I climbed the creaking stairs. A single lamp burned dimly in the corridor, casting murky shadows onto the faded wallpaper. I fumbled for the key and entered.
And I reached for my blades.
The smell. The room didn't smell of tobacco or dust. It smelled of void. That sterile, icy air that only exists in high altitudes.
Wong was sitting in my only armchair, appearing as if soldered into the space. Legs crossed, a flawless three-piece English suit—not a single wrinkle, not a speck of dust. His presence pressed against my eardrums like a sudden plunge into the depths.
I froze like a coiled spring. "Does the House teach entering without knocking?" "The lock is good," Wong smiled almost imperceptibly. His lips moved, but his eyes remained motionless, like a reptile's. "An old Chubb. Reliable. But time—it is also a lock, Vei Lin. We hold all the keys. And you won't be needing swords today."
I walked in without taking off my coat. I sat on the edge of the bed directly opposite him. Wong shifted his gaze to my coat; his look was like an X-ray. In his pupils, I saw only a nauseating condescension.
"I haven't come for your life," he said transitionally. "Right now, it is the most interesting variable in the equation. I have come to talk." "Then talk. I have an allergy to 'variables'."
He reached into his inner pocket, almost solemnly, and produced an envelope. He placed it on the nightstand. "Dandre will return in three days." Wong’s voice became dry, like the rustle of parchment. "From Paris. In his valise—an ampule. A culture of Staphylococcus aureus. One injection under the guise of vitamins—and in four days, the world will mourn the Swan."
"Is Dandre such a valuable asset that you've taken him under your protection?" "He is the only one who agreed to this job—to be the eternal jailer of talent. Voluntarily. And for that, he shall receive his prize." "The brand after death?" "You are clever." "But why are you selling out your own?"
Wong tilted his head slightly, and in the lamplight, his face for a moment seemed like a mask with no flesh behind it. "You see, John... We observe billions of lives, and all of them are as predictable as the fall of a stone. But you—you are like a stone that falls upward, even though you should have vanished into oblivion long ago. I am curious—what will you do with this knowledge?" "We?" "We know everything about everyone. Andy and her people—they are a problem for us. Greater than you. Но Дом решал и не такие проблемы."
"Am I supposed to be afraid?" "You are clever," he said once more. "But it won't save you."
He stood up, as if the laws of inertia did not apply to him. "Then what’s the point of betting on a loser?" I wondered. Wong gave a predatory smile. "The League will draw its forces to Ivy House. And do not expect the police. Those nearby will notice nothing." "Is this a test?"
Wong walked to the window. He looked through the night. "No. This—is a fair game. I want to see what a man is capable of when he decides he is a Brother to those who are meant to be dust. Or who have already become it."
For a moment, I felt a vast void inside me. Though there was no obvious reason for it. Or—was there already? "Anna called me her brother. But Anna—is alive!"
I clenched my fists. But Wong only smiled cynically: "What will become of you when you realize that the House—is Inevitability itself? For all times."
He stepped into the center of the room. There was something majestic and simultaneously lonely in his movement. The air began to tremble slightly, like a haze over sun-scorched asphalt. The space behind his back simply... parted. No effects. Just a black, absolute hole in which there was no light or direction. A void where Wong was at home.
"Tick-tock, Vei Lin." He stepped into nowhere. "Don't disappoint me."
The hole collapsed like a soap bubble. The room became stifling again, smelling of cheap tobacco and rain. I sat in silence, staring at the envelope. My fingers were trembling. I took the laboratory label.
Staphylococcus aureus.
Suppurative death. Slow. Agonizing. I walked to the sink and splashed icy water on my face. In the mirror, a man with scars stared back at me—a man who had been challenged by Inevitability itself.
Southampton Port
London met us with a low sky and the smell of wet coal. When the Aquitania docked, I was already standing on the pier, hidden by the shadow of a port warehouse.
Booker was the first to descend the gangplank. He looked like an ordinary mercenary, one of those who had survived the Great War: a rumpled coat, a cap pulled low over his eyes, and the hollow gaze of a man who had seen too many deaths, including his own. He led Charlie through the crowd like an icebreaker. For Booker, guarding a global movie star was merely a brief episode in an endless succession of assignments, and judging by his face, far from the strangest.
They moved quickly, avoiding attention. For Charlie, this was new, but he understood it was necessary. Booker had briefed him—total anonymity.
