Bank of Westminster

Chapter 6

An ornate, carved box-carriage, drawn by three magnificent griffins with ash-gray wings and eagle heads on lion bodies, raced above the black storm clouds.

Lawrence lounged on the driver's bench, watching thunder roll across the belly of the clouds and squeeze rain from the darkness. Without looking back, he asked lazily, "When exactly did you steal the guard's keys?"

Baron—holding the reins with the fascination of a man who had only ever seen griffins in films, comics, and daydreams—answered in the same idle tone. "In court. The moment I recognized the bailiff as the same jailer who watched us."

They were nearly ten thousand feet up, yet the wind hardly tugged at their coats; apart from the cloud layer under the wheels, the ride felt no different from puttering along on an electric scooter—minus the helmet.

Lawrence nodded. "So you had the prison keys all along. Everything you told me before was just a test?"

Baron shrugged. "Had to be sure you were reliable. I've never been inside that prison before."

"These griffins are terrified of you," Lawrence observed, stroking the silken back of the nearest beast. "They instinctively fear souls and bloodlines of real power. Your Spirit Sense might have failed, but your family blood is strong enough—otherwise they'd never have carried us off."

The griffin snorted, twisting its neck to glare at Lawrence. Hot breath flared from its nostrils.

Lawrence yanked his hand back with a sheepish grin that, on his haggard face, looked like a vagrant trying to ingratiate himself with an employer.

"Constantine," Baron said. "Baron Constantine, to be precise."

Lawrence rubbed his stubbled chin. "Sounds like the name of some lovesick fool who'd die for a woman."

Baron hadn't expected useful commentary from Lawrence. From the moment the cell door had opened, the only surprise had been the man's sheer size—broad-shouldered, wild blond hair matted with grime, beard like a bird's nest. After that, it became clear Lawrence's madness wasn't an act. While they had crept through the sewers, Baron had kept the man from uttering a single intelligible "Adel" by banging on pipes whenever he tried. Otherwise the guards would have found them long ago.

Baron checked their course toward Birmingham and signaled the griffins to veer slightly.

"You're sure this alchemist, Baggin, can lift the Timed Death Sentence on me?"

After deeper conversations—and his own deductions—Baron now understood the world's hidden structure.

There were two Londons: the Outside, of technology and humanity, and the Inside, of demons and Old-Blood. They were linked by something called the Golden Law, overlapping yet forever separated.

In 1987, while Queen Elizabeth II fretted over the political fallout of Rudolf Hess's death, Inside hunters were already battling the monsters that rode the great fog into Inner London.

While financiers on Black Monday scrambled to salvage fortunes, the Inside's Westminster Bank—whose interests often overlapped with theirs—was coping with a new edict from the Tower of London: a ban on the sale of "Dragon-Crystal Wands," which had triggered a liquidity crisis.

According to Lawrence, the alchemist Baggin lived in Inner London, on a street crowded with dwarves, goblins, and Turks.

"Better than waiting to die," Lawrence sighed.

Baron gave a noncommittal grunt. "So how do I convince Baggin to break the law and cure me?"

"That's where they come in."

Lawrence grinned, pulled back the carriage curtain, and revealed several stacked briefcases.

"What are those?" Baron had noticed them earlier, but hadn't had time to ask.

Instead of answering, Lawrence opened one, pulled out a pipe, and took a puff. Twin jets of flame shot from his nostrils, singeing his beard.

"The Flame-Nose Pipe—Westminster Bank's Forbidden Objects are as bizarre as ever," Lawrence muttered, wiping soot from his upper lip. "Each carries a power and a price. The top-tier ones can even warp perception or reality itself—though the cost is steep."

He rubbed the now-bare patch where his beard had been; the skin beneath was untouched.

Baron guessed the price had been his facial hair.

"This pipe should cover Baggin's consultation fee."

Baron turned it over skeptically. "An alchemist needs this?"

"That's why you also take this."

Lawrence rummaged again and produced a red gentian-engraved ring. "I don't actually know Baggin—only what I read in the Mercury Times: former druid."

"Druid?"

"Second-Law. The Third-Law wizardry of modern soul-craft descends from them." He sighed. "These days a druid's a rare sight—like a naked woman in a gay bar."

Baron accepted the ring. "A containment ring from Westminster. Handles anything non-living, password-protected."

