The Lost Heir (The Gryphon Chronicles, Book 1) (5 page)

Gulp.

They laughed.

I’m going to die.

“Get him,” the big one muttered.

Jake gasped as his back suddenly came up flat against the brick wall. He had retreated as far as he could go, and there was no way out.

He braced himself to meet his Maker, briefly wishing that he had behaved himself just a wee bit better in his short, unlucky life.

But just before he squeezed his eyes shut for the death-blow, a flutter of motion overhead made him glance up.

His eyes widened as a large, fierce-looking man leaped out of an open window above and came hurtling down, landing with a lion-like pounce atop the brick wall behind Jake’s back.

From there, he leaped again, his long hair flying free of his dark hood, his black duster coat billowing behind him. He slammed down squarely into the alley between Jake and his uncle’s henchmen. With one smooth motion, he reached under his coat with both hands clad in fingerless gloves, and pulled out a pair of large, murderous knives.

Before the thugs could recover from their shock, he let out a roar and attacked them.

They fell into chaos before this one-man army. The stranger whirled like a bladed top; he thrust, he leaped; he ran a few steps up the side of the brick wall, vaulted into a spin, and kicked the rat-faced henchman in the head.

Jake watched him with his mouth hanging open.

“What are you still doing here, you fool?” The warrior sent Jake an impatient glance over his shoulder. “Don’t just stand there. Run!”

Jake jerked to attention, ready to obey—possibly for the first time in his life.

This was not the sort of man whose orders you ignored.

Unfortunately, while the fight raged, three against one, Jake couldn’t manage to slip away. The space was too narrow. He glanced around for another exit from the alley.

Spotting another garbage can nearby, he dragged it over to the wall, turned it upside-down, and climbed on it.

Clutching the top of the brick wall, he started to pull himself up, but the old beggar ghost suddenly pointed, behind him, yelling, “Look out!”

Jake glanced over his shoulder just as the bald giant, Oxley, hurled a knife at him. But the warrior also saw.

He grabbed his nearest opponent, the rat-faced man, and swung him around to block the flying blade. It shuddered to a halt in the rat-man’s back; he let out a garbled squeak.

The warrior threw him aside. “Keep going, Everton!” he ordered as he stalked toward the bald giant.

“Everton?” Jake whispered with a tingle down his spine. “Why does everyone keep calling me that?”

It was the same name the watery woman had called him when he had gone mudlarking a few days ago…

After promising Dani that he’d try not to steal, he had hoped to find a little something he could pawn in order to buy food. Taking off his old, holey boots, he had rolled up his trouser legs and waded into the Thames at low tide, hunting for any valuables people might have dropped into the river. You never knew what might wash up in the mud.

Coins, watches, brooches, jeweled cravat pins. These were the holy grail. You could eat for a month if you found some such lost trinket. Just bring it to the pawnshop and collect your reward.

Of course, all the starving mudlark children ever really found was trash. Hope sprang eternal, but instead of gold coins, they usually found dead fish heads, old broken bottles, and bits of rotting rope from passing ships.

But that day, Jake had found more than what he had bargained for—which was why he was not going anywhere near the Thames ever again. For, as he had learned from shocking firsthand experience, there were weird ladies living in the river.

Underneath the water.

No one else seemed aware of this. He wouldn’t have believed it himself if he had not come face to face with one while peering down into the lazy brown current trying to make his fortune.

He had blinked and there she was—a strange lady floating underneath the waves, sort of treading water.

She had looked at him and he had looked at her and both gasped. That was when he knew he must be truly losing his marbles, bats in the belfry, mad as a March hare.

She had had long, purplish hair and a fine-featured face with skin as pale as the inside of a cockleshell; she had been dressed in full battle regalia over a pale, floaty, toga sort of gown, like an ancient goddess.

A strange, faraway song had echoed in his head as Jake had stood there staring at her with his mouth hanging open, while the dirty Thames water slogged round his knees.

He had not known if he should try to save the creature from drowning, or if she might try to bite him like an eel.

Before he could decide, she had pointed at him, her dark-green fingernail just breaking the surface of the waves.
“You!”
she had uttered, her voice bubbling up to him in tones of shocked recognition.
“Everton!”

