“Thanks for saving my mom,” the little girl said. “I was really scared that the monsters were going to find us before Daddy came home.”

  Simon was surprised at how strongly emotion moved within him. After learning of his father’s death, after seeing how many deaths had happened in London, the child’s simple thank-you touched him more than anything had in a long time.

  “You’re welcome,” Simon said. “But it wasn’t just me. There were others.”

  “I know. But you’re the one who came in after us.”

  Simon smiled. “I couldn’t leave you.”

  “You could have,” Emma said. “Others did. When Mom got sick and we couldn’t wake her up, I went to some of the neighbors that lived around us and tried to get them to help us. No one wanted to come out of their houses.”

  Thinking about the little girl running through the streets knocking on doors, easy prey for the demons, almost made Simon sick.

  “Well then,” Simon said, “I’m glad you asked me.” He squatted down to look her in the eye. “You did a very brave thing coming out to stop me.”

  The little girl smiled a little bigger. “I knew you would save us. You had to. You’re a knight in shining armor.”

  Simon knew his armor didn’t shine. It was covered in soot and debris from the battle. Blood: his own and that of demons and other Templar. “I’m not—”

  “You are,” Kaye interrupted, smiling, too. “We’ve all got to have something to believe in these days, don’t we?”

  “Do you know King Arthur?” Stephen asked. “Have you gotten to meet him?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.” The little boy seemed disappointed. “Mom reads King Arthur to us a lot. King Arthur is my favorite hero. The legends say that Arthur will return when Britain needs him most.”

  Simon grinned, remembering the times his father had read some of the classics to him when he was small. It had been apparent that his father had loved those stories, and even seen what the Templar were doing as noble and heroic. Simon had never bought into that, but he’d never before felt the way he did now.

  “I always liked Sir Gawain,” Simon said.

  Emma took a strip of blue cloth from her pocket. Without a word, she approached Simon and wrapped the strip around the armor at his biceps. She tied it into a bow and stepped back.

  “It’s a favor,” Emma said.

  Touched, Simon nodded. “I know.”

  “I hope it brings you luck.”

  “Thank you.”

  “All right then,” Kaye said, standing again. “I think we’d better let Simon go rest. He’s been up for a long time.”

  The children said a final good-bye and returned to their mother’s room.

  “I’ve put cots in there for them,” Kaye said.

  “If they need anything,” Simon said.

  “We’ll take care of them. Don’t you worry about that. But you do need to rest. You look as though you’re ready to keel over.”

  Simon felt like it, too. He’d been on his guard around Booth, but the fatigue was kicking in again. He told her thanks and good-bye, then headed back to the barracks.

  The barracks were quiet when Simon returned. Only a few Templar were there, telling him without looking that it was daylight. The Underground tried to maintain a day/night rotation that matched the outside world. Even with the chaos that had consumed London, evidently the effort was still being made.

  He stripped out of the armor, exchanging a few comments with some of the other men from Derek’s unit before heading to the showers with a towel and a pair of sweat pants.

  Standing under the shower, he felt guilty about resting while other Templar might even now be out in the streets fighting for their lives while he was preparing for bed. The hot spray broke stinging needles against his skin.

  You can’t be everywhere at once, Simon, his father had told him. When it comes to fighting, you’ll get more than your share of it. But when the demons come, it won’t be one encounter or one day. They’ll come in strength. The Templar taught them they would have to do that when we fought during the Crusades. When they come, you’ll fight until you’re sick of it. So when your mates step into the fray to carry the burden of it for a time, do yourself and them a favor by letting them.

  Images of the battle played through Simon’s mind again. Most prominent in his thoughts, though, was the helplessness in the girl’s face when she’d come to him.

  Would another Templar have helped her? Would he or she have gone against Booth’s wishes and simply stuck to the mission?

  Or would that Templar have left her there to die?

  Simon couldn’t believe they would have been asked to do something like that. Not all of the Templar Houses could possibly feel that way. There were a lot of people still trapped in London. He’d seen their campfires.

  When the Dark Times come, Simon, we’ll have to be the light that leads humanity out of the night. We can do that. It’s our destiny.

  Some destiny, Simon thought sourly. I ran off and wasn’t here when you needed me, and High Seat Booth wants us to sit back and watch innocents die. That’s not what I expected from the Templar, not what I want to be part of.

  No longer able to take the heat, Simon turned the shower to full cold for fifteen shivering seconds, then stepped out, dried himself, and pulled on the sweat pants.

  When he stepped to the door, he was confronted by a tall, powerfully built woman with short-cropped red hair. She wore a cropped t-shirt, sweat pants, and sneakers.

  “Simon Cross,” she snarled. “You got my sister killed tonight!”

  Before Simon could think of anything to say, the redhead doubled her fist and slammed it into his jaw. She put enough muscle and weight behind the blow to knock him backward. His feet slipped on the wet tiles and he went down. In the next instant, the woman straddled him and curled both hands into fists. She attacked without hesitation, driving blows into his face.

  Thirty-Six

  T emperance! Temperance, get off of him!”

