Rob hunched his shoulders. “Just asking.”
The facility in which they sat was hidden hundreds of feet below Trafalgar Square in central London. At least as far again below lay the vault, a series of rooms as secure as magic and science could make them. Evelyn, and her father before her, the late Doctor Edmund Hargrave, used it to secure things too dangerous to let loose, things that could not or must not be destroyed – or killed.
“Thank you Evelyn,” Julian said. “If we hadn’t been able to bring him here, we’d be dead.”
Evelyn sat straighter, if that was possible. The processes she and her father had developed had kept her in her mid-twenties for close to a century. In manner she was all straight, sharp lines and she had no patience for anyone she decided was a fool. On her right hand she wore a witch’s ring with a green gemstone.
“It’s just as well you stopped by, actually,” she said. “I need to talk to you both. Things are quite tense up there in the shadow world.”
Rob and Julian groaned in unison. “This is about politics, isn’t it?” Julian asked.
“As it happens, London can’t almost be destroyed twice in a matter of months without consequences,” Evelyn said.
“The gratitude of politicians,” Julian muttered.
“It isn’t that you saved the city,” Evelyn said, “it’s that you made so many enemies doing it. Frankly, I’m on your side. I don’t know how anyone tolerates this foolishness. Since nothing short of” – she flicked her fingers as she searched for a word – “military conquest will make them be sensible, we have to put up with it.”
Rob and Julian exchanged a look. “Way too much trouble,” Julian said.
Rob sighed. “So what do they want now?”
“Eleanora Whitlock is dead,” Evelyn said. When she saw Rob’s blank expression, she added, “Of the London Shadow Council.”
“Did we meet her?” Rob asked Julian.
“You said she smelled like a dry old house about to catch fire.”
“Oh yeah. She didn’t like that.”
“If that’s how you conduct negotiations,” Evelyn said, “I shall have to avoid relying on your help dealing with the Council in future.”
Rob coughed. “She, uh, had really good hearing. So, who replaced her?”
“That’s the problem,” Evelyn said. “Another Whitlock should have stepped in until the Council held one of their Byzantine pretend-elections, but most of her family died with her in the fire. Yes Rob, she really died in a fire. Did you know that was going to happen?”
“No. And it’s not my fault.”
“Her replacement is young, not much older than you two. His name is Crispin Chalk. He’s a failed werewolf, from a minor branch of the Krag dynasty.”
“Failed werewolf?” Rob asked. “How you fail at being a werewolf?”
Julian said, “He was bitten, didn’t turn, but didn’t die.”
“I thought you always died.”
“There’s a tiny chance of survival,” Julian said. “Improved somewhat if a warlock helps the transformation. Is that how this Crispin survived?”
“I don’t know,” Evelyn said, “which suggests that the Krags had an under-the-table arrangement with a magician family. If it was with the Whitlocks, it might go some way to explaining his sudden accession to the position of head of the family.”
“So the werewolves have got another person on the Council?” Rob asked. “Besides whoever they already have there to hate my guts?”
Julian chuckled, a hard gleam in his eye. “Three magicians, one vampire, one werewolf – it’s tradition, not law. It’s never changed because no one let it change. That must really have ruffled some feathers.”
“It has,” Evelyn said, “But Crispin appears to have no relationship with the werewolf dynasties. They despise failures.”
Rob rumbled deep in his chest. “Stuck-up bastards.” Rob had told Julian the story of how the packs had rejected him when he first arrived in London, telling him he ‘smelled wrong’. “Who’s he in bed with then?”
Evelyn’s smile was icy. “Old friends of ours. The Shield Foundation and, difficult as it is to believe, the vampire Nathaniel.”
He and Rob had embarrassed Alistair Sacker, the director of the Shield Foundation, by doing the Foundation’s job for them.
“He changed the vote, didn’t he?” Julian asked. “The old families were going to revoke the Shield Foundation’s charter, or at least fire Alistair. The Blackwoods, the Mandellans and the Whitlocks were all for it. Now they don’t have a majority vote.” He pushed his tea away from him. “And if Nathaniel’s got the ear of a Councillor, that’ll make up for a lot of his lost status in the eyes of the other vampires.”
