“First, we gather information, so that we know where to strike,” Kartik explains. “If we called a meeting, they’d have us caught for sure. I was one of them. I know.”
“Very well,” I grumble.
Out on the Thames, the boats sway with the current. There’s something soothing and familiar about it.
“They’re pullin’ ’im in, all righ’. Got a ’nitiation planned for ’im and ever’ fin’,” Toby says. “Don’ know ’ow much they’ve told ’im, though.”
“And is Fowlson the one who brought him in?” Kartik asks.
Toby shakes his head. “Fowlson’s ’is minder. Somebody at the top asked for it. A gen’leman.” He points to the sky. “High up.”
“Do you know who?”
“Naw. Tha’s all I know.”
“I want to find this gentleman,” I insist.
“Fowlson reports to ’im. ’E’s the one ’oo knows.”
Footfalls echo in the fog behind us. They’re joined by a jaunty whistle that makes my blood run cold. Kartik’s eyes narrow. “Toby.”
The filthy boy offers a shrug and a sad smile as he backs away. “Sorry, mate. ’E give me six pounds, and m’mum’s dreadful sick.”
“Well, well, well, what ’ave we ’ere? Back from the dead, brother?” A pair of black boots shine under the lamp’s light. Mr. Fowlson emerges from the shadows, flanked by a large man. Coming up the other side of the wharf are two of Fowlson’s hooligans. Behind us is the Thames. They’ve got us cornered.
Kartik pushes me behind him.
Fowlson smirks. “Protecting your lady love?”
“What lady?” Kartik says.
Fowlson laughs. “She may be done up in trousers and coat, but it’s the eyes. They don’t lie.”
“Give me your word as a brother that you’ll leave her alone,” Kartik says, but I can see the fear pulsing at his throat.
Fowlson’s lips curl with hate. “You left the fold, brother. There’s no honor between us no more. I don’t haf to promise you nuffin’.” Fowlson pulls a knife from his pocket. He flicks it open and the blade gleams in the weak gaslight.
I scour the banks of the Thames, looking for anyone who might hear my screams and offer aid. But the fog is rolling in thicker. And who would come rather than scatter at such a ruckus? Magic. I can conjure it if need be, but then he’ll know for certain that I’ve been lying about no longer having it.
One of the ruffians tosses Fowlson an apple, which he catches neatly in one hand. He plunges the knife into it and separates the skin from the meat in long curls that drop at his feet.
Swallowing hard, I step forward. “I would like for you to leave my brother alone.”
Fowlson gives me a vicious grin. “Would you, now?”
“Yes,” I say, wishing my voice had more steel in it. “Please.”
“Well, then. That depends on you, Miss Doyle. You’ve got sumfin’ wot belongs to us.”
“What is that?” I find my voice despite my fear.
“Awww, coy, are you?” His grin tightens to a grimace. “The magic.”
He moves forward, and Kartik and I step back. We’re close to the Thames.
“I’ve told you—I no longer have it.”
Kartik’s eyes shift left and right, and I hope he’s finding us an escape route.
“You’re lying,” Fowlson snarls.
“How do you know she’s lying?” Kartik asks.
His smile is grim. “She’s talking.”
“The Rakshana is supposed to protect the realms and the magic, not steal it.” I need to stall for time.
“That’s the way it used to be, mate. Things are changing. The witches ’ad their day.”
Fowlson puts his knife into his mouth and pulls off an apple slice with his teeth. We’re trapped here. There’s nowhere to go but into the Thames.
“The way I see it, I take you bof in, I’m a hero.” He points his knife at Kartik. “You’re a traitor to the brotherhood, and you”—he shifts the blade toward me—“you ’ave the answer to all our problems.”
“Can you jump?” Kartik whispers to me. He flicks a glance toward the boat anchored behind us. I nod.
“Wot’re you luvbirds whisp’rin ’bout?” Fowlson asks.
“On three,” Kartik whispers. “One, two—”
I’m too frightened to wait. I leap on the count of two, dragging him down with me, and we fall to the bow of the ship below with a thud that shudders through my entire body.