#everkings

One of the houses always attracted attention. Elongated with rounded portico above the main entrance, last year it had been stripped of tasteless plaster, leaving bare the masonry and brickwork. Someone commissioned a whole new set of various decorative elements that contrasted with their alabaster whiteness against the dark red of bricks. Tall windows never shone brightly with light, but glimmered seductively. A small garden, kept well and neat, covered all ground between the outer fence and the house itself. Clearly occupied, this house never seemed to be quite loud or active, only a coach interrupting the gloom tranquility of this place once or twice a week.

It stood right there, in front of the main entrance, awaiting its only passenger. Seemingly plain, up close one would notice rich decorations that covered most of its surface. Quality of leather used for horse’s reins appeared better than most people would wear. A coachman hastily held the door open, awaiting his client, and while he had a moment, he produced a small tin box of tobacco, and started stuffing his pipe.

Double doors of the mansion flew open as a stern-looking lady walked out, sliding her hands into gloves, and a man in an old-fashioned powdered wig chased after her.

“Madam, shall we expect you for dinner?” Man in the wig inquired, his voice breaking up as he obviously ran out of breath.

“No, I shan’t be back until Friday,” the lady replied. Her attire, whatever it was, protruded weirdly from underneath a thick coat she wore. She gestured at the coachman, commanding him to move, and got into the coach with barely one jump.

“May the God watch over you, Madam,” the wig man bowed to her, watching the coachman close the door.

“Stay safe, Mordechai,” the lady responded, situating herself inside the coach for travel. She knocked impatiently upon an exposed piece of wood underneath her window, and the coachman hurried to take his position.

“Where to, Ma’am?” A raspy voice of the coachman came from the outside.

“Corner of Birch Street and St. Geffrey’s,” the lady ordered. “Make it before dusk and there’ll be a reward for you.”

“Sure thing, Ma’am!”

The coachman eagerly tightened the reins, prompting the horse to start moving, and the coach left the handsome mansion of Falloway Street and headed east.

Isabeau listened for a while to a rhythmic sound of horse’s hooves against paved streets, but when she caught herself drifting away into sleep, she took out her crossbow, and started checking its elements.

This piece of equipment, handed to her by Tesla years ago, remained in superb condition after all these years. All new weapons and various accessories that new mechanics produced wouldn’t hold a candle to the most simple machinery Tesla would whip out during his lunch break. Isabeau ran her fingers along one of crossbow’s shoulders, smiling, and fixed her weapon where it belonged.

The coach stopped some time later, letting a whole caravan of coaches pass, and using the moment, Isabeau looked out of her window. They almost escaped the stench of Whitechapel, leaving the dirty alleyways and narrow streets behind them, but she could still see red lanterns and yellow smoke of opium dens. Feeling its smell tickle inside her nostrils, she threw herself deeper inside the coach, drew the curtain, and dove deep inside her thoughts.

She might have fallen asleep, but the sound of creaking door of the coach woke her up eventually. It woke her up because the coach continued moving, and the door was being opened. Enraged and ready to take on whomever entered, she pointed the crossbow at the door.

“I should shoot you right this instant,” she gritted her teeth and peered into a dark hooded figure.

“You would’ve done it already,” the figure dismissed her threat and seated itself on a bench opposite of Isabeau. The figure extended an arm, closed the open coach door, and got rid of a brown hood that obscured the man’s face.

“You have to have some nerve to show up like this, Grayson,” Isabeau aimed her crossbow right into the center of his forehead.

“Merry Christmas to you, too,” he greeted her.

They examined each other for a full minute. Isabeau noted that a new web of tiny wrinkles extended from outer corners of Grayson’s eyes up to his temples. Although his hair remained black, it certainly became longer. His bushy moustache remained the same, however.

“You look good,” she broke the silence. “I wish you didn’t.”

“You look delightful, as always,” remarked Grayson.

He seemed lack any expression both in his face and his tone. Slightly taken aback with his impassionate voice, Isabeau tapped with a tip of her boot against the coach door, trying to get the coachman to stop, but Grayson lifted up his hand:

“No use, the coachman will get us to the destination without interruption.”

“This is absurd,” Isabeau almost pressed her crossbow against Grayson’s forehead. “Kayne is my coachman, and he wouldn’t betray me for any kind of money.”

