Chapter 19
The warehouse was large and, for the most part, empty. The gas lamps hanging from the ceiling sent flickers of light in all directions. It smelled like dirty lanolin; stray bits of wool clinging to the floorboards hinted at its original purpose.
“He’s summoned the Twenty,” Satyr remarked. “What’s he up to?”
She followed his gaze to a knot of men at the far side of the room. All of them were en mirage, huddling together like sheep threatened by a pack of wild dogs. There were solitary figures scattered around them, like sentinels.
Probably the other assassins.
Two men stood apart from the others. One was Tobin. The other looked like a clerk.
Cynda frowned. “That’s the Ascendant?” she asked under her breath. She’d been expecting someone grander, more flamboyant. Someone worthy of the destruction he’d sought to create.
“Unremarkable, isn’t he?” Satyr replied with an edge of sarcasm.
“About time!” the man snapped like a petulant schoolboy. “What took you so long?”
Satyr took her elbow, marching her forward. She couldn’t help but notice a large, rust-brown stain in the middle of the floor. It looked like dried blood.
Her heart executed a somersault.
“Miss Lassiter,” Satyr began, “this is the Ascendant. And Tobin, a junior assassin.”
When Tobin glared at her, Cynda dismissed him with a brief glance, directing her attention to his superior.
“I would not have you in my presence if he had not commanded me to do so,” the Ascendant grumbled. He gestured. “Give her the box.”
Rather than coming near her, Tobin tossed her a small parcel, a pasteboard box with twine around it.
“The archangel said that I should give it to you at the last,” the Ascendant said.
Archangel?
Stripping off the twine, she carefully opened the parcel, wondering if scorpions were native to England. A bloody handkerchief lay inside. She pulled it back to reveal a pocket watch. Opening it, she found the dial smeared with dried blood. A couple quick winds made it light up. Rovers always carried gold ones, in honor of Harter Defoe. She knew of only one man who carried a silver interface—Theo.
Her head swimming, Cynda clicked the watch shut, dropping it into her pocket. Maybe someone stole it from him. Maybe it’s someone else’s blood. As she shifted the piece of cloth, she saw the ring. His ring.
She slipped it on her finger. It was only then she noticed the message scrawled inside the box lid.
Give us Defoe. You get what’s left of the genius.
Cynda stuffed the box and the handkerchief into a pocket. Once her hands were free, she clenched them into fists so no one would see them shaking.
“Where is he?” she hissed.
“The archangel smote him,” the Ascendant replied, as if that explained everything.
“What archangel?”
Grant drew himself up. “And at that time shall Michael stand up, the great prince…”
“Daniel 12:1, if my memory is correct,” Satyr said dryly.
The Ascendant delivered a scathing look toward his Lead Assassin. “And there was war in heaven: Michael and his angels fought against the dragon.”
Something clicked. “Revelations,” Cynda said.
“12:7,” the Ascendant clarified.
R12:7. The lettering on the outside of the gunpowder barrels.
Murmuring broke out amongst the Twenty. Apparently they weren’t aware that their leader had been taking orders from heaven.
The Ascendant took a step closer. “The archangel warned me of you, woman. He warned me how the denizens of hell would try to stop our work. You and your master, he said, were particularly cunning.”
Theo was the Devil? That was ridiculous. It was hard not to laugh in the man’s face, but too much was at stake.
Cynda turned to the group of onlookers. She needed allies. “So what do the Twenty think of all this?” There was a shuffling of feet, but no one spoke up.
No balls in that bunch.
“I must admit that I did not think the Devil’s minion wielded that much power,” the Ascendant observed, hands clasped behind his back as he paced back and forth like a headmaster confronted with an unruly student.
Minion? She’d been called a lot of things, but that sucked. Well, if she was the Devil’s gofer, she’d be his advocate.
“The Archangel Michael told you this?” she asked, making sure she sounded incredulous. “How do you know he wasn’t lying to you?”
The Ascendant fumed. “He cannot lie. He is the sword of the Almighty!”
