[fic] Zhombies of London | 21
Wow! We have reached a milestone in this fic's life. 21 chapters old! That's pretty cool, if I do say so myself. Also, wordcount so far is 48548! ^_^ So! Special thanks to jamjar for audiencing this chapter for me, and to everyone else, enjoy!
Kon did not see Drake at all that night, and only a few dirtied plates at the breakfast table spoke of his presence at all. Clearly, Grayson had not been exaggerating the scope of their work. He’d given up any hope of catching Drake that day, so it was rather a pleasant surprise to come downstairs for luncheon and find him sitting at the table, arguing the propriety of serving lamb with anything other than mint sauce with Bart.
“How’s the situation?” he asked.
“Don’t ask,” Drake said. “The Director had a h--- of a time getting us access to the case. Some of the higher ups are putting pressure on the Yard to shut him out completely -- they feel he’s overstepped his bounds. And the failed search warrant counts against him too. Cobblepot has a lot of political clout --”
“I think I’m missing something,” Kon said, and Bart added, “You never told us anything about a search warrant yesterday.”
“Didn’t know. Apparently while we were fighting zhombie’s, the Director got permission to take a team into Cobblepot’s offices. They found nothing.”
Bart whistled. “That’s not going to go down well.”
“It’s not. The Director’s got his hands full defending his actions to Cobblepot’s allies and the rest of us are working with the little Scotland Yard can give us.”
“If you need me --”
“Sorry, Bart, but you know the drill. Situation’s too delicate to involve outside help,” Drake said, ruffling his hair. “By the way,” he said, tossing an envelope to the table. “I picked up this from the crime scene for you.”
Bart looked inside the envelope. “Cloth,” he said in tones of disappointment. “Thanks, Tim, although I was kind of hoping for a werewolf tooth or --”
Drake sighed. “Evidence, Bart. It’s not a present.”
Kon took the envelope to look at the unassuming scrap of cloth within. “You’re giving us evidence? How does that work with you not being allowed outside help and everything?”
“All I did was leave the envelope on the table,” Drake said, polishing his pocketwatch on his jacket. “I didn’t tell you to take it with you to Lord Queen’s and give it to the werewolves, did I?”
They hadn’t even had the chance to tell Drake about the phonecall and their engagement that afternoon. Kon snorted, tucking the envelope into his jacket. “Is there anyone who will believe that?”
“I can be very absent-minded on occasion,” Drake said. “Which reminds me.” He drew his pocketbook out of his pocket. “The Director decided to give you renumeration for your help the other night.”
“Help?”
“Destroying the zhombie,” Drake said, counting out bills from the thick wad of notes in his wallet. “Payment for services rendered, plus compensation for the long hours, the danger, and of course, your services as an expert of Voduin. Standard consultant’s fee.”
“But I volunteered, I --” Kon stared at the amount Drake handed him. It was nearly equal to the travelling stipend the University had awarded him. “This is far too much! I can’t possibly accept --”
Drake had already turned aside. “Bart? This is yours.”
Bart took the bills with a neutral expression. “You’ve given me more than Conner.”
“Well, naturally,” Drake frowned at him. “You were injured.”
“But I got better,” Bart said, counting out the notes, and handing a significant portion back. “Here.”
Drake frowned at Bart and refused to take them. “Bart,” he said. “You won’t receive your allowance for another two weeks. You need this --”
“But I haven’t earned it,” Bart said, tucking the notes into the front pocket of Drake’s jacket, and smoothing it carefully with his palm. “Have I?” he continued carelessly, straightening Drake’s tie.
Drake narrowed his eyes, and was on the brink of saying something when the phone rang. “We’ll discuss this further later, but for now I trust you’ll excuse me,” he said tightly, and went to answer it.
Kon looked to Bart, still holding his own pile of notes uncertainly. “Is this . . . all right?” He appreciated being reimbursed for his efforts, certainly, but the amount of money involved . . . this was more money than Kon had ever had at his disposal in his life.