“This Crispin bloke won’t have got their backing without making promises,” Rob said. He adjusted his blanket where he clenched it against his chest. “Shield wants us behind bars. I guess Nathaniel wants your girlfriend’s head.”
“Does Alice know about this?” Julian asked. Alice had been instrumental in the fall that had pushed Nathaniel into an alliance with the Shield Foundation.
“I’m told she’s been informed,” Evelyn said. “We’re trying to find out more about Crispin’s connections. How he got in with the Whitlocks.”
Julian frowned. “By ‘we’ you mean you and my uncle, don’t you? He’s the one who put you up to telling us all this.”
Evelyn laced her fingers together on the table. “Since you don’t return his calls, yes. I speak to Trajan regularly. I find him a charming, intelligent and conscientious person. Too bad you didn’t inherit any of that.”
Rob snorted with laughter.
Julian sighed. “You’re right. We make this your problem. I’m sorry for the trouble we cause you, Evelyn. Thanks for telling us.”
She stared at him, her face remote and unreadable. It was a long pause for her lightning-fast mind and he wondered if he’d surprised her.
“Just answer your phone if I call,” she said.
“We’ll check in with you,” Rob said, “see how things are getting on.”
“Well, well,” Evelyn said. “Do all threats to your life bring out such a semblance of courtesy in you?”
Rob grinned. “Sometimes I fall into bad habits.”
Julian rubbed his eyes. Whatever Evelyn had put in the tea had helped, but he still felt bone-tired. His body ached with the amount of magic he had used and he was sure he’d burned through not just his magic strength, but into his physical strength as well. That always went quick. To go too far was to burn your body right up.
But what else could he have done?
Something Evelyn had said earlier tugged at an old worry in his mind. “You said Eleanora Whitlock died in a fire, with her family.”
“Their house in Buckinghamshire burned down,” Evelyn said. “No known cause yet. When the house defences blew, they destroyed almost everything.”
And then he remembered. He remembered the time when he had broken into that house, desperate for a single piece of knowledge only the Whitlocks possessed. He felt a weight pressing against his chest.
“Keep us informed of what you find out,” Julian said.
Evelyn frowned at him.
“Yeah,” Rob said. “Sounds like there must be a connection to this Crispin guy. Way too much of a coincidence.”
Julian found he had the strength to stand. “And now we need to go. We’re really late for work.”
The great bronze lions remained in place around the shaft of Nelson’s Column in Trafalgar Square. To Julian’s senses, the air above them streamed with ghost electricity, its pearly light barely visible in the December morning sun. Within the casings of the four lions, Evelyn’s hunters remained quiescent. They were made of the same ghost electricity, but they cycled low, at rest. Recent changes to the control systems below made it unnecessary for the lions to roam London, to hunt ghosts for their energy.
He remembered reading about them in his grandfather’s journal, about how th
ey were conjured, how they were bound to Doctor Edmund Hargrave’s machinery. He remembered learning their names as a boy, reciting them proudly to his parents whenever the impulse struck him. He wondered what would happen to the lions now. Evelyn, efficient and with the sentiment of a frozen stalactite, would surely recycle them if she thought them obsolete.
Kalibus, he thought. Estom. Vicandiar. Sabaeon. He found he would miss the lions, miss knowing they were out there.
From Trafalgar Square they walked down to Embankment station. The streets weren’t busy by London standards, not so late in the morning. A few tourists bumbled about, but most people were either at their jobs, inside and out of the cold, or in a hurry to get there. They were watched by small clusters of people huddling outside for a quick smoke.
Julian’s coat was torn and his skinned knees flashed through the rips in his trousers as he walked. Rob had washed and so wore his suit again, but one side of his face was badly torn by a blow from the Reverend. The gash already looked a few days old.
