Bank of Westminster

Chapter 8

A thunderous, engine-like roar rolled down the tracks, and a damp wind rushed out of the long, dark tunnel.

Moments later the wind turned from damp to dry, as though a colossal blower had baked the air.

The platform lamps swayed in the gale, and the crowd erupted into a near-deafening clamor.

Baron clutched his briefcase and, to shake any tails, drifted with the tide of travelers, slipping from one queue to another.

Seconds later, a tongue of flame burst from the narrow, shadowed throat of the tunnel, followed by scalding billows of steam that swallowed the platform. Behind the fog came a thunderous roar—half dragon, half engine—and the elongated silhouette of the train.

As the mist rolled out, great awnings unfolded above the platform to shield the passengers. Until this moment, Baron had assumed the oversized station signs were merely for wayfinding; now he saw their support masts housed folded canvas that snapped open into canopies.

The steam crashed against the cloth, condensed, and dripped onto the tracks. When the fog and thunder finally cleared, Baron saw the subway for what it truly was.

A dragon—no mere "dragon-like" sound, but an actual dragon.

Three hundred feet of bone-white drake, stripped of scales.

The earlier roar and wind had been its breath; the fire and steam were safety measures to cool the beast and station alike.

Carriages formed its armor. The plates had been sliced open and fitted with glass windows, while its projecting spurs had been ground down and painted over with advertisements.

Baron scanned the posters: mostly wands and potions promising to enhance spiritual potency—functionally the cram pills of his previous life.

Even prepared as he was, the sight of this leviathan—this "Dragon Subway" that belonged in fantasy—left Baron momentarily dazed.

Doors opened. Passengers boarded in orderly fashion.

A station attendant stepped in front of Baron. Baron's breath caught, but the man merely walked past him.

"No smoking on the Dragon Subway," the attendant said to a passenger behind Baron. "Even with flame-retardant spells on the bones, fire is still dangerous."

The chastised man pinched off his cigarette.

"Fine is one ounce of gold," the attendant added politely.

The man wilted. Other would-be smokers pocketed their packs, studied their watches, and hurried on.

Baron boarded with the last of the crowd. Moving quietly through the car, he positioned himself beside the woman he'd noticed earlier. She glanced at him; he offered a silent smile.

She lowered her eyes and ignored him.

Earlier, when someone had cut in line ahead of her, their gazes had met briefly—but Baron had chosen not to intervene. She had every right to her anger.

The loudspeaker began the door-closing countdown. Baron pushed deeper into the car until he stood behind Bill, who was proudly flashing his Bronze demon-hunter badge at the woman.

"Ten seconds to closure... nine, eight... three, two, one—bang! hiss!"

Just before the doors sealed, Baron kicked Bill onto the platform.

The hiss came from Bill's coat, caught and torn by the closing doors.

The woman stared at Baron in astonishment.

He pressed a finger to his lips, unfolded a newspaper like any commuter, and melted into the flow of passengers heading the opposite way.

Bill lay sprawled on the polished stone, too stunned to react. By the time he scrambled up, the dragon was already roaring around the bend—too late.

For a moment, through the half-opaque window, Bill glimpsed the culprit: collar up, paper over face, a dragon-gall ring flashing on one finger.

"Westminster..." Bill snarled. "Has to be that Birmingham Westminster agent."

...

Car 13, the last car, was nearly empty. Only the automated broadcast droned on about the recent bank robbery in Birmingham.

Normally, incidents in the Outside drew little attention in the Inside. Yet the broadcast noted the robbers might be bloodless scions.

In Baron's mind, bloodless ranked about as low as Shudras in the old Indian caste system, but they were still Old-Blood, and all Old-Blood fell under Inside jurisdiction.

Baron found a seat, pocketed the incriminating ring, and opened the Mercury Times to the article that had caught his eye.

Thanks to years of scriptwriting in his previous life, he scanned the paper quickly—then folded it away, disappointed.

