Chapter 2

This high in the clouds, it was almost peaceful.

Not that it looked peaceful, not very. The thunderstorm had been raging since before he turned the hourglass, and was not likely to break before he turned it again. Streaks of icy rain slapped the deck, the darkness spectrally lit by a flash of lightning, the flames in the lanterns dancing a reel and the ropes keening like banshees. The Roger rocked and groaned, as if disagreeing with her captain about the advisability of staying airborne during the tempest, wanting to land and go safely to earth, but he had outrun worse storms than this, and often without the sensitive silver aerials that were supposed to absorb a lightning strike (which would otherwise ignite the zeppelin and kill them all). This was nothing. Just him and his girl and the fury of the elements.

With the care of a craftsman, Killian Jones took the wheel two notches port, coasting them past a towering ten-story thunderhead that utterly dwarfed the flying vessel, frigid mist caressing his face beneath the goggles and muffler, his long leather jacket flapping madly. He always preferred to man the helm himself during these times; it gave him a delightful thrill of power and possibility, dicing with death on the blade of a knife, hearing the aerials crackle and hum, as they swept through the storm-washed skies high above the Channel. Wet, luminous light spilled over the deck as the moon emerged from behind the pillars of cloud, fat as a doubloon that he could pluck from its setting of stars. Storms always did this to him, drenched him clean, made him new. Made him feel halfway whole again, when he breathed.

He consulted the chart lashed to the running board, a glowing dot marking their approximate position – still open water below and another four hours to Paris, even with the Roger's best speed. They should be there by dawn, though, and while the Prince-President, Louis-Napoléon Bonaparte, had long desired a formal alliance with Britain and would not miss the opportunity to secure it by handing over their most wanted criminal, Killian had always found the French customs officers and port wardens to be a more persuadable lot. Most of them were perfectly happy to shelter England's notorious and flamboyant enemy, though not so happy that they did it without regular fat bribes. Yet if the heat was ever too high in London, Paris was a reliable refuge, and he and the Roger had flown this route many times. With the compass heavy in his pocket, they might never need to fly it again. They would, though. He wasn't one for settling. He'd thought he could have a home, once, but that was a very long time ago.

Killian's mouth tightened into a grim line. Keeping the helm braced in his hook, he used his hand to wipe the rain off his goggles, tempted to set the ship on her course and go below for a few hours of sleep. Once the storm cleared, she could mostly sail herself, and he had had precious little of it the last several days, being sure that that all was prepared. All he knew about his client was that he was supposedly a şehzade, a son of some Ottoman sultan who lived in splendid exile in the Place Vendôme, and had promised a correspondingly stupendous sum for the compass, this small little thing. And thus far, it had been easy. Too easy, almost. But if the bugger wanted to pay and pay well, he'd have had the compass even if they had to climb a hundred beanstalks and fight a hundred giants for it.

The thunderheads were starting to break up. Far below, he could see the dark coast of France ribboning into view, the rolling patchwork fields of Normandy. He triangulated their position again: a few miles northeast of Dieppe. His bed was calling to him, and there'd be damn little time in it anyway. So, locking the wheel into position and activating the enchanted lodestone in the helm housing, he turned away and crossed the rain-slick deck to his cabin.

It was fairly capacious, airships being built to a larger and more luxurious standard than the others, with a bank of broad windows that looked out into the starry heavens, a claw-footed table and chairs, shelves built into the far wall and loaded with all sorts of books; he must be the only pirate in the world who accepted rare or valuable codices and manuscripts as payment as well as gold and jewels. On the other side was the bed, which still had the colorful quilts and embroidered cushions that Milah had chosen; before that it had been Liam's, spare and spartan, a grey blanket and flat white pillow. Sometimes he could sense them both there (usually when in a rum haze) if he lay very still, eyes closed. More often, it was just emptiness.

Killian shucked his damp jacket and vest and unclicked his hook from its brace, wincing as he began to undo the buckles that strapped the complicated leather apparatus to his shoulder. It had worn deep bloodless creases into his flesh, which stung painfully as circulation started to return. He had just started to lift it off over his head, an awkward business with one hand, when a sudden rap at the cabin door caught him by surprise.

Scowling, he let the contraption drop back into place, and still in shirt, trousers, and boots, strode crossly to answer it. "Mr. Smee, this is highly irregular! Back to quarters, or – "

"Apologies, Captain." His first mate did indeed look apologetic, but also clearly had not ventured to interrupt him in the dead of night for a lark. "But Scarlet was talking, down below decks, and it seems as if, in the course of obtaining our. . . portable assets, he may have gotten himself clawed up by one of the Police wolves. Or bit. He wasn't sure which."

Bloody hell. "And the bastard didn't bother to tell me this?"

"Said you seemed a trifle more concerned about the compass, Cap'n."

