eleven

Poppy

He picked her back up almost immediately, but her hip bone stung when she had hit it, falling, and her feelings were somewhat wounded. But what hurt most of all was her chest: it hurt from laughter.

She couldn't remember the last time she had felt so happy, not to mention so damn proud of herself.

Don't swear. Three hours on the rice. Eternal damnation.

So damn proud.

She had figured out his secret.

And wasn't it just hysterically funny that the great and mighty Lord Hades, the overlord of London's night life, was keeping someone hidden in his den of pleasure? And what was more, he was terrified to death of anyone finding out. He was powerless against the enormity of her discovery. Powerless and shaking and swallowing and scrambling for words.

She somehow found it immeasurably amusing.

Hades kicked a door open, and she was jarred violently in his arms.

"Hey! Would you knock first?" a different voice said, from inside the room.

"This is an emergency," Hades said above her head, lowering her onto a fainting couch. It was covered in silk, cool and soft against her cheek. Hades' fingers lingered on her knee as he arranged her limbs on the settee. "She fainted in the great hall, and now she can't stop laughing."

"Laughing?" the new voice asked, incredulous.

Poppy fought to clear the clouds that obscured her vision. The new voice was masculine and young, but it had a sadness and a hardness to it that made it hard for her to imagine what kind of person it belonged to. She wanted to see.

"Why on earth would you think that I, of all people, could help with that?" the new gentleman said.

"Have mercy, Dante," Hades said. "It's not the laughter I need your help with. Contrary to what people say about me, I am not completely insane. I need your help with this."

And Hades lifted her skirt and began to roll down her left stocking.

"Would you stop doing that?" Poppy hissed, all laughter disappearing at once.

"I'm sorry, Persephone," Hades said, "but you fainted from the pain just a minute ago. What I saw on your skin was a gruesome crime. It is vile, Dante, I mean it. And I have seen my share of gruesome crimes—"

"Committed some, even," the new voice added, helpfully. This ‘Dante' person's voice.

"Don't help me, Dante," Hades said, but it sounded as if he was smiling. His fingers kept rolling her stocking down, a bit too expertly for comfort, but she was in so much pain now that all she could concentrate on was trying not to be sick on him. Or, worse, faint again. "But the sight of this one nearly made me faint. Look," he said to ‘Dante', whoever he was.

Dante looked.

Then he whistled.

"Don't do that in front of people, Dante," Hades said. "It's rude. We've talked about what to do in front of people, haven't we?"

Poppy sat up, wincing in pain, and beheld a young man with a fop of golden-brown hair, the thinnest, tallest body she had ever seen on a human being, and large eyes that looked like bruises. His features were delicate, symmetrical, and his face was all angles and planes, as if he had come alive straight out of an Italian master's painting.

He would be so beautiful, if he wasn't so broken, Poppy thought. Like me.

"Introduce yourself," Hades said to the young gentleman. "I'm too busy here to stand on ceremony."

Poppy tried to push him away and roll down her stockings herself, but as soon as she attempted to touch the fabric covering her legs, she let out a shriek that pierced her own ears, and sat back, panting.

"Let me do that, would you?" Hades said, his voice surprisingly calm. "And look the other way, please. I-I don't want you to look at this anymore," he added sharply, bending on one knee in front of the settee. "Dante, stop embarrassing yourself and do as I said."

Dante was currently holding on to a bedpost—Poppy now saw that they were in a room which could only be described as the most opulent bedchamber she had encountered in her life—and trying not to be ill.

Amazingly, he braced himself and turned towards Poppy, obeying Hades immediately.

"Dante Augustus, of the house of Lyon, at your service," he bowed in front of her settee.

Up close, he was much bigger than she had already thought; his thinness made him appear of smaller statue, but when standing without slouching, he was almost as tall as Hades.

"That is not his name," Hades said, his head bent low over Poppy's leg. He was busy unsticking the fabric of the stocking from a raw patch of skin, which had bled through, and Poppy for once took his advice and did not look. It was all she could do to keep the screams inside. "But he forbids us from using his real one, or his title, on pain of death."

"Why…why is he called Dante Augustus then?" Poppy asked, unsure whether she was supposed to address him directly or not, after all.

