|
"That sounds like a good idea George. I'll ride with you to assist." Thomas says. "I suggest we all give some thought to what kinds of things we might want to get before continuing this misadventure. I'd rather none of us share the same fate as Mr. Fitch."
While he made himself comfortable in the wagon, Altair waved off the suggestion that he retrieve his card. "Leave it. Took us entirely too long to find this drain, that can serve as a landmark. I've plenty of cards."
"Aye - if we're t' be rescuin' the lad from 'is own life o' crime, 'n not from kidnappers, I'd prefer t' play it a bit diff'rent."
Edgar waits until everyone else is safely aboard the coach, then scrapes the mud off his shoes on the carriage step before clambering in after them. He does his best to squeeze himself into a corner and give the two men seeing to Fitch as much room as possible. "This time I'll be goin' home to change, Miss; I'll meet ye fer supper, as ye said."
4 January, 1891
You arrive by private taxi to No. 9 Upper Belgrade Street at five o'clock in the evening. Mr. Zhou opens the same heavy, wooden double door as he did the last time and with the same friendly nod as before. A maid takes your overcoats and directs you into the study where you first made contract with Lord Simeon Walker.
When you walk in, Lord Walker is again standing in front of his desk resting on the edge and steadying himself with his cane. Lucretia is seated in one of the leather chesterfields surrounding the front of the desk in a semi-circle. Three men are joining them, the older of them is seated next to Lucretia, while the other two sit in the middle lounge.
Welcome back, Lord Walker greets you. I'd like you to meet my guests.
He gestures to them as he introduces each one. Dr. Abraham Van Helsing, Dr. William Wynn Westcott, and Professor Herbert Wells. They are trusted friends and I have invited them here to utilize their expertise on our current dilemma.
Lord Walker pauses just briefly as he begins to explain. It seems that our Mr. Finch has taken a bad turn and clings to life as we speak. Dr. Westcott is taking care of him. He is a fine doctor, but his real talent lies in his work as a coroner. Should Mr. Finch pass, we should know better what sort of creature was responsible. I have called Dr. Van Helsing here as well. He is working secretly on a compendium of cryptozoology and I have asked him to investigate the claw. Herbert is an historian with a wealth of knowledge of legends and lore. He has agreed to help us on the research end of our endeavor.
With barely a second passing, Dr. Van Helsing raises the claw and squints through his spectacles at it briefly before addressing the party. He looks to them quite serious before asking a question of them collectively, Do you believe in a demimonde? A sort of half-world where good battles evil in a constant struggle for superiority. Often the fight spills over into our existence, influencing events in our world. He gives little time for a retort before continuing. This claw is not something from an ordinary beast. I ask now that you suspend all disbelief. This claw belongs to some extraordinary creature. Something evil. A creature of the night. I urge you to approach this matter with extreme caution, Simeon, Van Helsing's warning is as much for the group as it is for Lord Walker.
Lucretia sits relaxed in her lounge, gently and slowly rubbing her finger around the edge of the glass. Her green eyes are transfixed upon Professor Wells as if she is waiting to hear something important.
Lord Simeon is at a slight loss for words as he looks rather worried about something. He waits for anyone else to speak.
Reagan sighs, following the rest of the party back to the carriages and climbing into one without a bleeding, short Englishman in it. She sets her satchel at her feet, pulls off her jacket, and unstraps her uncle’s revolver from her side, depositing it into the satchel and closing it up.
*yawn*
”Holles Street, and I’d be appreciatin’ it if ya’d wake me up when we get there.” With that, Reagan leans against the padded seats and falls into a restless sleep, each bounce of the wheels on the cobbles jolting her back to wakefulness until they don’t anymore.
When she wakes up, Reagan blinks, rubbing sleep from her eyes as she takes in her cluttered, tiny room. In the corner, forming a saggy dome around the bustle, lies her carelessly discarded party dress. She makes a mental note to take care of it before wrinkles set in, then shifts her gaze to her satchel - and the still-live bombs sitting in it. Still in her nightclothes, she quickly but carefully unwraps the linen holding the glass vials against the tubes and returns everything to its proper place in the satchel.
