“It must have been hard.”
“I didn’t live down here all the time,” Simon said defensively.
“Where else?”
“We took trips through London. Occasionally family trips to France.”
“But the rest of the time, you lived here?”
Simon nodded. He’d never talked about his life in the Underground with anyone. Not even with Saundra. He felt uncomfortable talking about it now with Leah. But as out of place as he felt, he knew she had to be feeling even worse.
“It wasn’t bad,” Simon added.
“Your parents lived down here, too?”
“My father did. My mother died giving birth to me.” That had been the beginning of all the guilt he’d felt, knowing he’d taken away so much from his father and never lived up to Thomas Cross’s expectations.
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too.”
Guards stood in front of the armory. The storage space was well away from the Underground living quarters. With all the munitions packed into the armory, no one had wanted to take a chance in case there was an accident.
“Simon Cross,” one of the Templar said.
Simon couldn’t recognize the growling voice.
The helmet opened a moment later and revealed the craggy features of Miles Graydon. The Templar’s hair had turned the color of frost since the last time Simon had seen him. His armor was dark red and black, patterned to disappear in an urban nightscape in case the stealthskin programming failed.
Graydon wore a fierce beard and mustache. His dark eyes regarded Simon for a moment, then crinkled with their customary warmth.
The old Templar stepped forward and embraced Simon.
“It’s good to see you, lad.”
Simon hugged the older man back even though he knew Graydon would never feel it. “It’s good to see you, too.”
Graydon released Simon and stepped back. “Here for your armor, are you?”
“Yes.”
“Well good for you, lad. Your father knew you would be. He left you a letter. You’ll find it in your vault.”
That surprised Simon and he didn’t know what to say.
“Your father knew two things the night that he left for St. Paul’s, lad.” Graydon ticked them off on his armored fingers. “He knew that he wasn’t coming back, and he knew that you’d be here for your armor to do what he’d trained you to do.”
Simon swallowed the lump at the back of his throat. “Then he knew more than I did.”
Graydon gave Simon a small, sad smile. “He always did. Don’t ever forget that, because he knew enough to believe in you.” The old Templar nodded at the door. “Open it up and let this young man through.”
“I’ll wait out here,” Derek said.
Leah started to follow Simon inside the weapons storehouse but Graydon stepped in front of her. “Sorry, missy. The only ones who are allowed in here are warriors of the House of Rorke.”
“All right.”
Simon entered the storage chamber, listening as the power kicked on automatically. Light filled the cavernous space, kicking on in loud waves as it ran the length of the space.
Twenty-Three
V aults filled the sides of the weapons facility. No one else was inside the room, but it made sense that no one else would be. Everyone in the Templar Underground that had stored their armor there while they were off security detail and training would have it with them, either wearing it or keeping it at their personal quarters.
Simon could remember the first time his father had brought him there. Scared and excited at the same time, Simon had peered around with a child’s curiosity. He’d seen his father’s armor every day, just as he’d seen that of other Templar. But the vault was a revered place. Some said it held the spirits of fallen warriors who would bless those that walked through the doors.
Most of the vaults were empty now. Except for damaged systems that were going to be used for spare parts before being melted down and forged anew.
There was a belief that armor salvaged from a Templar who had fallen in honorable combat was especially powerful. Simon didn’t think he believed that. With the temperature the smelters reached, nothing organic would have survived.
Blood’s more than an organic thing, Simon, his father had argued the one time that Simon had voiced his doubt. Blood’s also about the magic inherent in being somebody. In dividuals who live life to the fullest and never hold back leave a deeper mark in their armor. That spirit, that bit of arcane strength, is still there for the new forger to make anew.
Even the forgers who worked their armor heavily with technology still believed in that.
Taking a deep breath, listening to his footsteps ring against the floor, Simon walked three-quarters of the length of the floor back to where the Cross family vault was. When he’d been small, the place had seemed so much larger. Now so much of the mystery had been removed.
The sense of invulnerability had gone with it.
The vault was a large ten-foot cube of space built into the wall. Foot-thick walls protected the contents. The slate-gray, featureless carbon-steel door only reflected Simon’s shadow. The door didn’t look any different than the other doors, but he knew it was the one to his family’s vault.
When he’d been younger, the door had seemed impossibly large. Now he couldn’t believe something so small could defend so much.
Leaning into the door, Simon put both his palms against the surface. Almost immediately, he felt the metal liquefy a little. Cellular memory, the forgers called it. The doors were programmed to recognize family members through DNA.
“Welcome, Simon Cross,” a female voice said.
Simon’s father had told him once that he’d considered having the vault coded with his mother’s voice. So Thomas Cross wouldn’t forget her voice.
Simon couldn’t believe his father would forget anything. Thomas Cross had an almost photographic memory. Ultimately his father had decided not to use his mother’s voice and had gone with one of the generic ones provided by the security program.
“What do you need?” the voice asked.
“Access,” Simon replied. He took a