Dante flashed her a cheeky smile, and she was momentarily blinded by the transformation of his face.

"Because we met him in August, and he used to be in hell," Hades said, unpleasantly.

"Still is," Dante interjected, still sunk in his bow. "Ninth circle and all. And stop talking about me as if I'm not here."

"Well, you barely are," Hades said drily.

"That is a strange choice for a name," Poppy observed, wondering what Hades had meant.

"Someone came up with it at school," Hades replied, "eons ago."

"I wonder who that someone was?" Dante straightened up and stood there, shooting daggers at Hade's back. "Oh, wait, it was you, you oaf."

"Stop it, Dante," Hades said, unperturbed. "Anyway, someone gave him this name as a form of dark humor or irony or whatever. We had this idea that Peter used to be intelligent, I don't know why. He quickly proved us all wrong. But I think it was he who was considered a great reader, and he started calling this one Dante, because he had been through the nine circles of hell, as the poem says. I was the one who made it stick," he added, with no little pride.

"It sounds horrible." Poppy was burning with curiosity as to who this Peter person was, but she was in too much pain to ask.

"Well, that was Peter for you," Hades said. "Horrible."

"At any rate, I am Poppy Wyatt," Poppy said to Dante, her voice wobbly from not screaming. She decided to avoid the ‘Persephone' so as not to complicate things further. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Lyon. I think."

"It's Lord Lyon," Hades interjected helpfully, "at the very least. He's the son of a duke, devil take his black soul."

Then he coughed, as a direct result of being kicked vilely in the back by Dante.

"Don't mind him," Dante said to Poppy. "Call me Dante, please, Miss Wyatt."

"And you must call me Poppy."

Dante inclined his head, and his mouth did something that tried to resemble a smile but failed miserably.

"Are you a prisoner here as well?" Poppy asked him.

"As well? You mean that you are…?" Dante said, his hair flopping over his forehead in a boyish way, as he swung his head in surprise. He must not be over seventeen years of age, if that.

"You are not my prisoner, Miss Wyatt," Hades said from the floor. The feel of his corded forearm against her skin was absolutely driving her crazy. She would need to atone for the reaction of her body—not to mention the reaction of her brain to his touch. Do they have rice in this place? "Nor is Dante. You are simply not allowed to leave this club under any circumstances, either of you."

"I," Dante said, lifting his sharp chin in the air, "am in hiding."

"From whom, if I may ask?" Poppy said.

"You may not," Hades said at the same time that Dante said:

"From everyone. From myself, mostly. From my father as well. Everyone wants to murder me, it seems."

"It's nothing to be proud of," Hades murmured under his breath, but Dante still heard it, because he murmured back: "Isn't it?" in aggressive tones.

Poppy's heart constricted, mostly because he had said ‘from myself'.

"Thus your lordship's fear of spies," she surmised aloud.

Was Dante his well-kept secret? Was this boy the reason he was so afraid of discovery?

"I'll thank you to keep your mouth shut," Hades said to Dante sharply. "Right, that's done. Get to work removing these, if you please." To Poppy, through gritted teeth: "He is not my secret, you little spy."

"I am at least one of your secrets, I should hope," Dante sounded offended.

"Ow!" Poppy gasped and Hades' hands immediately fell from her knee.

"Damn, Alexei," Dante swore.

"Who is Alexei?" Poppy asked.

"That's his lordship's name," Dante replied, sounding slightly amused.

"Oh," Poppy replied. "I always call him ‘Hades' in my head. Everybody does." I should not have spoken. But it was too late.

Hades' hands stilled on her leg, and then something amazing happened. Dante threw his head back and laughed and laughed. Poppy watched him, unable to look away. She had never seen a man more transformed or more enchanting.

"We used to call him Hades' spawn at school," Dante said, gasping for breath.

"At home, too," Hades said quietly, but it might just have been a growl, he said it so low.

"He is a prince, of course," Dante went on, "but his mother was a who—Sorry, of unknown origins, I meant to say."

Hades' hands tightened on her skin.

"The name is Alexei," he said, tightly.