At Baron's raised eyebrow, Lawrence shrugged. "Westminster believes in fate. If you can open it, whatever's inside is yours."

"And the rest?" Baron glanced at the remaining cases, all locked.

"The useful objects are in the ring."

Baron studied the band. "What's the price?"

He suspected there was more to it.

Lawrence grinned. "One chance. Of course you save it for someone in need. Besides, you're on borrowed time—can't hurt to rack up another sin."

"How do I enter the password?"

"With spirit. Your inner flow started after Opening the Eye—slow, but it's there."

Lawrence watched in mild surprise as Baron slipped on the ring. "Thought you'd hesitate. Doesn't matter if you can't open it—just a gamble. We've other ways into the briefcases..."

"I already paid the stake of death," Baron said quietly. "I have nothing left to lose."

He channeled spirit, keyed in six eights, and the ring clicked open.

Forbidden Objects flooded the carriage, nearly filling it.

Baron shrugged at Lawrence's slack-jawed expression. "Life's one big gamble anyway."

"You might be the best gambler I've ever seen," Lawrence whispered.

——

"Unbelievable Black-Frame Spectacles... Reins of Absolute Command... Ever-Burning Matchstick... Momentary Luck Die... Oh! And a Patek Philippe that lowers your presence. Put that on—death's unavoidable, but at least you'll know how much time you have to tidy up before it arrives. Cloak of Obscurity... yes, this one. And toss the die."

Lawrence helped Baron into the long coat, fastened the watch, and waited while the die clattered to a six. Then he pulled out briefcase number six.

"What now?"

Lawrence tapped the case. The sound was dull. "A choice that might change your luck."

He glanced at the ink-black clouds streaking past beneath them and said, almost to himself, "The fog's coming."

"This is where we part. Consider it my fee for the partnership."

Lawrence rose, took the Reins of Absolute Command, and looped them around the neck of one griffin. The beast stilled instantly.

"The Prol Court knows we've escaped. It won't be long before Holy Cross and the Inquisition catch up."

He swung onto the griffin that had earlier snorted at him, reins in hand, and looked back at Baron—his face now hidden by the coat's upturned collar.

"To them you're already dead—no point chasing a condemned man. I'm the bigger prize."

"Where are you going?" Baron asked.

They hadn't known each other long, but Lawrence had proven an excellent guide through the madness.

No sorrow at the parting—only a sudden loss of safety.

"Who knows? First priority is staying alive."

"You don't need any of the Forbidden Objects?" Baron asked.

After Lawrence's explanations, Baron had a rough idea of the carriage's contents. Most were either useless or absurd: a toothbrush that never needed toothpaste, a mug that sweetened any coffee on its own, a cat toy that traumatized cats, a coin-shaped chocolate that made dogs bleat like sheep without killing them. According to Lawrence, these were the lowest tier—mere flecks of Mystery. The truly powerful could only be claimed by Fate.

"They chose you, not me. If you hadn't insisted on commandeering this griffin cab, I'd have taken you through the sewers and swum the Thames."

"Fate again?" Baron mused.

Lawrence scratched his head. "Mainly, I can't afford to cross Westminster."

Baron: "..."

Lawrence unfastened the griffin from the carriage, nudged it into a slow drift away from their path.

"Baron Constantine," he called suddenly.

Baron looked back.

Lawrence grinned, the wrinkles bunching like a comical golden retriever. "Hope I see you alive."

Baron gave a slight nod. "Same to you."

Lawrence and his griffin slipped into the cloud layer below, his voice fading in and out of the mist.

"It's Mr. Lawrence to you, you ill-mannered lout!"

——

November 16, 5:06 p.m.

Death countdown: 338,280 seconds—ninety-one hours.

Birmingham New Street, a corner newsstand.

The shopkeeper sneezed without looking up. "Birmingham Times—twenty pence."

A young man in a high-collared coat and carrying a briefcase counted coins from his pocket and picked up the paper.

According to Lawrence, the latest password to the Inside was hidden in today's "Home & Hearth" column.

Baron's eyes lingered on a headline: "Bank Clerk Slaughters Three Generations in Daylight Rampage!" Then, among the supermarket discount lists, he pieced together the words.

"Birmingham New Street Station, Gate Five. Password: Excuse my French."