Charlie followed behind. In an ordinary suit, a broad-brimmed hat pulled down. He seemed surprisingly small and fragile against the backdrop of the grim mercenary. But in his eyes, when he saw me, something ignited that money cannot buy. We silently exchanged looks and stood waiting, pretending we didn't know each other and were meeting someone else.
Nicolo and Joe had boarded the same flight in Cherbourg. They moved in perfect synchrony, honed over centuries. Nicolo—focused, with fine features reminiscent of a saint from Italian frescoes; and Joe—calm, powerful as a rock against which waves break. They didn't look around. They scanned the perimeter. Every step was measured, every movement of their hands beneath their cloaks betrayed a readiness to draw steel or barrels in a fraction of a second.
They drew level with us. Exchanged glances with Booker. This wasn't just a group of people. It was a knot of pure will, having survived in spite of history.
Charlie stared at me for a long time, as if checking to see if I were a mirage born of the London fog. Then he stepped forward, reached out, and squeezed my hand—briefly, painfully hard. "Alive," he exhaled. In that single word were both fear and relief. "For now," I replied.
Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
Charlie looked over at the team. Booker spat, Nicolo gave a barely perceptible tilt of his head, Joe remained motionless. "Is this your army, John?" Charlie adjusted his bowler; his voice wavered, but his gaze remained steady. "Not mine, Charlie. Hers." I nodded toward Hampstead, where back at Ivy House, Andy hadn't left Anna’s side for a moment. "And yours, too."
Booker measured me with an appraising look. In his eyes, I read a silent question: 'Who are you, scarred boy, who knows the truth?' But there was no hostility. Nicolo gave a short nod—a gesture of courtesy behind which lay the readiness to kill anyone. Joe just stood there, looking through the bustle.
"Details at Ivy House," I told Charlie, seeing his confusion. "They are waiting for us there."
I hailed two cabs. Nicolo and Joe went in one. Charlie, Booker, and I sat in the second. As the cab lurched forward, Charlie pressed his forehead against the canvas. "How long it’s been since I’ve been home... Anna... is she alright?" he asked quietly, without turning. "She is waiting for you. And she is no longer alone."
There was no tail. But I knew why. The House didn't need one.
Ivy House. The Drawing Room. Midnight.
Mrs. O’Reilly, upon opening the door, squinted for a second as if hoping that by opening them again, she would find an empty threshold. But we had not vanished. Five men, smelling of the road, of anxiety, and of steel. She silently stood aside, pressing herself against the doorframe, and in her eyes froze a wordless realization: the former life of this house had ended the very second I first crossed its threshold.
They were waiting for us in the drawing room. Andy stood by the fireplace, her hand habitually resting on the hilt of the labrys concealed by the folds of her cloak. She had become Anna’s shadow. Anna herself was now dressed in a traveling man’s suit, and at her waist hung... not a rapier. An elegant Chinese Jian sword. And it was definitely not decorative.
Catching my gaze, Andy smiled with a corner of her mouth.
When Charlie entered, he and Anna simply looked at one another. No sobbing, no rushing into embraces. It was the look of those who had lived their tragedy in their minds. In that silence, there was more tenderness and pain than in all the silent films of Hollywood.
I closed the heavy oak door and slid the bolt.
Andy introduced her team and nodded to me. "Sit," my voice was dry and colorless. "Everyone will be more comfortable sitting."
We arranged the chairs in a circle, breaking the elegant geometry of the room. We sat around the massive table. Mrs. O’Reilly brought tea—a huge silver tray, eight cups from which steam rose. She didn't ask a single question; only her trembling hands betrayed her terror. She left, closing the door, and we remained alone against the whole world.
Andy knew more than anyone, but even she didn't know everything. And now the time had come.
I told them about the House of the Returned, the time correction that turns victories into dust. About the League of Assassins and their commander, the Demon’s Head, who had become their sword. When I reached the subject of Andy’s headaches, I looked her in the eyes. "Andy isn't crazy. She is the sole witness to how reality was broken over a knee. Those victories, those people you've forgotten—they were real. You were simply made to believe a lie so that you would give up."
"But why do we remember nothing?" Nicolo asked. "Because I am older," Andy answered shortly.
She added details. Sieges of fortresses, names of the fallen, dates that do not exist in textbooks. Booker listened, and his face gradually smoothed out, replaced by a cold, calculating fury. Nicolo was silent; Joe clenched his fists under the table—they had found an enemy they could kill once again.