Poppy tried to stifle a scream of pain and it came out as an embarrassing whimper.

"What the hell are you doing, Mikailoff? You're hurting her."

"My…my hands are shaking," Hades, or ‘Alexei', said, standing up gingerly. "But I promise you, I am not the one who is hurting her," he added, his voice harder than she had ever heard it. "Someone beat me to it."

Alexei.

His name.

It somehow made him sound more human…and at the same time, less human than calling him ‘Hades'.

Alexei.

"Why did that sound as if you meant to hurt her in the first place?" Dante mused, earning a scoff from Hades. "I mean, you probably did not, and I know your grasp of the English language is feeble at best, but…"

"Oh, I most certainly mean to hurt her, make no mistake," Hades replied, drawing himself to his full height and straightening his waistcoat over what appeared to be a chest made entirely of marble. "You, Miss Wyatt, are in for a world of pain. You are here to pay for your spying, after all. But…" his mouth twisted in distaste. "That," he pointed at her knees, looking positively green about the lips, "is not my style. I prefer a more…sensual kind of torture."

"Please," Dante said, "now I am going to be really sick."

"His honor's grasp of the English language seems flawless to me," Poppy said quickly, wanting to steer the conversation away from the dangerous waters of ‘sensual torture', which made her want to shiver and vomit at the same time.

"Oh, he had a hard enough time of it at school," Dante laughed. "His ‘honor'".

"At least I was not mute for the first seven years of my life!" Hades spat. "And, just a little warning, Miss Wyatt seems to enjoy giving me all sorts of ill-fitting titles in some weak-minded attempt to undermine my authority over her."

"Your what now?" Poppy tried to spring from her settee, but a searing pain sent her back down on it in a heap.

Most ungraceful.

But oh, who cared?

"I was severely tormented as an infant!" Dante was shouting now.

And Hades looked about to do the same.

What was wrong with these two? Was no one normal in this place?

"I was almost killed by my own—" Hades was screaming back, but Poppy had had enough.

"Excuse me!" She shouted in order to be heard over the two men who were fighting like three-year-old boys. And that was a generous assessment of the situation. They both stopped, and turned to cast startled eyes on her, as if they had quite forgotten her presence. "Are you fighting about who had the most pitiful childhood?"

The two gentlemen seemed to contemplate this for a few blessedly silent seconds.

"I suppose we are," Hades said, turning his gaze on her. His eyes took her breath away. They were brilliant with harsh pain; she couldn't stand to look away. "Pathetic, isn't it?" He laughed and it sounded like a sob.

"I'm sorry, Alexei," Dante suddenly looked pale, the bruises around his eyes more noticeable. It made him look younger, thinner. A sorrier sight Poppy had never seen. Her heart broke. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have referred to that, I regret—"

A string of curses flew from Hades' lips.

"Stop it, Dante," he cried fiercely. "I swear to God if you don't stop apologizing to me right now, I'll…"

"So you have known each other since you were young?" Poppy felt as if she were in the process of continually diffusing an explosive situation. She also felt as if she were surrounded by toddlers.

"We were at school together," Dante said, and Hades snorted.

"School," he scoffed, and there was so much disgust in his voice, as if this was the worst one of all the curses he had pronounced so far.

It wasn't—as far as Poppy knew.

"Although I am a good five years younger," Dante added, proudly.

"Neither of you sound too bright," Poppy observed.

"Right." Did Hades' cheeks turn a shade of dark pink? "Let's get on with it, Dante, shall we? Can you take over now, and begin your ministrations of Miss Wyatt's…injuries?"

Dante approached her slowly, his soulful eyes taking in her whole body carefully, with an almost scientific level of concentration.

"Trust me," he said to her, his voice low and soft, as he knelt beside her, and lifted her stocking all the way up with a touch so light, she barely felt any pain. "I know pain."

Hades was clutching his hair. "Dante, if you keep saying things like that, I swear to G—"

"He does too," Dante nodded towards Hades dismissively, "but his fashion of inflicting pain on himself differs from mine, so, naturally, he must be my superior."