Bloody hell, Killian thought again, it being an applicable epithet in every situation when it came to Will Scarlet. There was no arguing with Scarlet's skills as a thief, which he made liberal and profitable use of, and he could damn well recognize a man with the same emptiness behind his eyes where love and family used to be. Could also sympathize with a man on the run from the British authorities, and had to confess to enjoying their banter and bickering, while being careful not to let him get away with too much. Will had been sailing with the Roger for almost a year now, and the men all liked him, but Killian often wondered if it was past time to boot him off. No matter how diligently he trod on it, there was a small but genuine part of him that did care for the bugger, and that meant Will was destined either to die horribly or turn traitor and betray him for thirty pieces of silver (though it would likely be more, knowing the bounty on his head). Will was a bloody nuisance, tell it true, but Killian had sometimes entertained the idea that they could be each other's family in the way he had lacked for so long, had offered to another young man once before and had thrown back in his face. Will couldn't replace Bae and he couldn't replace Liam, but he could be something. A brother. A friend.

And that, being the case, had to be destroyed before the world could get around to it first. Which it now seemed, by virtue of the Police wolves, it might be. If Will had been bitten, then, if left untreated, he would become a full-fledged werewolf at the next full moon – three days from now. Lycanthropy treatments were finicky and expensive, but they were available – in London, that was. While Paris had l'Academie des arts magiques, the equivalent institution to the Royal Society, French magicians were kept on a much more stringent leash. They were only allowed to research and study the history of magic, not perform it openly, and certainly not to function as a shadow government like their English counterparts. As well, to placate the Catholic establishment, Louis-Napoléon had promised that the Pope's encyclicals and bulls would be respected, and as Pius had made his opinions on magic flatly known, any unlicensed practitioner was taking his own life in his hands. The shadow of the guillotine on the Place de la Concorde was not an idle threat.

"Thank you, Mr. Smee," Killian said tersely, seeing his first mate still bobbing at the door. He slammed it, then leaned against it, swearing under his breath. Of course. Of course.

The choice was quite simple. Either he could turn the ship around, fly back to London, and cure Will of his furry little problem – at the cost of missing the meeting and mortally offending the powerful man who had arranged it in the first place. Or press on, make the rendezvous in Paris to sell the compass, and risk condemning Will to the same nasty, brutish, and short life as the rest of the poor bastards now swept up in the Royal Society's ever-broadening net. He couldn't keep a wolf aboard the ship, especially a new one with no clue what he had become or how to control it, and dumping Will anywhere in Britain would get him killed outright by some foe or other, wolf or human. The climate in the rest of Europe was even less hospitable.

In other words, Killian would be left with no choice but to put Will in Robert Gold's power. To let that bastard whoreson take one more thing from him. And that, so long as he had breath in his body, could live one more day and one more night thinking about getting revenge on the crocodile, skinning him, ripping him from limb from limb, was never going to bloody happen.

He calculated swiftly in his head. It need not be a complete calamity. If he turned around and returned to London right now, got Will pawned off on some hopefully discreet doctor who had never seen a newspaper (or at least could be paid to pretend he hadn't) then ditched his extra cargo and flew back like all the demons of hell were on his tail, he could make it to Paris only slightly late. If he apologized profusely and threw in some extra treasure (not that an Ottoman prince, if that was indeed who his client was, would have need of it) then it could likely still be salvaged. If not, well. . . if worse came to absolute worst, he'd sell the compass back to the Royal Society at three times its value, but he preferred to avoid that option.

Decision made, Killian threw back on his hook, vest, jacket, scarf, and goggles, exhausted muscles complaining as he emerged at a trot from the cabin and headed topside to the wheel again. Took hold and swung her sharply around, banking through the clouds, ropes straining and the great silk phantom of the zeppelin swaying and jolting, a feeling of momentary weightlessness until they caught the new direction. Wearily recalibrated the charts for London, fired up every spare thruster, and stared down the barrel of the horizon as they sailed back into the rain clouds. Back into the storm.

It was a bloody good thing his hatches were battened like all hell.

They wouldn't make it there before dawn. That ruled out the Night Market, as they did not have time to loiter around all day waiting for it to open again. Then there was the problem of landing the airship in the middle of London, agreement with the Dock masters or not, whilst a full-scale manhunt was on for whoever had robbed the Exhibition – a theft they had doubtless traced to him. But landing on the outskirts and rowing in would take more time, though Killian figured he could always just put Will over the side in the Roger's longboat and order him to fend for himself. Should do that anyway, bloody hell. Throw him into the ocean.