“You don’t pay much attention these days, do you?” Grayson’s voice sounded tired above all else. His eyes, still clear, pierced through Isabeau, as if observing her very brain. “You made two mistakes already, Isabeau. For once, you did not look your coachman in the face. And that is extremely dangerous for a lady these days.”

Isabeau’s eyes widened.

“What have you done to Kayne?” She roared, getting up on her feet and balancing inside the moving coach. “Where is Kayne?”

“Second,” Grayson continued, “you may have sharpened your blades recently, but you forgot to load your crossbow.”

As if she had been thrown into cold water, Isabeau followed with her eyes along the body of her weapon. And indeed. She left it empty. An unloaded crossbow, like a toy, aimed at Grayson’s forehead.

With a sigh, Isabeau sat back.

“Well, what do you have to say for yourself, then?” She asked, crossing her hands on her chest. “I assume you came here to apologize and present evidence of your innocence.”

“No,” Grayson shook his head. “I’m here to hear exactly the same. From you.”

Isabeau stared at him in disbelief, letting out an exasperated sigh.

“Me? Apologize?” She leaned closer to Grayson. “You murder my brother, my father, you side with unknown enemies of the Empire, and you expect an apology from me?”

Suddenly, Grayson let out a soft laughter and smiled.

“Isn’t it funny how our memory fails us as time goes by? My memory tells me I should expect an apology for wrongful accusation of murder of my friends, and at least some sort of reward for exposing a large plot against both the Order and the Half-breeds.”

“Prove you are nothing but a victim of that plot, and we shall talk equal,” declared Isabeau, clearing her throat.

Grayson’s silent smirk that she knew all too well infuriated her. Isabeau contemplated jumping out of the coach any second while Grayson occupied himself with his coat’s pockets.

“What is this?” Surprised, Isabeau stared at a medium-sized rectangular object Grayson attempted to give her. It reminded her of a packet from a butchery – same brown paper, same string that held it together.

“The exchange,” Grayson said. “As you wanted.”

“What is this?” She repeated her question, this time with irritation in her tone.

“No need to pretend, Izzy,” Grayson’s impassiveness changed to irritation as well. “Blackwater concentrate you wanted in exchange for Nikola’s safety.”

“What are you even talking about?” Isabeau furrowed her brows.

“Dear God,” exhaled Grayson.

Merely a second later, horses neighed and whinnied so loudly that Isabeau’s ears rang. They fell silent almost immediately, stopping the coach in the middle of nowhere. Both Grayson and Isabeau stood up on their feet, drawing and loading their weapons, when the coach shook violently.

“Jump!” Yelled Isabeau, reaching to the coach door to open it.

Before she could, however, the coach shook in a different way. It shook very gently, yet it made Isabeau weak in her knees. One look at Grayson showed that he experienced the same. Holding her breath, Isabeau looked out the coach window, and gasped. She saw that several meters separated their coach from the ground. Dark shadows with bright eyes snuck beneath them, mangling the horses, grinning. Waiting for the coach to fall down.

“Jump, jump, jump!” Isabeau screamed.

As the coach went down, they both jumped.

Grayson came to first. Groaning and hearing slurping somewhere near, he slowly checked his ribs. They remained intact, although his entire body ached. Only after the ringing in his ears stopped, he lifted himself a bit on his elbows, looking around.

While the chewed-on carcass of the horse was being dragged away by a dark shadow, an almost naked man with reddish hair positioned body of an unconscious Isabeau among the rubble. He handled her with intimate gentleness, going as far as fixing her disheveled hair and outfit.

“I feel foolish for agreeing with your plan,” muttered Grayson, catching his breath. “I regret almost everything I’ve done in the past months.”

“Don’t be so glum,” Alistair dropped on his knees next to Grayson, checking his lower body and legs. “Nothing seems to be broken. You’re fine.”

“Well, if anything, I don’t feel fine,” complained Grayson. Alistair extended his arm to him, and helped the older man stand up. He held him until Grayson’s knees stopped shaking, and his breath returned to normal. “How high did you throw us?”

“Barely up to the rooftops, in case Isabeau jumped,” replied Alistair, leading Grayson to the curb. “Just as planned.”

“When you said your plan included crashing the carriage, I did not expect this,” Grayson moaned. “How’s the little one?”

Crunching and munching sounds came from the alleyway where the horse carcass disappeared, mixed in with squeaks and delighted peeps.