Bloodsucker, a serial killer of the Inside—officially labeled a "Lawbreaker," one who betrayed the Law—was described as a vampire cultist convinced blood held supreme magic. He murdered and sacrificed innocents until enforcers drove him to the Outside.

He'd surfaced in Birmingham, killed three people. Unfortunately, none of them were Mrs. Eleanor's relatives.

Bloodsucker, then, was not the killer Baron sought.

"Bloodless scions?"

Baron had only just relaxed when the words beside him snapped his nerves taut.

A blonde girl in a pale lilac silk dress sat opposite him. She was lithe, with bright eyes and a porcelain face framed by rose-shaped hairpins.

Noticing his stare, she gave a small nod—like a proud swan. "No offense. You simply looked puzzled."

Don't tell me I scream country bumpkin, Baron thought.

Before he could answer, the girl rose and produced what looked like a ticket.

Baron froze, instinctively ready to bolt.

The conductor had arrived for checks.

Damn. After the day's chaos and sheer mental fatigue, he'd forgotten the most crucial detail.

Fare evasion. The ticket.

But the train was already thundering down the line, dragon roar and all. No escape.

The conductor checked the girl's ticket, then turned to Baron. "Your ticket, sir."

Baron patted his pockets theatrically while calculating exits: twelve people in the car, ten meters to the next door, five potential blockers by the exit...

"Sir?"

The conductor read hesitation as guilt. Was the man fare-dodging?

He drew a communication card and wand, about to summon assistance, when a dull thud sounded nearby.

He turned to see another conductor doubled over on the floor, clutching his stomach, breath hissing in pain.

Every eye swung toward the far end of the car.

The five men Baron had mentally tagged as obstacles now stood in silence, briefcases at their feet, iron rods and long knives in hand.

So much for subway security.

Baron exhaled in relief. A robbery—thank the stars.

He shot the five a grateful glance and slipped behind the other passengers.

The way forward was now blocked by bank robbers; retreat was the only option.

Baron recalled that three of the five had been studying the Birmingham Times, lingering on the "bank robbery" section. They had to be the bloodless scions on the wanted list.

"Nobody move!" the lead robber called. "We won't hurt you. Cooperate, and we'll release you once we reach Inner London."

Baron spotted one conductor's furtive gesture. The speakers crackled, then blared in a grating voice.

"G12 Dragon Subway, Birmingham to Edinburgh... 245 mph... Kerry Mountains..."

Route information—now?

"Coordinates received..."

A woman's voice answered over the speakers.

Baron's instincts screamed danger. He whipped toward the window.

Darkness streaked past. Wind shattered against the glass. The car's old chandeliers swayed. A cold so intense it could freeze blood seeped through the walls.

"What have you done?!"

The robbers realized something was wrong and seized the conductor, but it was too late.

"Holy Office, Inquisition. Battle-Sister Lotus responding. May God's glory be upon us. Over."

With that, the speakers fell silent. The clamor inside the car ceased, leaving only the hush of breathing.

The train's motion became a quiet requiem.

Wind. Rain. Dragon roar. And footsteps.

Footsteps?

Baron looked up at the ceiling—scaled without, birch and crimson lacquer within.

Every head lifted in unison, the robbers included. Shock gave way to disbelief.

But this was impossible.

The Dragon Subway hurtled at 245 mph—four hundred kilometers an hour.

Wind shear on the roof exceeded Category 5 hurricane force—comparable to free-fall from thirty thousand feet. Even if one weren't torn away, flesh would shred under the pressure.

What kind of arrogance and confidence must a person possess to stride through a Category-Five-plus hurricane with their feet planted firmly on the ground?

Screeeeeech!

A deafening crash on the roof!

A silhouette plummeted from the sky!!!

Baron's long eyebrows twitched.

Arrogance!

The kind that could knife straight through an iron wall!

It was a girl dressed like a nun, yet she moved like a ninja—

Legs and waist impossibly slender!

And that blade in her hand!