Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(127)

Sixteen members did not constitute a quorum, so no vote could be taken on the Ascendant’s future. Through targeted assassination, his superior had bought himself another day or two of life, until the Twenty reorganized. Pity it had come at such a high cost.

“We appear to have lost our Intermediary,” Satyr said, pointing toward the lead article.

The Ascendant’s expression grew wary. “No doubt a dissatisfied customer,” he said, derision icing the words. “I never liked meeting with her. The whore of Babylon, if there ever was one.”

Satyr wisely did not voice what was on his mind.

“You should be aware that I have disbanded The Conclave,” the Ascendant remarked. “They are of no further use.”

Satyr arched an eyebrow. “Why? They’re harmless enough.”

“It was time. Hastings is not pleased, but that is of no concern.”



He’s methodically removing any potential rivals.

“The Intermediary was not the only casualty last evening,” Satyr informed him coolly. “I understand three other members of the Twenty are now dead.”

The Ascendant responded with a noncommittal shrug. “Crime abounds in this country. Is the Flaherty girl no more?”

“She has been dealt with.” In a truly creative way. He smiled at the thought of how he’d paid off his debt to the unlucky sergeant.

“Excellent. For a time, I thought you were losing your edge, Mr. S.”

Satyr inclined his head at the comment, all the while pondering the best way to slay the viper in their midst. Still, he would not touch the Ascendant until the Twenty gave their blessing, though he had adequate reason to do so. His instincts told him to let this game play out.

“What about Flaherty?” the Ascendant inquired. “Is he dead?”

“I will deal with him today,” Satyr lied.

“Good.”

“Have the explosives been delivered?”

“They will be. Tomorrow morning,” the Ascendant replied.

“What’s this about an angel?”

His superior’s face went blank. “I do not know what you’re talking about.” He gestured toward Satyr’s empty plate. “Aren’t you eating breakfast? Surely you will want some of these fine sausages.”

Satyr was up in a flash. “No, sir, I am not dining this morning. Tobin can join you. I’m sure he’s excellent company.” He halted near the door, then turned. “In future, do not send one of my Seven against me.”

Their gazes locked in mutual distrust.

“I will send anyone I choose,” the Ascendant responded evenly.

“You may,” Satyr said, “but next time, I shall return the favor.”

~??~??~??~



Cynda stared at the note. It held both good and bad news.



“Alastair says they found Fiona Flaherty. Somebody looking like Keats rescued her, though the doc has no idea who that might have been.” Cynda sighed. At least their bargain with the anarchist had been fulfilled.

“Hmm? Oh, that’s good,” Morrisey said, his back to her. He’d logged onto TEMnet and was tapping out instructions for Fulham in an attempt to locate Defoe.

“Flaherty took them to the explosives, but they’re gone.”

No reply.

“You want to go down for breakfast?”

“No.”

“Any sign of Defoe?” she quizzed.

“No. He’s not home.”

“Side-hop?”

“No. He’s vanished,” was the curt reply.

Since Morrisey wasn’t budging and she was hungry, she treated herself to breakfast in the hotel dining room. Her appetite was back, and other than a certain blue spider, she still had no time lag effects to speak of. The reboot had done her some good, though she doubted most Rovers would be willing to undergo that hell just to gain a few more months of employment.

As she finished her breakfast, she cast another quick look at the couple sitting near the dining room’s entrance. They’d been watching her, trying desperately to appear nonchalant.

Dabbing her mouth delicately with the napkin, she thanked her server and rose from the table. Sure enough, the couple was up and out of the room in a flash, headed for the front door. That cinched it. She had to find out who they were.

When she caught up with them, they appeared extremely interested in a poster advertising a girl’s school in Paddington.

“Excuse me,” Cynda said. “Can I help you? You’ve been following me, so I figured you wanted something.”

“I told you we were too close,” the woman grumbled.

“She’s never seen us before,” the man argued.

“Let’s go down that way for a chat, okay?” Cynda said, gesturing toward a side street.



“Ah, we can’t possibly—” the man began.

“Do it. Now!” The menace in her voice did the trick. They halted in a side street, clearly flustered by her presence.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Ah, we can’t tell you that,” the man replied nervously.

“Yes, you can,” Cynda countered. “That way, I don’t get nasty about you following my ass all over London.”