“Dinner’s almost over, sounds like,” Alistair picked up neatly folded clothes that he hid underneath a newspaper spread near a streetlamp. “We should be off in less than five.”

Grayson nodded.

“Where’s the package?”

“Where Isabeau would see it when she wakes up,” Alistair motioned at the only surviving coach cushion. Upon it sat the brown paper-wrapped object. “Along with the note.”

With Alistair dressed, Grayson took a tiny sip of blackwater. He waited for Alistair to head towards the dark alleyway, watching out for any curious man or woman that would betray their contract and look out their windows. However, the money seemed to buy their curiousity well enough, and not a single face showed between the curtains.

“Here we are,” Alistair reappeared with a small child in his hands. He wiped her mouth with his handkerchief, almost cooing gently at her. “Excited to see auntie?”

The child in his hands laughed in delight, waving her hands around Alistair’s chin.

“Enough of this,” Grayson heard sirens in the distance. “We must retreat.”

They walked up the street that connected to a Jewish quarter, and disappeared in a dark crowd that crawled along the sidewalk. They heard the moment Isabeau’s coach had been discovered, and quickened their pace as policemen and Order members started their search.

“I still don’t like the idea of leaving her like that,” Grayson confessed along the way.

“You dislike it? I’m her brother!” Protested Alistar. “I hate it. But if she believes she has a traitor or a loose cannon in her forces, it may all be justified to the end.”

“Seems like half of our actions have to hope that the end will justify them,” whispered Grayson. The baby squealed and tried to grab him by the hood.

They went deeper into the quarter and passed by a kosher butchery. The baby started slapping Alistair’s shoulders and pouting, blowing raspberries, motioning towards the large man with a meat cleaver.

“No, you just had dinner,” Alistair said in a tone that did not suggest argument. “Wait until we get home.”

The baby blew bubbles in protest, but remained quiet for the rest of their journey.

They crossed roads and looped through London excessively. At one point they indeed acquired a tail, but they lost it just as easily. They passed through Whitechapel again, prompting a few prostitutes to slide against them, but most of women backed away at the sight of the child. Grayson stopped for a moment to chat one of them up, allowing Alistair to get ahead.

“Oh, don’t you just smell nice,” the prostitute’s deep voice contrasted with her powdered appearance. “Ten shillings just for you, love, and I’ll make you forget all kinds of things.”

“How about I pay you to take care of my friend?” Grayson dropped coins into her hand. “Laurent’s apartments, room 32. His name is Kayne.”

“Sure thing, love,” the prostitute winked at him. “But do come back.”

Grayson examined trinkets that a crooked man sold near one of the brothels. He then tailed Alistair all the way to Grosvenor square, where they waited for a solid quarter of an hour to pass before a servant girl ran out of one of the houses and motioned for them to come forward.

“Is this her?” She inquired, pointing at the child in Alistair’s arms. “Looks kinda hungry, if you as me.”

“She just ate,” Alistair assured the servant. “We will pick her up in the morning, as usual.”

“Yeah, yeah,” the girl took the baby in her arms, rocking her ever so slightly. The baby yawned and placed her head on the servant girl’s shoulder, closing her eyes. She appeared innocent and sleepy, and not at all like a little demon she was before.

“For your trouble,” Alistair pressed five guineas into the servant girl’s hand.

She smiled widely at Alistair, and the man smiled back. Grayson impatiently waited for Alistair to say his goodbyes to the small abomination, and the two of them made a few more loops through the city before appearing at the Grosvenor Square again. But this time they headed towards a corner building that brandished an apothecary sign.

“Evening, gentlemen,” an apprentice with face peppered with pimples greeted them as the doorbell rang. “What can I do for you?”

“We’re here for your lemon drops,” announced Alistair, taking off his coat.

The apprentice nodded, wiping his hands with his apron, and picked up a key from a stand with an electricity machine. He escorted Alistair and Grayson into an adjoining room, where he stuck the key into a small hole next to a sink, and rotated it three times counter-clockwise.

The same moment, a shelf with various vials of brightly colored liquids started rotating slowly. It slid along the wall, at last, revealing a small opening. The apprentice then excused himself, and returned to the front room. He started up the pill-making machine that emitted such noise that it’d disguise even a series of gunshots.

“You go first,” Alistair shrugged at Grayson. “You explain him.”

