We follow the tube crowd up the escalators, but I don’t see any of the Brotherhood members.
“Consider yourself diagnosed,” she mumbles as we creep upwards. I see her text her group of friends, and I swallow, looking down. They’re her friends, not mine. People she grew up with. People who propped her up when her parents died. They were, essentially, her adoptive family.
“If we decide it’s a crack den, we’ll leave and meet up with Gus and the gang, okay?” I acquiesce, referencing one of her best friends.
“Okay,” she replies, putting her phone away as we get to street level. “And you’re buying me dinner tonight.”
“Deal.” I type in the address and pull Zoey to the right, following the blue line. “It says we’re a seven-minute walk away.”
We stroll a couple of blocks, leaving the clusters of people behind as we enter old London. I love this part of the city. It’s wonderfully ancient. The grime between the cobblestone, the antique lampposts, and the leaning, terraced buildings all sing the song of a different era. You can practically imagine getting around by horse and carriage, wearing long dresses, stopping into the tea and hat shops that are now modern boutiques and coffee shops.
We turn left to walk along the Thames, detouring off the main road and passing under an old bridge. Aged, red bricks make up all of the buildings here. Black grit hangs between every crevice, and the smell of the river, even on a cool night like tonight, wafts up and greets me like an old friend. When I lived here, I always joked that it smelled like a damp, greasy basement. It’s more potent than I remember.
My directions ping, and I look around. There are several buildings around us, but none of them have addresses.
“Which one is it?” Zoey asks, looking around nervously.
“I’m not sure. I don’t see any numbers anywhere.” I squint at my phone, but according to the maps app, we’re right in front of what’s labeled as 67 Rose Street. I look at the Tudor building before us. It looks like all of the other structures nearby. Old, wooden, with white paint and dark beams. I meander closer, and gasp when I see the plaque pinned to the black door. “This one.”
Zoey eyes me skeptically, her eyes narrowed. “How are you so sure?”
“I’ve seen that symbol before,” I explain, the blood rushing to my face. “I saw one of them—the Brotherhood—at the Bodleian, and he was looking at this book… and the book had this symbol on the front.” The ‘V’ shape is definitely the same—wider than a normal V, with the ends thinner than the center.
“Okay, Sherlock Holmes. Let’s go.”
I turn to face her and grab her arms. “If it’s weird… if anything seems amiss, we’re out of there. Got it? I am curious about what’s happening, but I would never put you in danger.”
I couldn’t save them.
I left them there.
“Definitely.”
I pull the creaking, wooden door open and before us is a small foyer. It looks like an old ticket room to a theater. A stall sits in front of us, unused and encased in glass and gold accents. The darkness is slightly chilling. One light dangles from a wire in the center of the room. A few pieces of trash litter the wooden floor. The walls are brick and bare, and there’s one more door at the back.
“Well, this is underwhelming,” Zoey mutters, nudging me in the ribs.
“Looks like the perfect place to get murdered,” I whisper, looking around. Disappointment fills me, and I shift my weight from one leg to the other.
“Do you think they’re expecting us, or—”
The back door creaks open, and Zoey grips my coat sleeve tightly. A man strolls out slowly, and the door closes behind him. He has shaggy, light brown hair, blue eyes, and lots of scruff. The closer he gets, the more Zoey tenses next to me. The man doesn’t say anything—he circles us like a vulture studying his prey. He’s exceptionally tall, and he’s wearing a textured black Henley and black jeans. He also has a few chains around his neck, as well as a large, silver watch, and several tattoos along his arms. Every heavy, confident step he takes in his lace-up boots echoes across the aged wooden floor, and when he stops directly in front of Zoey, she visibly shivers.
“I suppose you’ll do,” he grumbles, his eyes assessing her closely. His accent is rich, thick. German, I think.
I open and close my mouth. Zoey makes a noise of disgust, and I cross my arms.
“Um. Where are we? And what is this?” I don’t break eye contact.
“Follow me.” He turns, walking through the door.
“I donotlike him,” she says quickly, but when I look over at her, she’s flushed from chest to cheeks. For someone normally so unfettered, she seems flustered.
We link arms and march across the room toward the door. Zoey pushes it open, and inside the small, brightly lit room is an old, leather couch, an aluminum table, and some kind of black, plastic shelf bin organizer. On the opposite wall is a door. The man is sitting on the table with one leg propped up, a knife in his hands as he watches us.
“No. Nope,” Zoey says, twisting around to go.
“I don’t bite, princess.” He stands, stalking over to where we stand. I pull myself taller, and Zoey widens her stance. “Old habits die hard,” he says quietly, lifting the knife to her chin. I swallow, and she gulps loudly. Both of us are breathing heavily.
