Bank of Westminster

Chapter 10

"As agreed, ten pounds is all I need."

Baron declined Julius's kindness, counted ten one-pound coins, pulled up his collar, and left in a hurry.

The place wasn't far from the Underground station, and he couldn't be sure how quickly the Holy Cross and Inquisition men might sweep this area.

The only reason he'd risked being discovered to help sell flowers was that he'd recently discovered his pockets were even emptier than his face—he needed money urgently.

It had almost ruined the morning tea-and-newspaper routine the diary of this body had kept for so long.

...

"A croissant, black coffee, the latest Inner London Times, and an Inner London map... thank you."

Baron sipped his coffee, unfolded the paper, and skimmed every headline that might affect his plans.

[Gray dragon Farr of Greenland dead—dragon heart stolen; suspected dragon-eater...]

[Bloodsucker's identity exposed: occultists suspect Dracula's kin?]

[Recurring explosions at the Tower of London; Tower Master Isaac Newton claims they were merely students' alchemy demonstrations, not monster attacks.]

[Extra! Hijacking on Inner London Dragon Underground! Second daughter of the Lancelot family, Freya, taken hostage! Bandits confirmed to be escapees from Her Majesty's Prison Thameside!]

Baron's face chilled. He followed the headline down the column.

Moments later he folded the paper, exhaled, and felt the tangle inside his chest.

What a misunderstanding!

The hostage-takers had grabbed the very person they should never have touched—was this the "lucky break" the dice had promised?

At that moment an argument broke out beside him.

"Fifty pence for a paper? You might as well rob me!"

An old man shouted, drawing glances from passers-by.

"Sorry, sir, the price has always been this. Perhaps your weekly wage is too low—have you tried working harder?" The vendor kept his professional smile.

"You—"

"Here's a pound. I'll pay for the gentleman. Keep the change and give him a cup of tea and a croissant."

Before the old man could protest, a dark-haired, dark-eyed young man—his features hinting at mixed Euro-Asian heritage—dropped a coin on the counter. Then he tightened the long, dark tartan scarf around his neck and melted into the crowd.

The youth was, naturally, Baron in disguise.

Though the trench coat had hidden his appearance, the Holy Cross could still track that detail. After weighing the matter, Baron decided the best disguise was no disguise at all.

So he shed the coat, removed the black-rimmed spectacles, and spent seventy pence in a nearby shop on a scarf that would serve just as well.

Inner London's weather was identical to Outer London's—wet and cold was the norm, and scarf and coat were nothing unusual.

Judging by last night's carriage announcements, Baron figured he had to move fast, or the next "nun from the heavens" would land on him.

...

Following the map and directions from locals—especially a young woman in a white lady's hat—he finally stood in front of a door marked CIGARS & LIQUOR that doubled as a clinic.

Baron checked the map one last time to confirm this was indeed his destination.

Lawrence had said the alchemist most likely to lift his Timed Death Sentence, a certain Baggin, lived here.

Baron folded the map, straightened his clothes, cleared his throat.

Then he slipped the red Joker playing card—found on the street, dropped by the woman in the white hat—into his coat lining.

The card was exquisitely etched, its design intricate... surely worth collecting. If he met the woman again he'd return it; if not, it was his emergency escape fund.

As if heading to his first job interview in another life, he pressed the clinic bell.

The bell trilled for a while; no one opened the door.

...

After ten more seconds Baron pressed the bell again.

...

After seven or eight more seconds he pressed it again.

...

After five or six more seconds he pressed it yet again.

The chime rang sweetly down the long street, home mostly to dwarves, goblins, and Turks.

Baron glanced sideways and saw a patrolling lion-knight at the distant crossroads stretching his neck toward him.

Still no one opened the door.

Had the address changed? Or was no one home?

Baron's heart sank.

If it ended like this, he'd have nothing left to lose.

While he considered his next move—

A clatter came from the attic next door. A casement window flew open and a goblin woman in a maid's dress—her skin rough, her teeth prominent—called down:

"Kid, stop pressing. Mr. Baggin's clinic only opens at midnight. Come back later."

With that the attic slammed shut, leaving Baron standing alone on the street.

The goblin maid had given him vital information, but she'd also drawn the attention of the lion-knight at the crossroads.

Now the knight spurred his mount; the lion bounded toward Baron with a low growl.

The knight gripped his reins and shouted, "Sir! Please wait!"

Baron figured any sane man—save the legendary sliding-tackle hero—would run when faced with a charging lion.

So Baron ran—especially since he was both hijacker and escaped convict.

He sprinted flat-out.

Yet as he ran he thought he saw the clinic's attic curtain flicker.

...

Roman Street, Inner London.

To avoid suspicion Baron ducked into a phone box, panting, and spread the new newspaper, scanning for the latest news.

When he finished, he exhaled.

As expected, Prol Court had issued a wanted notice: they claimed he had robbed Westminster People's Bank's carriage and might be using a Forbidden Object to change his appearance—every face-hidden individual in Inner London was now a suspect.

Fortunately they had no photograph. If he stayed calm and caused no trouble, he'd be fine.

He looked out to confirm no lion-knights had followed, then studied the familiar row of potion shops, wand shops, and card stores and grinned.

After all the twists he'd somehow ended up back on this very street.

A low roar sounded; a lion-knight galloped past. Baron's heart lurched and he lifted the paper, only to see on the lion's back the middle-aged Jewish gentleman who had bought flowers earlier.

Thanks to the unknown contract he'd made with Carmen, Baron could hear the merchant clearly from the saddle:

"Yes, Sir Knight, I'm certain the flower-seller hid his face—high collar, couldn't see anything... It was on this street; the stall must still carry his scent. I knew it! That crook is the escaped convict!"

Damn it.

Baron's heart sank—retribution had come faster than expected.

He yanked open the phone-box door, only to hear the lion's roar and the merchant's cry: "The lion's caught the scent! He's here!"

Hell!

Baron's hand found the grip of the pistol inside his coat.

A desperado never surrendered.

"Sir, this way."

A soft girl's voice reached him.

Something fragrant—perfume—sprayed over him, and she pulled him into an alley.

...

"Strange..."

The Jewish merchant leapt down from the lion and sniffed around the phone box. "Many floral notes—some kind of perfume."

The lion-knight glanced about, then patted the lion's mane. "This beast is of the Silver Lion line—its nose outclasses a hundred hounds."

The lion growled toward one direction.

The knight wheeled about. "It's the Gray Fog District, under Hunter Association jurisdiction. Inform young Master Frank of the Association—tell him the man who kicked him off the Underground has been found."

The merchant pointed at himself. "I'm to deliver the message?"

"Who else?" The knight shot him a sideways look.

"Well, it's just... the travel expenses..."

The lion opened its jaws; drool splattered the merchant's suit.

The merchant wiped his face, forced a smile, and bowed. "Understood, Sir Knight."