The station personnel all had their heads on their necks, Julian was pleased to see, if only because it meant Rob wouldn’t freak out and treat them like footballs. They passed through the fare gates without falling out of the world and walked down the stairs on weary legs.
Once on a train, Julian slumped in his chair and let his eyes slide shut.
“You going to fall asleep?” Rob asked.
Julian sighed. “No. Evelyn’s compound won’t let me, not for a while yet. But I’d really like to.”
“Yeah, same. Feels like those nasty energy drinks you like.” He heard Rob stretch himself out. “So what did I cover you for?”
“Huh?”
“What is it about those Whitlocks dying that has you worked up? I tried to spin it, but I reckon Evelyn’s smart enough to have caught on.”
That old fear unfolded in his chest and set its claws in his ribs. He remembered trying to find a way to stop Mitch, the friend who one day decided to kill him, just like that. To use him as the sacrifice in a ritual to unleash a monster that could swallow London whole. “I can’t tell you.”
“Ah, that one.”
Julian opened his eyes. He felt too tired to remember what he should and shouldn’t say, but he didn’t care. “When I was trying to stop Mitch the first time, I followed a trail of information spread across thousands of years. Fragments, rumours, scraps – anything that would help me find out what Mitch planned to bring back into the world. The Whitlocks possessed a key piece of knowledge. When the trail led there, I broke in and stole it.”
Rob scratched his ear. “I wouldn’t call you subtle when it comes to that sort of stuff.”
“I’m surprised they didn’t join the Shield Foundation calling for my head. My family must have paid heavily to placate them.”
“So you think this Crispin was after the same thing? That he killed them to get it?”
“I need to know one way or the other. That secret in the wrong hands –” He ran his palm up and down the strap of his satchel. “I hope Evelyn doesn’t figure it out.”
“Julian, she’s on our side.”
He thought of Evelyn’s cool, logical mind assessing the power that lay at the end of that trail, weighing up what she could accomplish with it. “She’d do the wrong thing with it.”
Rob shook his head. “How can you have a vampire girlfriend you trust not to bite you, but you still have trust issues?”
He shrugged. “Selective insanity?”
“Damned straight.” He peered out the window to check what station they’d pulled into. “South Ken. Five more stops. What do you reckon we do if the Shield Foundation comes after us? Think we can just talk to them? I could do with a month off from fighting for our lives.”
“That’s life in the big city,” Julian said. He closed his eyes again.
It was half past eleven by the time they reached Hammersmith station. The rush hour press had long since passed and only a few people pushed past them as they slowly climbed the stairs from the platform. Julian exchanged a look with Rob as they came to the gates. They tapped their cards on the readers in unison. The gates clanked open.
They stepped through.
“Ha!” Rob said. “Not that I was worried. That squid-hugging bastard and his hundred twin brothers are all locked up safe, right?”
“You’re going to break your card if you don’t stop bending it like that.”
Rob winced. He turned his card over in his hands, searching for damage, shrugged and shoved it in his pocket.
Out on the street, the traffic passed in the right direction. The day was grey misery, but the clouds were sullen and listless, rather than like a tankful of feeding piranhas. They passed their usual coffee shop and the girls behind the counter watched them go with bored indifference.
“I’m just going to try honesty,” Rob said as they rode the elevator to the third floor. “I guess Herbert’s not going to buy it, but the only other thing I can think of is that we were in a bus accident.”
Julian fought against his drooping eyelids. “We don’t catch a bus to work.”
“Exactly.”
The elevator gently deposited them in Odd Transport’s reception. A stranger looked at them from behind the reception desk. Her eyebrows were raised over deep brown eyes. When she spoke, she dragged out her first word. “Caaaaaaan I help you?”
“We work here,” Rob said.
She looked them up and down. “Aaaaaand who do you work for?” She already had the receiver of her desk phone in her hand.
“Herbert Tapwell. You know, little guy, looks like the sort who goes for a comb-over.”
Julian groaned. “Try not to say that in front of him, will you?”
