“Well I know it. Perhaps after I take a look, I’ll return for some of that soup.”
She bowed her bonneted head shyly. “It will be waiting when you need it, along with a friendly word.”
Malcolm smiled at her, thinking that her face could have been pleasing if not tightened in some permanent grimace of penance. “One can’t have too many friends, eh?”
“No.”
“Thank you for the scarf.” With that, he went back out into the cold, miserable night, where he was more at home.
The great white block of St. George’s Bloomsbury looked serene in the misty lamp glow. Malcolm could barely make out the odd, pyramid-like steeple around which the haunting dark shapes of lions and unicorns clambered while King George I looked down disdainfully in his pagan Roman attire. The church squatted between two tall neighboring edifices, enhancing its resemblance to a classical temple.
In its shadow, Malcolm saw two dim figures lurking under the massive colonnades by the south doors. Not too surprising. The spiritual presence of the church called vagrants and the poor to its doors whether they were open or not. But when Malcolm went round the side, he saw three more shapes in the narrow space between the buildings. There was a flare of a cigar end as well as a faint trace of spicy smoke. Malcolm came closer.
These were no vagrants. They were well fed and muscular, all with beefy shoulders and ham-sized fists. Guards of some sort, apparently meant to make sure no one disturbed whatever was happening inside the church.
That wouldn’t do. Not werewolves, but suspicious enough for Malcolm to work off a bit of frustration on. These men were probably paid off in a local pub for a couple hours’ work. There was no need for the use of firearms. Malcolm stepped out of the shadows and strode up to the men. They started, as he was sure he looked like a wraith coming out of the mists in his black garb.
“Waiting for services?” he asked them in a friendly manner.
“None of yer business, Angus,” snarled the man with the cigar, noting Malcolm’s brogue. He was a big man with square shoulders with a noggin to match. “Best you head back where you come from.”
“Nothing interesting happening there.” Malcolm looked past him to the side door. “Seems like something interesting here though.”
The second man pulled a bludgeon from his ragged wool coat. “Does this make you change your mind? You’re no match for all of us.”
“You’re mistaken,” was Malcolm’s answer, flinging back his own black coat to show the twin Lancaster pistols.
“Hellfire!” said the man as he pointed at the weapons with his measly club. “What are you hunting? Bear?”
The big fellow laughed. “All’s quiet here, Angus. Just move along.”
“Is it?” Malcolm asked. “Or is there something going on inside that church you don’t want me to see?”
“Folks need to stay out for a few hours. Why don’t you come back at dawn?” A third man drew a thin, wicked blade.
“Step aside.” Malcolm had to give them credit. Just the sight of his weapons was usually enough to cow most men, even a werewolf once or twice. These men were obviously paid very well for their bravado.
The two men who were armed came at Malcolm quickly, thinking they would catch him off guard before he could pull his weapon. They were wrong. The pistol rose in a blur and he shot one man, shattering his forearm, and the knife dropped with a scream. Twisting about, Malcolm slammed the gun across the face of the man who had raised his cudgel.
Malcolm rammed his shoulder into the big man’s chest. So fast did the Scotsman move that the man could do little more than cry out in surprise. They went down in a tumble and he lost his grip on the pistol. Malcolm rolled away as a meaty fist drove into the ground where his neck would have been. He had to be quick and keep his opponents off balance. The big man was dangerous and needed to be disabled fast. Malcolm made it to his feet first.
Two new arrivals came running, and a red-bearded brute jumped into the fray. His chin lifted as he raised a wooden club. Malcolm swung a fast left jab into the man’s jaw. Red Beard’s head snapped around and Malcolm planted a right cross on the man’s temple. He dropped.
As Malcolm whirled back to the big brute, Red Beard’s partner grabbed him around the chest from behind. Malcolm used him as a brace and brought a boot into the brute’s midsection. The man fell back with a grunt of pain. Then the Scotsman threw his head back and connected with the nose of the man holding him. Restraining arms dropped and Malcolm spun about with a wild look.