“The Foundation’s loaded,” Bart said airily, tucking the cash away inside his jacket. His clothes were a marked contrast to his outfit of the previous day. Not only did Bart prefer more cheerful colours than Drake, his light grey suit and jacket were offset by a crimson tie, but he’d foregone a waistcoat. While they both shared a style of dress suited to gentlemen, Drake’s clearly said ‘duty’ while Bart’s had the suggestion of ‘profligate,’ or ‘pleasure seeker.’ “If the Director wants to throw money at us, that’s his look out.”
“You gave it back.”
“I don’t mind the Director wasting his money. Tim is something else.”
“Right,” said Drake, returning abruptly. “Where where we?”
Mrs Mac knocked at the door before they could continue. “I beg your pardon for the intrusion, but Lord Queen’s coach has arrived to collect Mr Kent and Mr Allen.”
“We’d better take our leave then,” Bart said cheerily and Drake raised an eyebrow at him.
“Try not to pick up fleas or anything.”
“He was joking about the fleas, wasn’t he?” Kon asked as they made their way to the waiting carriage.
“Best not to mention them at all,” Bart said, grinning as he recognised the man waiting by the coach. “Roy!”
Roy? Kon raised an eyebrow at the rugged, red headed man, who took Bart’s enthusiastic greeting in stride, ruffling his hair and laughing at Bart’s displeasure. This was the man apparently responsible for Grayson’s deepset disapproval of anything supernatural?
For so infamous a past, Roy seemed rather easy going and likeable. He joked with Bart, displaying a good wit and ready humour, and more interestingly, a way with horses. As their horse nickered impatiently, tethered to the waiting carriage, a small, sleet 4-seater, with a retractable cover, currently folded away, he patted her neck and the horse immediately settled at his touch.
Kon had suspected that a werewolf would have the opposite effect on animals -- maybe he wasn’t a were? Just because he was connected in some way to Lord Queen was no reason to assume . . . Kon frowned as he caught a familiar edge to Roy’s words. “You’re not from the South-West by any chance?”
“Arizona.” Roy looked at Kon curiously. “A fellow American? Pleasure to meet you.” He held out his hand. “I’m Roy Harper.”
Kon returned the handshake automatically. “Harper?” He’d completely forgotten the coincidence in surnames. If it was in fact coincidence. “I study under a professor of that name at Carnegie. Jim Harper --”
“Ah,” said Roy. “That would make you Kon.” He thumped Kon on the back heartily. “Nice to have you aboard. Climb up, and you can tell me how my uncle’s getting on.”
Kon took the seat next to the driver’s on the outside of the carriage. “He’s your uncle?”
“Much more than an uncle,” Roy said, taking the driver’s seat. “I owe him . . . I owe him everything.” He glanced back at Bart, leaning against the back of the first row of interior seats to stare at them, scandalised. “What’s the matter with you, shorty?”
“You’re calling Kon, Kon,” Bart said. “And you haven’t even been introduced yet.”
Roy laughed, flicking the reins and directing the horse down the street. “You expected me to stand on formality?”
Bart considered that. “No,” he admitted at last. “But I do think you could have waited at least a bit longer.”
“Of all the people to reprimand me over forwardness,” Roy started but Kon thought he saw where this was going.
“You can call me Kon if you’d like, Bart.”
He’d evidently hit the mark; Bart was amiable for the rest of the journey, listening to Kon and Roy discuss the differences in decorum between the States and London, their voyages and their mutual esteem for Professor Harper, throwing in a comment here and there but mostly just content to listen. Kon, for his part, found the opportunity to talk with a fellow countryman invigorating, and it was with sorrow that he realised they’d pulled up in front of a grand old house, with extensive grounds and trees.
“We’re here?”
“Why else would we be stopping?” Bart jumped out of the carriage without bothering to open the door. “Roy, should we wait for you?”
“Nah, just go ahead,” Roy waved them towards the house. “I’ll be with you once I’ve put Merry in the stables.”
This exchange touched on something that had been bothering Kon through throughout the trip. Roy was not at all subservient in his manner, and his freedom with Bart certainly seemed to indicate that he was not a servant. But although it was not inconceivable a gentleman might chose to drive his own carriage, he wouldn’t usually tend to the horse himself.
“Where will we find Lord Queen?”
