Bank of Westminster

Chapter 20

Inner London, Buckingham Palace, the State Banqueting Hall. The heads and elders of the great knightly houses sat around a circular table.

At the head sat the patriarch of House Lancelot, the former Knight-Commander of the Lion-Pupil Knights—Silver Knight Corso Lancelot.

In a low voice he declared, "The dragon-train's flames have reached King's Cross Station on the Outside. Her Majesty has sent word to the Tower of London; she expects a proper answer from us."

The gathered heads and elders lapsed into silence. They all knew what "answer" meant—compensation.

And prying money from these Old-Blood, who were stingier even than the vampire clans, was next to impossible.

Yet just then, Lord Burns—senior elder of House Hesstine, seated to Lord Lancelot's right—spoke up. "House Hesstine will take full responsibility for this dragon-train incident—on one condition. You must all petition the Temple to let the griffin knights deploy on the Outside."

The Griffin Knights were one of the Temple's Six Orders, and House Hesstine held their reins.

"Agreed!"

"No objection!"

"Aye!"

"......"

Burns had readied a speech, but the instant chorus of consent left him briefly speechless. Then he laughed aloud, raised his goblet, and swore to the silent Frank patriarch and Lord Lancelot:

"By the glory of the Griffin Knights, the Lawbreaker Baron Constantine will be burned to ash in divine fire!"

"Baron Constantine," the Lord of House Frank growled, draining his cup. "For the death of my son, he and his whole line will pay."

......

November 19, 1987. 3:04 a.m.

Roughly forty hours remained until the death sentence took effect.

The Outside, a district in Birmingham.

Baron took a bite from his croissant, tossed the newspaper into a bin, and—after making sure no one was watching—stepped into a roadside phone box and dialed the number Baggin had left him, one the enforcers had yet to discover.

"Hello, who's calling?"

Don Quixote's voice answered. Recognizing Baron, he cried, "Mr. Constantine—you're still alive!"

Baron said nothing, wondering whether last night they'd sent him to Buckingham Palace expecting him to walk to his death.

Realizing he had misspoken, Don Quixote muttered something about fetching Mr. Baggin, then clattered off. Moments later Baggin came on the line.

"Kid, you kicked up quite the storm last night. Security in Inner London's tripled because of you; patrol mounts have upgraded from lions to silver lions."

"Mr. Baggin, I need your help."

Baron gave a concise account of his predicament. He had to reach Freya on the Outside before the scattered enforcers tracked him down.

A pause on the other end. "Freya's at the Megalith Pub in Lambeth. A griffin cab will pick you up at the phone box..."

"And don't use your Promise. They've gone to the Tower's wizards. Those charlatans will divine your location soon enough."

"Did you find Freya the same way—through wizardry?" Baron asked, recalling Lawrence's remark that Baggin was a druid.

"Of course I'm a druid, you twit—a proper Second-Law druid! Not some man-made Third-Law trash!"

Baron's question had touched a raw nerve; Baggin bristled over the line.

"Mr. Baggin..."

"What else?"

Baron smiled. "Thank you."

The call ended. Overhead, a lone screech split the sky.

A griffin, wings beating, alighted beside the box and paced restlessly.

A placard around its neck read "Griffin Cab 506," followed by the company slogan: "For travel on the Outside, choose Britannia Griffins."

......

The griffin set down on the deserted Thames embankment.

Baron swung off its back, ready to leave, but the griffin caught his sleeve in its beak.

?

Puzzled, Baron watched the creature dip its head and tap its sharp beak against a sign on its chest he hadn't noticed before: "Ten pounds per ride."

Silence. So even Baggin had booked cash on delivery.

......

Baron pulled from his Storage Ring the wind-breaker that could obscure his appearance, bought a newspaper from a stand, and—looking every inch a commuter in a hurry—set off for his destination.

He stopped outside an open-air pub whose sign bore the image of a megalith.

......

"What can I get you, sir?" the bartender asked.

The young man wore a black coat, black hair, black eyes. His face was finely drawn, brows sharp over gentle features; handsome in a cool, distant way.

The bartender stole a second glance. The customer's eyes were striking—ink-black yet threaded with the faintest gold.

"The same as the lady."

Baron pointed toward a slim figure in the corner.

"One hundred twenty-eight pounds, sir."

Baron's hand froze above his wallet. He was sure he had misheard.

"Amarone della Valpolicella, from Verona—land of Romeo and Juliet's tragic love," the bartender explained, smiling.

Tragedy or not, the price was absurd.

Baron hesitated only a moment. "Change it to lemonade—on ice."

The bartender blinked but kept his composure. "Would you like a dash of cocktail in the orange soda?"

"No, the canned sort is fine."

Baron took the fizzy can, walked to the corner, and sat opposite the blonde girl he had once met aboard the dragon-train—the same girl he had briefly taken hostage, his former fiancée, Freya Lancelot.

He pulled down his collar and got straight to the point. "I didn't kill your brother. Taking you hostage on the train was... the only option at the time."

"I know."

The beautiful, very young woman gave a faint smile.

"And I couldn't have killed a— You know?"

The calm reply shattered every prepared plea Baron had rehearsed.

For a moment, as he sat, he wondered whether he should open with "Serve the Country with Utmost Loyalty" to prove his sincerity. Being in England, Handel's Messiah might be more appropriate.

Even as relief washed over him, he couldn't help asking, "Why?"

Why believe me so easily?

Freya sipped her wine, cheek propped on one hand; the alcohol had painted the faintest flush across her face.

"Because you're sitting in the exact spot where my brother was stabbed. If you were the killer, you'd never sit there so calmly, chatting with the dead man's sister—your former fiancée."

Chatting? More like escaping death by inches.

Baron bit back the remark that criminal psychology listed a certain type of psychopath who liked to return to the scene in disguise and admire his own handiwork.

He gathered his thoughts, ready to ask whether Freya, now convinced of his innocence, would accompany him to the Prol Court and persuade that idiot judge to lift the Timed Death Sentence...

Then the pub's side-door creaked open, and a premonition of danger struck Baron like a physical blow.

Freya said nothing, but flicked her gaze toward the newcomer.

She lifted her glass, only for the young man opposite to seize her wrist. Heat flared from his calloused palm.

Her expression shifted; the youth's face had never been more grave.

Baron met her lovely amber eyes and spoke each word distinctly. "Run with me. That man's here to kill you."

Across the room the newcomer settled at the bar and glanced about. Under the shifting colored lights, Baron recognized him at once—the second head footman Jack had knocked out.

The motive for his presence needed no explanation.

The footman spotted Baron, lifted the drink the bartender had poured, and toasted him before draining the glass.

Ice slithered from Baron's heels to every vein, as though shards of frost were forming in his blood; he couldn't suppress a shudder.

Through everything he had endured, one truth had become clear.

If events kept unfolding like this, the mist around him would only thicken, until he lost his way entirely.

Damn it.