The King's Deception

Ian suddenly realized he was standing on the platform with whatever he’d slipped from the dead man’s pocket still in his hand, exposed for all to see. Yet no one was paying him any attention — except a tall bloke, with frizzy, ash-gray hair and a matching mustache.

Then he realized.

The hands that had pushed the man off the platform might have belonged to this demon.

Their gazes locked.

Frizzy reached for what Ian held and for some reason he did not want him to have it.

He yanked his hand back and turned to flee.

Two arms instantly wrapped around him from behind. He slammed the sole of his foot onto toes, his heel crushing into thin leather

.

Frizzy cried out and released his grip.

Ian raced forward, shoving people aside, heading for the way out.

No one stopped him. The crowd’s attention was on the train and the man who’d fallen onto the tracks. Doors to the cars were opening and people began to stream out onto the platform.

Ian kept edging his way forward. He couldn’t tell if Frizzy was following. This foray into Oxford Circus had turned crazy and all he wanted was to leave.

He found the exit and started up the tiled passage.

Few people were there, most still lingering on the platform. He heard whistles ahead and quickly stepped aside as two coppers raced by him on the way down. He didn’t yet know what he’d managed to snare from the pocket before the man flew off the platform, so he took a moment to study the object.

A computer flash drive

.

He shook his head. Worthless. Dinner would have to be found in one of the free missions tonight. And he’d so been looking forward to pizza.

He stuffed the drive into his pocket and rushed for the escalator. At the top he passed through the turnstile using a travel card he’d pilfered earlier from a man in Chelsea. He pushed through dingy glass doors and emerged on the sidewalk into a steady drizzle. Chilly air forced him to zip his jacket and plunge both hands into his pockets. He’d lost his gloves two days ago somewhere on the East End. He hustled down the crowded sidewalk and turned the corner, passing newspaper vendors and cigarette booths, his eyes on the uneven pavement.

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you,” a friendly voice said.

He glanced up as Frizzy casually wrapped an arm around his shoulders and diverted him toward a car beside the curb. The tip of a knife blade came beneath his jacket and pressed sharp against the soft flesh of his thigh.

“Nice and quiet,” the man whispered, “or we’ll see how you bleed.”