“What?” he had burst out, astonished.

“’Hoy, Jakey! Find somethin’ good?” one of the other children had cried, noticing him staring down at the water in amazement. He had glanced over, still dazed by the impossible encounter.

The other kids were already hopping-running-splashing through the shallows to see if he had found a treasure, but when he looked down again, she was gone.

Everton?
he had wondered all night long, tossing and turning in his hideaway. Why would she call him that? He had never heard that name before.

But it had eventually struck him there could be no lady living in the river. That didn’t make any sense.

A person had to breathe. Which meant he was either so hungry that he had been hallucinating, or he had finally gone nicky in the head and would be locked up in the horrid lunatic asylum if anyone found out.

Jake could not abide being locked up anywhere. Whatever misfortunes he’d suffered, at least he was as free as a bird. Intent on staying that way, he had coolly backed away from that spot in the river, leaving his comrades to help themselves to whatever hidden valuables remained.

Climbing back up onto the docks, he had wiped the mud off his feet as fast as he could, pulled his boots back on, and fled.

And now this wild warrior, appearing out of nowhere, dropping out of the blasted sky, had just called him the same name. Everton…

Jake suddenly understood. Of course!
Idiots.
He jumped off the garbage can with a scowl. “You’ve got the wrong person, all of you!” he shouted, gesturing angrily at them. “My name’s not Everton. I’m just Jake Reed!”

Nobody listened.

They kept on fighting, two against one now—until all of a sudden, the shrill, familiar notes of Constable Flanagan’s police whistle pierced the air.

The bald giant and the red-haired henchman exchanged a look of alarm. “The bobbies are comin’! Let’s get out of ‘ere!”

They fled the alley, but when the warrior started to run after them, Jake cried out, “Wait! Please!”

The intimidating fellow turned around, his chest heaving from exertion. “What are you still doing here?” he growled.

“Who
are
you?”

“Derek Stone is my name—but it doesn’t matter who I am. What matters is who
you
are. I was sent to protect you, Jacob. That’s all you need to know for now. No time.” He wiped off his blade. “Can you get yourself to the Strand from here?”

Jake scoffed at the question. “Of course!”

“Good. Go there, now. Find Beacon House, beside the river. The people there will help you. Just tell them I sent you and that you’re the little scoundrel everyone’s looking for.”

“Me? Who’s lookin’ for me? What are you talkin’ about?”

“Just do it!” he said in exasperation, turning to stare toward the approaching sound of the bobby’s whistle.

The police were on their way.

“Well, what are
you
going to do, then?” Jake demanded, though he barely knew where he got the nerve to question the tall, mean-eyed barbarian.

“I’m going to hunt those servitors down and finish this,” he said grimly, “or they’ll just keep coming after you. Now go! Lord, you’re as stubborn as your father.”

With that, Derek Stone ran out of the alley.

Jake stared after him, shocked yet again.
He knew my father?
His mind swirled with countless questions. Then he shook his head to himself.
Servitors?
he wondered.
He must’ve meant to say servants.
Then Jake snapped out of his daze, hearing the policemen around the corner.

Lord knew he could not afford to cross paths with the bobbies. Rushing back to the overturned garbage can, he used it to hoist himself over the wall.

He had just dropped out of sight on the other side when the bobbies arrived in a flurry of pounding footsteps.

From Constable Flanagan’s whistle, there came a piercing shrill. “You there!” the mustachioed sergeant shouted. “Halt, in the name of the law!”

Thankfully, they weren’t talking to him for once.

“Stop him! You there! Get that man surrounded!”

“Blimey, he’s climbin’ up the wall, sir!”

Running footsteps.

“Quickly! Pull his feet!”

“Oof!”

On the other side of the wall, Jake heard the sounds of large men diving into a heap, like in a rugby match, grunts and curses.

“Hold him, I say! We’ve got you now, you ruffian!”

“How’d ye run up the side of a bloody wall like that?” one of the bobbies cried.

Jake wished he could see what was happening. He listened for all he was worth.

