Stranger (41 page)

A large, dark form broke from the thick mist. It shrieked again as it landed heavily on the paved embankment, blocking the Blades from advancing.

Gemma swallowed her own yelp of horror. The
thing
defied her understanding. Human in shape, it stood almost two stories high. Though the form of its body was somewhat anthropomorphic, it had the head and wings of a monstrous red bird and taloned feet. It wore armor, dented from use, and waved a jagged sword, pushing the Blades back with each swing.

Was it some ancient English creature, summoned by King Arthur’s progress?

“It’s a Konoha Tengu!” Thalia Huntley shouted. “Japanese beast. Fearsome fighter.”

“Japanese,” Catullus muttered. He shot a glance to Gemma. “Which means he wasn’t awakened here by Arthur. Which means—”

Gunfire whined above the Konoha Tengu’s shrieks. Someone yelled as they went down. Blades scattered for cover, taking their wounded comrade with them. Gemma and Catullus darted toward a narrow strip of greenery and ducked behind a low brick wall. They both peered over it, careful to keep cover.

Behind the beast, the shapes of men emerged from the fog. All of them aimed firearms at the Blades. More shots rang out. Gemma ducked as a bullet whizzed overhead.

“We’ve got enough to contend with,” Catullus growled. “Don’t have time for sodding Heirs mucking things up.” He returned fire. One of the Heirs screamed and fell.

“The Heirs don’t share your sense of timing.” She also shot back at them, even though she wasn’t certain what her little pistol could do at that distance.

The Konoha Tengu stalked forward, swinging its sword. Blades tried to hold it back with gunfire, but the creature was relentless, and they struggled between it and the Heirs’ barrage.

“Got to get that beast out of the way,” Catullus murmured, mostly to himself.

“Ready, Graves?” shouted Sam Reed from somewhere.

“Ready,” Catullus answered.

“On my count. Three, two,
now.”

Gemma blinked at the space where Catullus had been a heartbeat earlier. She peered up over the coverage of the wall. Where had he disappeared to?

There. He and Sam Reed stood against the Konoha Tengu, both of them battling the creature with their swords. The embankment rang with the sounds of metal against metal. Gemma could not look away, mesmerized by the sight of the two men fighting the beast, sidestepping and blocking its attacks, moving forward in seamless, wordless unity as they made their own assault. A savage and strangely beautiful dance.

And dangerous. Sam made no sound as the Konoha Tengu caught its blade across his shin, but Cassandra cried out when her husband faltered briefly in his steps. The beast shrieked in triumph, then shrieked again when Lesperance charged forward in his bear form. He swiped at the creature with his massive claws, tore at its flesh with his teeth.

Two armed men and a bear against a winged, bird-headed giant wielding its own sword. The kind of sight Gemma never could have dreamed, even with her odd imagination. She knew she hadn’t the strength or skill to
fight a creature like the Konoha Tengu, but she could do something about the Heirs.

“Astrid!” she shouted. “I need better firepower.”

“Wish granted,” Astrid said, suddenly appearing at Gemma’s side. She tossed Gemma a rifle. Both women crouched behind the brick wall and shot at the Heirs, who fired back.

Yet no one moved. The Blades couldn’t go forward, wouldn’t retreat, and neither did the Heirs give or gain ground. A stalemate. Meanwhile, Arthur was somewhere in the city, getting closer to the Primal Source.

A breeze stirred the dank, foggy air. Gemma found herself inhaling deeply, trying to catch the elusive scent borne upon the wind, because it wasn’t the damp, cool London stench. Something else. Something dry and warm and scented with … rosemary? Seawater and sun-baked rocks?

Astrid caught the scent, too, tilting her head to draw it in better. She and Gemma met each other’s questioning glances. Neither had answers.

Movement over the river snared Gemma’s attention. She turned, then grabbed Astrid’s sleeve. “Over the water.” She thought she was past the point of being surprised, but it seemed there was an unlimited amount of surprise.

