Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(117)

“Only if you can handle it. Not everyone can.”

Silence. He took her arm again. “Where to now?” he asked, his tone flat. That told her the subject was closed.

“I want to check in a few more places and see if we can pick up any word of Fiona.”

He fell in step next to her, face somber. “I don’t understand. You haven’t asked anyone about the missing girl. How can you find her that way?”

“Sometimes, all you have to do is listen.”

~??~??~??~



Wednesday, 7 November, 1888

Rose Dining Room

To Satyr’s relief, Tobin was not present at the breakfast meeting. That would have generated a major incident, and he wasn’t ready to eliminate his rival. The Ascendant was just sitting down when he arrived.

“Good morning, sir,” Satyr greeted pleasantly, laying his hat and coat aside. He put on his best manners, hoping to keep his superior open and sociable. Perhaps then he could begin to figure out what was going on.

“Mr. S.,” was the cool reply. The Ascendant opened up his newspaper. “What is this? A stay of execution? What in heaven for?”

“New evidence, I gather,” Satyr said. The news had pleased him immensely. It had never been his intention to ensnare a Scotland Yard detective in Nicci’s murder. He’d just employed Keats’ form because it seemed the best way to obtain the information he wanted.

Satyr sat with a flourish and then rang the bell. Two waiters came through the door immediately, hands cradling plates and bowls filled with hot food.

His superior waited until the servers were done and the door closed behind them before he replied. He dropped the paper on the table. “Well, won’t matter anyway.”



“Why not?” Satyr asked, picking up the lid to the sausages. The scent was erotic.

“Soon a man’s guilt or innocence will be weighed by a higher authority than the courts.”

“How soon?”

“Lord Mayor’s Day.”

From Satyr’s perspective, it was a day best kept to one’s rooms, as getting around the streets of London was penance. Give the citizenry a day off and they shamelessly exploited it.

“Is that when you’re delivering the explosives?” he asked pointedly.

The Ascendant gave him a sidelong glance. “I have a couple of tasks for you and I want them performed promptly, without error, unlike some of your previous efforts.”

Satyr halted mid-chew and then washed the bite of egg down with a sip of tea. “Such as?” he asked.

“Kill the Fenian.”

“You should note that Flaherty’s death will risk fanning Irish anger.”

“Then make it look like a Jew did it. That way the Irish will take their anger out on the Hebrews, not us. And remove his daughter, as well,” the Ascendant added, daintily buttering a piece of toast. “She is superfluous at this point.”

Professionals do not kill innocents.

The Ascendant noted his silence. “If you do not wish to follow my orders, I will give Tobin the job, at which time you will no longer be considered Lead Assassin. Do you understand?”

Satyr had seen this one coming. “Tobin is not a Virtual. Tradition requires that he be one to replace me.”

“If I say that Tobin will become Lead Assassin, then he will.”

So that’s the way you’re playing it. He debated whether he should tell his superior about Miss Lassiter, then thought better of it. The Ascendant would just dispatch Tobin again and perhaps the fellow might get lucky the second time around.



If anyone is to kill her, it will be me.

“You should be aware that the Twenty’s patience grows thin. You have not treated them as tradition requires, and that makes them inclined to rethink your status.”

To his astonishment, the Ascendant shrugged. “I am not worried about them or any others of this world, Mr. S.”

“You owe them an explanation, sir,” Satyr pushed.

“I owe them nothing! I have my marching orders, and they do not come from the Twenty.”

Who is dictating his decisions? There was no one higher than the Ascendant.

Satyr leaned closer. The man’s eyes were glassy. The pupils didn’t seem the right shape. Opium? He had none of the telltale signs of abuse. Besides, he was a religious man who didn’t take strong drink, except the wine during Communion.

“Who has issued those marching orders?” Satyr quizzed.

“No one you would know,” was the smug reply.

Satyr pushed back from his breakfast, sincerely disappointed at leaving the fine food behind. “I shall be seeing to my work,” he said, gathering his outer garments.

“I expect a full report tomorrow morning.”

“As you wish, sir.”

“Lest you do not understand, Mr. S., this is your last chance.”

Satyr gave his chief a knowing nod.

So you think.





Chapter 9




When Inspector Ramsey appeared at his cell door, Keats groaned. He’d been dreading this moment.

“Sir,” he said, not bothering to stand. It no longer mattered if the man hated him or not. His career was gone.

“How are you doing?” The inspector’s concern sounded genuine. There was no hint of the arrogance that had fanned Keats’ dislike of the man since the day they’d first met.