rafters above. Had it been upstairs in bright sunlight, it was the sort of workshop Bancroft might have used himself in long-ago days. But that was not what caught his attention. It was the row of cages that ran along two sides of the room. They were the source of the stink—the combined odors of unwashed humanity, airless quarters, night soil, and despair.
Wordlessly, Bancroft walked toward them. On some level, he knew Harriman—or rather, Han Zuiweng—had kept the workers secure lest they run away or tell someone they had been forced into an outrageous forgery scheme. He just hadn’t let his imagination conjure what keeping them secure might mean.
A coldness took root in Bancroft’s belly, spreading like frost through every vein. Despite his years of supping with villains, he shuddered. Then he hated himself for the weakness. “Is this what you wanted me to see?”
“There is one final detail.” Harriman crossed the floor to stand beside him. “We have taken care of the workers, but there is still Han.”
Bancroft remembered the conversation they’d had at Hilliard House.
“Han is more dangerous than the rest put together.”
“So kill him.” But Bancroft knew that was more easily said than done. He had only met the foreman once before, but wouldn’t soon forget the encounter. Big Han, Han Zuiweng, Drunken Han, Han the Devil—whatever one called him—was a huge creature who stood a head taller than Bancroft and was at least twice his weight in solid muscle.
Harriman paled. “If you help me, I’ll make good what was stolen from your girl. I’ll share my cut of the gold.”
Despite himself, Bancroft’s pulse skipped. He stood a bit straighter, but was careful to keep any emotion out of his voice. Harriman was the underling, the one who should be taking orders instead of giving them—but this was clearly the kind of detail he couldn’t manage. If Bancroft wanted Han silenced, he would have to get his hands dirty. “Do you have a plan?”
Harriman gave a reptilian smile, but it faded quickly. Sweat dewed his temples. “Yes. I drugged his wine. It made him compliant enough that I could lead him into a cage before he passed out. But he’s been sleeping for hours, and I don’t think the drug will last much longer.”
He waved a hand toward the last cage in the row. It was deep in shadow, but when Bancroft squinted he could just make out a shape slumped against the rough stone wall. “What do you want me to do? Shoot him?”
Harriman made a helpless gesture. “Someone has to. Hiring another killer to take care of it would merely complicate matters.”
“Why not you? You could have done it the moment he fell asleep.”
Harriman’s helplessness turned to steel. “I’ve done enough.”
“And if I do the shooting, then I’m implicated further. Another reason my silence is guaranteed and you are protected.” Bancroft nearly laughed. “Oh, don’t look so abashed. These moves are as predictable as a cotillion. I’ve been at this far longer than you. And none of this is more than my word against yours if you don’t have witnesses.”
Harriman’s eyes flickered. “Well, I wonder if you
A spike of fury blanked Bancroft’s vision for an instant—an anger so acute that he sucked in a hiss of breath. Bancroft considered shooting Harriman instead, and gold be damned. Unfortunately, he didn’t want Keating to get curious when his cousin turned up missing. “You have no idea who you’re playing with.”
“Oh, I do. And I’m taking no chances, milord.” Harriman’s voice was icy. “And you’re quite correct. I shall make sure that you keep your part of our bargain.”
Bancroft stopped before the cage. The bars were old, rusted iron woven in an ornate pattern that made him think of an antique menagerie. But what he’d thought was a sleeping man was just a pile of old clothes. “Harriman, what is this?”
The man had gone pale as a mushroom. “Dear God, he’s loose.” He grabbed the cage door and swung it open. “He broke the lock clean off.”
Bancroft swore under his breath. “Suggestions?”
The shadows seemed suddenly thicker, as if they were congealing into smoke. Harriman wheeled around, as if trying to look in every direction at once. “Bancroft, listen to me. Han has a pet.”
“A pet?”
“A creature to call. It guards this place, but somehow he controls it.”
Bancroft was growing irritated. The cavern seemed to be growing darker. “A dog?”
“No, it’s a thing. A foreign thing. He spelled it into the warehouse to keep out thieves.”
“You’re making no sense,” Bancroft snapped.
“Harriman,” a voice growled behind them. “You broke honor.”
They spun, and there was Big Han. He had moved as silently as the shadows that wreathed him. His only garment was loose-fitting trousers, leaving his massive chest bare. Heavy leather bracelets studded with brass clasped his wrists. He was bald as a rock, but thick black mustaches drooped past his chin. His eyes were dark and cold as a December night. Bancroft had no trouble believing Han had torn a dozen men to pieces and tossed them into the Stygian waters of the hidden river.
Everyone froze, as if unwilling to see what would happen the moment after the tableau dissolved. Tension screamed up Bancroft’s neck. He longed to reach for the Enfield, but he forced himself to wait. Timing was all.
The darkness began to crackle, as if something burned. All around them, the smoke roiled, starting to solidify, and it became clear what Harriman had meant about Han’s pet—it was some sort of conjured beast. A clawed foot raked the air, a hairbreadth from Bancroft’s head. Bancroft swore, barely getting out a single pungent syllable before terror clogged his throat. Violence and blood he could bear, but not sorcery. Every man had a private fear, and magic was his. He felt himself begin to shake.
Without warning, Harriman shoved Bancroft toward Han and bolted for the stairs. Bancroft stumbled, losing his hat and falling to one knee with a painful crack against the stone. Han lunged for Harriman, catching the man’s shoulder in one huge hand. Harriman spun, limbs flailing like a doll tossed by a child.
Harriman dangled in the air as Han stomped a foot into Bancroft’s face. Bancroft toppled backward, trying to draw the pistol but flopping helplessly from another brutal kick before he could reach it. Harriman landed in a heap beside him, his lungs emptying in a wheeze.
Han made a growl like a Rottweiler. The congealing smoke twined up his legs, a slow, sensual caress. The huge man stepped forward, as graceful as he was massive, and reached for Bancroft. An image of the bloodstained floor upstairs flashed through Bancroft’s brain.
Bancroft groped for the Enfield, slapped and fumbled for the butt beneath his coat, got tangled in his watch chain, and finally discovered it under his hip. He rolled as Han’s paw clutched the back of his coat, pinning him for a second, but Bancroft kicked out, twisting hard enough to rip the seams that held the fabric together. The motion brought him directly under the man’s ugly face. Bancroft drew the Enfield, cocked it, and fired. The sound blared against the stone walls, echoing as if a dozen charges fired. A small, round hole appeared on Han’s forehead. Brains and skull spewed into the air behind him. Bancroft squirmed out of the way just in time to avoid the crushing fall of Han’s body.
Something screamed, long and fierce. Bancroft staggered to his feet with a grunt, feeling every bone and muscle in searing detail. He clutched his weapon and swept the muzzle in an arc, aiming toward one corner, then another, but the shadows were fading, seeping back into the stone and fetid air. He realized he was breathing too fast, and forced himself to slow. He was shivering, his gut cramping with fear, but the crisis was past.
A quick look down told him Han wouldn’t be getting up again—not without the back of his head. For good or ill, Harriman would fight another day. After pawing the ground a moment, the man hauled himself to his knees with a moan. “Is it over?”