"I never said that," Hades sounded impatient. And a little demented. "For God's sake, Dante. You put yourself into a stupor with drugs and alcohol, and I can't make you stop destroying yourself, except if I practically incarcerate you in here, and put you under observation. Does that sound safe to you?"

"Not any safer than the supposed pugilism you do, Hades," Dante said, for the first time calling him something other than ‘Alexei'.

"If you are going to act like an infant, I can't talk to you." Hades was indignant.

"As I said, Miss Wyatt, I was heavily tortured as a child, it is no secret," Dante went on, matter-of-factly, ignoring Hades. "The memories barely bother me anymore. Mostly because I am the one who is inflicting the pain on myself these days. Whenever I am not numbing the pain with alcohol and—"

"Dante!" Hade's warning tone was unmistakable.

Dante fell silent, examining the wounds on her legs, the embedded grains and seeds, the dried blood, the broken and bruised skin.

"Forgive me," he said, before pressing his fingers on a seed, and trying to pry it away from her skin with a well-manicured nail. "I am broken myself, but you…you are shattered."

Poppy hissed in pain and shut her eyes tightly. There were stars behind them, and her head was light and heavy at the same time....

"Hey, no!" A voice shouted, and a hand was on her back, shaking her. Hades' hand.

"She will keep fainting, she is in too much pain, Alexei," Dante said, standing up and taking a step away from the settee to speak in a low voice to Hades. Not low enough for her not to be able to hear, however. "I can remove them, but…Christ in heaven. She won't be able to endure it."

You would be surprised at what I have had to endure, Poppy thought, but didn't say anything.

"She is going to need some…You know," Dante said.

"Some what?" Poppy sat up.

"Come on, Alexei, just a little," Dante was pleading now.

"No." Hades' voice was hard, final.

"A little of what?" Poppy asked.

"Opium," they both said at once.

"Oh." She lowered her aching body down on the cushions.

"Yes, oh," Hades said. "I am sure a glass of brandy will do just as well."

"If you say so," Dante shrugged, but his eyebrows were knitted. "Now kindly sod off, Your Highness."

"Don't call me that."

Hades turned on his heel and left without a glance at her.

…

"That mad bastard is even madder than usual today," Dante mused, watching his friend leave. "What have you done to him, Miss Wyatt?"

Miss Wyatt was in the process of trying to cover her legs, suddenly feeling extremely exposed, left alone with the young gentleman. Dante turned around, saw, and immediately strode to her side. His long, tapered fingers rested on her trembling hands, staying their frantic movement.

"Pray do not be afraid of being alone with me," he said quickly, in a low, earnest voice. Wide, honest eyes met hers. "You are completely safe in my company. I am nothing. I am…barely a person."

"Why on earth would you say such a—?"

Poppy's breath caught, and she couldn't continue. Who talked of themselves in this fashion?

"Do not be shocked, it is quite true, I assure you," Dante said, in that careless way of his that she was quickly learning disguised immeasurable pain. "And I do not…with women. You are entirely safe with me."

"Oh," Poppy said, leaning back and letting him start to work. "You do not prefer women?"

Dante chuckled. "How does a creature like you know about men who do not ‘prefer' women?"

"My father was a vicar," Poppy replied. "My brother is one as well. Men and women come to a vicar for confession, advice and help. There is little that I do not know about what human nature has to offer."

"Offer…" Dante mused. "Interesting choice of words. People would call things like that something else entirely. Anyway, no. I like neither men nor women. I am…quite broken, beyond repair."

Poppy shivered. "Me too," she said, too low for him to hear.

She saw him purse his lips. Dammit, he had heard. Don't swear.

"I am sorry," he said simply, and those three words were somehow exactly what she needed to hear, exactly what she had craved to hear for years and years.

And at the same time, they were too much.

She started to cry, silently, while Dante sucked in his breath, as if it was he who was in pain, and started removing the seeds from her skin, one by one. Then, he called in a beautiful woman called Rania to help him dress her wounds, and Poppy couldn't be too sure, because she was still crying, but she had the distinct impression that Dante was crying as well by that point.

"Rania works here, at the club," Dante tried to introduce her, but Poppy was past hearing.

Dante and Rania gave her brandy for the pain, and she quickly fell into a fitful sleep right there, on Dante's settee.