For her part, Reagan’s morning is spent in her room with the shutters closed, mixing and laboring under the faint flickering light of an oil lamp as she adds trace amounts of gunpowder in with a mixture of oil and wax, then pours the molten mixture into small vials. When the strain gets to her eyes, and with little success, she decides to take a walk back near the tavern and sewer grate to see what she can find out about the London sewers.
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
”D’ya mean like the Sluagh?” Reagan leans forward, edging toward the edge of the cushioned seat she’s in and turning a bit pale. ”Soul-sucking spirits, comin’ from the west into Ireland to be stealin’ our souls? Or other things like that? Because my old grandfather, he used to be tellin’ me stories about them, and about Leahan Sidhe, back when we used to visit. If you’re tryin’ to tell me that ya think those things are real, then ya must be insane.”
She pauses, crossing her arms across her chest and trying to look smug before faltering a bit. ”Anyways, supposin’ you weren’t insane, what’d you be suggestin’ we do about it? The Slaugh aren’t nothin’ to be trifled with, and neither is Leahan. Assuming they’re real. Which they aren’t.” She reaches for her satchel, stopping herself from fidgeting with the straps holding it shut and concentrating on the conversation at hand.
Dr. Van Helsing looks at Reagan and quickly responds, " That's exactly what I mean. I am sad to say that not only do they exist, they exert influence over us. And when you hunt them, well...." he trails off and stares off tearfully for a bit.
|
|
"The war between good and evil has been going on for a long time." Thomas said. "Modern science may have cast doubt on what lies beyond the five senses, but the church has fought evil for 2000 years, and will continue to do so until our Lord returns and destroys evil for good. Dr. Helsing, what creature do you believe this claw comes from?"
Dr. Van Helsing walks carefully behind the desk and pulls a crate from behind it. He lifts it carefully up and sets it upon the desk. Uncoupling two latches and lifting the large box reveals a large taxidermy of an enormous bat.
This is what zoologists have discovered to be what they have termed," the flying fox." Notice the claw at the appendage atop the wing. It dwarfs in comparison to your claw, but in all other cases, it is the same. Essentially, the natural becomes the supernatural in this case. Creatures possess extraordinary abilities, and not by some biological anomaly, but by design. A force of darkness, behind the scenes, to bend the interests of man to it's dark will. If you are to engage with a creature that possesses the likes of this, he says holding up the claw, then you are up against creatures of darkness, with power that you can only struggle to comprehend.
Van Helsing has the attention of everyone one in the room. Although his small eclectic cadre of talented cohorts possess a strong understanding of science, they are captivated by his words.
The entire room was now hanging on his words. No sooner had he finished, Lord Walker chimed in.
I have a confession to make. I am afraid that I have been withholding some information that could be helpful in our rescue of John. Partly out of fear of disbelief and partly out of shame on my behalf. You see, I served the crown in an expeditionary force in South Africa in the Anglo-Zulu War. I was able to gain the trust of a Zulu chieftain. He had entrusted me with the location of...of what came to be a diamond mine. In exchange, part of the profit was supposed to return to him with aid to be used by the chieftain against the Afrikaans. It seems that the crown had other ideas about the Zulu and my hand was forced to deliver him unaware of his impending doom unto the Royal army. His dying words translated into, "I will haunt you. I will drain this world of your bloodline." I saw the earnest satisfaction in his eyes then, but thought it physically impossible. It could be that his curse has come to pass. There were rumors of shaman amongst the tribe who could bring back the dead. Not in the same nature as before they had died, but in a powerful, supernatural way, a sort of cursed eternity. I dismissed this at the time as lore set to evoke fear into the opponents of the Zulus. Now, I am pondering its validity. Lord Walker concludes.
With that a maid signals that it is time for supper and Lucretia rises out of the chesterfield to inquire, Shall we eat?
The dinner is intimate considering the usual opulence displayed by Lord Walker paired down to a four course meal featuring pheasant from a recent hunt and a nice Bordeaux. The conversation is light covering topics from the affairs of London socialites to new discoveries by the Geographic club.
After dessert, Lord Walker looks at his guests and requests, I do hope that you are able to return to the task again tonight. Please return upon your successful capture of my son. Try not to damage him too badly.
After dinner, brandy is served in the study once again as the time nears 9 o'clock.