Yet either way, there remained the problem of getting him off the ship. According to the pirates' code, no man on the crew was ever forced to serve, in sharp contrast to the brutal press gangs of the Crown that many of them had escaped – Killian had read enough accounts, of Henry Avery and Edward Teach and Black Bartholomew Roberts, to know that leaving the Navy for a pirate's life was a fairly common career move. Most of the sailors were in the Navy to start with because they'd been pressed, beaten and kidnapped into service. But Liam Jones, in defiance of the standing orders that required Royal Navy captains to be as brutal as possible, had treated his men with firm but fair respect, a piece of common human decency that could have lost him his command if a superior had come on board and considered his crew insufficiently terrorized. When he'd stolen the ship after his brother's death and gone rogue, Killian had been determined to honor both that and the pirate tradition of keeping no slaves and giving every man a say in shipboard business. Though he was the captain and a damned good one too, if he tried to throw Will off the ship with no apparent provocation, it was going to cost him dear. Pirates became pirates because they hated corrupt kings, tyrannical captains, and the life of a slave. They didn't take to going back.

Still. It wasn't just the sale of the compass that he was risking, not merely a matter of money. After all, money was scarcely an issue for a pirate. But this connoisseur of obscure navigational objects had said that he needed someone who hated Robert Gold as much as he did, and whose successful service in this matter might lead to him finding out certain valuable information. Killian must be out of his mind to risk missing it.

So, then. He knew what he had to do: leave Will behind, and find a way to make it look like an accident. Didn't have to kill him, just get rid of him. Once he wasn't a werewolf, Will could disappear back into the underworld, make a fine life there. They'd protect him from the Royal Society, they'd hail him as a hero. And if not, it wasn't Killian's bloody problem.

Not his bloody problem.

Will Scarlet had expected to wake up with Paris unfurling beneath him, the Gothic bell-towers of the churches and the grey ribbon of the Seine, all the romance and elegance and mystery of the land of French girls, fancy pastries, and blokes who ate frogs, and hence was significantly befuddled as to why the bloody hell he appeared to be looking at the arse-end of Wapping (Wapping-on-the-Ooze, it was generally known as) instead. They were flying right over Execution Dock, in fact, where pirates were hanged, then their corpses staked out for three turns of the tide, and Will couldn't help but seein' that as, you asked him, something of a bad omen. Not to mention that he couldn't for the life of him figure out what he was doing back in London anyway, and momentarily considered the possibility that he had been captured while asleep and dragged onto a Navy ship to face the day of judgment. Aye, he could just hear himself informing a hostile Admiralty court that he had slept through his own arrest, and would they maybe consider having mercy on him for it?

After he blinked hard, however, he recognized that he was still in his bunk on the Roger, jerked out of a turbulent, unsatisfying dream to the sharp pain in his shoulder. It seemed to be getting worse. He had doctored himself up with the surgeon's stuff, but his memory had gone a bit hazy after that. Had availed himself of his rum ration as a practical solution, and then the lads had wanted the blow-by-blow, so he gave them the rip-roaring account of his adventures, making it all very grandiose and exciting. Must have wandered off to goo-goo land somewhere in the middle of that, thus to arrive at his current state of confusion. No, but what the buggeration was happening? It beggared belief that the Captain had decided to call the whole thing off and go home. Perhaps they'd been boarded by agents of the Crown and forced to fly back under duress? Forgot to take the kettle off before they left the first time?

In any event, no matter what it was, Will would feel better facing it with his trousers on. He rolled out of his bunk, hauled his clothing back into place, picked up the rum bottle and tipped it hopefully over his mouth, but nothing was left. Considering the muffled pounding in his head, maybe that was for the best, but at least the upside of having your shoulder used as a raw steak for a wolf was that it tended to distract you from minor ailments. He was going to be useless if he had to swing anything at anybody, so he hoped that wasn't on the docket. That and –

The Roger was still descending, rain scattering against the portholes like beads of flung mercury. Will grabbed the storm lines strung up along the walls and braced himself as they rumbled in for a landing, kicking up a long skim of white-frothed river. They bounced and swayed back and forth, he shook his head and regretted it, and had just started to attempt to get his bearings when there was a foreboding knock on the door, followed by the ingress of Mr. Smee and several of the larger-sized crewmen. "Scarlet. You'll be coming with us."

"What's this?" Will demanded, taking a step backwards. "The bloody hell did I do? I'm not so pissed that I can't – "

"Orders." Smee looked suspiciously pleased with himself. "We're to take you on the boat and make sure you don't turn into a wolf. Then leave you behind and run." He frowned. "Wait. Forget I said that."

Will stared at him, jaw sagging. Then suddenly, the pieces clicked. "You! You ratted me out, didn't you?" His recollections of last night were murky at best, but surely he'd mentioned the wolves, wanting to sound like a bloody hero, and Smee had scuttled off and filched on him to the Captain. Which meant he himself, Will Scarlet, was the reason they'd upped and sailed back to London, which meant. . .

Damn. He hadn't even thought of that possible aspect of the situation. Trying to disguise how taken off guard he had been, he narrowed his eyes at the first mate instead. "Well then, you bloody well better hope I don't turn, because the first thing I'd do is bite you in the arse, you blithering sneak. If you or anyone think they're gettin' me off the ship, they'd better – "

"Scarlet." The voice came from behind them, and they all did stupid little twirls to see the Captain leaning in the doorway. "I heard you encountered a slight mishap while so generously procuring the compass for us, so it seemed the least I could do to make sure you didn't spend your days running from the bloody Royal Society and your nights howling at the moon. So come on, we're going to find you a doctor."