A small boat steered its way through the river, navigating deftly between foundering vessels and water creatures. At the helm of the boat stood an olive-skinned man, small in height but with the stocky strength of a bull. He clenched the stem of a pipe between his teeth as he maneuvered the boat, comfortable and expert with a ship’s wheel. This alone would have astonished Gemma, but what really drew her attention was the woman literally flying above the boat.

Though she was dressed in modern clothing, the woman resembled a goddess of the ancient world. Surely Gemma had seen her, or her ancestor, on a classical vase, enchanting Odysseus. Her dark hair streamed behind her as she flew; her eyes glowed with golden light. Her hands were
outspread, and Gemma saw that the source of the dry, Mediterranean wind was the woman. She conjured the wind with her hands, chanting in an old language, and used it to propel herself and the boat through the Thames.

Beside Gemma, Astrid smiled darkly. “Our witch has arrived.”

“She’s on our side?”

“The Galanos witches are almost as important to the Blades as the Graves family. The man in the boat is Athena’s lover, Nikos Kallas. Bennett says he’s the best ship’s captain in the world.”

“I believe him,” Gemma said at once. Given the expert way Kallas piloted the boat through the treacherous river, Gemma thought the man must bleed water.

“Get back,” the woman floating above the boat commanded, her husky voice booming above the clamor.

Catullus, Sam, and Lesperance immediately dropped back, away from the Konoha Tengu. The creature mistook their withdrawal for retreat, and screeched its triumph as it lifted its sword above its head.

Her chanting growing louder, Athena raised her arms. The glow emanating from her eyes turned the fog to a golden haze. Below her, the Thames swelled, its greasy, glossy surface churning up white-capped waves. Kallas kept the boat steady beneath her, even when a huge wave suddenly rose up from the river.

The wave fountained up, rising up higher than the tallmasted ships on the river. As Athena chanted, the water took shape, forming into a massive catlike creature. Gemma stared, incredulous and thrilled by the magic. The huge feline was made entirely of water, its torso rising up from the river, and as it turned liquid eyes to the Konoha Tengu, its roar was the sound of booming rapids.

On the embankment, the Konoha Tengu gave a earsplitting shriek, raising its weapon. It sprung into the air, then dove at the water cat. At Athena’s command, the river feline
lunged, its sharp-toothed maw open. The Konoha Tengu stabbed at its foe, but the sword simply passed through the watery form of the cat’s body without injury. The winged creature yowled in anger, then screamed when the cat seized the Konoha Tengu in its mouth and bit down.

Two fleshy slabs fell into the river: the Konoha Tengu’s legs, and its upper body. Black blood spread in the water as the creature’s severed body sank.

But the witch wasn’t done. Still chanting, she directed the water cat toward the Heirs standing and gaping on the embankment. The men turned their guns on Athena, but the feline surged, blocking their shots. With one claw, it swiped at the Heirs. The force of the blow sent men flying backward, slamming into the façades of buildings or sprawling down the street. They struggled to their feet—though a few didn’t get up again—and bolted.

Athena lowered her arms, and the water cat ebbed, until nothing was left of it but foam atop the river.

A cheer went up from the Blades, while Gemma put her fingers into her mouth and whistled. At the helm of the boat, Nikos Kallas blew kisses to his lover, still hovering high in the air. The witch gave everyone an enigmatic smile, though it faded quickly.

“Now is not the moment for celebration,” she said. “The king is nearly to the Heirs’ headquarters. Nikos and I will keep watch over the water, but you must stop him on land.”

Gemma was already on her feet when Catullus ran back for her.

“With Blades all over the world,” she said, “we’ll never lack for places to visit.”

“For our bridal journey,” he answered. “And everything after.”

They shared a brief, meaningful look, knowing that they talked around the fact that the critical moment had come. But it couldn’t be pushed aside forever.

Together, they ran, with the Blades at their backs.

The journey from the Chelsea Embankment to Mayfair took Catullus, Gemma, and the Blades through some of London’s most exclusive neighborhoods. Though he was born and had lived most of his life in Southampton, Catullus knew London, had walked its streets both sublime and squalid. Its scope never failed to awe him. A vast monster, this city, containing slums and palaces, parks and rookeries.