Lord Walker continues, Dr. Van Helsing recommends that you each take and wear one of these, he says as he directs Lucretia to distribute the strands of garlic to each person. She looks at Wells and remarks about how utterly unfashionable they were.
Is there anything else required to aid in your success? he inquires of his new employees.
At some point during dinner, Mr. Zhou passes a note to Brother Thomas.
I have heard about your link to the divine. I have procured an object that might be of great use to you. It is a very special rosary that contains the power to heal. I have to come up with 100 quid to complete the transaction. I know that it is a large sum. I will give more details once the transaction is complete and the item is in your possession. Just place the money in my bag in the kitchen and I will go right away.
Lord Walker acknowledges the request and signals to Mr. Zhou to obtain these items quickly.
...I returned to my lodgings. Desperately I wished to spend the nigth pouring through my old texts. Nikos' ability with cards was worthy of study. Thomas' faith healing was fascinating. However, the case of the missing son promised to render even such wonders near commonplace. Fighting down my curiosity I took a few minutes to change and prepare a soporific, locked my doors, then slept like the dead.
I awakened at midday, my landlady having been long accustomed to my habits of nocturnal activity. I dressed, prepared myself, and only then allowed myself to fall upon my library.
Fitzroy strokes his chin. 'A lot becomes clearer now. This group is chest-deep in the occult. I doubt it is coincidence that Nikos and Thomas are preternatural.'
Finally breaking his silence after dinner, he speaks up. "Let us have no false overconfidence here. We must be both methodical and meticulous. If Lord Walker is right, a mistake could cost not just our lives, but our very souls."
"Miss Wyld: you have seen the creatures that guard your cousin. Please tell us what you perceived - no matter how fantastic it might seem. Our success - our survival - may depend on something you saw."
They were very strong despite an anemic skin tone with a reddening around the eyes as if many capillaries have bursted. Some have fingernails that are almost claw-like. They moved quickly and some could climb like spiders up the wall with their limbs bending in directions that I am unaccustomed to. I believe that I should take up a pistol and it's practice, though I am unsure if that would help.
|
|
"Hmm. We may be better off sifting through mythology and folk tales to find our answers than a modern science book." Thomas says thoughtfully as he fiddles with his crucifix. "If time was not of the essence I'd suggest we visit some libraries for research. I suppose memory will have to do."
Red rimmed eyes, anemic skin, contortion of the limbs, spider like climbing. Keep wolves forguardians, and are repelled by garlic. Hmmm. Thomas thinks to himself as he sifts through his memories of folklore.
Once Fitch has been dropped off Edgar has the carriage take him to the outskirts of Whitechapel and walks home, where he strips off his borrowed formalwear and changes into a lengthy nightshirt before climbing into bed. The loud creak of the bedframe wakes Pebble in the corner, but by the time the mastiff rises and crosses the room to snuffle at Edgar's face he is already asleep. Pebble yawns and settles herself alongside the bed before drifting back to sleep herself.
Edgar wakes at dawn and puts the kettle on, then throws on breeches and overcoat before taking Pebble out for a quick trot down the block and back. Upon their return he makes himself a cup of coffee, dresses in uniform, and heads to his station, where he informs his sergeant that he needs to switch shifts in order to make dinner at Lord Walker's that evening. "Impressed by the suit, he was, sir." The man nods his head vigorously, congratulating Stone on a job well done in representing the division, and furthering that given the current unpleasantness they could use all the good will they could get, especially from someone as influential as Lord Walker.
That lass seems familiar... wonder what got 'er inta Brixton? Stone spends his day walking a beat in Whitechapel, asking around about any locals matching Reagan's description recently released from the Brixton House of Correction for good behavior. As evening looms he hurries home to feed Pebble, change his clothes (but leaves his leathers on under his overcoat) and catches a cab to No. 9 Upper Belgrade Street.
Edgar listens through the pre-dinner discussion of demimondes, curses, and the war between Good and Evil, but remains mum. It all seemed a bit much to him, but as the assembled men of breeding and learning were discussing it as fact, he nodded and kept quiet, unlike the Brixton lass. During dinner he remains equally quiet, finding the shift in conversation a bit awkward and for the most part equally over his head. Once he has some brandy in him and the talk turns more concrete, however, he chimes in.