“Ollie will probably be around the back.”
... and a servant would most definitely not refer to a titled employer as ‘Ollie.’
As Bart led Kon around the side of the house, Kon asked, “Is Roy related to Lord Queen?”
“Only in the pack sense,” Bart said, cheerfully. “I think in the wolf heirachy, Roy’s his second. Whatever that’s called.”
“He’s not his stableman then?”
Bart laughed. “H--- no. Lord Queen’s very . . . progressive. He doesn’t believe in servants.”
“Doesn’t believe . . . ?” Kon started as they turned the corner.
“Head’s up!” Bart tugged Kon to one side and the next second there was a sharp thunk and an arrow protruding from a tree right where Kon’s head had been.
Kon stared at the arrow. Somehow knowing he was probably impervious to it did not make him feel any better about the whole thing. “What the blaz--”
“Mr Kent! Bart! Oh, I’m so sorry!” Mia ran up to them. She was wearing a serviceable outdoor skirt and coat set, her hat askew over her blonde curls. Her eyes were as blue as ever, and the pink in her cheeks served only to accent the delicate hue of her skin. “My drawstring snapped -- Are you hurt? Please say you’re all right!”
“You almost hit Kon,” Bart started.
“Think nothing of it!” Kon interrupted. “It was obviously an accident -- and no harm done!”
“Mr Kent!” Queen greeted them cheerfully. He was as spick as ever, his beard bristling happily. “Bart. So glad you could join us!” He thumped Kon’s back in a gesture of greeting that almost lost Kon his balance. “As you can see, Mia and I were just getting a spot of archery in.”
“Since they’re only wolves three nights a month, Lord Queen’s pack have become competent archers,” Bart explained. “So they can fight demons and save the world on the other nights of the month too.”
“That’s . . . admirable,” Kon said, still reeling from the back-slap.
“Life doesn’t stop whether you have two legs or four,” Queen said. “That’s our philosophy anyway. Come inside, gentlemen, and we’ll get you some tea.”
Kon studied Mia from the corner of his eye as she strode after Queen and Bart. She was . . . interesting, that was for sure. Her pace was determined and fast -- until she collected herself, and took dainty, feminine steps. When Kon offered her his arm, she blinked at him a moment before taking it with a blush.
“Thank you, Mr Kent.”
“Please,” Kon said gallantly. “Conner to my friends.”
“I see you share my conviction that the current practices of decorum are antiquated and perpetuate social inequalities,” Queen said with approval. “You can call me Ollie.”
He was so confident, and spoke so assuredly, Kon didn’t feel like correcting him. “But you’re a Lord!” he protested. “Is that -- all right?”
“Of course! I said so, didn’t I?”
Kon had heard that the British aristocracy was supposed to be . . . eccentric. He glanced at Bart, but his friend didn’t seem at all put out by Queen’s behavior, so he gathered this was normal. “If it’s quite all right.” He paused. “Ollie.”
“There, now, that wasn’t too hard, was it Bartholemew?”
Bart looked vaguely shocked. “I can’t call you Ollie!”
“We’ve been over the social and hieratical objections a million times --”
“You’re too tall!”
Queen laughed. “That’s the first time I’ve heard that excuse.”
“Ollie’s a one for debate,” Mia said as they followed Bart and Queen up the patio and through the french doors of a longue. “But don’t start an argument unless you’re willing to be at it for hours.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Kon said. He glanced at Mia. “So, what should I call you?”
“Mia,” she said immediately then blushed. “Um. I mean, if that’s not too forward or anything.”
Bart watched this exchange with amusement. “It’s all right, Mia. Kon’s not going to care if you use the wrong soup spoon or any of that. He doesn’t know either!”
“Thank you, Bart,” Kon said dryly, but Mia laughed seemingly relieved.
“That’s good to hear. Ah. I hope this doesn’t sound forward, but I like you, Mr K-- Conner. I was hoping we’d be friends.”
ETA: And now with extra PIC!JOY: pikakao has produced vampyre vixen bart without a boa(tm) and my little were-coyote!Roy, take one and take two. Linked here so I can thank pikakao and also dizzycadence and bibliokat for encouraging her, and to make sure that you guys don't miss out on these although you could just scroll down and see them in the comments I guess. Much love!