"Ah," Will said, somewhat mollified. He aimed another glare at the hoodlum gang, then proceeded past them with great dignity and followed the Captain on deck to the launch boat, swinging on its divots above the choppy Thames. "I hope I'm not expected to manage that thing by myself," he remarked, eyeing it skeptically. "Can barely row with 'alf me arm danglin' by a thread, can I? Wouldn't be humane to send me by myself into London as a charity case, me being a wanted fugitive and such."

"Smee will go with you."

"Like hell Smee will go with me."

The Captain glared at him. "He will if I bloody well – what's that?"

Will squinted, seeing nothing – and then an instant later, the scorching bloom of fire in the fog, and heard a distant report of guns. Something shrieked past perilously close to their starboard quarter, and the water bubbled and hissed where it struck, sending up a billowing column of steam. It fought with Will's fuddled brain an instant longer, then came clear. An ambush. They had landed in the middle of an ambush. An ambush in the middle of the Thames, merchant ships to every side, were they bloody insane? Clearly, the depths of pissed right off the Royal Society currently was had never before been known to man. But how on earth had they –

"GO!" Hook shoved him hard in the back, toppling Will arse over teakettle into the boat. The crew was boiling topside, sprinting to load the guns and return fire – only to be stopped by a bellow ordering them that they had better not even think about it. An answering shot would be as good as a dead reckoning to announce their position, as well as making it plain that they had something to hide. Instead the Captain hauled on the wheel, jerking the thrusters back to life, as they skimmed along the river and took off again, another shot scoring the keel. A plume of green sparks crackled through the rigging like St. Elmo's fire, and Will thought of the vulnerable zeppelin above them. One shell through that thing, and they were all history.

The very next second, he thought they were, in fact, done for. There was a whistling shriek somewhere in the clouds, whether magical or mechanical he had no idea, and an explosion lit up the aft deck. Shards of wood sprayed everywhere, silhouetting spread-eagled bodies against the glare, and the Roger juddered and lurched horrifyingly, slewing almost dead in the air. Will had been protected from the main force of the blast by the boat falling on him (wasn't too fussed about it, considering) but clawed out from underneath it and crawled across the tilting deck, heart in his throat. "Bloody hell. . . bloody hell. . . bloody hell. . . OY! JONES!"

He thought he saw an indistinct dark shape struggling to sit up, and made it to the ruins of the helm just in time to see the Captain, blood running down his face from a gash in his forehead, swearing and spitting. Upon laying eyes on Will, his expression altered to an even more wrathful aspect. "What in damnation are you still doing here? I told you to get on the bloody boat!"

"And sail down the Royal Navy's gullet in a bathtub all by my sodding self so they could shoot me and let you escape? I don't bloody think so!"

The Captain spluttered some idiotic protest, which Will ignored. "Give me that." Yanking the spyglass from Hook's belt, he twisted it open and peered into the fog, searching for the shapes behind the next muzzle-flash. It was Nelson's chequey to be sure – Royal Navy airships, two of them at least, closing fast, and the Roger disabled, able to do nothing but wait to be taken prisoner. They wouldn't be kept in suspense for long; it would be surprising if they even got a trial. Curtains for them all and fare thee well, straight and down the pit of –

Wait. He'd just thought of something. The lodestone and chart were blown, the wheel useless, but the old girl still had a few surprises up her sleeve. Will reached into the splintered ruins of the housing, fumbled around, and triggered the cloaking device.

It was an old and balky one, purchased at exorbitant cost from a French frigate being dismantled for scrap, but said frigate had been one of the few on her side to survive Trafalgar, and there must have been a reason for that. There was a quick, powerful pulse as the invisibility magic flared through the torn lines and tilting deck, enshrouding the Roger completely just as the two Navy gunboats burst through the clouds. They swept by on either side of the pirate ship nearly close enough to shine the brass off its outriggers – although invisible, they were no less solid – and hurtled into the fog bank ahead without a second glance or slowing.

Will blew out a slow, ragged breath, sitting back on his heels. "Well. That was worth every penny what you paid that villain for it, eh?"

For a long moment, Killian Jones appeared stunned. Then he pushed himself upright and fixed Will with a baleful stare. "Get your hands off my ship."

"What the – ? I just saved the damned thing and everyone on it! A little bloody gratitude might not stick in your craw!"

"Saved it only because you were stupid enough to get yourself attacked by a werewolf and ruin the meeting I've been trying years to make!" The captain got unsteadily to his feet, balancing himself with a grimace. "I thought I'd do you a favor – which you don't deserve, by the by – get back and drop you off to be seen to. Now thanks to you, the ship isn't going anywhere!"