He wanted to show Gemma this city. With her active mind and omnipresent curiosity, she would find complex, contradictory London to be a vast treasure house of stories, and he wanted to be beside her, guide her, delight with her as she made her discoveries and explored.

“That’s Sloane Square,” he noted as they ran past the paved, elegant plaza. “Named for Hans Sloane, a physician in the first half of the eighteenth century. Massive collector—he bequeathed his collection of curiosities to the nation, and it became the basis of the British Museum. That’s in Bloomsbury.”

Gemma looked at him, incredulous. “Are you giving me a
tour? Now?”
She glanced at the bedlam surrounding them: terrified Londoners evacuating the city, pixies and
goblins swarming over the dignified façades of Chelsea, armed Blades racing through the streets like a minuscule army.

“Thought you might want to know. New city, new sights. You like exploring.”

Her incredulity softened into something much warmer. “I do. Thanks. But maybe the guided tour can wait until later.”

“At your service,” he murmured, and she smiled.

Later. Christ, he didn’t know if there would be a
later.
No, there had to be. He refused to believe otherwise. The Blades had to succeed. They would stop Arthur from reaching the Primal Source, liberate the Primal Source from the Heirs’ captivity, and, in so doing, restore the balance of magical power.

And then he and Gemma would be married.

The thought caused his already pounding heart to race in a full-out gallop.

She never faltered as they continued to push on into the city’s wealthiest districts. They entered Belgrave Square, with its imposing, white-terraced mansions presenting a uniform front of British aristocratic dominance. Catullus always found the large, rational buildings of Belgravia to be cold, soulless, designed strictly to impress but never welcome. The windows became judgmental, cynical eyes, aloof and arrogant.

Now those eyes stared in shock as this center of insular superiority was overrun by chaos. Fog, people, magic. Noise ricocheted off the white-fronted mansions. Everything was anarchy—surely that wasn’t what the Heirs, staunch defenders of hierarchy and order, had in mind.

“Looks like someone’s been reading his Tennyson,” drawled a familiar voice.

Catullus whirled as Bennett slipped from the fog with his usual skill, his wife at his side.

Bennett eyed Catullus’s chivalric clothing. “Lovely surcoat. Embroider it yourself?”

Torn between embracing and throttling his old friend, Catullus settled for his usual expression when dealing with Bennett: an exasperated scowl.

“I trust your journey to Otherworld was a success,” London said quickly. She seemed to have an instinctive understanding of when people wanted to punch her husband.

“We have the means of communicating with Arthur,” answered Catullus.

“What about you?” Gemma asked. Blades gathered around them, eager for news.

“I managed to talk to some wives, sisters, and mothers of the Heirs,” London said. She looked rueful. “A few called me a traitor and … other names which weren’t very polite.”

It was Bennett’s turn to scowl. “Catty bitches.”

“Bennett!” London gasped, but she wasn’t especially shocked by her husband’s coarse language. She seemed almost pleased at his defense of her, however crudely phrased. “Some of the women listened. Most said there was nothing they could do.”

Disappointment broke in a gray wave over the Blades.

“Not all demurred,” London went on. “Fifteen wives convinced their husbands not to fight. Ten others destroyed weapons belonging to their men, and nearly a dozen locked their men out of their homes.” She let out a frustrated sigh. “Too many of the women are ruled by fear, and refused to act. I was once one of their numbers.” She glanced at Bennett with a small smile, who returned the look with a goodly bit of heat. “None of them are lucky enough to catch their own scoundrel.”

“And what of your reconnaissance, Day?” asked Gabriel Huntley.

Bennett liked having an audience, but his impulse to grandstand was tempered by the urgency of the situation. Tersely, he explained, “Investigated most of the Heirs’
headquarters. It’s heavily protected, as we thought. Got magical booby traps all over the place. The smallest bit of complacency or disregard will get someone killed, so stay alert.”