The young woman’s attention shifted to her phone. “Hi Herbert, it’s Kavita on the front desk. Could you come to reception please?”
Julian fought the urge to stand to attention. He unzipped his coat and waited for the Herbert Hammer to fall.
“Where’s Justine today?” Rob asked.
Kavita gave him a polite smile. “At her brother’s funeral. There was a fire at the house where he worked. The whole place burned down, they say.”
Julian exchanged a sideways look with Rob. “Did he work for the Whitlocks? Was he their gatekeeper?”
“Sorry, I don’t know.”
The frosted glass door into the office opened. Herbert pattered out and stopped in horror. He blinked rapidly as he stared at the tears in Julian’s trousers, then visibly flinched when his gaze fell on the half-healed gash down the side of Rob’s face.
“What is this? What is this?” Herbert made an effort to collect himself. He folded his hands behind his back, rocked on his toes, cleared his throat. He tried to look down his nose at them from his shorter height. “What time do you call this, gentlemen? I believe we have spoken before of punctuality.”
Rob spread his hands. “We were attacked on our way to work by this cult guy. You know those guys who worship the, uh–” He turned to Julian.
He found he had no sympathy for Herbert’s discomfort. “The entities that exist outside Euclidian space-time.”
“This is preposterous,” Herbert spluttered. “Preposterous. Not only do you arrive to the office hours late, but look at the state of you.” He flicked a hand at Julian. “Clothes fit for nothing but cleaning rags.” The hand shook when it pointed at Rob. “And – and – and look at the state of your hair! Have you never heard of a comb, man?”
Rob lifted his hand halfway to his hair before he caught himself. “What? What about the big bloody gash in my–”
“This will not do!” He was up on his toes now, a pillar of bristling indignity. “Not at all!”
Julian felt his restraint fraying. It was no fault of his or Rob’s that the cult had attacked them. If the Reverend was the core of the cult, they’d likely just broken it. They’d saved lives, yet this wretched little man all puffed up with his tiny slice of authority thought all that mattered was the shine
on their shoes.
“Everyone else in this office is capable of conducting themselves in an appropriate manner,” Herbert said. “Everyone else–”
The door to the office swung open. Jenny, Zoe and a few of the other office girls swarmed out. They slowed to a halt when they saw Julian and Rob.
“Wow,” Zoe said. “What happened to you guys?”
“Save the world again, boys?” Claire asked. They laughed and moved over to the elevator.
Julian felt his anger go with a sharp breath out. Herbert also appeared to have composed himself. He steepled his fingers against his chin.
“Go home, gentlemen,” Herbert said. “We shall discuss the matter tomorrow. Please be on time.” He made a sharp turn on his heel and marched back into the office.
Rob fingered the cut on his face. “How can he freak out at the sight of blood like that and not be a vampire?”
“I’m starting to wish he was,” Julian muttered.
Rob mustered a grin. “So, what do you reckon the odds are the Shield Foundation has set up another ambush for us at our house?”
Chapter 5 – The Landlord
Mr Hawthorn approached his tenants along a corridor that barely remembered itself.
His steps were slow, methodical and aided by a cane. The hand that clutched the cane was broad and had once been strong, but time had hollowed Mr Hawthorn out. His back was bent, his skin was thin. But he had adapted to his frailty, come to an accommodation. The sharp gleam in his eyes warned anyone who saw him that he had not yet surrendered to it.
The corridor stirred as he walked its length. The plain cornices filled with intricate carvings of leaves and vines. Naked electric bulbs dressed themselves in curved, shaded fittings and pictures floated to the surface of the walls, as though stirred from the bottom of a pond. But it all fell away as he passed by. The house had as little strength as he did. It conserved it for those areas where its residents lived.
Mr Hawthorn pressed down on the brass latch of the door at the corridor’s end. It had been a plain wooden knob before he touched it and it would revert to a plain wooden knob again when he let it go. He pushed the door open on soundless hinges and stepped into the wing of the house that, for now, took the shape of Flat 2 Hawthorn House.
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