"What?" The unfairness of this made Will choke. "I wasn't the one who turned it around, eh? Maybe if you'd admit there are other things in life worth more than your bloody revenge, you'd have thought differently! But you can't even see 'em when they're right – "

And then, despite his head of righteous steam, he faltered. The look on the Captain's face, the utter hellfire in his eyes, took even Will Scarlet, who was used to speaking his mind more than was customary, back a step or three. "No," Hook said, flat and cold as stone. "There's nothing worth more to me than my revenge. And you just damned well got in the way."

Despite this, there was still the fact that the cloaking device would not last forever, and that they couldn't fly anywhere until a new lodestone was installed and the helm repaired. Which meant that Killian had to take his chances on sneaking into London to buy one, while fulfilling the original purpose of their ill-fated return: stop Will from turning into a werewolf. But as it was still only midmorning, the Night Market would not be an option for hours. Nor was he inclined to wait.

"Does anyone have a useful idea for alternatives?" he snapped. "Every bloody physician in the city who deals with magical maladies must be in the Royal Society's pocket, go to any of them and they'll turn us in. Elsewise – "

"There's one," one of the younger crewmen piped up. "A doctor, that is. When I was a lad, me mum started going a bit barmy, talkin' to things as wasn't there and turnin' the rest to God knows what. We weren't able to pay for the doctor, but he saw her anyway. He said it was because she was born magic and wasn't allowed to do nuffin' wiv it, so it had been re – repressed all her life and was burstin' out all over. He did the best he could for her and didn't never tell the Royal Society, not a word. Even though it's illegal not to report folk as has it."

"Really." Killian cocked a disbelieving eyebrow. "What happened to her?"

"She. . . she died, cap'n. Three month later, of the bloody flux. That's why I ran away to sea. But it wasn't nuffin' to do with magic, she got that 'andled and was right as rain. Cross me 'eart."

"Really," Killian murmured again. "And what was this paragon of medical virtue's name?"

"Er. . ." The young man thought hard, then brightened. "Opper! That was it, sure. Archibald 'Opper, in 'Arley Street."

"Think he means Archibald Hopper in Harley Street, Cap'n," Smee put in helpfully.

"Thank you for that clarification, Mr. Smee, I should have never deduced it on my own. Very well. If you're right about this, there will be a tidy sum. If, on the other hand, you get us handed over to the Royal Society and hanged, rest assured the same will become of you."

With this arrangement settled, the disabled ship was brought as low as they could get it without landing, and the longboat was launched. And that was how Killian Jones and Will Scarlet found themselves rowing up a filthy stone tunnel, one of the many secret waterways under London, ignoring each other as hard as possible. Both of them had donned dark hoods and cloaks, and beneath those a small arsenal of pistols strapped to bandoliers, but neither was in the least happy, and was making sure the other knew it. Killian, for his part, had just about decided that even if Dr. Hopper's discretion extended to not handing a poor, harmless old woman over to the authorities, it would not do likewise in re: the most wanted pirate in Britain and his accomplice who had embarrassed the nation by stealing from the Great Exhibition. He abruptly shipped the oars and stopped dead, green-black water lapping at the sides.

Will eyed him darkly. "What? Expectin' the damn thing to row itself?"

"No. I was thinking we should bloody well wait for the Night Market. You've already ruined the Paris meeting, so there's no sense in marching in and getting ourselves arrested to boot."

Will was clearly thinking about firing back, but chewed his tongue instead. Finally he said, "Gold strikes me as the sort of bloke who's made enemies everywhere. Surely there's other ways you can get after him, if that's what you really want, even if this one goes belly-up."

Killian had been fully girded for another insult, and was unsure how to respond to what looked like, if you stood several paces away and squinted hard, almost like encouragement. He snorted instead and threw out the hawser, tying the boat to the makeshift underground pier and clambering out. "Either way, I'm not sitting here for the rest of the day. Suit yourself."

After a moment, he heard the thief step out after him, and set his jaw. So, then. He'd have to do it the hard way.

Killian and Will spent the daylight hours deep under London, hungry and in pain and out of sorts, until at last Will climbed near enough the surface to get a look and judge that it was almost dusk. "And about time too," he added, dropping back down. "Let's get the blazes out of here."

Killian grunted a terse agreement as Will pulled the black key from his jacket, walked to a grimy, rusted door in the tunnel wall, and jammed it in, twisting. Both of them waited in terse expectation. Will gave it another jolt with his good shoulder, wiggling the key hopefully, but the door continued to remain silent and shut. It did not open into the Night Market. It did nothing.

"Bloody hell," Will said incredulously. "The damn place's locked me out!"