“Really? So how did you meet this Michael person?”
“How dare you mock God’s Highest Messenger?”
“When and how?” she pushed.
“The Archangel Michael appeared in pinwheels of glorious light, kneeling in front of me, seeking my aid. He anointed my forehead and I saw heaven in all its glory.”
She caught Satyr’s eyes. They’d gone flinty. He’d traveled through time. He knew what those pinwheels meant.
It was so clear now. Take one deeply religious man, add a bit of time travel, stir in a whiff of instability and… Drugs? He’d said he’d been anointed, seen heaven. Someone had dazzled him with an Outbound arrival, fed him a line and made sure his mind was dazed enough to take it, courtesy of some twenty-first century hallucinogens.
And it worked.
“When did this visitation arrive, sir?” Satyr asked, voice ripsaw sharp.
“It was two nights before the holy feast of St. Michael, in late September. I remember it clearly. I was in my study, praying. I summoned you the next day and put the plan in motion.”
“We ordered you to acquire a single load of explosives,” one of the Twenty protested. “You acted without our approval.”
Aha. The sheep are getting cranky.
“At St. Michael’s behest, I altered the plan. Neither you nor the Lead Assassin were to be made aware that you were doing God’s holy work.” The Ascendant chuckled dryly. “I found that quite entertaining.”
Clearly, Satyr did not. He tightened his grip on the head of his cane, the only outward sign of his increasing anger. “What did this messenger look like?” he queried.
“Dressed much as you are. Black suit and such. He stood erect with the authority of God, and had a voice that reached to the ends of the earth.”
Copeland? Was it possible?
“It fits,” she heard from her shoulder. Cynda gave a minute nod.
“Did the archangel order my murder?” she asked.
“Yes, which Satyr badly bungled.”
The Lead Assassin’s knuckles went white on the cane.
“It was revealed to me that a holy battle would be enjoined and all must be purified by fire. The heathens, Gog and Magog, would be destroyed on the ninth day of the eleventh month.”
“Neither I nor the Twenty were informed of this holy crusade of yours,” Satyr said. He moved slowly into a new position, closer to the pack. Tobin stiffened, sensing the threat.
“No. It was my task alone,” the Ascendant replied, waving a dismissive hand toward the group. “You would not have understood.”
“That was unwise, Ascendant,” one of them said, stepping forward.
Tobin was on the move in an instant, but Satyr was faster. He put himself between the assassin and the man who had dared to speak up.
“No, Tobin,” Satyr said. “That’s not the way it works.”
“I can kill you,” the junior assassin replied, his voice wavering.
“No you can’t,” Cynda sneered. “You couldn’t even kill me.”
Tobin made the mistake of looking toward her. The knife was at his throat before he could react.
“Think carefully about your future,” Satyr advised. “You’ve had your warning.” He gave him a shove toward their superior.
“Why did you order the murder of Adelaide Winston?” Cynda asked. The murmuring in the Twenty grew.
Those Revelations just keep coming.
The Ascendant didn’t answer. The bold man stepped forward one more pace. “Why did you have the Intermediary killed?” he demanded.
“She was going to have me replaced,” their leader replied. “I think you should take a lesson from that.”
“You’ve lost, don’t you see it?” Cynda chided.
“No! You have hampered our work, but this was just the opening trumpet blast. We will still succeed!”
“With what?”
“The explosives, of course. We still have thirty-seven half barrels and plenty of dynamite. We shall begin anew tomorrow morning. Tomorrow London will burn!”
“You can’t do that,” someone protested from the back of the group.
“I can. I shall,” the Ascendant replied. “If you oppose me, you are my enemy.”
She gave that time to sink in.
“Just how many of the Twenty are required to vote the Ascendant out of office?” Cynda inquired.
“Seventeen,” Satyr replied instantly.
Cynda did a quick head count. They only had sixteen.
There’s got to be a way. “What does it take to become a member of the Twenty?”
“Nomination by another member,” Satyr replied, “but you must be Transitive.”