I checked the quiver. Fifteen arrows left from last time. Not enough.
The weapon rack was mounted on the back wall, disguised as electrical conduit. I'd built it myself, learned metalwork from a smith in Brixton who'd taught me to weld in exchange for keeping his immigrant status quiet. Each arrow had its own slot, foam-lined, organized by tip type.
I selected fifteen more. Seven broadheads. Eight obsidian tips for the heavier work. Each one I'd fletched myself, raven feathers I'd collected from the palace gardens at dawn when no one was watching. Each one weighted and balanced and tested until it flew true.
Thirty arrows total. Same as always. I'd never needed more than that.
I pulled on the gloves last. Black leather worn soft at the palms.Carbon fiber plates over the knuckles that had split skin more times than I could count.
The hood went up, and I caught my reflection in the chrome of the bike's exhaust. Face half-shadowed. Eyes gone predatory in the low light. Something feral looking back that had no place in marble corridors and state dinners.
I mounted the bike, feeling the familiar weight settle between my thighs. The engine turned over with a purr that vibrated through my bones. I keyed in the override code for the exit, watched the reinforced door roll up on hydraulics I maintained myself.
London at night was a different city. All shadows and reflected light, beautiful in the way broken things sometimes were. I rode east, toward the cathedral quarter, where old churches rotted into the ground and the crown's influence ended.
Where monsters wore human faces and nobody asked questions about blood on stone.
I'd heard rumors about the cathedral district. Whispers from informants I'd cultivated over the years. Black market auctions held in abandoned chapels. Weapons trafficking. Human trafficking. All the darkness the city tried to pretend didn't exist.
Tonight, I was going to make them remember.
The rain came down harderas I ditched the bike in an alley three blocks from my destination. I killed the engine, listening to the city breathe around me. Water sluiced down crumbling brick. Glass crunched under my boots. The smell of garbage and wet concrete filled my lungs.
I pulled the comm from my jacket pocket and fitted it into my ear, cycling through frequencies until I found the police band. Static crackled, then voices.
“—reports of activity in the cathedral district. Suspected weapons movement. Units are advised to maintain distance pending backup?—”
Perfect.
I stripped off the helmet, secured it to the bike, and pulled the hood lower. Rain immediately soaked through, cold rivulets running down my neck. I moved through the shadows, keeping close to walls, using dumpsters and fire escapes for cover.
The cathedral rose ahead like a rotting tooth. Gothic spires clawed at low clouds. Stained glass windows that once showed saints now gaped empty or hung in jagged fragments. Light flickered inside through the broken panes. Candlelight. Warm and wrong in a place that should've been dark.
Voices echoed from within. Low. Urgent. The cadence of men doing business they didn't want witnessed.
I approached from the east side where the shadows were deepest, where centuries of London soot had turned stone black. My fingers found purchase in worn carvings. Saints and demons eroded into abstract shapes. I climbed, testing each handhold, feeling stone crumble under my weight.
The roof was slick. Rain hammered against slate that shifted beneath my boots like living things. I moved in a crouch, distributing my weight, one hand trailing along the ridgeline for balance. Lightning split the sky, turning everything white for a heartbeat. Thunder followed close enough to feel in my chest.
I'd done worse. Climbed higher. In worse weather. But my shoulder still throbbed from the bullet graze, and exhaustion made my hands less steady than they should've been.
I reached the window. A gaping wound in the cathedral's side where stained glass used to be. Shards still clung to the frame like teeth. I pressed against the stone beside it, listening.
“—said double payment if we move it tonight. King's too busy with his son's security theater to notice?—”
“What about the new guard? The Russian?”
“What about him? One man can't watch everything.”
Laughter. Cold. Confident.
I leaned forward, peering through the broken window.
Fifteen men. Maybe more in the shadows. Armed with pistols and rifles. Moving crates between them with practiced efficiency.Weapons stamped with foreign seals I recognized from intelligence briefs I'd stolen from my father's study.
This wasn't small-time. This was the pipeline. The source.
My heartbeat slowed. The rain's echo became rhythm. Everything else fell away except the targets below and the bow waiting in my hands.