"Get out of the way," Killian ordered, shoving him away from the door and removing his own key from his vest. He, however, had no more success, and as he stared at it, a horrible realization began to dawn. It was certainly not unheard of for the Market to banish troublemakers from its premises, and as Will must have every constable in London after him, as well as the Royal Navy clearly having been tipped off somehow and lying in wait to destroy the Roger on its return, that would be more than enough for it to conclude that they were an intolerable risk. And if so, their lifeline was cut. They couldn't survive in the underworld without the Night Market. They couldn't even survive tonight.

Killian shook the key and swore at it, as if this would suddenly render it more amenable to his bidding. "This door's the problem," he declared. "Probably rusted shut. Let's find another."

When it was full dark overhead, they scaled the ladder and tumbled out in a narrow, reeking sty of a back alley, somewhere in one of London's most decrepit districts. They found another door and tried it instead, but this time the key didn't even fit, and started to glow an ominous red, burning hot enough to sear, as Killian hissed and dropped it. The message could not have been clearer. They were patently not welcome, and if they continued to try to force their way in, the Market would have to take drastic measures to keep them out.

"Well, that answers that," Killian muttered, pressing his blistered hand into the cool mud. In default of the Night Market, the only way to get a new lodestone for the Roger would be to steal one from another ship, and the only way to prevent Will from becoming the most unwelcome guest on a sheep farm was –

Oh, bloody hell.

Archibald Hopper was just emerging from underground, thinking longingly of the supper club a short stroll away on Queen Anne Street, which served a delicious hot fish stew to stick to the ribs and hit the spot on this miserable wet night, when it occurred to him that there was a draft circulating through his front hall, carrying a tide of floating papers. Frowning, he shut the bookcase firmly and rolled down the silver grate – he trusted Ruby, of course, but everyone needed a little help sometimes – then hurried out to find that his front door had been somehow left ajar. His secretary must have forgotten to lock up, though such carelessness wasn't like her. He kept no money or valuables in the office, though sometimes young addicts would try to break in and steal his supplies of opium, laudanum, and other such substances. Those he kept in the safe, but it was still dark and quiet, and desperate junkies weren't known for stealth. Odd.

Nonetheless, Archie straightened his bowtie, preparing to go and reason with them. As long as they hadn't taken anything else, he saw no reason to involve the Metropolitan. These were just poor mad people, who didn't deserve what would be coming to them otherwise. The police had enough on their plate, what with the scandal at the Exhibition. He just had to –

Archie took one step, and walked directly into the barrel of a gun.

"Good evening, Dr. Hopper." It was a low, commanding voice, with an accent that had once been a gentleman's but slid and roughened into the darker cadences of the street. "Terribly sorry to engage your services like this, but we are all slaves to fortune. Now you're going to make an important decision, which I shall give you thirty seconds to ponder on. When I remove this pistol from its present location between your eyeballs, you can assist us, or you can not."

Archie was too stunned to be frightened, but quickly pulled himself together; it wasn't the first time he'd been threatened by a patient or a burglar. "You can have the drugs," he said, as firmly as he could. "If you want them. The opium, the – "

"Oh, we haven't come for that."

Archie was confused. "You haven't?"

"No. We have heard you know something about treating magical maladies, and hence, you're going to give us a cure for someone bitten by a werewolf. Quickly."

"What the – for R – ?" He bit back his patient's name; she had been born a wolf, there was no way to undo that. "I mean, for. . . you?"

"No," a second voice said, also male, sounding resigned. "For me. Evenin', guv'nor. Sorry about the gun. He's a bit of a melodramatic chap."

Archie's eyes were adjusting to the darkness, and by blinking them still harder, he could make out the shapes of the two intruders. The one holding him up was taller by several inches, though both of them were swathed in black cloaks that made them look like bats or vicars. They also reeked as if they'd spent the last several days in the sewers, and were dripping rainwater on his hallway carpet. Their faces – he should recognize the first one, he had an intense feeling that he should, it was nagging in the back of his brain somewhere, but the second –

"You!" he blurted out. "You're the one that stole the compass from the Great Exhibition! The one they're all looking for!"

The second man sighed. "Well spotted. Jig's up. S'pose we've got no choice now. Go ahead and shoot him."

"I. . . wait," Archie stammered, as the first one cocked the hammer of the gun with an ominous thunk. "It happens I do know a thing or two about lycanthropy treatments. It's rather painful, mind, and expensive. I – I don't work for free – "

"You've got a gun to your head," the first one pointed out, with his cool, cocksure air of command. "Of course you bloody work for free."

Hard as he tried, Archie could not find a way to disagree with that logic, and allowed himself to be marched into his workroom by the two intruders. His eyes flicked to the bell he was supposed to pull in case of emergencies, which would alert the Marylebone fire brigade, but he didn't doubt they'd already taken the liberty of cutting it. He lit an oil lamp to see by, casting weird, wavering shadows over the room, and adopted a friendly tone, hoping to put them off their guard. "It's a bit of a process," he said. "Sure I can't offer you fellows supper and a drink?"

The one with the gun pointed it at him in answer. "Get moving, you scrofulous cephalopod, before I blow your brains out."

