Pawns in the Game

Queen Anne’s Mansion South London — October 1969

At 5:47 the bedroom door opened and Lodin stepped out in the suit from the blue suitcase. He listened to the report without interrupting. The customs inspector, the Mesmerize, the hotel, the call. He was quiet for three seconds after Roarke finished.

The Mesmerize. One use?

One use. On a mortal.

Adequate.

He fed somewhere in Mayfair with Natasha and Derek. Came back at quarter past eight with color under his skin. Changed into an evening suit that fit like it had been made for him in this city, which it probably had. Then: all of you, with me, we’re expected.

In the van, ten minutes into the drive, Lodin said he wanted to see a show in the West End.

The West End. The theatre district.

Roarke said: may I politely remind you that Queen Anne’s Court stipulated no feeding in the theatre district. Simply as a matter of awareness.

Two seconds. Three. Lodin turned from the window and looked at Roarke and something behind his eyes recalibrated.

Good.

One word. Then back to the window.

The mansion was south of the city proper, at the end of a lane that hadn’t been repaved since the war. Iron fence, rusting at the joints. Gargoyles on the roof. Ivy on the walls. The kind of old that made you understand what the word meant when applied to things that weren’t dead.

Lodin adjusted his cuffs. Became the Prince. Walked to the front door and knocked once.

Pershing opened it. Silver-haired. The posture of a man who had been opening doors for important people since before important people had cars. He looked at Lodin the way a sommelier looks at a bottle he’s been saving. He didn’t look at the van at all.

The door closed.

Roarke told the others to stay put and walked up the gravel path. The gargoyles watched. Pershing opened the door and raised one hand – palm out, fingers together – without looking at Roarke directly. Then turned and walked down a corridor lined with portraits painted by someone who understood what power looked like when it sat still.

From behind a closed door, two voices:

– any problems during your journey?

None, my Lady, that troubled me to any degree.

Pershing coughed. Kept walking. Opened a door at the end of the hall. A game room – billiards, chess set, decanters, leather chairs. The kind of room designed to keep people comfortable and irrelevant at the same time.

Roarke brought the others inside. The chess set was mid-game – white losing material but winning position. The white pawns had faces. Not decorative. Specific. Eight individual people carved into the expendable pieces. The black pawns were blank.

Julian saw it too. Eight white pawns. Eight faces. We’re five.

Amber said maybe everything is a game to them and the game is the point. Roarke said truer words in the flat dry voice of a man who’d spent six decades learning exactly how true it was.

An hour and a half later, Pershing opened the door without knocking and told them their master was finished. The corridor. The portraits. The front door. Lodin at the van with his hands behind his back and his face closed like a book someone had decided you weren’t allowed to read.

Tomorrow. There is an auction. Piccadilly. Eleven o’clock. You will attend.

He closed the bedroom door. The lock clicked.