“This is going to be the worst part of my day,” sighed Grayson.

He headed through the small opening and descended couple flights of stairs. He heard Alistair’s footsteps behind him, spending the entire time thinking of a way to calm down the imminent disappointment and imminent sadness.

“What are you going to tell them?” Asked Alistair when they stood in front of a tightly shut door.

“Everything,” replied Grayson.

With a heavy heart, he knocked on the door.

“Who is there?” A familiar voice sounded from the other side.

“Galahad and Lucan,” Grayson examined a miniature sliding window that for some reason remained closed. “Let us in.”

“First, answer my question,” the voice insisted.

“Lord, forgive me,” Alistair sighed heavily.

“Please,” pleaded Grayson, “I’ve already been dropped down a three-story building’s height…”

“What is the speed of a swallow?”

Both men groaned in dissatisfaction.

“Tesla, enough of these games!” Alistair knocked on the door much harder. “How are we supposed to know such things?”

The door flew open, revealing very much alive and safe Nikola Tesla. Corners of his mouth twitched nervously.

“Then how am I supposed to know what to do with my time?” He spoke. “You were supposed to be here hours ago. Now everything’s ruined!”

“Nikola,” Grayson pointed at his clothes. “Let me change, and then you can scold me until the end of times.”

“Enter,” Tesla left the entryway and stepped deeper inside. “But know that I do not receive you with pleasure.”

Grayson followed him into a brightly lit laboratory, stuffed to the brim with tables and shelves. All visible surfaces were covered in sketches, engineering equipment, half-completed projects and highly experimental contraptions that Grayson feared with his life. Ever since Tesla had been allowed to run free with his inventions and without any directions from the Order, his creations became deadlier and less sensible by the minute.

Grayson took off his coat and threw it on the nearest chair. As he loosened his collar, he caught a sight of something shiny and bright hiding underneath one of the tables.

“What is this?” He asked Tesla, reaching out to the rectangle object. “Nikola, what is this?”

Underneath a table with multiple assembled shotguns Grayson found a whole pile of Christmas presents, each wrapped with bright glossy paper. One of them undoubtedly resembled a large doll box, and couple more appeared books.

“There was a Christmas tree, too,” Tesla told him. “But, uh, there was an accident.”

“Oh, so I am not insane and it does smell like burnt pinecones in here,” Alistair strolled by. “Why such sudden passion for Christmas, Nikola?”

“Because Christmas is the only normal thing we could provide for that child,” Tesla suddenly snapped, picking up and dropping a wrench. “Besides,” he moved his head to look at Grayson, “Devi and Lakshmi stopped here earlier. They brought food.”

Now Grayson noticed a decorated sugar white cake that stood on a separate table underneath a see-through glass container.

“Is that one of your coils serving as a cake cap?” He whistled.

“I asked you both politely to bring me proper china,” Tesla impatiently hid all of the presents under the table again. “Unless you do, this will have to suffice.”

Grayson observed Tesla for few more minutes while he argued with Alistair. He behaved a bit more erratically, probably a consequence of his prolonged stay in this laboratory.

“And it is not only for you to decide where she goes!” Tesla poked Alistair’s chest with his index finger. “I am responsible for her, too!”

“Nikola, I promise that tomorrow she’ll be here,” Grayson assured him. “And you would celebrate Christmas just as you planned.”

“Well,” immediately, Tesla sounded both taken aback and calmer. “That is good to know. Tomorrow, and on January, 7th.”

“I promise,” Grayson took a roll of paper from the nearest table. “Now, can we get back to this?”

Tesla threw his hands up in the air and dashed towards the opposite end of the room.

“I am somewhat jealous of that child,” Alistair noted. “She got to celebrate at least four birthdays and has two Christmas celebrations a year because of our little multicultural group.”

“I am still amazed she takes interest in cakes,” remarked Grayson, spreading the bluepring across the table. “I am also astonished that Tesla seems more and more adamant to increase the cost of his celebrations each time.”

Alistair wanted to say something, but he stopped himself.

“I believe,” he started quietly, “that he is afraid that our survival till next holiday is less likely than the last. And since he lost hope to regain our positions within the Order, he hangs onto little pleasures he has. Such as entertaining a child with a tree covered in electric lights that are able to kill people.”

Grayson scoffed, rolling up his sleeves.