Kon did not see Drake at all that night, and only a few dirtied plates at the breakfast table spoke of his presence at all. Clearly, Grayson had not been exaggerating the scope of their work. He’d given up any hope of catching Drake that day, so it was rather a pleasant surprise to come downstairs for luncheon and find him sitting at the table, arguing the propriety of serving lamb with anything other than mint sauce with Bart.
“How’s the situation?” he asked.
“Don’t ask,” Drake said. “The Director had a h--- of a time getting us access to the case. Some of the higher ups are putting pressure on the Yard to shut him out completely -- they feel he’s overstepped his bounds. And the failed search warrant counts against him too. Cobblepot has a lot of political clout --”
“I think I’m missing something,” Kon said, and Bart added, “You never told us anything about a search warrant yesterday.”
“Didn’t know. Apparently while we were fighting zhombie’s, the Director got permission to take a team into Cobblepot’s offices. They found nothing.”
Bart whistled. “That’s not going to go down well.”
“It’s not. The Director’s got his hands full defending his actions to Cobblepot’s allies and the rest of us are working with the little Scotland Yard can give us.”
“If you need me --”
“Sorry, Bart, but you know the drill. Situation’s too delicate to involve outside help,” Drake said, ruffling his hair. “By the way,” he said, tossing an envelope to the table. “I picked up this from the crime scene for you.”
Bart looked inside the envelope. “Cloth,” he said in tones of disappointment. “Thanks, Tim, although I was kind of hoping for a werewolf tooth or --”
Drake sighed. “Evidence, Bart. It’s not a present.”
Kon took the envelope to look at the unassuming scrap of cloth within. “You’re giving us evidence? How does that work with you not being allowed outside help and everything?”
“All I did was leave the envelope on the table,” Drake said, polishing his pocketwatch on his jacket. “I didn’t tell you to take it with you to Lord Queen’s and give it to the werewolves, did I?”
They hadn’t even had the chance to tell Drake about the phonecall and their engagement that afternoon. Kon snorted, tucking the envelope into his jacket. “Is there anyone who will believe that?”
“I can be very absent-minded on occasion,” Drake said. “Which reminds me.” He drew his pocketbook out of his pocket. “The Director decided to give you renumeration for your help the other night.”
“Help?”
“Destroying the zhombie,” Drake said, counting out bills from the thick wad of notes in his wallet. “Payment for services rendered, plus compensation for the long hours, the danger, and of course, your services as an expert of Voduin. Standard consultant’s fee.”
“But I volunteered, I --” Kon stared at the amount Drake handed him. It was nearly equal to the travelling stipend the University had awarded him. “This is far too much! I can’t possibly accept --”
Drake had already turned aside. “Bart? This is yours.”
Bart took the bills with a neutral expression. “You’ve given me more than Conner.”
“Well, naturally,” Drake frowned at him. “You were injured.”
“But I got better,” Bart said, counting out the notes, and handing a significant portion back. “Here.”
Drake frowned at Bart and refused to take them. “Bart,” he said. “You won’t receive your allowance for another two weeks. You need this --”
“But I haven’t earned it,” Bart said, tucking the notes into the front pocket of Drake’s jacket, and smoothing it carefully with his palm. “Have I?” he continued carelessly, straightening Drake’s tie.
Drake narrowed his eyes, and was on the brink of saying something when the phone rang. “We’ll discuss this further later, but for now I trust you’ll excuse me,” he said tightly, and went to answer it.
Kon looked to Bart, still holding his own pile of notes uncertainly. “Is this . . . all right?” He appreciated being reimbursed for his efforts, certainly, but the amount of money involved . . . this was more money than Kon had ever had at his disposal in his life.
“The Foundation’s loaded,” Bart said airily, tucking the cash away inside his jacket. His clothes were a marked contrast to his outfit of the previous day. Not only did Bart prefer more cheerful colours than Drake, his light grey suit and jacket were offset by a crimson tie, but he’d foregone a waistcoat. While they both shared a style of dress suited to gentlemen, Drake’s clearly said ‘duty’ while Bart’s had the suggestion of ‘profligate,’ or ‘pleasure seeker.’ “If the Director wants to throw money at us, that’s his look out.”
