Bank of Westminster

Chapter 18

November 18th, 1987—7:34 p.m.

Inner London, Westminster Bank District, Buckingham Palace—a tunnel somewhere inside Freya's bedroom that led to an unknown vault.

"Brother, what's your name? You look familiar."

Jack, every bit as easygoing as he appeared, was a young man who wore his heart on his sleeve.

"Baron Constantine."

"Oh, that wanted man... So you've come to convince your fiancée you didn't murder her older brother, huh? Honestly, with that dashing face of yours, you don't look like someone who'd kill over a love affair."

Jack rattled off Baron's purpose as casually as greeting a neighbor, which made Baron glance at him in surprise; perhaps this two-meter slab of muscle had more between the ears than he'd assumed.

The farther they walked, the thicker the darkness grew; soon they had no choice but to feel their way forward.

"Would be nice if we had a light," Jack muttered.

Light blossomed behind them.

Jack looked back to see Baron ringed in fire—burning yet never scorching.

"Wizard? Wand-less casting... Silver-tier mage?"

"Knight," Baron said flatly.

"Contract or Templar? Oh, right—Holy Cross Templars all draw from the same eight fixed virtues. That must be a contract knight's Promise."

Knights branched into two paths:

One—contract knights—bound by covenant, drawing a power called Promise from the one they served.

The other—Holy Cross's pride—Templars anointed by faith, honoring the Eight Virtues, their right breast housing a secret mithril heart that beat in double rhythm with their own.

"Brother, why do you have golden eyes? They're almost draconic—don't tell me you've contracted a pure-blood dragon?" Jack chirped, circling Baron with the reverence of an artist before the Mona Lisa. "And when you used Promise just now, why did a fiery cross scar flare across your right cheek? A bit too suave, don't you think?"

Cross scar?

Baron instinctively touched his right cheek.

Sure enough, the wound Bill had carved still lay there, unchanged despite the healing of Baron's soul-scar.

What was going on?

Baron frowned, a vague unease stirring somewhere he couldn't place.

"Still, escaping prison is one thing, but I heard you robbed a Westminster containment coach. Bold move, brother. That's a containment ring on your index finger, right? Let me see... Holy hell! An S-class red gentian crest?"

In the firelight, Jack's face turned ashen.

Baron blinked. "It's just a standard Westminster containment ring."

"Standard?"

Jack's expression was so exaggerated he might have just heard the world's best joke.

He started to clap Baron on the shoulder, thought better of it when he saw the flames, and settled for picking his nose instead.

"Gentian-crested rings are top-tier alchemical containment rings—only S-class agents get them."

"Look, I'm a Grade-D agent. My ring's only a tenth of a carat. By the time I'm demoted to F it'll be a third of that."

Jack held up the iron band on his own finger. In the firelight Baron saw it wasn't plain iron after all, but a hard metal ring with a small black stone dwarfed by the gentian crest on his own.

A sudden unease prickled him. "What happens to me for stealing this ring?"

"Nothing much. Don't you have Timed Death Sentence? When that S-class agent comes knocking, your soul will probably already be halfway to hell." Jack shrugged. "We're here."

Just as Baron was about to ask why his soul would be bound for hell and not heaven, Jack's words snapped his attention forward.

An old oaken panel—apparently the back of some cupboard.

Jack pushed the panel open, and the world blossomed before them.

Marble floors gleamed, crystal chandeliers soared high, brass stained-glass windows glittered; gold and silver leaf cascaded from ceiling to walls so that, when the chandeliers flared, the room looked washed in liquid mercury.

A palace—no, it was a palace.

Yet what drew both men's gaze was not the architectural splendor but the glass display cases standing like Roman pillars.

By Jack's reckoning every one of them held at least a Grade-C Forbidden Object.

"The Diviner didn't lie—my destiny really is in Freya's bedroom! This is her private Forbidden Object vault!"

Jack pressed his face to a display case; beneath the glass lay a horn carved from bone. He whispered that it was Grade-A Forbidden Object Doomsday Horn—blow it and enemies would be plunged into brief visions of apocalypse.

Baron cared little for Forbidden Objects, but the parlor furnishings—sofa, chairs, tables—amid such opulence caught his eye. He moved closer.

On the table lay a wand of strange carving, capped with a ruby.

"Don't touch it!"

Baron's hand froze mid-reach as Jack yanked him back. "That wand's already bonded to its wizard. The moment anyone else touches it, the caster will know."

Jack crouched, squinting at the wand. "Fire-element... rare attribute. House Lancelot's knights to the bone—only the second daughter, Freya, is a wizard..."

While Jack studied the wand, Baron's gaze fell on a stack of yellowed newspapers in a corner.

Amid this palace, where even a speck of dust seemed out of place, sat a pile of shabby newsprint?

Curious, Baron flipped through them. Most were articles about Forbidden Objects. One decades-old headline snagged his attention:

"Buckingham Palace's Forbidden Corridor Breached by Mysterious Intruder! Inside Sources Hint at Theft of S-class Forbidden Object!"

"Forbidden Object Stolen—House Lancelot Suspects Westminster People's Bank Containment Agents Behind Heist..."

"Westminster Deputy Director Denies: Our Agents Possess Highest Social Trust! Containment Only—Never Theft!"

"Constantine brother, why're you rolling your eyes at me?" Jack scratched his head.

"Eyes are dry." Baron answered without looking up. He turned another page and paused at a small article:

"House Lancelot Engages Professor Ranko of London University's Spiritual Alchemy Department to Tutor Miss Freya in Wizardry..."

Ranko... Baron felt he'd heard the name somewhere.

In the stack he spotted a ceramic shard unlike any porcelain—rough, gritty, almost abrasive.

In the light it shimmered with a faint, golden-dust pattern.

"A fragment of S-class Forbidden Object Dagda's Cauldron," Jack said, making Baron jump. "In Celtic myth the cauldron of the harvest god—said to raise the dead."

Jack didn't seem to notice Baron's start; he kept staring at the shard.

"Because it's part of an S-class Forbidden Object, the power lets anyone dead less than twelve hours speak the truth of their death. The cost? The user loses one of their own senses."

Make the dead speak... Baron pocketed the shard, thinking of the three corpses in Mrs. Eleanor's house.

Yet one thing still puzzled him.

"There aren't any labels on these objects—how do you know their powers and costs?" Baron asked.

For once Jack didn't answer directly; he only sighed and said it was a Westminster secret. If he leaked it, he'd never find work again.

Then he added, "But Constantine brother, seeing as you've a ring only S-class agents use, maybe you're fated to join us. Once we get out of here, I'll put your name forward to management. Even if the Sentence gets you later, I'll still bring you a drink at your grave every year."

What good is a drink after I'm dead? Still—escape... Baron's thoughts were cut short by the patter of rapid footsteps closing in from all sides.

The hall doors burst open. Outside the windows, silver light glimmered—eyes of lions and knights, not torches.

They were surrounded.

The leading knight had snow-bright hair, his features as sharp as freshly quenched steel.

He leveled his sword at Baron. "Suspect in the Buckingham Palace murder of demon-hunter Bill Frank—identified as escaped convict Baron Constantine."

Killed Bill? When did I pick up another black mark?

And why am I the only suspect? There's also—

Baron spun around.

Jack was long gone.

The corner of Baron's mouth twitched. He drew the twin pistols from his coat, crossing them with a wry smile.

"If I told you everything—including the prison break—was just a misunderstanding, would you believe me?"

Steel rang in unison as every knight drew his sword like a peal of thunder.

Baron sighed, fired a shot into the ceiling for distraction, and bolted back into the cupboard's hidden passage.

When in doubt—run!