“Translation Chamber,” Morgan said quietly. “It’s hidden behind a statue of Queen Elizabeth toward the back of the Scholar’s Reading Room.” She caught Jess’s eye. “I studied ahead, in case we needed to escape.”

He loved her for that. For many things, just now. “And how do you plan to get past the lions?” he asked his father, whose grin never slipped.

“With help,” he said. “You don’t need to know.”

Jess exchanged a quick glance with Thomas. His father had a frightening amount of inside knowledge, but he clearly didn’t know that Jess could turn off the lions or that they could potentially convert them to their own cause.

Something to keep in reserve.

There was a rap on the front of the freight wagon, and Callum nodded. “Get up,” he said, and rose, grabbing for a handhold as the truck lurched. “Don’t cross us. Trust me, this is the best deal you’re going to get.”

“I’m sure it is,” Wolfe replied. “You strike me as such an honest man.” The sarcasm is heavy enough to drown in, Jess thought, and in looking between the two men, he knew in his heart he’d choose Wolfe over his own father anytime. As difficult and prickly as the man could be, at least he was honest.

The wagon wheezed to a lurching halt, throwing them against one another, and Jess all but lost his footing when Thomas bumped him. But then the back of the wagon clanked down and his father’s men were rushing out with a purpose, shouting.

They were nosed against the Garda barrier, and the Brightwell bullies made quick work of the two London Garda soldiers on duty. There was almost no one at the barricades, but those who were there ran. By the time the second Garda soldier hit the ground unconscious, the area was all but deserted.

Jess heard screaming from somewhere frighteningly close, and as he turned that way, he saw a distant pinpoint of greenish light arcing through the dark, growing larger. It was a ballista pot of Greek fire, and it hit no more than five blocks away, exploding and splashing the rooftops with luminescent liquid that began to burn instantly.

“The Welsh army is coming close,” Wolfe said. Brightwell nodded. “Well?”

“We’re waiting,” he said.

“For what?”

“For them.” A group of men and women ran toward them from a side street—ten of them, by Jess’s quick count. They looked grimly serious as they exchanged nods with Callum. “You’re late,” he said. “Go on, then. You’ve been paid well enough for it.”

The leader—a woman with black hair twisted in a thick braid to one side of her head, with features and skin that reminded Jess a bit of Joachim Portero—flashed him a smile, but without humor. “We don’t do this for money, criminal. We do it for principles.”

“I don’ t care why you do it,” Brightwell said blandly. “So long as you succeed.”

She led her small force up the street toward the Scholar Steps, where Jess had once run for his life from lions—and those lions, he realized, were still there, crouched, waiting. They were the massively muscled English sort—shorter manes than the Italian version, without barbed tails. Designed to crush and tear. One rose to all four paws, turned red eyes toward the intruders, and let out a chilling roar.