Simon regarded Kate. “You are familiar with that story? Byron Pendragon, who was a scribe and one of the founders of the Order of the Oak, built the Bastille during the Middle Ages to be a sorcerous prison. It was intended to be the eternal home for the most dangerous magicians and creatures on Earth. When it finally fell, there were still a few remaining mystical prisoners there, including Gretta. We know some of the others. There was Ferghus O’Malley, the fire elemental who caused the Great Fire of London. Nephthys, the Egyptian demon mistress whose monstrous armies were so horrifying, Arabs and Crusaders united against her. The Baroness Conrad, half woman and half machine, who ruled huge swathes of India. There was a man, or a woman, with no real name who used alchemy to change his shape and his or her identity each time he wished to murder innocents. And, of course, Gaios the Mad, the earth elemental who reportedly caused Vesuvius to erupt. There were likely other things locked in that prison that we don’t know about. However, we do know that all those monsters escaped into the chaos of the Revolution. In the aftermath of the escape, Byron Pendragon was killed and the Order fell.”
She replied, “I knew some of it. But it’s so terribly real now. Not a book or journal or scary story told by candlelight.”
“This whole affair may be some echo of the old Order of the Oak,” Simon said. “My father was a member, and a close associate of Pendragon’s. I suspect Sir Roland was affiliated in some fashion as well.”
Kate merely nodded in thought. “If this beast woman is looking to settle some old score through Imogen, she’s picking the wrong fight. My father isn’t even about. He disappeared years ago. Where is yours?”
Simon breathed out. “Shortly before my birth he was murdered by Pendragon’s enemies.”
Kate impulsively took Simon’s hand. “That’s horrible. I’m sorry you’ve had to live with that.” Simon didn’t move his hand out from under hers, and his eyes remained riveted on Malcolm. She sat back, and asked, “Mr. MacFarlane, have you any connection to the Order of the Oak?”
The Scotsman pursed his lips. “It’s a long story, Miss Anstruther.” He merely sat back, staring at the candles. The silence dragged on with no evidence of his speaking further.
Simon gave a smirk. “And you tell it so well.”
Malcolm colored and his nose creased in anger. “What would you have, Archer? Shall I repeat the tale of my father’s wasted days and besotted death? Would that make you feel better?”
“It might.” Simon gripped his knife and glared in Malcolm’s eyes.
“I leave it to you to tell it then so you may enjoy it all the more.”
Kate slapped her hand on the table, rattling the dishes. “For God’s sake! There are monsters at large. And my sister is in mortal danger every second we don’t deal with it. I don’t know what’s between you two, but please engage in a match of smugness later.”
“Right,” Nick muttered, pouring more wine for himself. “Although there won’t be a later for us.”
Kate pointed at Simon. “I know you somewhat and trust you. And you vouch for your pessimistic friend there. But do you trust, Mr. MacFarlane? Otherwise, we’ll have him out and settle this affair ourselves.”
The Scotsman rose from the table with indignation. “Here! Who are you to—”
“Shut up!” Kate jabbed her finger at him. “And sit down until I give you leave to go.”
Malcolm fumed in silence but resumed his seat.
“Now”—Kate regained a professional demeanor—“Mr. Archer, what say you about Mr. MacFarlane?”
Simon nearly started to laugh. He studied Kate’s commanding face in the candlelight. She had a refreshing way of coming directly to the point. He found her attitude very alluring. He glanced quickly at Nick, who rolled his eyes with clear recognition of Simon’s interest in the woman.
“I trust him,” Simon said without looking at the Scotsman.
Kate nodded with acceptance. “Very well. Mr. MacFarlane, what say you? Will you join us?”
The Scotsman sat contemplating various answers, stringing out his silence until Kate began to draw herself up in annoyance. He quickly said, “That’s why I’m here.”
Simon stood up immediately and regarded the company. “Now, with that foolishness settled thanks to Miss Anstruther, let’s talk about wulfsyl because that is our Trojan horse to strike inside the enemy camp.”
“Yes,” Kate said vigorously. “If we can find their store and destroy it, might they go mad, and might they even turn on Gretta and rip her to pieces?”
“But then we would have lunatic werewolves running loose in London,” Simon said. “I’m thinking of something a bit more surreptitious. It’s common to poison vermin, I believe.”
Malcolm grunted in dismissal. “Not possible. I once laced a cadaver with enough Prussian blue to kill every wolf in the Carpathians, and it did nothing to the werewolf that ate it.”
Simon replied, “I suspect we can do a bit better than cyanide. We do have the finest alchemist in England.” He turned to Kate.
She grinned with a dark eagerness.