She might have been kidnapped and brought to literal hell, but as she drifted off to sleep, it seemed to her that it was the first good sleep she'd had in six years. She was too drowsy to think about it properly, but as velvet, warm slumber pulled her under, she had just enough consciousness left to think:

Maybe it's true that I haven't slept properly in years.

And maybe that is the worst hell of all.

Alexei

He did not walk away from Dante's room; he ran.

He cursed himself for having touched her so much. From the moment he had carried her inside Dante's hideout, he knew he should have left her alone; Dante knew how to help her far better than Alexei himself ever could anyway. She neither needed or wanted his help. But he had needed an excuse to touch her.

How many years had it been since he had voluntarily touched another human being?

And enjoyed it?

Probably never.

And had wanted more?

And could not stop?

Never ever.

Her body had felt so light and small as he had lifted her; he had expected her to be heavier, and as a result, he had jarred her a bit until he found his balance. But she had not protested once, even though she obviously was in unendurable pain. Why?

Why had she not said anything?

What was wrong with her?

What was wrong with him?

He shook his head impatiently like a dog, but he could not shake away the thoughts.

He ran straight across the gallery and down the stairs, knowing the way even in the thick darkness. He took the steps three at a time, until he reached a door four levels below the ground, with a barricade across it, and four iron locks holding it tightly shut.

It took him a good four minutes to open it, but open it he did, and walked into a small, dark room that smelled of tallow and wine.

"Your Highness!" he called, momentarily blind.

"Still alive," a voice answered from his left, where the small fire cast a low, orange light against the silhouette of a man with a long mane of black hair, holding a wine glass in his hand. "Very much so. Unfortunately for you."

Alexei proceeded into the room.

"Do not ever joke about that, Nikolaos," he said, stopping in front of the fire.

"Forgive me," the prince replied, wincing. "The hours are long and tedious in this hiding room. Teasing a friend is the only reprieve a condemned man like me has at his disposal."

"More condemned than you think," Alexei sighed, taking a seat opposite the prince. Nikolaos was older than himself, but still far too young to be the heir to an entire kingdom. Much too young still to be hiding from assassins. And he was both. "I had a run in with some of your would-be killers a few nights ago, and I am currently playing host to a short little thief who came in here to spy on me and find out where I am hiding you."

"What…where…?" Nikolaos sputtered, nearly choking on his wine.

Alexei reached out a hand to grab his sleeve.

"Please do not be distressed," he said quickly. "I hate this, I hate upsetting you, Nikolaos. I didn't want to tell you about the assassins for this specific reason."

"Where are they now?" Nikolaos brought a long finger to his chin. He was a true Greek prince, his features dark, tragic and handsome as a tortured god's, or they would have been, if his face wasn't constantly plagued by an expression of worry and burden.

"Dead," Alexei replied, "naturally. Wilder and I made quick work of them."

Nikolaos breathed a sigh of relief, but Alexei caught him examining his face for bruises, and gave him a ‘stop it' look.

He is my age, younger actually, Alexei thought, and he is living his life like this: not thinking of himself or his pleasure. Unable to seek love or amusement, confined down here as he is.

"This is no life for you," Alexei blurted out, unable to help himself. "What of women and an heir? What of…"

"I cannot afford," Nikolaos cut him off, "to love or be loved. It is out of the question for me. I am wed to the cause."

The cause was Greece and its freedom from slavery.

Upon first meeting Nikolaos, Alexei had been so taken with his passion for the revolution, that he had read a book titled ‘A Brief History of Greece' within less than two nights. He had since read approximately twelve more books on the history of Greece and its current situation, and still could not get enough. The story was so glorious, starting from the ancient times, and then turning tragic and even positively grotesque, in recent years. He was fascinated and terrified all at once.

"There is more," Alexei said, reaching into the breast pocket of his vest. "Are you up to it?"

"I am if you are," Nikolaos said.

Alexei took out a scrap of paper and turned it towards the light.

It was cut out from a political journal. On closer inspection, it was discovered to be American, unbelievable as that seemed. On it was an article written about the French Revolution, the American, and how more were about to spring up all around Europe. In the end, there were fiery closing arguments about helping to free Greece from the Ottoman Empire's clutches, and about funding the resistance to turn it into an independent country, belonging to the Greeks, once more.