“You gave it back.”
“I don’t mind the Director wasting his money. Tim is something else.”
“Right,” said Drake, returning abruptly. “Where where we?”
Mrs Mac knocked at the door before they could continue. “I beg your pardon for the intrusion, but Lord Queen’s coach has arrived to collect Mr Kent and Mr Allen.”
“We’d better take our leave then,” Bart said cheerily and Drake raised an eyebrow at him.
“Try not to pick up fleas or anything.”
“He was joking about the fleas, wasn’t he?” Kon asked as they made their way to the waiting carriage.
“Best not to mention them at all,” Bart said, grinning as he recognised the man waiting by the coach. “Roy!”
Roy? Kon raised an eyebrow at the rugged, red headed man, who took Bart’s enthusiastic greeting in stride, ruffling his hair and laughing at Bart’s displeasure. This was the man apparently responsible for Grayson’s deepset disapproval of anything supernatural?
For so infamous a past, Roy seemed rather easy going and likeable. He joked with Bart, displaying a good wit and ready humour, and more interestingly, a way with horses. As their horse nickered impatiently, tethered to the waiting carriage, a small, sleet 4-seater, with a retractable cover, currently folded away, he patted her neck and the horse immediately settled at his touch.
Kon had suspected that a werewolf would have the opposite effect on animals -- maybe he wasn’t a were? Just because he was connected in some way to Lord Queen was no reason to assume . . . Kon frowned as he caught a familiar edge to Roy’s words. “You’re not from the South-West by any chance?”
“Arizona.” Roy looked at Kon curiously. “A fellow American? Pleasure to meet you.” He held out his hand. “I’m Roy Harper.”
Kon returned the handshake automatically. “Harper?” He’d completely forgotten the coincidence in surnames. If it was in fact coincidence. “I study under a professor of that name at Carnegie. Jim Harper --”
“Ah,” said Roy. “That would make you Kon.” He thumped Kon on the back heartily. “Nice to have you aboard. Climb up, and you can tell me how my uncle’s getting on.”
Kon took the seat next to the driver’s on the outside of the carriage. “He’s your uncle?”
“Much more than an uncle,” Roy said, taking the driver’s seat. “I owe him . . . I owe him everything.” He glanced back at Bart, leaning against the back of the first row of interior seats to stare at them, scandalised. “What’s the matter with you, shorty?”
“You’re calling Kon, Kon,” Bart said. “And you haven’t even been introduced yet.”
Roy laughed, flicking the reins and directing the horse down the street. “You expected me to stand on formality?”
Bart considered that. “No,” he admitted at last. “But I do think you could have waited at least a bit longer.”
“Of all the people to reprimand me over forwardness,” Roy started but Kon thought he saw where this was going.
“You can call me Kon if you’d like, Bart.”
He’d evidently hit the mark; Bart was amiable for the rest of the journey, listening to Kon and Roy discuss the differences in decorum between the States and London, their voyages and their mutual esteem for Professor Harper, throwing in a comment here and there but mostly just content to listen. Kon, for his part, found the opportunity to talk with a fellow countryman invigorating, and it was with sorrow that he realised they’d pulled up in front of a grand old house, with extensive grounds and trees.
“We’re here?”
“Why else would we be stopping?” Bart jumped out of the carriage without bothering to open the door. “Roy, should we wait for you?”
“Nah, just go ahead,” Roy waved them towards the house. “I’ll be with you once I’ve put Merry in the stables.”
This exchange touched on something that had been bothering Kon through throughout the trip. Roy was not at all subservient in his manner, and his freedom with Bart certainly seemed to indicate that he was not a servant. But although it was not inconceivable a gentleman might chose to drive his own carriage, he wouldn’t usually tend to the horse himself.
“Where will we find Lord Queen?”
“Ollie will probably be around the back.”
... and a servant would most definitely not refer to a titled employer as ‘Ollie.’
