Page 39 of Summoner of Sins

The carriage slowed, and he jumped lightly down, hiding himself in the deepening shadows. It stopped in front of a large church. Even in the dying light, Max could see the exterior was dilapidated, the stone moss-covered, and the windows filthy. But, as he snuck through the shadows and peered into a window near the back, he could see the interior was anything but.

Rich gold candelabras filled the space, the altar shined with a glistening polish. The exterior was nothing but a disguise. What happened here that they needed secrecy? He didn’t have to wait long for the answer. A hundred men, at least, filled the space, all of them dropping to their knees as a single man stepped up to the altar. In the candlelight, Max caught the profile of Whitehouse. Long white robes adorned his body and on his head was a crown.

“Your majesty,” came a call from the crowd.

“Our king,” another called. Whitehouse raised his hands silencing them, and then his voice boomed over the assembly.

“Men. We gather here tonight with one single mission. To reshape England. To put in power men of purity, of integrity and with a moral compass.” A cheer rose from the crowd.

On and on it went. A speech that denigrated every level of British aristocracy and its moral impurities right to the Queen. The Queen most of all. His words stole Max’s breath. The accusations he made about her lack of morality, her personal relationships, and his plans to rise to the highest position in England were enough to have him instantly beheaded.

A slow smile spread across Max’s face. He was going to win after all…but perhaps his celebration was too premature. As he focused back on the meeting, he found the gaze of one of the men in the audience pointed directly at him. Ducking down, he tried to hide, but it was too late. He heard the cry of warning echoing through the vaulted ceilings of the church. He didn’t wait to find out what they might do next. As fast as his feet would carry him, he ran.

The church was on the east side of London, in a neighborhood where poverty reigned, and silence could surely be bought with a few coins. Max knew he’d find little help here, but there were also a great many places to hide.

He heard the roar of men pouring out of the church. He needed to put more distance between himself and Whitehouse’s men. As he burst out into the courtyard of several buildings, the yells of Whitehouse’s men nipping at his ears, an old man looked at him, silent for a moment before he yelled. “Here!”

“Fuck,” Max grit out the word before sprinting again. He cut this way and that, sticking to the shadows, avoiding anyone. As the calls and cries grew more distant, he stopped to catch his breath and assess where he was. Could he hide? Wait for the storm to pass?

“There,” a man yelled and Max, with a quick jerk of his head, noted ten men in pursuit.

He took off again, running for a narrow alley. As he approached the end, he found it blocked by two men. One held a pistol and Max froze. It wasn’t fear but instinct. He’d been in battle.

The man fired and Max hit the ground, the bullet flying over his head. He heard the sharp cry of one of the men behind him even as he jumped up, drawing out his short sword. Charging, he cut down one man and then grabbed the other and shoved him with all his force at the other men trailing him. It gave him just enough time to take a quick right and then another left.

Three men appeared in front of him. He was like a rat trapped in a maze. Gripping the hilt of his sword tighter, he went straight for them. His strategy worked, as two of them dove out of the way. Only one man took his challenge, the clash of their swords ringing out in the night. Max gave a loud curse, knowing he’d alerted the others with the sound. With a quick thrust, he ran the man through and then set off again, his legs and lungs burning with the effort. He could not die tonight.

In his heart, he’d made all sorts of promises, ones he wanted to keep. He could hear the footsteps behind him, growing louder. How many men could he fight off? How long until they overwhelmed him, or someone fired a pistol and hit him with lead? As if he’d imagined it into being, five men appeared before him, all with guns leveled. This was it, he was going to die.

“Down,” one commanded, the voice ringing with familiarity. He didn’t hesitate, dropping as all five men fired.

It only took a moment to understand he’d found allies. Jumping up again, he made a break for them. That’s when he recognized the Devil, one of his club members. He’d never been so happy to see the man in his entire life.

“What are you doing here?” he ground out as he broke through their line, pulling a pistol of his own, even as the men reloaded.

“I was in the meeting,” Devil said with a wink. “Along with several of Her Majesty’s soldiers. In disguise of course.”

“But how?”

“You and the Master ought to have asked. I used my military connections to infiltrate their ranks.”

Why hadn’t he thought of that? Max leveled his pistol along with the others even as the eight or nine men chasing them stopped. Twenty paces away, they raised their hands.

Max didn’t feel particularly merciful. “Take them into custody. Deliver them to the Queen.”

Pistols raised, the soldiers did as he commanded. Ahead, he noted that he’d run his way to the border of Cheapside. He needed to return to Sophie.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

For the second day in a row, Sophie found herself pacing. She didn’t even bother to retreat to the library, walking up and down the grand entry from the front of the house to the back. Ironheart, determined to keep her company, but tired of standing, pulled a chair to the archway of the formal sitting room. He’d poured himself a whisky and, every third pass, he’d offer it to her for a sip.

“It never occurred to me, until I watched you, that it might be nice to have a woman who worried after you.”

She looked over at him, her brows lifting. Sophie knew he wasn’t speaking specifically of her. First, he seemed to fully support her relationship with Max, but second, Ironheart treated her how she’d imagined a brother might. “What sort of woman do you think would suit you?”

“Docile, probably. Sweet.”

Sophie snorted, glad for the distraction. She wasn’t generally prone to snorting, which made her wonder how much of Ironheart’s whisky she’d consumed.

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