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Authors: Jillian Stone
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mouth. “Exactly how Victoria puts it.”
The beautiful, tortured faces paled as the spheres grew more luminous and withdrew. Phaeton launched himself out of the gaming annex and into the public room. “Hold on—might there be a clue? A suspect, perhaps? A suspicious troll in the Underground ?” The orbs whirled up into the air before he finished his query.
Cautiously, America and the doctor joined Phaeton, scanning the untidy room for signs of life. The shadow figures in the corners appeared to be on the move. Pivoting in place, she could plainly see the sharp edge of four swords. The blades glowed just before they discharged a swathe of potent energy. Nothing overly destructive—more like a warning. The hooded sentries emerged from their respective corners, each directing a pale blue ribbon of light at the retreating Gorgons.
The faceless, hooded monks appeared to use just enough energy to put the press on the snake-headed goddesses. The globes withdrew from the room, and presumably, back to wherever Gorgons come from.
The cloaked figures sheathed their weapons. The largest sentry crushed a piece of furniture underfoot and kicked it out of the way as it approached Phaeton. The hood hung low over the face, hiding its eyes. She could just make out a strong mouth and chin—chiseled with a bit of stubble. A whisper of smoke curled away from the glowing ash of a cigar. Male, certainly, but she suspected this entity wasn’t entirely human. There was a faint metallic scent—she sniffed again just to make sure. Rusted iron, the smell of blood mixed with something from the bestial realms.
The hooded stranger clenched the butt end of the cigar between his teeth. “I don’t believe we’ve met, Mr. Black. Captain Jersey Blood, at your service.”
Chapter Seven
“C APTAIN B LOOD .” Phaeton sized up the man under the cloak. Slightly taller and a bit more brawn, but he could take him in a fight, he was sure of it. “Out of your regimentals this evening, or is your rank self-styled?”
A sardonic grin released another wisp of smoke. “A visitation from Gorgons will draw Reapers or Grubbers—you must leave this place.”
Phaeton cocked an ear. “Reapers and what—?”
“Scavengers. Outremer dregs.” The captain quite deliberately gave America an up and down look. When his gaze moved over her again, Phaeton blocked the man’s view.
During introductions, the captain’s cohorts had closed in, surrounding them. Another large male stood between two smaller framed sentries—females, he was sure of it. A series of rhythmic, low-pitched whirs and clicks emanated from the shadows of the sentry’s hood. Phaeton tilted his head to see better. The man wore some kind of mechanical apparatus that wound around his throat and over one side of his face.
Phaeton motioned Exeter to close ranks, and a lithe and lovely arm slipped out from the cloaking garment to escort the doctor. Exeter nodded toward the brute of a claymore the self-styled leader held in his hand. “Impressive swords, as well as your cadre.”
The captain spoke again in a husky whisper. “Follow us.”
Phaeton swept a loose bottle off the floor. He used his shirt sleeve to wipe off the lip, and knocked back a shot. “Why?”
The man named Blood stopped and turned. Eyes Phaeton could feel but couldn’t see studied him. Then Exeter. Then America. He felt a tentative probe into his thoughts. “We will see you safely to Pennyfields.”
This strange band of monks obviously fancied themselves protectors. The captain nodded to a side exit.
Phaeton narrowed his gaze. “You first.”
Outside the Silver Lion they found themselves in a blind court full of hysterical pub crawlers. The piercing shriek of police whistles could be heard as far away as Commercial Road. One could only assume, after a disturbance of this magnitude, the Metropolitan police were about to converge on High Street.
Capes flew up into the air and formed a cloaking veil that
The beautiful, tortured faces paled as the spheres grew more luminous and withdrew. Phaeton launched himself out of the gaming annex and into the public room. “Hold on—might there be a clue? A suspect, perhaps? A suspicious troll in the Underground ?” The orbs whirled up into the air before he finished his query.
Cautiously, America and the doctor joined Phaeton, scanning the untidy room for signs of life. The shadow figures in the corners appeared to be on the move. Pivoting in place, she could plainly see the sharp edge of four swords. The blades glowed just before they discharged a swathe of potent energy. Nothing overly destructive—more like a warning. The hooded sentries emerged from their respective corners, each directing a pale blue ribbon of light at the retreating Gorgons.
The faceless, hooded monks appeared to use just enough energy to put the press on the snake-headed goddesses. The globes withdrew from the room, and presumably, back to wherever Gorgons come from.
The cloaked figures sheathed their weapons. The largest sentry crushed a piece of furniture underfoot and kicked it out of the way as it approached Phaeton. The hood hung low over the face, hiding its eyes. She could just make out a strong mouth and chin—chiseled with a bit of stubble. A whisper of smoke curled away from the glowing ash of a cigar. Male, certainly, but she suspected this entity wasn’t entirely human. There was a faint metallic scent—she sniffed again just to make sure. Rusted iron, the smell of blood mixed with something from the bestial realms.
The hooded stranger clenched the butt end of the cigar between his teeth. “I don’t believe we’ve met, Mr. Black. Captain Jersey Blood, at your service.”
Chapter Seven
“C APTAIN B LOOD .” Phaeton sized up the man under the cloak. Slightly taller and a bit more brawn, but he could take him in a fight, he was sure of it. “Out of your regimentals this evening, or is your rank self-styled?”
A sardonic grin released another wisp of smoke. “A visitation from Gorgons will draw Reapers or Grubbers—you must leave this place.”
Phaeton cocked an ear. “Reapers and what—?”
“Scavengers. Outremer dregs.” The captain quite deliberately gave America an up and down look. When his gaze moved over her again, Phaeton blocked the man’s view.
During introductions, the captain’s cohorts had closed in, surrounding them. Another large male stood between two smaller framed sentries—females, he was sure of it. A series of rhythmic, low-pitched whirs and clicks emanated from the shadows of the sentry’s hood. Phaeton tilted his head to see better. The man wore some kind of mechanical apparatus that wound around his throat and over one side of his face.
Phaeton motioned Exeter to close ranks, and a lithe and lovely arm slipped out from the cloaking garment to escort the doctor. Exeter nodded toward the brute of a claymore the self-styled leader held in his hand. “Impressive swords, as well as your cadre.”
The captain spoke again in a husky whisper. “Follow us.”
Phaeton swept a loose bottle off the floor. He used his shirt sleeve to wipe off the lip, and knocked back a shot. “Why?”
The man named Blood stopped and turned. Eyes Phaeton could feel but couldn’t see studied him. Then Exeter. Then America. He felt a tentative probe into his thoughts. “We will see you safely to Pennyfields.”
This strange band of monks obviously fancied themselves protectors. The captain nodded to a side exit.
Phaeton narrowed his gaze. “You first.”
Outside the Silver Lion they found themselves in a blind court full of hysterical pub crawlers. The piercing shriek of police whistles could be heard as far away as Commercial Road. One could only assume, after a disturbance of this magnitude, the Metropolitan police were about to converge on High Street.
Capes flew up into the air and formed a cloaking veil that
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