As Bart led Kon around the side of the house, Kon asked, “Is Roy related to Lord Queen?”
“Only in the pack sense,” Bart said, cheerfully. “I think in the wolf heirachy, Roy’s his second. Whatever that’s called.”
“He’s not his stableman then?”
Bart laughed. “H--- no. Lord Queen’s very . . . progressive. He doesn’t believe in servants.”
“Doesn’t believe . . . ?” Kon started as they turned the corner.
“Head’s up!” Bart tugged Kon to one side and the next second there was a sharp thunk and an arrow protruding from a tree right where Kon’s head had been.
Kon stared at the arrow. Somehow knowing he was probably impervious to it did not make him feel any better about the whole thing. “What the blaz--”
“Mr Kent! Bart! Oh, I’m so sorry!” Mia ran up to them. She was wearing a serviceable outdoor skirt and coat set, her hat askew over her blonde curls. Her eyes were as blue as ever, and the pink in her cheeks served only to accent the delicate hue of her skin. “My drawstring snapped -- Are you hurt? Please say you’re all right!”
“You almost hit Kon,” Bart started.
“Think nothing of it!” Kon interrupted. “It was obviously an accident -- and no harm done!”
“Mr Kent!” Queen greeted them cheerfully. He was as spick as ever, his beard bristling happily. “Bart. So glad you could join us!” He thumped Kon’s back in a gesture of greeting that almost lost Kon his balance. “As you can see, Mia and I were just getting a spot of archery in.”
“Since they’re only wolves three nights a month, Lord Queen’s pack have become competent archers,” Bart explained. “So they can fight demons and save the world on the other nights of the month too.”
“That’s . . . admirable,” Kon said, still reeling from the back-slap.
“Life doesn’t stop whether you have two legs or four,” Queen said. “That’s our philosophy anyway. Come inside, gentlemen, and we’ll get you some tea.”
Kon studied Mia from the corner of his eye as she strode after Queen and Bart. She was . . . interesting, that was for sure. Her pace was determined and fast -- until she collected herself, and took dainty, feminine steps. When Kon offered her his arm, she blinked at him a moment before taking it with a blush.
“Thank you, Mr Kent.”
“Please,” Kon said gallantly. “Conner to my friends.”
“I see you share my conviction that the current practices of decorum are antiquated and perpetuate social inequalities,” Queen said with approval. “You can call me Ollie.”
He was so confident, and spoke so assuredly, Kon didn’t feel like correcting him. “But you’re a Lord!” he protested. “Is that -- all right?”
“Of course! I said so, didn’t I?”
Kon had heard that the British aristocracy was supposed to be . . . eccentric. He glanced at Bart, but his friend didn’t seem at all put out by Queen’s behavior, so he gathered this was normal. “If it’s quite all right.” He paused. “Ollie.”
“There, now, that wasn’t too hard, was it Bartholemew?”
Bart looked vaguely shocked. “I can’t call you Ollie!”
“We’ve been over the social and hieratical objections a million times --”
“You’re too tall!”
Queen laughed. “That’s the first time I’ve heard that excuse.”
“Ollie’s a one for debate,” Mia said as they followed Bart and Queen up the patio and through the french doors of a longue. “But don’t start an argument unless you’re willing to be at it for hours.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Kon said. He glanced at Mia. “So, what should I call you?”
“Mia,” she said immediately then blushed. “Um. I mean, if that’s not too forward or anything.”
Bart watched this exchange with amusement. “It’s all right, Mia. Kon’s not going to care if you use the wrong soup spoon or any of that. He doesn’t know either!”
“Thank you, Bart,” Kon said dryly, but Mia laughed seemingly relieved.
“That’s good to hear. Ah. I hope this doesn’t sound forward, but I like you, Mr K-- Conner. I was hoping we’d be friends.”
ETA: And now with extra PIC!JOY: pikakao has produced vampyre vixen bart without a boa(tm) and my little were-coyote!Roy, take one and take two. Linked here so I can thank pikakao and also dizzycadence and bibliokat for encouraging her, and to make sure that you guys don't miss out on these although you could just scroll down and see them in the comments I guess. Much love!