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Back Cardinal Black Save as PDF
Chapters (44)
  1. Title Page
  2. One: Into the Storm
  3. One
  4. Two
  5. Three
  6. Four
  7. Five
  8. Six
  9. Seven
  10. Two: London Calling
  11. Eight
  12. Nine
  13. Ten
  14. Eleven
  15. Twelve
  16. Thirteen
  17. Fourteen
  18. Fifteen
  19. Three: The Malignant Seven
  20. Sixteen
  21. Seventeen
  22. Eighteen
  23. Nineteen
  24. Twenty
  25. Twenty-One
  26. Twenty-Two
  27. Twenty-Three
  28. Four: Squirrels and Cats
  29. Twenty-Four
  30. Twenty-Five
  31. Twenty-Six
  32. Twenty-Seven
  33. Twenty-Eight
  34. Twenty-Nine
  35. Thirty
  36. Thirty-One
  37. Thirty-Two
  38. Five: Revelation
  39. Thirty-Three
  40. Thirty-Four
  41. Thirty-Five
  42. Thirty-Six
  43. Thirty-Seven
  44. About the Author

The fifth man wore the standard uniform and stood in the corner beside a table on which rested the satchels the others had brought in. Matthew and Julian’s escort motioned toward that table. “You may trust that your offerings are safely watched,” he said, and as soon as Julian placed the satchel down, the satchel-watcher set it flat and put upon it a card with the number five upon it. Matthew saw the others were numbered from one to four, and the case done up in the tawny skin bore a card with the number two. The shiny black item Victor had brought in was number four. Matthew reasoned that the satchel the boy was carrying would be number six. So … who in the room had not brought an ‘offering’?

A servant came up beside Julian with two glasses of wine on a silver tray. Julian took one, as did Matthew, who was still thinking about that word offerings.

Then the twelve-year-old boy sauntered in behind his own escort—the Owl himself, which made Matthew feel the sweat starting up at his hairline beneath the wig’s weight. The boy’s curly light brown hair was shiny with pomade and tied with black ribbons in a double queue down his back. He wore an amber-hued suit with a cream-colored blouse and a yellow cravat, bright yellow stockings and boots that appeared to be made of snakeskin. In one arm was cradled his cowhide satchel.

The boy’s eyes flashed as he took in the gathering. He stopped in the doorway and grinned, showing front teeth that looked too large for a child’s mouth.

“Is this a fucking funeral?” he asked, in the thin high voice that suited his age. “Who died?”

Three: The Malignant Seven

Three

The Malignant Seven

Sixteen

Sixteen

The twelve-year-old boy with the mouth of a thirty-year-old sailor added his satchel to the table, took the glass of red wine from the silver tray that was offered to him and drank it down in one swallow. Then he put his hands on his tiny hips and again surveyed the other occupants of the room.

“Everyone here seems to have died,” he remarked. “Why don’t we liven this up?”

“Suggestions?” asked the man in the room’s second outrageous wig. He also had an accent Matthew could not identify; he sounded mush-mouthed.