WITHIN SECONDS, QUAINT had re-mounted his purloined horse and set off towards St James's Palace. From there the fastest route was heading down Pall Mall a little way before streaking right across St James's Park to his destination. Whitehall was a big place, nestled on the north-west side of the Thames in between the Westminster and Waterloo Bridges, and finding Renard would need some logical thinking and a fair amount of luck.
It was now just past a quarter-to-two in the morning, and the roads were silent and empty, thankfully bereft of horses and carriages. Quaint's cumbersome, though strong and muscular shire-horse was maintaining a steady speed-if not as swift as Quaint would have liked. His journey so far had been an arduous one, both physically and mentally. Never had he given chase at such a slow pace before, and he almost felt it'd be quicker to get off and walk, until something from his memory came from nowhere. A phrase that he had picked up from some cattle merchants in Morocco years before announced itself upon his mind. As the horse cantered amiably along the cobbles, its heavy footsteps echoing off the enclosed streets, Quaint held on tight to the rope around the beast's neck and leant towards its ear.
' Az-Toray!' he yelled.
The horse whinnied with a combination of shock and alarm as if woken from some deep slumber, and it instantly sprang to life, galloping forwards at double speed. Whatever that particular word meant to the animal, Quaint couldn't care less, and as he gripped the rope for dear life he patted himself on the back, mentally noting that gem for future use.
He was still none the wiser about what plot he was involved in, but Renard and the Hades Consortium's implication blinded him to the details. Right now, obtaining some kind of cure for Destine's condition was the driving force-of course, considering that he had already spent the best part of twenty minutes getting barely a few miles from Hyde Park, time was definitely going to be a factor.
Quaint was nearing St James's Park when he yanked hard on the rope to slow his horse down. A carriage was parked in the centre of the dark, deserted street, and a man lay on the ground beside it, writhing in pain. Renard was leaving a trail of bodies in his wake. Quaint was almost relieved. If the Frenchman kept that up, it'd be easier to follow than a trail of breadcrumbs.
In a flash, Quaint was off his horse and kneeling at the man's side.
'He…came from nowhere,' wheezed the man, his face contorted in pain.
'Are you all right, sir?' Quaint said, reaching for the man's hand. 'Did you see which way the felon went?'
The felled man slowly turned to look at him. 'Yeah…he's right behind you mate,' chirped Melchin-the Bishop's coach driver.
The sound of clapping filled the air, echoing off the confinement of the terraced buildings in the enclosed street. Quaint gradually rose to his feet, accepting the inevitable fact that he had just been taken for a fool.
'Renard,' he said.
'Bravo, Mr Melchin,' said Antoine Renard, as he stepped from the shadows of a nearby doorway into the streams of moonlight, continuing to clap his hands. 'A cracking performance!' Renard walked up behind Quaint, and aimed a pistol at a distance of no more than eight feet. 'You can relax, Cornelius. I am not about to shoot you in the back.'
Quaint turned around slowly and his eyes met the physical embodiment of all his pain. It was almost a relief to look at him again, to prove to himself that the Devil did indeed walk the earth amongst men. Fifteen years of thinking that they would never meet again, fifteen years of a bubbling broth simmering on a stove, and fifteen years of searching for something that had no wish to be found.
'You've got to admire the irony,' Renard said, 'for was it not this same predicament that signalled our last meeting?'
'Except last time I was the one holding the pistol,' said Quaint. 'I should have dredged the Seine myself and thrust a wooden stake through your damned heart, like the Devil you are.'
'If only your intelligence was as smart as your wit, Cornelius,' said Renard, stepping closer, the gun steady in his hand.
'Enough game-play, Renard, you know what I want.'
'And what do you want, Cornelius? My head on a platter?'
'All I want is the antidote to the poison.'
'The antidote, he says?' squawked Renard with a gesture of mock surprise. 'So, you've seen Mother, then? Pitiful old wretch, isn't she? And that is all you want? You don't want me? You don't want revenge?' he taunted, intentionally stoking the embers of Quaint's hatred. 'Not even after all these years? Cornelius, you really know how to wound me.'
Quaint ground his teeth. 'I wish that were so.'
The two men patrolled around the street, circling each other slowly, neither one removing their eyes from the other. Both were now so focused upon the other that the world could have erupted into flames around them and it would have gone unnoticed. The street's merchant stores and guest houses were derelict and beyond repair. A ghost town, it provided the perfect setting for these two foes. The thunder echoed about them, the lightning throwing white cracks of radiance around the sky.
Renard waved his pistol through the air like a bandleader conducting an orchestra. 'Let me hear you ask for it, Cornelius…let me hear you beg for it.'
'The antidote, Renard,' said Quaint.
'And the rest…'
'The antidote, Renard…please.'
Renard clapped his hands with glee. 'I propose a trade: if you give me what I want-I will give you what you want.'
'What could I possibly have that you'd want, Renard?' asked Quaint, his calm exterior belying the maelstrom of emotions churning in his insides. He was watching his foe vividly, trying to guess what he would do next, but trying to outfox Renard was like trying to pinch quicksilver. Whereas Quaint's demeanour was reactive and defensive, Renard's was self-assuredly confident. He was effortlessly in control, and the Frenchman knew it. A crooked lightning vein sparked silver-white overhead, scarring the sky, and Renard was enjoying every second of his triumph.
'What do I want, monsieur? Hmm, well that's the fun part. All I want is to test your loyalty to my mother. You are more a son to her than I, and I am interested to see whether you could make the right choice if given a difficult dilemma,' said Renard, the sudden flash of light accentuating the crooked scar down the left side of his face. 'You can have the antidote for free; the only price I ask is this: I want to watch as you drink the poison too.'
Quaint scowled at him intently. 'You wish to poison me? Come on, Renard, where's the sport in that? Would it not be simpler to just put a bullet in my brain?' he asked, pointing to the gun in Renard's hand.
'Simpler, perhaps-but nowhere near as satisfying for me. You see, the problem is…there's only one vial of antidote…just enough for one dose. I thought I'd make this task a bit more of a challenge for you-I know how you have a flair for the dramatic. Such a choice…' gloated Renard, standing with his arms outstretched like a crucifix. 'Your life on one side…Madame Des-tine's on the other. Who lives-it's up to you!'
'You're insane! How can you have so little regard for life?'
'I am a killer for hire, Cornelius…having a cold heart comes with the job.' Renard flashed his eyes wider at Quaint, as if showing him the darkness inside his soul. 'But this is your decision; I do not wish to sway your judgement.'
'This is your decision, Renard, not mine! And it is you alone whom I will hold responsible should Destine die.'
'Sounds fair to me,' grinned Renard. 'Of course…you need to live if you wish to make good on your threat…and that is highly unlikely, monsieur. If you choose to drink the antidote yourself in some vain attempt to try and stop me-my mother's death will be on your conscience. Her blood will be on your hands, and you must hold yourself responsible. Tell me, Cornelius; are you ready to make the ultimate sacrifice?'