"Dr. Van Helsing, how would ye best go about dealing with a normal bat, except the obvious? They 'ave any aversions 'r weak spots? If there's some kind o' giant one about aidin' young Walker 'n 'is cronies, knowin' a bit more about 'em might be a help. As fer folks climbing like spiders..." Stone shrugs and downs more brandy, "I'll leave that t' Brother Thomas 'ere."
Many of the locals near Holles Street recognize Reagan from her description, and it’s not long before Edgar finds an older woman willing to gossip. As she tells it, the trouble was really with Reagan’s brother, Cahal. He’d gotten involved with the Irish Republican Brotherhood and dragged her into it. Still, the old woman says, bomb-making is a serious offense, and the girl deserved what she’d gotten. The woman is surprised to hear Reagan is out, but doesn’t question it too much.
= = = = = = = = = =
= = = = = = = = = =
Reagan spends most of dinner preoccupied, pushing her pheasant around the plate with her fork and only eating a few bites. It’s only when people begin mentioning the sewers that she brings her attention back to the conversation at hand. ”Excuse me,” She clears her throat. ”I went to be searchin’ for some useful information about the sewer system we found. Turns out that’d actually be a service access for the underground rail lines, so that’d be a bit easier to stomach.”
She goes back to playing with her pheasant, stomach feeling a bit queasy, then stops again. ”’It’s not a delay t’stop and sharpen the scythe,’ my uncle says.” She takes a deep breath, then continues. ”We don’t know a thing we’re up against here, all respect t’the Doctor here, and memory won’t be doin’. Rushin’ in won’t be savin’ your son, and it won’t be helpin’ us out either.”
”Constable Stone, d’ya think ya could be goin’ to the Municipal Offices for us? People said they had maps of the Underground, but they won’t be givin’ them out to any lass off the streets, and they certainly won’t be givin’ them to me.” She pauses, lowering her voice and narrowing her eyes. ”And while you’re at that, ya could be askin’ your bobby friends t’stop bein’ shadows on me. I spent my time, I did!”
”As for the rest of us, we’d best be following any leads the Doctor here has and meetin’ up at the entrance around mid-afternoon, I think.” She looks to the Doctor. ”Speaking of which, anything else ya might be having would be helpful if we’re t’be huntin’ these things for ya.”
"An excellent description." acknowledges Fitzroy. "Additionally, I would add that it seemed that Mr Finch's injuries were poisoned or infected in some way. If combat seems inevitable, I suggest that in addition to more conventional weapons we do our best to take a selection of preparations reputed to help with supernatural evil. While I doubt we have access to Relics and reliquaries, many of these are relatively easy to acquire."
to announce common preparations we might take; consecration, holy items, silver, iron stakes, hawthorn stakes, mistletoe, etc - not sure if reasonable, or how many to say.
No, thank you.
He spent a solid five minutes applying the disguise that might as well have been his face, smoothing over scales with a soft, flesh-colored masking. Sufficiently ready to face the day, he gathered his knife and cards and was about to leave for the day when he suddenly changed course, pulling out pen, paper, and ink and setting to work on a letter to his friend Ambrose, Greek characters covering the paper rapidly in Altair's trademark scrawl.
My dear Ambrose,
I seem to have once again attracted the attentions of something supernatural. While I don't have much information to go on, I'm working on remedying this fact and I should know more by tomorrow, even if I can't solve my problems. I would appreciate meeting with you in person, as this time I'm also embroiled in a Lord's business and it's not the kind of thing I'd like to put in a letter, even one written in our own native hand. Please reply at your earliest convenience.
Sincerely,
Altair Nikos.
Folding and sealing the simple missive, Altair set out for a post office.
Altair was subdued all throughout dinner, a stark contrast to his usual brand of energy. The talk of the supernatural unnerves him; Dr Van Hellsing's expertise in cryptozoology in particular. The demihuman fights the urge to check his face; he knows the disguise is still there, can feel it itch against his scales, and checking would only serve to give the other occupants of the room a hint. Better that they think he's being grave and serious about the situation, as such a situation deserves.