"Scrofulous cephalopod?" his sidekick echoed with a snort. "What the bugger does that even mean?"

"Ah – an octopus with scurvy. More or less."

"An octopus with scurvy. Of course. Bloody hell, Jones."

Archie jerked. Feeling their eyes flash instantly to him, knowing he'd overheard that slip of the tongue, he did his best to keep his expression blank and incurious. It happened he had been by the Admiralty, yesterday afternoon, on Emma's errand. Done his best to sell the cover story of her being the wife of a Jones who had served on the Jewel of the Realm prior to its treasonous defection, but hadn't come away with much for his pains. Contrary to Emma's expectations, the Whitehall bureaucrats very much did care about that ship, and one of them told Archie he'd better find out who, exactly, his patient was – it being known that the Jewel was now an infamous pirate vessel, the Jolly Roger, and its captain one of the worst criminals in the Empire. If she was married to said Jones, they wanted to talk to her.

After that, Archie had made all sorts of excuses, claiming it was only a misunderstanding and that his patient was a law-abiding woman who had never so much as had a disloyal thought. He'd laid it on thick, he supposed, but he couldn't help but fear that he had accidentally blown Emma's cover, even though he'd never mentioned her name. Whoever she was working for was hopefully powerful enough to give her additional protection, though he had to wonder what they were playing at by sending her on the trail of – of this maniac. Was that who he was? It must be.

Affecting nonchalance, Archie unlocked his store cupboard and got to work. His practice focused more on emotions and the talking cure and support rather than the powerful and dangerous stuff of the apothecaries and chemists, but as Ruby wasn't the first of her kind to pass through here, he had acquired a basic competence at wolfbite potion. The Royal Society would know if a doctor was buying consistent large quantities of it somewhere, and then they would start asking questions, which Archie preferred to avoid. There was no magic involved, just a few specialty ingredients, and the rest was science. He'd learned it from a man called Whale, one of the other doctors on Harley Street, though sometimes he wasn't sure if doctor was the best word for him. It was well known that he paid university students to snatch fresh corpses from churchyards, and heaven only knew what he did with them after that. Archie had always thought it was best for his own health not to enquire too closely. Whale might be making more monsters than he was mending.

At last, Archie stepped back from the bubbling crucible, watching the iridescent blue smoke coil into the air. "Well," he said, doing his best to sound pleasant. "A few hours for that, then it'll be done. You look tired. Surely you'd like to – "

Jones moved closer and jammed the pistol beneath Archie's chin, their faces barely an inch apart. With the other hand – no, it wasn't a hand, it was a metal hook, and if the doctor was in doubt about his captor's identity, he was no longer – he rested the lethally sharp tip on his forehead. "Go ahead," he said silkily. "Give it a try. I've always wanted to dissect a cricket."

"Sir," Archie said. "I can see that you are a very troubled man, a very lonely man, and you've made many choices and faced many terrible things to become who you are now, which I'm sure I can't understand or imagine. But there's always a chance to change. To – "

"Shut your mouth, insect." The ugly light gleamed darker in the pirate's blue eyes. "Before I bloody squash you."

The second man cleared his throat. "Oy. Some of us might think it was bad form to be threatenin' the doctor currently saving our arses."

"Your arse. I assure you my own does not enter into it at any point."

"Sure it doesn't. But you've made your point, the stuff's brewin', you don't have to keep gettin' up in his face like that. Chap might get a trifle confused about what you want from 'im."

Jones snorted, but consented to remove both hook and pistol, though his hunter's gaze never wavered. "As a matter of fact," he said, "I've another errand to see to, while we wait. You – " glancing at his sidekick – "do the honors, would you?"

The second man sighed deeply, rolled his eyes at the ceiling, then reached beneath his cloak, produced a pistol of his own, and cocked it. "Sorry, guv'nor," he said resignedly. "Orders."

The hostage thus assured, Jones made his exit on whatever nefarious purpose he was about, and Archie, sensing that his second captor was of a more accommodating temperament, turned an appealing smile on him. "What's your name, son?"

"Will," the young man said, readily enough. "Got meself bit by a wolf like an idiot. 'Preciate your help in ensuring it ain't permanent."

"Not a problem at all. Where – ah – how long do you think your. . . friend will be gone?"

"No idea. How quick you think he can make it to the docks and back?"

"I have no idea," Archie said ridiculously, wondering if the lad was actually attempting to make conversation. "Is he – stealing a ship, then?"

"Stealing a bit of one." Will shrugged. "Mind if we sit? My legs are bloody killing me." With that, not waiting actual permission, he flopped filthy cloak and all onto Archie's brocade-upholstered davenport. "Don't worry, guv'nor, we're not going to actually off you. The captain's more bark than bite. Sometimes. I think."

Archie considered, then sat down next to him. "Aren't you afraid I'll turn you in?"