  The woman scored hit after hit, bruising Simon’s face with punishing force. Someone pulled at her from behind, but she locked her legs around Simon’s midsection even tighter. With her seated on his chest and squeezing him in the middle, he had a hard time catching his breath.

  Bucking his hips up, Simon lifted himself and the woman from the floor. Then he reached across his body with his right arm and slammed his hand against the inside of the woman’s right elbow, trapping her right wrist in his left hand. Using the leverage provided by the grip, he pulled her weight to the side, dumped her off of him, and stood.

  He’d no more than got to his feet when someone else delivered a roundhouse kick to his face. Simon barely got his hands up in time, palms turned out and open to cushion the blow across the meaty parts of his forearms. Grabbing the leg with one hand as the new attacker tried to pull it back, Simon shifted and uncoiled a side kick to the center of the man’s chest and knocked him back against the tiled wall. The man hit the wall hard enough to knock tile from the wall.

  Breathing hard, vision blurred by pain and tears, one eye already swelling closed, Simon turned to the redhead as she scrambled up. She attacked at once, throwing a series of punches and kicks.

  Simon blocked the attempts as quickly as the woman threw them. She was good, though, and several of them connected with his face and stomach. He knew he was in trouble if he tried to fight defensively. He was taller and heavier, and had more reach. But the cramped quarters of the showers took away all those natural advantages. He was easily inside her reach, and his larger size made him easier to hit and impeded his own efforts.

  Avoiding the woman, Simon wrapped his arms around her from behind, pinning her arms against her sides. She headbutted him in the mouth, sending comets erupting into his vision. Then she lifted her arms like she was going to perform a jumping jack while bending her knees and dropping slightly. She slid right out of his grasp and delivered a spinning side kick to his temple.

  Knowing he could no longer fight defensively, Simon caught the woman’s foot before she could draw it back. He swept her other foot from beneath her with his own and tripped her to the ground.

  Another man threw a punch at Simon’s throat. Simon dodged to the side, flung his own arm up and locked it inside his attacker’s, then stepped behind the man and yanked. The attacker left his feet in a rush and went flying, rebounding from one of the bathroom stalls with a harsh clang.

  The woman scrambled to her feet, looking more intent than ever.

  “Enough!” The harsh voice rang out inside the small enclosure.

  Hands open at the sides of his face to defend himself, Simon stepped back.

  A grizzled sergeant stepped into the room. “Attention! Every one of you! Right now, or I’ll have you up on charges and in a conditioning room running laps for the next twenty-four hours.”

  The Templar came to attention in a heartbeat. They weren’t rested and weren’t getting much sleep. No one wanted to give up what little time they had for relaxation and sleep.

  Even Temperance stood at attention.

  “What’s going on?” the sergeant demanded.

  “It’s my fault, sergeant,” Temperance said. “I came here to see Cross, to tell him what I thought of him getting my sister killed over noncombatants too stupid to leave London. Things got out of hand.”

  “Those people aren’t too stupid to leave,” another Templar said. “They can’t leave. A lot of people are stuck in their homes because they lack the wherewithal to get out of the city. You’ve got invalids and children that would never survive the trip. If they ever made it out of the city.”

  “I said, that’s enough,” the sergeant roared. “Get back to your bunks. Every last one of you. Another word, another blow, and I’ll make sure you regret it.”

  For a moment, the tension in the room held. Then Temperance turned away from Simon and walked back through the door. Those who had come with her followed.

  Simon let out a tense breath.

  The sergeant turned to him, then walked over and took his face in his hands. He was rough, but gentle and thorough. “You’ve got a cut over that eye that needs tending.”

  Simon pulled his head back. He felt blood running down the side of his face. “I’ll be fine.”

  “That won’t close on its own. Either we close it or you go to the infirmary.”

  “I don’t want to go to the infirmary,” Simon said.

  “Fine.” The sergeant snapped an order over his shoulder, sending one of the men with him scurrying for a med-kit.

  “This is going to sting.”

  Simon sat on the floor in the bathroom as the sergeant had directed him. He had his hands crossed over his chest. He didn’t think a sting was going to be any worse than the pain already throbbing in his face.

  The sergeant’s name turned out to be Brewster. He was taciturn but opinionated when he decided to let his thoughts be known. He flicked on the portable Nu-Skin cauterizer. The device powered up with an insect-like whine.

  “One of the med-techs in the infirmary would do a better job of it,” Brewster said.

  “I want to get to bed,” Simon said. “Getting to the infirmary and back, and waiting, will take too long.” Plus, he wasn’t sure if he’d make it under his own power.

  “They’d also have some slap-patches for pain.”

  “I don’t think a really deep sleep would be safe,” Simon replied.

  Brewster grinned sympathetically. “Prolly not. Temperance Caine isn’t known for her forgiving ways. But she went easy on you.”

  “You could have fooled me.”

  “If she’d have wanted you dead, you’d have been dead before you ever saw it coming.” Brewster leaned in. “Now hold still.”

  The cauterizer hissed as it made contact with Simon’s flesh. Pain bit into his head just above his eye. He forced himself to keep breathing through it, and he tried to push it away from himself, denying the pain and its hold over him. He almost succeeded.

