“Any regrets?”
“Certainly. I regret losing Evelyn. However, recently she and I have been meeting again. We’ve never gotten to the heart of the matter between us, but I suspect that will come eventually.”
“Is there any chance…?”
“I’m not sure,” he said. “We must clear the air between us first.”
“That is encouraging news, Alastair,” she said, though part of her felt a pang of loss. If he and his former fiancée could find their way forward, it was for the best, wasn’t it?
Yes and no. In stray moments she’d thought of what it would be like to stay in London with him or Keats. It would stomp on all the rules, but would that matter if she was happy?
“Jacynda?” he asked gently.
“Hmm?” She looked up at him. “I was thinking what it might have been like.”
“With me…or with Keats?”
Cynda spread her hands. “That was the problem. I care for you both. I choose one, I hurt the other.”
The doctor nodded and rose. “I’ll go check on him. No doubt he’s asleep, but I still worry. He’s had a tremendous shock.”
“He’s talking about going out to try to find Fiona. Please, don’t let him go alone.”
“I won’t.”
“Thanks. I’d better get back to the hotel. Morrisey promised he’d stay put, but he can be willful.”
She heard a chuckle as Alastair ascended the stairs. “Pot calling the kettle black, I’d say.”
~??~??~??~
In some ways it was very devious, but it paid to be cautious. Just because someone named Morrisey was at Adelaide’s doorstep asking to see Mr. Livingston, didn’t mean the visitor was the real item. The Theo he knew avoided time travel at all costs.
“Are you ready?” Adelaide asked. Defoe tapped a kiss on her cheek, inhaling the soft scent of her perfume.
“I am,” he said, fading from view.
He watched as his lover opened the door to the drawing room, taking his place next to her, unseen. If this were an enemy, he would be in for one hell of a surprise.
“Mr. Morrisey?” she asked politely.
The man bowed effortlessly. No one from 2058 would be able to do that…except Theo. Years of dojo training made the gesture as automatic for him as breathing.
“Good evening, madam,” the man replied. “I apologize for my abrupt arrival.”
Adelaide maintained a discreet distance. “My butler said you are trying to locate Mr. Livingston. Is that correct?”
“Yes, madam. He is a business associate of mine, and I have some information I need to impart to him of a most urgent nature.”
Complex speech. Theo always used more words than were needed, but so did the Victorians. Defoe moved closer.
“I am sorry, Mr. Morrisey. I have not seen him for over a week.”
“Oh.” The man said, looking genuinely disappointed. “Do you have any notion of where he is staying?”
Adelaide delivered a demure shake of the head.
“Then I apologize for impinging on your time, madam.” Another bow and the fellow left the house as quickly as possible.
Defoe shifted into view right before he exited the front door. Once on the street, he watched how the man moved. It was Theo: he had a certain rhythm to his step. Defoe hurried to catch up with him.
“Damn,” his friend muttered. “Where are you, Harter?”
“Here,” he said, en mirage as Livingston.
Morrisey was in a defensive posture in a heartbeat. Once he realized how that appeared, he straightened himself, glancing around the street, chagrined. Beneath the calm exterior, Defoe knew his friend was steaming.
“No wonder people shoot you,” Theo remarked.
Defoe laughed. “It’s good to see you again. Come along, let’s go back inside.”
“If you haven’t heard, Keats is free.”
Defoe halted mid-step and swiveled toward him. “I’ll be damned. She actually pulled it off.”
“Of course she did,” Morrisey replied, sounding annoyed.
“So what in the hell are you doing here?” Defoe asked.
“TPB has issued a Restricted Force Warrant for me.”
Defoe laughed. “Welcome to the criminal classes, Theo. I knew I’d corrupt you eventually.” He waved him forward. “Come on, I’ll re-introduce you to Adelaide. You need to know what’s going on here.”
~??~??~??~
You didn’t get to be Lead Assassin by waiting for your superior to die in his bed. Unless, of course, you were busily suffocating him with a plump pillow. Satyr couldn’t tell which of the Seven was tailing him. That ability eluded him. Still, he knew it was one of them. Tobin? Most likely.
Just to make it sporting, Satyr had not varied his form, but kept to his most favorite, the one the Seven knew so well. He continued his way down the lane and then turned into the first passageway, one of the narrow ones that the East End seemed to favor. As he walked, he studied the walls around him. What few windows he spied were hidden behind shutters.
Excellent.
He shifted into nothing and then waited by a drainpipe. That was his edge. Only one of the Seven was a Virtual, and Archer’s loyalty was solid. Satyr had made sure of that.
His hunter warily entered the narrow passage. If he’d been smart, he would have paused to listen for Satyr’s footsteps. But this one wasn’t smart. That meant he was one of the newer ones, still too unseasoned to take on someone of the Lead Assassin’s cunning.
Satyr waited a millisecond after the man passed him, then whispered, “Boo!” He caught the junior assassin, mashing his face into the brickwork. A knife skittered into the debris at their feet.
“So which one of my little birds are you?” he hissed.
The man shifted out of pure fright. It wasn’t Tobin, but Dailey, the most junior of the Seven.
Why send the most inexperienced? Because he’s so expendable.
Satyr immediately flipped Dailey around, so his body was in the line of fire should there be a second menace in his wake.
“What are you doing, you fool? You’re not good enough to kill me.”
“He s-s-said I had to.”
“Tobin?”
A frantic shake of the head. “The As-s-scendant,” Dailey stammered.
Satyr loosened his grip on the man’s neck.
“I didn’t want to. He s-s-said he’d have Tobin cut me up if I didn’t. I figured I might get lucky.”
“Why kill me?”
“He s-s-said it was because S-s-saint Michael told him to.”
What’s this nonsense?
Satyr shoved the fellow away in disgust. Tradition allowed the Lead Assassin the choice of whether he killed the challenger or not. It was usually more instructive to leave a bloody corpse so the others would take the hint.
Not in this case. He scooped up the knife and tossed it to Dailey, who barely caught it in his shock.
“Leave London,” Satyr ordered. “If I see you again, I will cut you into thin ribbons and relish every moment of it, do you understand?”
Dailey nodded furiously. “Thank you, sir. I don’t want to be in the middle of this.” He took off at a dead run, his boots slipping on the stones.
Satyr listened to the fleeing footsteps while straightening his gloves. The Ascendant had declared war against his own Lead Assassin. This was unprecedented.
Dailey was right. No one wanted to be in the middle of this.
~??~??~??~
One of the guards sat on the stairs outside the building. It was the newer one, the replacement for the man who’d tried to assault the Fenian’s daughter during her captivity. Satyr had particularly enjoyed that kill. In his mind, nothing was as evil as taking advantage of a helpless prisoner, especially a woman.
The guard was smoking a pipe, looking like he belonged there, though still on the alert. This one had some talent. Satyr quickly dismissed him, slipping him sufficient coins to ensure he’d not be easily found. The man hurried away into the darkness.
As Satyr pushed open the door to the abandoned saddler’s shop, the aroma of well-oiled leather greeted him. He’d always liked that smell. Continuing toward the back room on silent feet, he listened intently. Beyond the door he heard muted voices. He eavesdropped for a time and then smiled. It was not the conversation you’d expect between a guard and a captive.
How romantic. Fiona Flaherty had found herself a beau, someone who would try to protect her. That complicated matters.
He returned to the front door and closed it heavily. Shifting out of his favored form, he headed toward the back room. The voices fell silent. There was the sound of boots moving across the room and the creak of a chair, the guard resuming his place.
With a tortured sigh, Satyr felt in his pocket for the knife and went to do his duty.