"I wrote that," Nikolaos said. "It was published in Paris four months ago."

"Now it's been published in America," Alexei said, "and circulating back here. Scraps like these can be found in every literary salon in London."

"Naturally, your gaming club included."

Alexei scoffed. "The Hellion Club is not a literary circle, it's true," he said. "But it is a place of subversion. These ideas have been circulating down here for years before they surfaced on the rest of the world."

"I know."

"Well, I did not bring this all the way down here to show you your own words, printed across the ocean. I brought it to show you this."

Alexei turned the journal paper over. Words were scribbled roughly across an illustration of Napoleon. They read:

‘You will surely die if the revolution mentioned in this paper starts from your club.'

"Jesus." Nikolaos sat back heavily.

As Alexei's eyes were adjusting to the darkness, he looked around the room. It was comfortable enough, but Nikolaos had been secreted down here for weeks, and might be kept for months more. He hadn't seen the sun in days. And how could he, when London was crawling with assassins looking for him?

They wanted to kill him before he could start the revolution for Greece in Moldovia.

What they didn't know was that Nikolaos had set the wheels turning already. Even if he died tonight, which Alexei swore would not happen, the war would still happen; but it probably would fail without him.

Nikolaos was Greece's last hope, and the last hope of all the Greek expats who had come together in Paris, Vienna and Russia, among other places, to gather intelligence, gold and soldiers in order to start the war to free the country of Achilles and Sophocles from its oppressors.

And that was the reason he was hunted; if he died, the revolt died with him.

"What next, Mikailoff?" Nikolaos said, his voice low, defeated. He was using Alexei's middle surname, familiar only to his friends, and as such he was appealing to him now—as a friend, not a prince. "Before you know it, Europe will have a Greek revolution on its hands, and I won't be here to see it come to fruition. It's being planned already; I give it five to ten more years until it fully blossoms out. But I don't know if I have that kind of time." Alexei pursed his lips. "And what about you? I mean, you are not political, never have been, but you will be the one to blame for it as well. Well, your club. Which you have built and curated so that it's a safe and desirable place for hunted Viennese intellectuals, Greek princes and all sorts of secret societies."

"Those people sound like a sad bunch," Alexei said, regarding Nikolaos carefully.

"They are," Nikolaos replied. "That's why they are starting a revolution for Greece."

"Good for them."

"Well. You are not the Greek prince Nikolaos of Moldovia," Nikolaos said, "I am. It is not fair that you should be the one threatened." He frowned, putting his glass aside. "No one's life should be in danger, just because I am about to be killed."

"What did I say about joking?" Alexei snapped. "I find talk of you being killed distasteful, Your Highness. Besides, don't talk to me as if I don't know what it's like to be a prince everyone wants to kill."

Nikolaos winced.

"Touché," he said, in much the same tone, "but I am not joking. Not this time. They will not stop until I'm dead."

I know.

Alexei didn't admit it out loud, but it made no difference. They both knew.

"Not if I have anything to do with it," Alexei set his teeth, more determined than ever.

"What shall you do about it?" Nikolaos asked.

"Keep you hidden down here, for one thing, if you can still endure it."

"I can," Nikolaos replied. "Of course I can. It is no hardship. This place is a palace, and you an angel."

"They call me Hades," Alexei raised an eyebrow.

"Further proof that the world is full of criminally stupid people," Nikolaos chuckled. His voice was hollow, and Alexei saw in the sudden turn of his head how deep the shadows under his eyes were. "What else do you propose we do?"

"What do you need?" Alexei asked at once.

Nikolaos shrugged.

"Everything. A revolution is a costly thing. Right now, I need two things: Gold from Europe. The Greek people, even the ones who have salvaged some of their own wealth, do not have near enough to purchase ships and weapons for a navy. Two: A friend of mine, Captain Vaughn, a Frenchman who lives in England, recently rescued a ship full of Greek children, all very young boys, babies, actually, off the shores of Cyprus. The boys had been kidnapped from their homes in Greece, in order to be sold as slaves or soldiers or both in the Ottoman Empire. I don't know what to do with them."