“All right, all right. Let him up, men.” Flanagan’s stern, no-nonsense voice was familiar. “Let’s see what he has to say for himself. Where do you think you’re on about, you, climbin’ up the side of a wall like a blasted spider?”

“Easy, boys,” a deep baritone rumbled in response.

When Jake heard Derek Stone’s voice and realized the bobbies had indeed caught him, he could have kicked himself for delaying the warrior with his questions.

“Armed to the teeth, he is, sir!”

“So I see,” Constable Flanagan replied. “Drop your weapons, you! Put your hands up! Now!”

“Sir, look! He’s got blood on him!”

“Keep him surrounded, lads. How’d you get that blood on you, eh?”

“I, ah, cut myself,” Derek answered in a bored tone.

“Right. Mister, you better put them weapons down, nice and slow.”

“All right, all right, take it easy,” Derek soothed.

“Don’t you ‘take it easy’ me! I’m placing you under arrest!”

“For what?” Derek retorted.

“Disturbin’ the peace! Don’t know yet what you’ve done, but you’re up to no good, by the look o’ you. An innocent man don’t run when he’s told to halt!”

At that moment, thankfully, Jake discovered a chink in the mortar between two bricks. He leaned down, spying through it. A knot formed in his stomach as he watched the policemen encircling Derek Stone.

He bent down slowly, calmly, to place his weapons on the ground, as instructed.

Meanwhile, closer by, one of the bobbies came poking around in the alley where they had fought. He stopped with a gasp. “Constable Flanagan, sir, come quick! There’s a dead man here with a knife in his back!”

Flanagan pointed at Derek in fury. “Arrest him, now!”

The warrior let out a sigh as all the bobbies rushed him. Jake looked on, aghast, as the policemen piled atop the rude hero who had saved his life, while those who had attacked him were nowhere to be seen.

From under the pile of policemen, Derek cursed, but Jake noticed he did not lift a finger to fight off the bobbies the way he’d thrashed the other three. Dangerous as he was, at least he seemed to have a clear idea of who was good or bad.

“Jenkins, bring the handcuffs!” Flanagan ordered. “Shackle his ankles, too! Fletcher, comb the alley for any clues of what went on here.”

“Yes, sir!”

When the officers backed away, Derek was on his stomach on the ground, his wrists bound behind him, his dark mane hanging in his angry face.

Flanagan proudly dusted off his hands and gave Derek an insolent nudge with his toe. “You’re a murderer, aren’t you.” It was more of a statement than a question. “Why don’t you confess right now and save us the trouble? We both know you’re goin’ to hang for this.”

Jake paled.

“It’s not how it looks,” Derek said.

“If I had a penny for each time I heard that! Why’d you kill him, eh?”

“Didn’t.”

“I don’t see anyone else ‘round here that could’ve done it. Stabbed him right in the back, didn’t you?”

“Nah, not my style,” Derek growled.

Flanagan looked appalled at this. “What are you, some sort of monster?”

Derek laughed darkly. “Something like that,” he snarled back, which even Jake knew wasn’t smart.

Clunk.
The sound of a skull getting a whack of the nightstick. The London police never did seem to appreciate sarcasm, as Jake himself had learned the hard way.

A few minutes later, they threw Derek into the police wagon that had been summoned, a heavy black carriage fortified with metal bars.

Through the chink in the brick wall, Jake watched, appalled, as they drove Derek Stone away.
Oh, this is terrible! What am I going to do?
He couldn’t remember the last time an adult had actually helped him.

He wasn’t fond of them as a species, but this Stone fellow had just risked his neck for him and got arrested for his pains, no doubt to be charged with murder and, with Jake’s luck, probably sent to the gallows.

And it’s all my fault.

More to the point, Jake realized, whatever information Derek might have about his father would be lost unless he could figure out a way to save the warrior’s neck.

Jake suddenly realized he was in danger of being arrested himself as the bobbies on the other side of the wall discussed spreading out to comb the area.

Besides that, his so-called uncle’s henchmen were still out there somewhere, looking for him. They could be lurking anywhere right now, he thought uneasily. Derek had warned him they would just keep coming after him until they had finished him off, and Jake believed him.
Better hide.