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24

CONOR

GETTING NOWHERE - JOHN LEGEND

A quick investigation into Tryn Bowen let me know his poison of choice—guns.

In the Four Horsemen hierarchy, a gang that I’d heard of but had never bothered to learn more about as our ties weren’t UK-based, he was the Declan of the Four Horsemen family.

Azrael Shaw dealt drugs, Edwin Carsten handled their prostitutes, and Cole Flyn managed the protection racket.

Each ‘owned’ a quarter of London, separating the boroughs between them, though their umbrella corps—the guns, drugs, prostitutes, and protection racket—spanned the city.

What fascinated me the most, however, was how the Four Horsemen had run the capital in this way for almost two centuries with a Cole, Azriel, Edwin, and Tryn each heading the group since the Four Horsemen came into being.

The growth of the city had been cultivated by the gang itself, its power slipping through the roots and into the body until their rule was more pervasive than whichever government was in charge.

It came as no surprise, then, when we were guided into the Harrods Tea Room and it was empty apart from Tryn.

He was seated in the center, illuminated by the overhead glass ceiling, while a pianist played swing music.

To “Fly Me To The Moon,” Bowen dolloped what appeared to be a thick type of cream on a scone as he watched us slip toward his table. The maitre d’ held out the chair for Star, who sank gracefully onto it, and she immediately reached for one of the sandwiches on the stands without waiting for an invitation to do so. As she ate, a server appeared and poured us tea.

It was the most British thing I’d ever seen in my life.

Bowen remained silent until the staff disappeared.

“Didn’t take you for the kind of guy who ate finger sandwiches,” Star mocked.

Bowen arched a brow. “Why was Ovianar killed?”

“Minerva didn’t tell you?”

“Her doctors have her sedated?—”

“That was her sedated ?” I muttered.

“She hasn’t taken O’s passing well,” Bowen concurred, neatly pressing the edge of a napkin to the corner of his mouth. “Brady isn’t either. I hope your business was worth the destruction of their lives.”

“Now, listen here, bud, you think we wanted shit to go down how it did?” I growled, my hand seeking Star’s beneath the table. Her fingers clutched at mine, reminding me of nothing less than a little girl hunting redemption and coming up blank.

“I wouldn’t know,” he rumbled. “Seeing as I’m in the dark as to your true intentions.” His gaze fixed on Star. “If you ever want to step foot in this city again, you will clue me into what’s going on. I let it pass that you came to London without an audience that first time, but you’ve used up any clemency you earned in the past, Star. Understood?”

Nostrils flaring, she snapped, “If you think I wished any ill will on Ovianar?—”

“Whether you did or not, she ended up dead, and Minerva...” His jaw worked. Something sparked to life in his eyes. Something personal.

A shudder wracked Star, making her frame tremble and drawing my attention her way. “I know she did. I managed to figure that out on my own.” Chin tipping upward, she rasped, “In the future, I’ll let you know when I’m heading into London.”

My brow puckered. “Are you an unofficial ICE agent or something?”

Bowen’s lips twitched. “If you’re a criminal, sure.”

It was clear to me she wanted to get this over with because she stated, “The New World Sparrows were behind O’s death. I never imagined they’d come after her or I’d have stayed with her, made sure her family was safe. You know me, Tryn. You fucking know how I work.

"She got involved with Jorgmundgander to spare Minnie. That's why she hates my guts. Because she wants to blame me but her own actions led to O's death as much as mine did.”

The gaze he scrutinized her with was more thorough than one of the scanners at the airport. I figured she passed muster, though, because he got to his feet, buttoning his sports coat as he did so. “Feel free to enjoy the rest of your evening here. Do try the scones, they’re not to be missed.”

With Star’s agreement, he left, and I mimicked, “Do try the scones.”

Star shoved me in the side. “Hush.”

“Could he sound any more English?”

“No. But he is English.”

Glumly, she reached for a sandwich on the small Art-Deco-style tea tray.

A small legion of servers seemed to take that as a cue because a fresh one was brought out, filled with different pastries as well as finger sandwiches.

A new teapot was planted on the snowy linens next, and scones—our biscuits, only sweet—were replenished on thin china dishes while silver pots loaded with a thick type of whipped cream and two kinds of jam were placed in front of us.

“At least he knows how to treat his guests right?” I muttered as I reached for a thin sandwich the length of my middle finger and without crusts. My nose crinkled. “Why is this cucumber not with cream cheese and chives?”

“British tradition.”

“The Brits ruin everything.”

Her lips twitched as she drank her tea then, on a sorry exhalation, mumbled, “Years of living outside the UK, and I still prefer tea.”

“Never see you drinking it.”

“Coffee’s easier to prepare.”

“Is it?”

She shrugged. “Filter coffee is always warm. Plus, we’re heathens in the US and we microwave the water, not boil it. Then there’s the fact coffee doesn’t taste vile in travel mugs like tea does.”

I snatched a mini croissant that was split in half and loaded with what looked like tuna salad but was, in fact, some kind of crab concoction. Whichever, it tasted damn good.

“Didn’t take you for a nervous eater.”

Her remark had me shrugging. “I’m not nervous.”

“I am,” was her flat response.

“Why?”

“Everything’s changing. I can feel it.”

“Changing for the worst?”

“I’ve burned bridges. I didn’t intend on doing that. You don’t make enemies of the Four Horsemen.”

“Do they usually treat their enemies to afternoon tea at Harrods? Because I can guarantee Da’s enemies wish they’d gotten the star treatment like this.”

Her lips curved. “True. It’s not exactly torture, is it?”

“No. So, what’s the problem?”

“Change is… hard to cope with for someone like me.”

“A control freak?”

“Yes,” she admitted.

I placed my hand on her shoulder. “You’re not alone now, though.”

“No,” she whispered, gaze clashing with mine.

“Your enemies are mine and vice versa.”

“Yes.”

“So, what’s the problem?” I repeated.

She swallowed, nodded more to herself than to me, then reached for a sandwich. “No problem.”