"Jesus," Alexei said, fighting a sudden urge to vomit.

"Indeed." Nikolaos looked as if he felt the same way. "It is a regular occurrence. Three-year-old boys snatched from their homes and then trained in enemy camps so that they can come back in a few years' time and butcher their own families. They call it pedomazoma in Greece. It literally means the gathering of children."

"And the boys are abducted by Ottoman soldiers?"

Nikolaos shot him a dark look. "Not solely," he said. "I am convinced, my lord Perlin, that there is no good or bad nation, after all. Only people and their choices. The oppressors, all oppressors everywhere, are aided by as many European men as Ottomans."

"The reverse is true as well," Alexei interjected. "The revolution is aided by many as well."

"Thank God," Nikolaos nodded. Alexei stayed silent, not sharing his faith or his sentiment. "But the Ottomans, you know, are hardly alone in everything they do. They are assisted greatly."

"By?"

"England. France. Russia. Other countries as well, of lesser power."

"Jesus," Alexei said again.

"There is money to be made in slavery, and money to be made in the selling of young, strong, trainable soldiers as well. Children mean the future. Where they are exploited, wealth awaits."

"And where wealth awaits, even kings and princes chase down the gold," Alexei added.

"Not this prince," Nikolaos said quietly.

"Or this one either. Although I am not a prince anymore. Exiled, to say the least. Kicked out, more precisely."

"You have a prince's heart, my friend," Nikolaos smiled. "I never expected a man I barely know to risk his own livelihood, his wealth, and his very life, in order to save me and my revolution. Well, the revolution is not exactly mine alone; or it will not be as soon as I find more supporters. That's why I need to be out of this lovely prison, rallying the rich intellectuals and the grecophiles of England and Austria. Now. The boy kidnappings must be stopped, that is a matter of urgency, and only a bill from the House of Lords can stop that. Or maybe not even that," he mused. "I doubt that it is legal now, but every ship's captain on the Mediterranean certainly acts as if it is."

"You will be free," Alexei vowed. "You will be out soon."

"Not unless the spies are taken care of. We have to do something about that, one way or another."

"Not we," Alexei replied, getting to his feet, "I. I shall take care of that spy immediately. It shall be swift, and it shall be brutal. But even I have to curb my enthusiasm; I had better find out what she knows about you first, right?"

"She?" Nikolaos' voice sounded interested for the first time.

"It's really getting bad, if they are employing young girls, don't you think?"

"I do." Nikolaos was frowning. "Is it true? Did you really discover a woman spy in your club?"

"It is quite true, I'm afraid. I am so sorry, Nikolaos. I vow to you that I shall get to the bottom of this, no matter what it takes. I shall find out who the girl is, who sent her, what she knows…I'll find a way to make her spill all her secrets."

"Thank you," Nikolaos said. "I cannot imagine what would induce a human being to be as kind to me as you have been. You haven't known me for that long, and I…"

"I first heard about you," Alexei interrupted him, "from your stance on the French Revolution. I imagine it was your thoughts on that that led you to take the Greek cause as close to your heart soon thereafter. When I heard that you were in need of a hiding spot, the decision to offer you the use of my club was instant." Nikolaos lifted a hand to wipe his face. "Also, contrary to what people say, assisting people to their death or observing them being killed while I do nothing, is not really my style."

"I can only thank you once more," Nikolaos said.

"You would do the same were my life in danger," Alexei bowed to him. "Now. I'm afraid I must be on my way. Is there anything else I can do for you? Something to help you pass the time?"

Nikolaos had already begun shaking his head, but suddenly he stopped. Looked up.

"One of the servants let it slip," he said, his eyes finding Alexei's in the semi-darkness, "that this place….that…"

"Out with it, Your Highness," Alexei urged him when he hesitated, thinking that the prince was after some form of carnal pleasure, of which there was an abundance offered at the Hell Club. "I should think we have no secrets between us."

"Quite right," Nikolaos smiled, "we do not. My life is in your hands, in every possible way. What I wanted to ask, was this: Are there any spare cats in the club?"