“Yes.”
“That was fast.”
Bancroft grimaced as he felt his shoulder protest. He picked up his hat, which had rolled into a puddle of shadow. “It doesn’t take long to die from a bullet to the face. Your detail is taken care of, is seems.”
Harriman didn’t answer at once, but licked his lips. “The shadow beast will be back. Han set it to guard the warehouse.”
“Han is dead.”
“But it is not. It will still guard what it believes belonged to its master.”
Bancroft’s skin crawled and he took an involuntary step back from Harriman. “You’re a fool to dabble in magic. Sooner or later, it turns on you.”
Harriman let his head drop forward. “How is that different from the rest of our existence?”
Bancroft snorted. “Courage, man. So far you have made everyone else do your murdering for you. That’s a sign of talent even your cousin could be proud of.”
Harriman straightened, annoyance on his face. Then he took one look at the ruin of Han Zuiweng and heaved out his guts. Determined not to leave without the gold, Bancroft left him to it and set about finding his gold in the broken cell. He turned everything over, using his boot to topple the heap of stinking rags and cursing as fleas jumped in every direction. By the time he emerged empty-handed, Harriman was upright and bracing himself against the wall.
“Where is my gold?” he demanded.
“If it’s not there, Han took it. If he took it, he put it with the rest of his things.” Harriman’s voice was weary.
“And where are they?”
The man turned to look at the endless shadows that stretched under the streets. “He was a secretive bastard. He kept his lair somewhere out there, which means it’s as good as lost. There are miles of tunnels, and very few of them are empty, if you take my meaning.”
Fury burned like acid. Bancroft launched himself at Harriman, smashing his fist into the man’s jaw. Harriman reeled, the back of his head smacking the wall. He slid down until his sat on the floor, knees crooked awkwardly before him.
Pain shot up Bancroft’s arm, sharp as a sword, but it cleared his head. He pulled the Enfield, pressing it to Harriman’s forehead. “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you.”
The man shook. “I’ll pay you everything. I swear.”
“How? You’ve killed all your workmen.”
Tears flooded Harriman’s eyes, snot glistening on his upper lip. “But Jasper doesn’t know. I’ve fooled him once. I can do it again.”
“You’ve seen what I can do if you fail me. I need money. I need it fast.”
Harriman nodded frantically.
Bancroft weighed his decision. He’d killed one man already tonight, and he had no taste for killing another —but that was the least of his considerations. Letting Harriman go was a risk. The man was weak and treacherous. But if he killed him now, there would be no chance of recouping one shilling of his loss. And there was some appeal to having a pet viper so close to the Gold King.
Bancroft put the gun away. “I’m leaving.”
Perhaps it was the look on his face, but this time Harriman didn’t argue.
Bancroft left the way he had come, turning back onto Bond Street and toward home. The rain had stopped, but mist was creeping between the buildings, reminding him uncomfortably of the shadow beast. As he had left, Harriman had been weeping at the prospect of cutting up the body and dragging it to the underground river, but Bancroft had been unmoved. If Harriman was going to cheat his cousin, he was going to have to develop a backbone. That was the way of secret wars. Every player had to learn the lesson of consequences, and tonight was Harriman’s turn.
As Bancroft walked, he fingered the empty space in his pocket. There should have been gold there. Some would have gone to repairing his personal fortunes, but most had been earmarked for his private projects—the many irons in the fire he had organized and funded in hopes of crushing Jasper Keating and the other steam barons. The schemes that would buy him a place in the shadow government. Someday Lord Bancroft would rise, stepping on the rubble of their industrial juggernauts to accept the wealth and titles due to a savior of the Empire. Counselor to the queen, perhaps. Prime minister?
Bancroft allowed himself a dry smile, amused by his own fantasies—but no one ever made great strides by dreaming modestly. He had been born a second son—heir to nothing—and had dreamed his way into a title and lands. He had married the daughter of an earl. Was there a reason he shouldn’t be victor in the struggle against a handful of shopkeepers-turned-thugs?
The only constraint was that his fight had to be invisible—and there was his own lesson in consequences. He had been too public with the Harter’s affair, and now his whole family was paying the price, with the lights off and their future hanging by a thread. Adele and the children were right at the core of his tangled motivations, and he knew with bitter certainty that he had let them down with that mistake. Bancroft had to fix matters and see that they stayed fixed—and, among other considerations, that meant ensuring that Evelina Cooper and her detective uncle kept out of his affairs.
Bancroft’s path took him south. Ahead, he saw a crush of carriages that meant someone—Lord Hansby, by the address—was having a party. Bancroft crossed the street to avoid meeting the throng crowding the sidewalk, and took a quick glance over his person to check for unwanted pieces of Big Han. He was rumpled, but relatively clean. There was nothing he could so about the rip in his shoulder seam, though, or the fact every joint throbbed from the struggle.
His attention was caught by a figure waiting in the golden glow of a light standard just ahead.
Keating was wrapped in a cape of soft black wool. His eyes, always a peculiar shade of amber, looked yellow in the gaslight. They slid over him in a quick, dismissive glance, as if he was hardly worth looking at. “Enjoying the night air, Bancroft?”
Bancroft forced a smile to his lips, thinking again about his empty pocket. “Just out for a stroll after a quiet evening at the club.”
“Too dark and cold at home, eh?” Keating tilted his head, his expression saying that he only half listened to Bancroft’s words. “I trust I’ve made my point. I don’t like seeing you out in the cold, but it had to be done. There’s only one way the wind blows anymore, and that’s where I send it.”
Bancroft swallowed down a quip about poor digestion. Instead, he regarded Keating with studied calm, even though his heart was pounding with nervous excitement. Apparently the moment for polite fiction had ended, and Keating was prepared to speak openly about what he’d done. That was a bit nerve-racking, but if the Gold King was utterly done with him, he wouldn’t be starting up a conversation. Bancroft hated himself for feeling a twinge of hope, but he had to survive.
He forced his voice to be bland and pleasant. “Are you looking for a show of defiance or submission, sir?”
“That’s your choice. I’ll give you a second chance, but never a third.”
The gall of it was breathtaking, and Bancroft found himself momentarily robbed of words. The noise of a passing steam tram covered his lapse long enough to recover. “What does a second chance entail, Mr. Keating?”
Keating made an expansive gesture, clearly enjoying the moment. “I’ll forgive your boy his outrage over the affair at your garden party, but bring him in line, Bancroft. He does you no credit.”
Bancroft bristled. It was one thing to wish he could still smack his son’s backside at times, but no one else had that privilege. Still, he felt Keating’s eyes on him and held his peace.
The Gold King flicked a speck from his cape. “And I’ll overlook your bad judgment with Harter’s Engines. The lights at Hilliard House go back on this one time, but it stops there. We’re friends, or you’re finished. Am I