He unfolded a piece of paper, revealing a hastily drawn map. A maze of fortifications, hallways, chambers, and secret doors. “I was able to get inside, and, thanks to you facing the Heirs at Kew Gardens, made decent headway. But I wasn’t able to see everything. I do know that the Primal Source is kept within a room at the center of the headquarters. I couldn’t reach that room, but I’ve an idea where it should be. Here.” He pointed to the room in question, which lay at the heart of the building.

“Guards?” asked Sam Reed.

“An enchantment on the door. Only opens for Heirs. Barred windows. From what I understand, there’s only one way in and out. It’s going to take a hell of a lot to get in,” he said grimly, “and a bloody miracle to get out. One would have to be mad to attempt it.”

“Good thing the Blades are mad as Leonidas and the Spartans,” said Catullus.

“Everyone knows how well that turned out,” replied Bennett.

“We’ve an advantage those men never had.” Catullus surveyed the assembled Blades, his gaze lingering on all the female Blades, so fierce and capable. Some of the women were less known to him, but he never doubted their skill or determination. Others he knew very well indeed. Thalia Huntley, London Day, his old friend Astrid. Each of them a limitless force never to be underestimated.

Including Gemma. The strength of his blood and beat of his heart. In her princess’s gown that could not hide her fiery, passionate soul. She gazed at him now, love and spirit shining in her brilliant blue eyes—and judicious fear, too, tempered by determination to overcome that
fear, which made him admire her all the more because of this determination—and he never felt stronger.

“What advantage do we have over those mad, doomed Spartans?” Bennett asked.

Catullus smiled. “We have Amazons.”

Of all the members of the Graves family, currently only two had perfect memory. Catullus’s sister Octavia could recall any page of any book she had ever read, and once she had traveled down a road, she would forever know each and every turn. The other Graves with this prodigious gift was Octavia’s young daughter, Aurelia. The girl’s capacity for recollection astounded the most sanguine members of the family, they who had seen every permutation genius had to offer.

Catullus’s own memory didn’t compare to little Aurelia’s, but was still extensive. He knew almost every street, lane, and mews in London. Yet, as well as he knew the city, he had never once been to the part of Mayfair where Bennett now led the Blades.

It seemed impossible that an entire square could be concealed in London. But Bennett guided the Blades past Hyde Park, then up Curzon Street, turned a hidden corner, and then … there it stood in a square all its own. The Heirs of Albion’s headquarters.

“Bugger me,” muttered Gabriel Huntley. Ever the gruff noncommissioned officer.

The building would give any metropolitan mansion a bitter sense of inferiority. It loomed at one end of a plaza, four stories high, rows of columns arrayed like impassive sentries. Some ambitious architect had combined elements of medieval castles, Roman temples, and Tudor palaces into a threatening mass whose main purpose seemed to be intimidation. Towers stretched up toward the sky as if condescending to let the sun light their conical roofs. Crenellations
lined the top edges of the walls. A spiked fence formed a jagged barrier all along the perimeter. Thick bars covered the windows along the lower two floors—presuming one could get past the armed sentries.

On the ground floor, up a short, wide flight of steps, stood a door. It was almost two stories high, more suited to a castle than a modern London building. It appeared to have been fashioned of solid steel. Catullus doubted any building, even the treasury or the Queen’s residence, had so solid and impenetrable a door.

From the very top of the massive building flew the Union Jack. It snapped in the breeze, daring any individual or nation to dare challenge the superiority of Great Britain.

“It’s sweet how bashful these guys are,” said Gemma. She eyed the sentries out front and on the roof. The Heirs’ guards carried the latest in firearms technology. “Why aren’t they shooting at us?”

“As you say, they’re shy wallflowers,” Catullus answered. “Waiting to be asked to dance.”

“The guest of honor is missing from the festivities,” said Astrid. Her fair face paled further with strain from her proximity to the Primal Source. “But I feel Arthur is close.” She turned to the alert, bristling wolf Lesperance beside her. “Perhaps if you took to the air, you can—”

Her words were lost as the streets shook, waves of power sweeping through the square. Everyone, even the Heirs’ sentinels, braced themselves.

Thunderous footsteps sounded close by.

“Eternal blue heaven,” breathed Thalia, at the same time her husband growled a tumble of soldierly swearing.