Still, he does have his own suggestions to posit. "I'm not an expert on creatures like this, but I am an expert with people. If we're not pressed for time, I can hit the streets for an hour or two to gather if anyone's been conducting themselves oddly, or if any others have gone missing, but I can't take most of you with me. You," he points to Edgar, "You're a bobby, so most of the people I'd hit for information wouldn't say a thing if they knew I was affiliated. And you two," he points to Thomas and Fitzroy, "Are far too refined for several of the same individuals to be comfortable around." He looks at Reagan, tapping the table thoughtfully as he sizes the Irish woman up.
"I believe that Miss Faolan here is street-smart enough to get by, but I'm hesitant to ask a lady to accompany a dashing character such as myself alone, lest anyone get the wrong idea." He chuckles a bit at his own joke before continuing, deathly serious. "I'm loath to suggest any one of us be alone, though, after what happened to our friend Finch. Perhaps we could have Misters Stone, Thomas, and Fitzroy acquire the map and hit up a library for information on what we'd need to be prepared whilst Miss Faolan and I work the human side of things? We'd meet up at the drain in three hours' time; should give everyone time to get what they need. Faolan and I could stop by a pharmacist as well and pick up some general aids against plague and poison, in case they're needed."
Stone gives Reagan a nod at her whisper. After Altair says his piece, he replies. "Oh, ye'd be surprised what folks'll say 'round a shunter such as meself, 'specially outta uniform. As it is, if'n it's maps o' the underground that we're needin', could be I can deliver, but not 'til t'morrow - I'd need t' change inna uniform, 'n the offices'll be closed by the time I get to 'em tonight."
"Speakin' of, Lord Walker - if ye could have a word, sir, with me sergeant, might be he'd put me on leave until we get yer matter sorted. Time I spend walkin' a beat s'time I ain't spendin' on yer b'half."
5 January, 1891, London, 2:36 p.m.
The group returns to the area outside the Mariner's Inn where the carriages can safely turn around and depart. With preparations in tow and wounds bandaged, they prepare to descend the steps to underneath the docks and walk along the Thames to the service entrance where they had the encounter with the wolves. Altair happens to look where he left the card only to discover that it is no longer there.
Woll, woll, woll, look wot we ave 'ere boys. the voice comes from behind one of the piers as a gentleman steps forward wearing a suit and a derby with a thick mustache holding Altair's card. Shirley, ye hadn't fergot 'bout me, Mr. Nikos?
At that, ten other men dressed similarly to the leader step out from behind pillars with their hands in their coat pockets. Altair's confused glance threw Mr. Crowley for a quick moment sparking a reminder, It's me, ole Shane Crowley, the gangster replies hoping to invoke panic into Mr. Nikos and his new friends. Seems we ave a bit o unfinished business Mr. Nikos. Speaking to his henchmen, Crowley remarks, No gunfire boys, we don't want to alert the coppers.
Altair recognizes him almost immediately.
Altair Nikos
Brother Thomas
Edgar Stone
George Fitzroy
Reagan Faolan
Lucretia
Thug
Thug
Thug
Thug
Thug
Thug
Thug
Thug
Thug
Thug
Lucretia
Thug 4
George
Thug 9
Thug 6
Thug 1
Brother Thomas
Thug 3
Thug 7
Thug 5
Thug 10
Thug 2
Edgar Stone
Altair Nikos
Reagan Faolan
Thug 8
Uncertain of what is going on, Lucretia draws her rapier and looks towards Altair for any sign of what is going on. What in the bloody hell is going on here?
Thug 4 pulls a blackjack from his coat pocket and walks ten feet toward Altair, awaiting the signal.
As the carriages arrive, Fitzroy excuses himself. "Just a moment." he promises, as he sets off to the nearest facilities.
Below, Holding action to blow whistle.
Fitzroy raises a policeman's whistle to his lips - ready to blow in an instant. "Come Mr Crowley - if you've business, let's discuss this like businessmen."
Aah! Well played Mister, oy don't b'lieve oy cawt ye name? Mr. Crowley says to George. Woll, we might git won off fore the coppers come anyways.
Thug 9 raises a pistol towards George.
Edgar remembers hearing about Mr. Crowley, but has never seen him despite his parish having more than a few encounters with members of the Ravens.