"Generally assume everyone's going to turn me in, then work backwards from there." Will scratched his chin. "And in fact, we 'eard of you due to someone sayin' you wouldn't fink on us, actually. So there's that."

Despite himself, the doctor was intrigued. "Who said that?"

"Some boy whose mum you sorted, apparently. Poor woman who had to bottle her magic up her whole life and it turned her potty. Said you 'elped her with that and never said a word to. . ." Will paused. "Them."

"I. . . I did." Archie was surprised, and pleased. What with him having sent up red flags at the Admiralty already, he would not be surprised if a pair of Police Inspectors were round here to snoop in the morning. It was to his own advantage to keep his mouth shut, as much as that of the intruders. He might not mind seeing Jones suffer a bit, but Will seemed like a nice enough lad (if rather in need of firm guidance) and the Royal Society was no friend of Archie's either.

The two of them whiled the time away, saying nothing. Archie asked to get up and use the commode at one point, which was granted. Thinking mournfully of his lost supper, he checked on the cure, stirred in a few more ingredients, then returned to sit on the davenport again, almost at his ease despite the fact that the young thief was still holding a gun on him. "You can put that away, can't you, Will?" he offered. "I'm no threat to you."

Will hesitated. "Orders."

"Of course. Didn't mean to incite you to disloyalty to your captain." Archie smiled generously. "Bit of a moody sort, isn't he?"

"That's one way to put it. Him and his bloody revenge."

Ah. Something here. Something that might be a clue for Emma, and whoever had sent her after the pirate. "Revenge?" Archie asked delicately. "On who?"

"Gold." Will shrugged. "Robert Gold. Hates the bastard's guts."

"Is there anyone in London who doesn't?"

Will looked surprised, then laughed. "Doubt many of them are so open about it, though, considering what happens to his enemies. Bit of a personal affair between Gold and our dear captain. Gold's wife, you know, she – " Suddenly catching himself, he stopped.

"Yes?" Archie pressed, fascinated. He'd heard rumors about Milah Gold, the President's late wife – all tidied over and hushed up, but it had been the scandal of the century when she left him for someone else. Embarrassed him, diminished him, made him into a laughingstock. His enemies had jeered that Robert Gold might be the most powerful man in Britain, but he could not even govern his own wife. Poor woman. She never stood a chance. Sinister gossip held that Gold, when he finally tracked her down, had killed her himself. This was after the magician's only son, Baelfire, his pride and joy, had run away from home as well. Enough skeletons in that family's closet to fill a graveyard.

"Never mind." Will shook his head. "He'd skelp me if he heard me sittin' here and babblin' on like this." He checked the grandfather clock. "Should be back soon, assuming he didn't get into any more bloody trouble. Though stealin' a lodestone isn't the easiest thing in the world."

Archie filed that bit of intelligence away as well – the pirate's ship must have been damaged in a previous engagement, and hence was here in London somewhere, incapacitated and unable to get away without replacement parts. At least he would have plenty to tell Emma, whenever she paid a return visit. She could then catch Jones, and all their lives would be saved.

The potion was almost done by now, bubbling and hissing, and Archie got up, took it off the heat, and poured the thick, silvery substance into a cup. "Drink it slowly," he advised, handing it to Will, who sniffed it dubiously. "Gentle sips."

Will shrugged. "Not much of a sippin' man," he commented, and threw it down at a gulp.

At once, his eyes bulged out, his face turned an entire series of remarkable colors, and he wheezed and heaved and hacked, gulping air and pressing a fist into his stomach. "Bloody – hell," he managed, grimacing. "What'd you put in there, bloody – "

"I did tell you to sip it," Archie informed him. "It's not my fault you didn't listen, now is it?"

Will didn't answer, being occupied in attempting not to retch his guts out, but belatedly got hold of himself. "Right," he said hoarsely. "Cap'n can get back any time he likes."

Archie heartily agreed. It wasn't long off from dawn, and no matter how careful the pirate doubtless was, the last thing he wanted was for someone to see Captain Hook sneaking into his respectable practice. He had been awake all night, and felt rather pleasantly light-headed as the distant church bells called four, then eventually five. Will was drowsing as well, no matter how hard he was trying otherwise, and the gun had long since made its disappearance. The further the dawn broke, however, the more apparent it became to Archie, even if he didn't want to say it.

"Will," he said, when the bells began to strike six. "Will, I don't think he's coming."

"Bollocks," Will muttered sleepily. "Unless he got caught, and he don't get caught."

"Nonetheless." Archie stood up. "He's gone. He left you here."

Will looked confused more than anything, clearly not thinking that a man who stabbed others in the back for a living would do the same to him – which Archie thought rather naïve, considering. He shook his head, his first instinct clearly to deny it, but something suddenly occurred to him. He swore out loud and jerked to his feet, as the reality of his predicament hit.

"That bloody pirate son of a whore and a pig," the thief said angrily. "You're right. He damned well did."