Charlie listened without moving. Anna sat unnaturally straight, her fingers turning white against her knees from the tension. Then, I laid out the final piece.
"I received a visit from Wong. An agent of the House. He informed me that Victor Dandre is their puppet. Our actions have forced them to take extreme measures. His role as the 'guardian of the legend' is over. Anna is no longer needed alive by the House. Victor is bringing an ampule of staphylococcus. The death will be 'natural,' quiet, and very convenient for their script." I paused, circling everyone with my gaze. "Wong left through a portal right in my room. They know we are together. And they are preparing an assault."
"When?" Booker’s voice sounded like the clatter of a bolt. "Soon. Dandre will arrive. The League will pull in behind as soon as they realize the ampule plan has been thwarted."
"How many?" Nicolo leaned forward. "Many." "Be specific, John. Ten? Twenty?" "The House doesn't like to lose. They will throw everyone here who can hold a blade."
Joe smiled with the edge of his mouth. It was the smile of a predator that had hungered for too long. "But will people hear the noise? Call the police?" Anna couldn't help but ask.
I chose my words carefully to describe the time pocket as I understood it: "No one outside will hear the shots or the explosions," I replied. "We will be fighting in... a bubble, while people see floating swans." "The neighbors will be made to watch a sketch instead of a catastrophe," Charlie exhaled.
"Everyone must be moved out of the house," Anna said decisively. "The gardener will take the animals tomorrow." Her face showed the resolve of someone whose eyes had finally been opened. "And what about you, Madame?" Booker asked. "I thought being the Swan was hard," Anna said, showing her bruises and abrasions.
"She has phenomenal endurance, balance, and coordination. And a fencing foundation," Andy said, indicating the sword with her eyes. "Anna didn't become a warrior. She translated the fight into her own language. And she won't be an easy target."
It wasn't "combat training," but girls in choreographic school were taught to hold a rapier, to lunge, parry, and maintain posture. It developed the grace of dancers, the strength of hands, and reaction time. Andy had simply squeezed every bit of potential out of it.
Charlie, who until then hadn't uttered a word, slowly raised his head. His eyes, usually full of sadness and laughter, were now cold as a camera lens. "Ivy House is a big house," he said in a quiet, ringing voice. "Many corridors. A cellar. An attic. Stairs." He looked at me. "This will be a film. About a great siege. And I need the sets."
Everyone at the table froze. "Give me twenty-four hours and total freedom of action." Charlie circled those present with his gaze. "I know everything about the mechanics of attention. I know where a person looks when they are afraid. I know how to deceive the eye. They will regret entering this frame."
Anna watched him with undisguised amazement. "Charlie... are you talking about traps?" "I'm talking about cinema, darling," Charlie gave her a barely perceptible wink. "It’s just that this will be a cinema that kills. I’ve had an idea for a film where a comedy of errors turns into a dance with death. It’s time for the premiere."
"And what can you do yourself?" Nicolo asked. "We need to know how many seconds we have if they break through to you."
Charlie tilted his head slightly, looking at Nicolo with that same spark in his eyes—a mix of boyish mischief and weary wisdom. He took a light step to the side, like an evasion, and drew a revolver—not threateningly, but almost playfully. "I’ve fallen into the mud of the trenches a hundred times on set, and I can still hit a sardine tin from twenty paces. I think seven or eight seconds. And then... the villain falls into a pit of cement, and I stand in the doorway, brushing the dust off my bowler hat." He spread his hands—"Well, what can you do."
For a moment, only the ticking of the old clock could be heard in the room. Then Andy walked to the wall where an old map of Hampstead hung and tore it down, throwing it on the table. She produced a pencil and struck a line with force. "The perimeter," she said, and her voice rang with the brass of ancient battles. "We start with the perimeter. Booker, you’re in the attic—I need eyes at three hundred and sixty. Nicolo, Joe—the back entrance and the cellar. Charlie... do your magic; you have the first floor and the main entrance. Anna is with him. John, you and I—the mobile group. We go where they break through."
Andy looked at the map, then at Charlie. "Are you sure this will work?" Charlie adjusted his bowler, smiling with that tragicomic smile of his. "In my films, the hero always survives. Even if the whole world is against him."
Anna took his hand. "Then film it, Charlie. Film our premiere."