Altair raises his right hand, stepping forward slightly and discretely palming a playing card in his left. "Come, now, Shane, there's no need for this to get ugly." He casts his eyes about, examining the arrangement of the Ravens and picking out one that it looks like he could take down swiftly if Edgar were to distract him. Behind his back, he gestures for the Bobby to shift his position slightly, hopefully preparing them both to set up a flank on the man with the gun pointed at George. "I haven't hurt any one of your men, or you. Not a scratch. Surely this doesn't need to end in blood."
because maybe we don't have to kill each other? Altair is keenly aware that he has no nonlethal options in a scrap and he doesn't want a bunch of bodies on his hands, plus he really doesn't like his odds here. If it were a couple, with the rest of the crew for backup he'd be willing to try and steal one of their blackjacks, and use that. With this many people, he can't afford not to fight to kill because they're outnumbered and that might get him killed.
All of the rest of the Ravens gang members pull truncheons or clubs and begin to form a large semi-circle in front of the party.
Mr. Crowley responds to Altair, Give me 200 pounds Mr. Nikos and your friends can all walk away.
Altair takes another careful step forward, letting the playing card in his left hand slide into the empty wrist sheath. The conman raises both hands, smirking. Friends, he thought to himself, is overstating it a bit. Still, be seized the provided opening with both hands. "Now, I could do that, but I can't help but notice the glaring omission of myself in your offer." He kept his hands aloft, but with the conversation shifting to him he felt there was a possibility of concluding this with words.
And maybe some cleverly marked cards.
"So how about we play for it? I've some cards in my pocket. We play two of three hands. I win two, you let us go and forget we ever met. You win two, and 250 pounds are yours. Nothing being sold, no tricks, just fate and her favor deciding the day."
One can only hope the dice favor Mr. Crowley even less than me. Because that's a five.
The deck I'm looking for, in particular, is not one of my weaponised ones, but rather the cards from the cheating gambler's kit. Because fair play is most assuredly not on Altair's mind right now.
George smiles wryly at Crowley, and nods in acknowledgement of the play. "Fitzroy. Doctor Fitzroy, Mr Crowley." He sighs "Am I to understand that this unfinished business of yours is over the matter of two hundred pounds?"
"Mr Crowley. No-one is going to carry two hundred pounds on them in this neighbourhood - a fact I'm sure you know. Therefore I suspect that your comment is truly directed at Mr Nikos' companions - to whit, us. What do you want, Mr Crowley?"
"Further, I can assure you Mr Nikos is hardly a 'friend'. We share a goal, at the moment, and Mr Nikos appears - at least until this moment - as trustworthy help. I am curious to know how Mr Nikos came to owe you two hundred pounds. I'm afraid I can offer little in exchange, except the chance to blacken his name."
Ah, the bloke from Westminster. Him 'n his "Ravens" innit? Stone stands idly while Crowley and his new associates banter briefly, and then one of the Ravens thugs levels a pistol at Fitzroy. Oh, lads; now ye've gone 'n dunnit. A look of disapproval takes to his face as the banter continues and he makes a quick study of the men and their positions, his gaze finally resting on the gunman.
Ye're first, son.
Reagan, for her part, eyes the assortment of thugs with a thoroughly wary eye. She shifts her weight, slipping one hand inside her jacket to grip the worn wood of her uncle's gun and the other into her satchel, where her bombs sit in a bunch, swaddled in rough linens.
Reagan's going to ready an action to throw a bomb in the direction of the first thug to take a swing or a shot. The bombs deal 5 splash damage to targets within 5 yards as well, and are vs. Touch AC.
Standard: Readied Bomb Throw
Move: Draw Pistol in off hand
For reference, bomb misses fly off target in the following pattern:
1 2 3
4 X 5
6 7 8
"I've no time fer parlor games, Mr. Nikos," the gangster replied, "dare are rules. If I let ya pass oonscathed, others will say the Ravens gone soft."
"Owl tell yew what. I'll give ya a week to get me money. 250 pounds. Interest. We'll tail ya till then. Meet me at the Mariner's, Friday, 9 p.m." The Raven's leader signals with his hand and they draw back under the pier and disperse.
Altair waits until the Ravens disperse before muttering something distinctly nasty in Greek under his breath, swapping back to an English mutter after he got the cursing out of his system. "Should've just told him I was someone else. Might've worked better that way." He ran a hand through his hair before extricating his playing card from his sleeve and pocketing it once again.