Stunned silence fell over the Blades as they beheld the huge figure striding from a side street. The street barely stood wide enough to accommodate the giant. He emerged into the square, then espied the Blades staring at him. He paced to tower in front of them, the Heirs’ headquarters behind him. A soldier would never turn his back
on his enemies, but to the best of the giant’s understanding, the Heirs were allies.

Catullus would have to convince him otherwise.

The Blades gaped at the embodied legend.

Arthur.

The fabled king stared down at them, magic and myth radiating out with a golden brilliance, almost blinding. His massive stance had him straddling the street, legs braced wide, the city of London nothing but an impermanent illusion compared to his timeless might. Awe froze the Blades where they stood. Arthur glowered at them, the perceived enemies of England.

He reached for Excalibur, readying to cut them all down with one strike.

Catullus ran toward Arthur. “Hold. Your Highness must hold.” He planted himself in front of the king, staring up at him. Memories of his last one-on-one encounter with Arthur flared. Catullus had barely escaped alive. This time, he might not be so fortunate.

Arthur turned his burning glare to Catullus. He gripped Excalibur, and with a loud hiss the sword began to slide from its scabbard.

In his satchel, Catullus searched. His hand kept closing around things he did not need: tools, his pipe, the Compass, a length of twine. Damn it. Where—?

The sword slid free from its scabbard. It gleamed in the fog.

Catullus started when a warm, slim hand touched his inside the satchel. He glanced up to see Gemma also rifling through the bag.

“Get back,” he growled.

“You need to be more organized,” she answered. “Here.” She pressed a metal disk into his palm. His thumb brushed the spokes. The silver wheel.

Catullus’s gaze met hers. Despite the fact that a gigantic,
angry mythical kind was about to slice them both into fillets, she was steady and resolute.

“Someone needs a good talking to,” she said, glancing at Arthur.

Catullus wasted no time. He held the silver wheel high in the air, ensuring the king could see it. “Hold, Your Highness,” he said again.

The raised sword froze. Arthur looked down at Catullus with a puzzled frown, as if hearing something a great way off.

“You are being misled,” Catullus continued rapidly. “The men who have been urging you on, calling you, they are not your friends. They are not the friends of England.”

“Are you?” demanded Arthur.

Good Lord, he was
talking with King Arthur.
“My associates and I seek peace and the betterment of
everyone,
not merely England.” He glanced toward the Heirs’ headquarters. As he did so, he caught sight of all the Blades looking at him, hope and fear commingled in their expressions. Catullus was literally their only chance of survival. Gemma stood at his side, barely breathing.

Farther back, Catullus saw several Heirs gathered in the windows and on the parapets of their headquarters as they, too, waited to see what King Arthur would do.

Turning back to Arthur, Catullus continued, “If you do as those men say, follow their will, you shall enslave the world to the greedy demands of a select few. Surely that is not what the Round Table stood for.”

Arthur frowned, his massive brow creasing like furrows in a field. “Your words could be idle or false. A wicked enchantment crafted to deceive.”

“Merlin, your oldest and most trusted counselor, gave this to me.” Catullus held out the silver wheel. “With his remarkable gift of prophecy, he foretold the disaster that would come to pass if you do not break free of these men, the destruction that shall be wrought. You cannot continue on this path, Your Highness.”

Arthur appeared still undecided. An improvement, though small, from his goal of chopping the Blades into mince. Yet he did not appear convinced that the Blades were his allies, and the Heirs’ plans for England meant a global catastrophe.

The king wavered, hearing Catullus’s words, but not truly listening. How to break through?

“Give him the wheel,” said Gemma.

Catullus stared at her.

“He needs some kind of proof,” she went on, low and quick. “We know that if he touches the Primal Source, everything’s going to hell. But if he touches the silver wheel, he might be able to break away from the Heirs. Two magics physically connecting with each other.”

Looking back and forth between the silver wheel in his hand and the giant king looming over him, Catullus saw the reason in her suggestion. He drew a breath and, holding the wheel up between his fingers, offered it to Arthur.