Bank of Westminster

Chapter 19

Baron slipped out through the window of Freya's bedroom just as the former head footman came into view. The Mimic's Chain stirred to life without a sound.

The head footman's face blanched when he saw Baron clambering out of the window. He hurried closer and asked in a hushed voice, "Number Three, what in the world happened? The target was meant to be Freya Lancelot—why did you end up killing Frank's second son?"

"Bill Frank wasn't killed by me."

Baron's voice dropped to a growl. "Freya was never in the bedroom. The intel was false. I suspect Number Two is the mole."

He had decided to muddy the waters.

"Number Two can't be the mole," the head footman replied without hesitation.

"Why not?"

The head footman spoke with a weary sigh. "Because I'm Number Two."

Baron's blood ran cold. A heartbeat later came the sharp crack of breaking glass, and the head footman toppled forward... Jack stood behind him, a broken beer bottle in one hand and his other hand on his hip. "Brother," he said, wincing, "tell me you believe I didn't hear a thing."

...

Knights astride lions thundered across the palace gardens. Among the scurrying footmen, two figures loitered in the shadows, whispering.

"So you're saying you don't actually know who that guy is? Brother, I get how things work—haven't heard a thing, haven't seen a thing."

"Why I can see through your disguise... that's a Westminster secret... Hey—don't leave me! I wasn't running away earlier, I was scouting the enemy!"

"They say Bill Frank burned alive. The scene was gruesome—parts of him were carbonized in an instant. The elders of House Hesstine insist it wasn't sorcery but the fire of some beast. Yet no creature besides the silver lions could have slipped into Buckingham Palace. Which leaves only a contract knight's Promise... and then..."

Jack's gaze fixed on Baron as he spoke. If Jack hadn't been with him the whole time—his perfect alibi—he would have believed the escaped Dragon-Knight, who could command some form of Dragonfire and had unknown motives for being in Buckingham Palace, was the prime suspect.

"And then," Baron finished for him, "the one who can wield Dragonfire just happened to be found in Freya's Forbidden-Object vault."

Perhaps because he had already collected more blame than any one man could carry, his voice was perfectly level, as if he were chatting about the weather. He had truly reached the state Lawrence once described: when the crimes are piled high enough, one more hardly matters.

"If the knights spot you now, the Frank family will pronounce you the murderer. The Hunter Association's highest-priority S-class kill order will be issued before long..."

"The head of the Lancelot family has sealed Buckingham Palace. The entire residence is now tighter than a drum—not even a mosquito can escape..."

"Not long ago, the elders of House Hesstine announced to the reporters outside the palace that they would ask the Templars of the Holy Cross, as well as the Saints and Battle-Sisters of the Inquisition, to join the hunt..."

Baron couldn't help interrupting. "I understand the first two, but what did House Hesstine ever do to me? Did I raid their rice stores or something?"

Jack sighed. "The young master of House Hesstine is the deputy-commander-in-training of the Griffin Knight Order. Your ex-wife is his current fiancée."

"Damn it!"

Baron swore under his breath, yanked the da Vinci portrait of the young man off the wall of the gallery, and slipped into the hidden passage behind it.

Jack let out a matching curse of amazement—someone had actually built a secret tunnel straight into Buckingham Palace—and followed Baron inside.

...

Given a second chance, neither Baron nor Jack would have crawled into that tunnel.

When they pushed up the sewer grating, moonlight lay across the street like drifting gauze, and a cool evening wind washed over them. Both exhaled in relief, convinced they had escaped. Jack was already throwing an arm around Baron's shoulder to celebrate when they noticed lights shimmering beyond the haze.

Baron lifted the grating the rest of the way and realized the gleam came from armor—an unbroken circle of silver lions and their riders.

They had walked straight into the encirclement.

At their head rode the same silver-haired knight from before. The street had been cleared of civilians. Astride his towering silver lion he raised his sword; amber fire licked in his eyes.

