Sir!”
Must have been keeping an eye out for me, Jordan thought gratefully. “Follow that hackney!”
“Aye, sir! Should I wait for Mercer?”
“No, go! He’s keeping watch.” Jordan pulled the door of his carriage shut, and Findlay cracked the whip over the horses.
Before long, Niall’s lonely hackney was in sight again, continuing south toward the Strand, then turning west, back toward the wealthy section of Town.
To Jordan’s bemusement, the night ended practically in the same spot where it had begun—in Piccadilly, in sight of Watier’s, in fact.
But it was not the infamous gambling club on which Niall had set his sights, Jordan realized as the Prometheans’ future leader got out of the hackney and carelessly threw the driver a coin.
Jordan remained concealed in his carriage, watching his every move as Niall paused on Piccadilly, his hands still in his pockets—as though concealing a weapon.
Then he began walking slowly toward the entrance of the opulent Pulteney Hotel.
Jordan narrowed his eyes. Why’s he going there?
Chapter 13
James Falkirk always stayed at the Pulteney when he came to London.
At the elegant desk in his third-floor suite, he was absorbed in his studies on the Alchemist’s Scrolls, ink stains on his bony fingers as he made more notes. His old eyes strained, bloodshot behind the spectacles perched on his nose, as the light from nearby candelabra flickered over the ancient symbols on the parchment. The candles’ waxen stubs had melted into misshapen forms.
His lips moved silently as he savored each mysterious line. His mind seethed with the possibilities of power that this acquisition placed in his hands. Power to put the world the way it should be.
He did not question his own ability to know what that looked like. Instead, he puzzled over the terrible sacrifice that such potent spells required. When the time came, he would have to find a person of pure heart for it to work, an innocent, likely a virgin, untainted by the world…
Unfortunate, but it could not be helped. The price was always high. But whatever the cost, it would be worth it to bring about the great Promethean vision of one world united—before all hope of their recent near victory faded away.
They had been so close, working their way toward power through Napoleon’s great reach. They’d have subtly taken it from him, too, eventually, their representatives stationed in advantageous posts woven all throughout the Emperor’s ever-increasing bureaucracy. Empires did not run themselves, after all, especially gigantic holdings like Napoleon’s that had stretched from sunny Spain to the very edge of Russia.
James shook his head to himself. Such an opportunity lost. He could kill Malcolm for botching it with his greed and feckless lust for power, his blind impatience, his lack of care. It would be a century before a chance like that came again, maybe longer…
If they had succeeded in establishing one united power ruling the world at last, there would be no more wars like the one that pulled Europe apart for the past twenty years, James thought sorrowfully. No more territorial squabbles, no more battles over gold or other resources for survival.
One day the Prometheans would ensure that everyone got what they deserved, merely what was fair. No more. No less. The savage beast, Mankind, would finally be brought to heel, its barbaric will broken by kindly masters whose control was that of an iron fist in a velvet glove.
Humanity would be made to stop causing so much trouble and finally learn to do as it was told. Those who would not see the light, well, they would simply have to be eliminated, wouldn’t they? Regrettable, but once the unruly segment of the population was removed, then all would live in harmony under the wise rule of the enlightened.
To James and all the true believers in their creed, this shining vision was easily worth at least one innocent life.
But thanks to Malcolm, it had all unraveled, and now even the leaders of the Ten Regions were demoralized.
James knew that everything depended on him. The others were so disgusted with Malcolm that only he could bring the believers together again with renewed faith in their eventual success.
There must be a grand meeting, every one of their far-flung Perfected Ones gathered to reaffirm their bond. It would have to take place at one of their most powerful sites, where the old magic was strong. Rome, perhaps, James mused. Their undiscovered catacombs. Or their pyramid site in Egypt. Or their mountain temple deep inside the Alps.
All their scattered remnants banished from the courts of Europe by the cursed Order’s onslaught would come together once more and be renewed at the time of the eclipse by the blood sacrifice of a virgin. It was a beautiful ritual. Beautiful and terrible. Together, they would be renewed. And then it would all start again.
If it took two hundred years, they would achieve it. They would never stop, and James would remind them all of this at the gathering he would call. They must be reborn relentlessly, like the phoenix from the flames, refusing to let their great obsession die. If Malco
lm with his bestial nature could not inspire and lead them, but would sink into greed and corruption, then James had made up his mind that he would take the mantle. The old gods would simply have to protect him.
Just then, a subtle creak of the floorboards suddenly informed him he was not alone.
“Well, well, well.”
He looked up and discovered Niall Banks leaning in the doorway of his sitting room, watching him in contempt, his massive arms folded across his chest.
James paled.
He was not surprised that Niall had picked the lock, only that he had failed to hear him do so. Then again, his hearing was not what it used to be.
“Aren’t you happy to see me?”
“Niall, dear boy!” James forced out, rising quickly as his heart began to pound. “What brings you to London?” He hoped he sounded as calm and amiable as always.
“Father sent me to check up on Bloodwell. And—” he added, sauntering closer. “On you.”
“To be sure,” he jested mildly, his mouth gone dry.
“What’s that you’re studying, old man?”
Pinned in that flat, dead stare, James realized there was no way to hide the Alchemist’s Scrolls. They were arrayed across the table in plain view.
His heartbeat hammered as he realized he was caught.
Niall flicked a withering glance from the ancient parchments to him. “Just as Father suspected.”
“Pardon?” he asked hoarsely, still attempting to smile like some kindly old tutor.
“The Alchemist’s Scrolls. All the way in France, we heard that they were found. So, you’re the one who bought them.”
“Er, yes.”
“And when exactly were you going to let my father know you managed to procure this treasure?”
James could feel his patience wearing thin. “What would Malcolm do with the Alchemist’s Scrolls?” he retorted crisply. “He can’t read the symbols. He barely knows who Valerian was. Your father has only ever paid lip service to the old ways.”
Niall appeared amused with his vexation. “It is true that Father and I are more concerned with the future than the past. All the same, you will hand those over to me.”