  “Nearly done,” Brewster advised.

  “All right.” Simon smelled cooked meat. The cauterizer was quick and efficient, pulling a cut together, then bonding it with searing heat and a line of Nu-Skin, a hypoallergenic layer of protein-sub that gradually broke down as a wound finished healing.

  True to his word, Brewster finished in just seconds. He stood and put the cauterizer back into the med-kit and handed it off to the Templar that had gotten it for him.

  “How do you feel?” Brewster asked.

  “It hurts.”

  The Templar laughed a little. “Give it a few hours. It’ll feel better.”

  Simon forced himself to his feet. His head protested, flipping woozily. For a second, the room spun.

  Brewster grabbed his arm and helped steady him.

  “I’ve got it.” Simon pulled his arm away, resenting the fact that the others could see the weakness in him.

  “Sure you do.” Brewster stood back, though.

  Crossing to the sink, Simon peered into one of the mirrors. The line of Nu-Skin looked slightly pinker than the rest of his forehead. His face was the real proof of the pudding, though. Bruises decorated his cheeks, chin, and forehead.

  “Temperance did a good job,” Brewster said. “You have to give her that.”

  “Yeah.” Simon dipped up a double handful of water and washed his face. “Her sister was one of those who died tonight?”

  Brewster’s face grew more solemn. “Charity. Yes. They were close. They were the last family either of them had. Both their parents died at St. Paul’s.”

  Simon felt bad for the young woman.

  “What you did tonight,” Brewster said, “saving that woman and those two kids?”

  “I know,” Simon said. “I screwed up.”

  “Will it happen again?” Brewster’s face showed keen interest.

  Simon thought about how best to answer the question. He didn’t know. Not without a shadow of a doubt. “Probably. If I see someone who needs help and I think I can help them.” He took in a deep breath, thinking he’d just successfully killed his career and would be put out on the street.

  “Good,” Brewster said, smiling. “When I became a man and made the decision to join the Templar, I did it because I wanted to help people. I know that High Seat Booth is presenting a case against it, and he’s got good reasons in light of everything, but there are a lot of people out there who feel the way I do.”

  Simon stared at the man’s reflection in the mirror.

  “What you did tonight, saving that woman and those kids,” Brewster said softly, “that took courage. Despite Booth’s threats, there are a lot of us who respect what you did. When Temperance calms down, I think you’re going to find she respects you, too. After all, her sister stuck it out with you.”

  Simon blotted his face dry, careful of the Nu-Skin.

  “If you want,” Brewster offered, “I’ll post a guard over this barracks. Make sure you get a good night’s sleep.”

  “No, but thanks anyway.”

  “Suit yourself. If you need anything, give me a call.”

  Simon said that he would. In the mirror, he watched the sergeant and his men leave. Simon remained there a little longer, waiting for the pain to subside. But it didn’t. Not then.

  He retreated to his rack and tried to sleep. It was hard because he could feel the stares of the others in the room. Finally, fatigue pulled him down into the darkness, but it was infested with demons that kept rising from the dead no matter how many times he killed them.

  Hours later, still in some pain and aches, Simon stood in front of the dorm where Leah was staying. He wore his armor but carried his helm under his left arm. He knocked.

  A young woman with long brown hair and milk chocolate skin answered the door, peering up at him. “Simon Cross,” she said. Her dark eyes glittered.

  Simon didn’t know her, so he had to assume that the Templar were talking about him. “Sorry. I must have the wrong dorm. I was looking for Leah Creasey.”

  “You have the right dorm.” The young woman leaned back against the door frame and crossed her arms over her chest. “She was here.”

  “Was?”

  “She left.”

  That threw Simon for a moment. “Where did she go?”

  “I don’t know. I was rooming with her. When I came back from rotation this afternoon, she was gone.”

  “Maybe she’s just out getting something to eat.” Simon doubted that, though. He’d checked the commissary before coming to Leah’s assigned quarters.

  “All of her things are gone,” the young Templar said. “And a spare Spike Bolter from the weapons cache I keep with me these days.”

  Why would she take that? Even if she didn’t feel safe in the Underground, she knows better than to try to go around armed here. I should have talked to her after I got back last night.

  There was every possibility that Leah had heard what happened and figured that whatever protection Simon was able to provide for her might be gone. He’d slept almost eleven hours. That was unusual for him. Even more unusual, Derek had given orders not to disturb him.

  Of course, there’s always the possibility that Booth made her leave.

  Except for the matter of the missing Spike Bolter.

  “She was here this morning?” Simon peered into the room.

  The dorm was small, barely enough room for two people. They were usually reserved for married couples who didn’t have children.

  “She was here when I left,” the Templar replied. “I haven’t told anyone she’s gone yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’ll be reassigned to barracks and I’ve enjoyed having the semi-privacy of the room. Leah was easy to be around. Except for all the questions.”

  “Questions?”

  “She asked a lot of questions.”

  “About what?”

  The Templar shrugged. “About everything, I suppose. The Templars primarily. Seeing as how she was dragged down into the Underground, I figured that was natural.”