"Dragon-Knight Baron Constantine, take up your sword!"

Baron drew his gun.

Jack heard several deafening shots and saw the silver-haired knight tumble from his mount. The surrounding knights answered with a chorus of Lion's Roars that left Jack's ears ringing.

"Run!"

Baron vaulted from the sewer, golden eyes blazing. Jack scrambled after him, staggering, stumbling, yet somehow keeping pace as the Dragon-Knight tore down the street with the speed of a thousand li.

"Hell—we're dead. That's Wild, the Silver Lion Knight himself!" Jack wailed, clutching his face.

Baron ran on. "Who is he? My alchemical rounds couldn't even scratch him!"

Jack panted, "You know the Knights Templar have six Knight-Commanders?"

"I know. One of them died and they framed me for it."

"This guy's the fiercest of the six. Word is that when the Grand Master of the Templars kicks the bucket, the one who'll inherit a third of the Order's Knight Codex is him."

"Give it to me straight—I still can't wrap my head around the gap between Gold, Silver, Bronze and Iron."

"Ever watch the Japanese show Ultraman Jack?"

"Yeah." Baron had no idea where Jack was going with this.

"The gap between him and us is the same as the gap between Ultraman Jack and a regular human."

Baron was quiet for a moment. "So what now? Looks like all of Inner London will be locked down because of us tonight..."

"You're the killer, not me," Jack corrected. "I've got word that Freya took the dragon-train to the Outside. Splitting up is our only shot. Try to catch that train—better than waiting here to die."

"What about you?"

"I've got... special channels."

The familiar words passed between two men who were anything but familiar. They exchanged a quick nod, split in the alley, and vanished in opposite directions.

...

November 18, 1987—10:12 p.m.

King's Cross Station, Inner London. The dragon-train hissed to a halt amid clouds of steam.

Passengers boarded and disembarked; the doors clanged shut. The skeletal dragon shrieked, ready to lunge forward.

Yet at the exact moment of departure the train did not surge ahead with the dragon's roar.

Passengers craned out of the windows and saw a white lion at the far end of the tunnel, mane streaming, standing proud.

Upon its back the silver-haired knight reined in, indifferent to the dragon's challenge. His amber eyes held the cold of a winter gale.

In a voice as calm as if announcing the weather, he declared:

He was the Knight-Captain of the Dragonheart Knights. To capture a Lawbreaker fugitive, he would halt the dragon-train and search every passenger.

Someone in the carriage protested loudly. The knight did not speak; he simply drew his sword. The ringing steel silenced every complaint.

Knights ringed the skeletal dragon.

Passengers crossed themselves and muttered prayers—Amen, Allah, Hallelujah—eyes closed, begging to be spared.

The dragon burst forward. Silver lion and knight met it with claws and steel.

Dragon and lion passed each other.

Wild leapt onto the platform astride the silver lion, watching the train vanish into flame and steam. Wind stirred his silver hair; he looked like a statue of ancient Greece.

"Captain, why...?"

The deputy-commander stepped forward, but Wild shook his head. "Because, for an instant, I feared."

"Feared...?"

The deputy stared. The legendary Silver Lion Knight—admitting fear?

Wild said nothing. Only he knew.

In the instant the roaring carriages flashed past, in the instant his sword should have pierced the fugitive's heart, he heard a whisper.

The Lawbreaker Dragon-Knight fixed him with golden eyes brighter than any flame—eyes that would burn and never be quenched.

He pressed the barrel of his gun to Wild's forehead and said, "I have no sins, and no heart. I just want to live."

A gunshot.

The sword's path was deflected. A jagged scar, nearly the length of the dragon-scale carriage, tore across its flank.

...

The Manchester Guardian, November 18, 1987: A sudden fire broke out late last night at King's Cross Station, London. Police suspect a passenger's cigarette ignited the escalator...

[Accompanying news photo.]