"Apologies for the drama, lady, gentlemen. Some folks don't much care for finding out they've misinterpreted someone else, and Shane's not exactly the calmest sort to begin with. 's my problem, and I'll deal with it." He froze. "Wait. He had my card, and I never used that trick in front of him. Never used any card tricks in front of him, but he knew it was my card." He turned to the rest of the party with a grave expression. "Which means we've either a tail or a mole. I don't think it's anyone here, but... Lucretia, how much do you trust the men who drive your carriages?"
As the gang disperses, Reagan’s shoulders relax, followed by the rest of her body. She takes a moment to steady herself against the entrance of the maintenance tunnel. Once she has, she looks back at the Greek, cheeks flushing and eyes narrowing. She starts quietly. ”A misinterpretation, d’ya call it? Fine, so be it. I don’t much care for it, but your friendship with lyin’s between ya and someone higher up. But think about this, would ya?”
She smiles, but there’s no joy in her grin. ”I think you’re misinterpreting your friend, what’s his name again? Shane? Yep, you’re misinterpreting him. He doesn’t seem the type t’be turnin’ carriage-drivers, and d’ya think Lord Walker’s man’d not notice one of us were spyin? Will I be tellin’ ya more?” Reagan’s voice grows shill as it gets louder."Perhaps Shane there were’t so happy with what happened between ya too, and he had some contacts. Most groups do, ya know. And he followed those contacts until he found you.
But here’s what I figger happened. Ya were careless, and someone saw your cards, and that’s what tipped your hand. It’s happened to me once, workin’ with careless people, and it got me and mine into a lot of trouble. My brother wouldn’t be in Barwon, I’d still have my tooth, and Ireland would probably be free of you limeys if the Brotherhood had been a bit more careful—”
She stops suddenly, moving a hand to cover her mouth before waving toward the maintenance entrance. ”Ya know what, forget it. We have enough trouble with the Sluaghs and Leahan and God knows what else. Let’s get in there so we can get out.” She digs through her satchel, pulling out her mining lantern. ”After you, Constable.”
|
|
Thomas raises his eyebrow as Nikos curses. So he speaks Greek, and it sounds like it's his native language because he curses in it. Hmm. Thomas thinks to himself.
"It's unlikely you had a mole Altair, considering you were Mr. Clarke up until recently. And even if you did, it's unlikely they would identify your card sticking out of the wood with you and bother to take it.' Thomas cocks his head slightly. "It's not impossible though. Best be careful."
Fitzroy raises an eyebrow.
"Indeed, Brother Thomas and Miss Faolan likely have the right of it. I worried a card embedded in wood was a unique calling..." he stops himself "sign."
"Now - let's hope the noise of the confrontation hasn't reached our targets." As he speaks, Fitzroy puts down his dog, and breaks out his glowing metal tube.
Fitzroy acts cool, but he's clutching his dog, and the hand on his cane is white knuckled. When he switches to the tube, the light wavers on the wall enough to reveal a shaking hand.
What in the bloody hell was that about, Mr. "Nikos? I'm telling you that if we cover your 'expenses', it comes out of your cut, not to mention the distraction from our intended task. Lucretia berates Mr.Nikos out of anger and frustration at suddenly being accosted by strange street gangs.
Flustered, she looks toward George to inquire about his well-being.
George, are you okay?
"Been a while since there was a gun pointed at my head." Fitzroy smiles shakily "Reminded me of some things I'd rather forget. You've no cause to fear I've a weak character though. A Fitzroy doesn't flinch from a righteous fight."
The doctor mentally diagnoses himself 'I expect it'll be nightmares again for the next few nights. Better to get this over with before fatigue drags me down.'
The group travels single-file down a long tunnel, about five feet wide. The tunnel is about 300 yards long until finally, it opens up into a dilapidated cavern that used to be storage for parts, tools and machines for the Metropolitan Underground Railway system. That moniker is painted upon the side of some of the crates. Others, have tops missing and are filled with dirt. You look around at the old crates and various items strewn about and notice significant blood stains upon the wall. The cavern is exactly where the map said it was.
Suddenly, four figures appear before you exactly as Lucretia described her attackers. Hands to their sides, they sport long claws as the middle one speaks, John said you'd be pokin around where you don't belong. Now prepare to be the feast.