The Shadow Revolution by Clay Griffith & Susan Griffith
To our editors at Del Rey including Sarah and Tricia, who have let us follow in the footsteps of some of the people who inspired each of us—
Thanks to Stan, Jack, Steve, and John, plus Ray and Forry. You guys are responsible.
To the fires of my forge—Joss Whedon, Walter B. Gibson (or Maxwell Grant as he was known to the world), hours of D&D, Elizabeth Peters, Bernard Cornwell, Chris Claremont, and Edgar Rice Burroughs.
Chapter One
A bold moon hung over the dark London cityscape. A shroud of fog obscured the ever-present grime as yellow smudges of gas lamps created black silhouettes of the skyline. London showed its hidden nature only at night. People moved like wraiths, appearing out of nowhere, shades made suddenly solid.
The misty moonlight gave the city an otherworldly aspect in which Simon Archer reveled. He nodded amiably to passersby, but his senses were tuned to the indistinguishable world around him, listening, feeling for a shred of anything out of place.
“Do you know where you’re going, Simon?” Nick Barker grumbled. “We do have important business we could see to. Or we could head to the pub for a pint.”
Simon twirled a gold key on a chain attached to his waistcoat. “You didn’t have to come.”
“Of course I did. What kind of a friend and mentor would I be if I went drinking without you?”
“What kind, indeed. Her note sounded urgent, but don’t worry, we won’t be away from the hunt for long.” Simon then intoned in a stage profundo, “Something hungry moves in the shadows of our fair city. We’ve heard it whispered in and out of every tavern. And we are the men to put an end to it.”
Simon arched an amused eyebrow. His dark hair, just slightly longer than was permissible in polite society, fell rakishly over his high forehead but did not cover his piercing green eyes. Sideburns slipped down to just above his jawline toward the curve of his lips, giving him a permanent sardonic expression. He wore simple tweed trousers with a somewhat threadbare coat, not his normal attire but one that would allow him to blend in among the locals of St. Giles Parish. Even so, he looked more fashionable than the shorter, stockier man walking beside him.
“So who’s this old friend of yours we’re meeting?” Nick asked. “Do I know her?” The man possessed the build of a common brawler and the sartorial tastes of one. Likely once a very handsome young man, Nick had creases born of time and experience as well as unshaven stubble, which made him appear somewhere over forty years old. His brown hair was short and ruffled, kept without care. Nick struggled to keep up with Simon’s purposeful long strides as they threaded their way into the wretched Rookery.
“She was from before I met you. Just after my mother died—God rest her soul—when I first came to London.” Simon couldn’t help the flicker of pain that crossed his sharp angular features even after so long. “Marie d’Angouleme was a … an actress of some repute back then.” He sighed at the memory.
“Marie d’Angouleme.” Nick whistled in appreciation. “You knew her? I saw her once at a party. Good Lord, why would you stray from that woman?”
“I didn’t. She left me.”
“She left you? But you’re Simon Archer, London’s greatest gentleman of leisure!” Nick grasped his chest in mock surprise.
Simon flashed a grin that blazed in the darkness. “I wasn’t London’s great gentleman then. I was a boy from Kent with no great place or purpose.”
“And now suddenly she wants to meet with you again?” Nick gave a suspicious frown. “In this parish? After how many years?”
“Six or seven. I owe her a bit of my time. She was kind to a chap new to the city.”
“She was kind because you paid her way. You, my friend, have never been able to tell the difference between genuine kindness and deception.”
Simon tsked. “Sincerity can’t be faked, only deceit.”
The two men ventured deep into the wretched Rookery. They passed blocks of condemned structures pressed together and rows of tenements in such disrepair that planks of wood were used to hold up their dilapidated sides. Glassless windows were boarded up or stuffed with rags and newspapers. The streets were full of garbage and human offal. The stench was strong. The air was pitch-black in the narrow confines. This area enjoyed its shadows.
Among the ruins stood a female figure.