Chapter Text
Seated in the council room of the Assassins Keep, Grant Chapman leaned back in his chair. “It’s past four in the morning,” he said, adjusting the folds of his silk dressing gown and crossing his bare legs beneath the wooden table. “This had better be important”.
“Perhaps if you hadn’t been reading all night, you wouldn’t be so exhausted”, snapped the young man seated across from him. He ignored him and studied the four other people assembled in the underground chamber.
All male, all far older than he, and all refusing to meet his stare. A chill that didn’t have to do with the drafty room ran down his spine. Picking at his manicured nails, Grant schooled his features into neutrality. The five assassins gathered at the long table – including himself – were five of Albus Dumbledores seven most trusted companions.
This meeting was undeniably important. He’d known that from the moment the serving girl pounded on his door, insisting Grant come downstairs and not even bother to get dressed. When Albus summoned you, you didn’t keep him waiting. Thankfully, his sleepwear was as exquisite, as his daytime wardrobe – and cost nearly as much, still, being sixteen and barley dressed in a room with older men made him keep an eye on the waistline of his robe. His beauty was a weapon – one he kept honed – but it could also be a vulnerability.
Albus Dumbledore, King of the Assassins, lounged at the head of the table, his grey hair shining in the light form the glass chandelier. His icy blue eyes met his, and he frowned. It might have just been the late hour, but Grant could have sworn that his mentor was paler than usual. His stomach twisted.
“Gregori’s been caught”, Albus finally said. Well, that would explain one-person missing from this meeting. “His mission was a trap. He’s now being held in the royal dungeons.”
Grant sighed through his nose. This was why he’d been awakened? He tapped a slippered foot on the marble floor. “Then kill him,” he said.
He’d never liked Gregori, anyway. When he was ten, Grant fed his horse a bag of candy and Gregori thrown a dagger at Grants head for it. He’d caught the dagger, of course, and ever since, Gregori had borne the scar on his cheek from Grants return throw.
“Kill Gregori?” demanded Benji, the young man seated at Albus’s left – a place that usually went to Ben, Albus second-in-command. Grant knew very well what Benji Fenwick thought of him. He’d known since they were children, when Albus took him in and declared him – not Benji – to be his protegee and heir. That hadn’t stopped Benji from trying to undermine Grant at every turn. And now, at seventeen, Benji was still a year older than he, and he still hadn’t forgotten that he would always be second best.
He bristled at the sight of Benji in Bens seat. Ben would probably throttle Benji for it when he arrived. Or Grant could just save Ben the effort and do it himself.
Grant looked to Albus. Why hadn’t he reprimanded Benji for sitting in Bens place? Albus’s face, still handsome despite the silver hair, remained impassive. He hated that unreadable mask, especially when controlling his own expressions – and temper – remained a tad difficult.
“If Gregoris been caught”, Grant drawled, brushing back a strand of his long, black hair, “then the protocols simple: send an apprentice to slip something into his food. Nothing painful,” he adds as the others around him tensed. “Just enough to silence him before he talks.”
Which Gregori might very well do, if he was in the royal dungeons. Most criminals who went in there never came out again. Not alive. And not in any recognizable shape.
The location of the Assassins Keep was a well-guarded secret, one he’d been trained to keep until his last breath. But even if he didn’t, no one was likely to believe that an elegant manor house on a very respectable street in London was home to some of the greatest assassins in the world. What better place to hide than in the middle of the capital city?
“And if he’s already talked?” challenges Benji.
“And if Gregori’s already talked,” Grant said, “then kill everyone who heard.” Benji’s brown eyes flashed as he gave him a little smile that he knew made Benji irate. Grant turned to Albus. “But you didn’t need to drag us here to decide this. You already gave the order, didn’t you?”
Albus nodded, his mouth a thin line. Benji choked back his objection and looked toward the crackling hearth beside the table. The firelight cast the smooth, elegant lines of Benji’s face into light and shadow - a face he’d been told that could have earned him a fortune if he’d followed in his mother’s footsteps. But Benji’s mother hat opted instead to leave him with assassins, not courtesans, before she died.
Silence fell, and a roaring noise filled his ears as Albus took a breath. Something was wrong.
“What else?” he asked, leaning forward. The other assassins focused on the table. Whatever had happened, they knew. Why hadn’t Albus told him first?
Albus blue eyes hardend, „Ben was killed.“
Grant gripped the arms of his chair. “What?” Ben – Ben, the ever-smiling assassin who had trained him as often as Albus had. Ben, who had once mended his shattered right hand. Ben, the seventh an final member of Albus inner circle. He was barely thirty years old. Grants lips pulled back from his teeth, “What do you mean, killed?”
Albus eyed him. And a glimmer of grief flashed across his face. Twenty years Bens senior, Albus hat raised Ben. He trained him, Ben has seen his mentor become the unrivalled King of the Assassin’s, and never questioned his place as Albus second.
His throat closed up.
“It was supposed to be Gregoris mission,” Albus said quietly. “I don’t know why Ben was involved. Or who betrayed them, they found his body near the castle gates.”
“Do you have his body?” he demanded. He had to see it – had to see him one last time, see how he’d died, how many wounds it hat taken to kill him,
“No,” Albus said,
“Why the hell not?” Grants fists clenched and unclenched. “Because the palace was swarming with guards and soldiers!” Benji bust out, and Grant whipped his head to him, “How do you think we learned about this in the first place?”
Albus had sent Benji to see why Ben and Gregori were missing?
“If wed grabbed his body,” Benji said, refusing to back down from his glare, “it would have led right to the Keep.”
“You’re assassins,” he growled at him. “you’re supposed to be able to retrieve a body without being seen.”
“If you’d been there, you would have done the same.”
Grant pushed his chair back so hard it flipped over. “If I’d been there, I would have killed all of them to get Bens body back!” He slammed his hands on the table, rattling the glasses.
Benji shot to his feet a hand on the hilt of his sword. “Oh, listen to you. Ordering us about like you run the Guild. But not yet, Grant.” He shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Enough,” Albus snapped, rising from his chair.
Grant and Benji didn’t move. None of the other assassins spoke, though they gripped their various weapons. He’d learned first-hand what fights at the Keep were like; the weapons were as much for the bearers own safety as they were to prevent him and Benji from doing serious damage to each other.
“I said, enough.”
If Benji took one step towards him, drew his sword a fraction of an inch that concealed dagger in Grants robe would find itself a new home in Benji’s neck.
Albus moved first, grabbing Benji’s chin in his hand, forcing the young man to look at him, “Check yourself, or I’ll do it for you, boy,” he murmured. “You’re a fool for picking a fight with Grant tonight.”
Grant bit back his reply. He could handle Benji tonight - or any other night, for that matter. If it came down to a fight, he’d win- He always beats Benji.
But Benji releases the hilt of his sword. After a moment, Albus removed his grip on Benji’s face, but didn’t step away. Benji kept his gaze on the floor as he strode to the far side of the council room. Crossing his arms, he leaned against the stone wall. Grant could still reach him – one flick of his wrist, and his throat would spout blood.
“Grant,” albus said, his voice echoing in the silent room.
Enough blood has been spilled tonight; they didn’t need another dead assassin.
Ben. Ben was dead and gone, and he’d never again run into him int the halls of the Keep. He’d never set Grants injuries with his cool hands, never coax a laugh from him with a lewd anecdote.
“Grant,” Albus warned again.
“I’m done,” Grant snapped. He rolled his neck, running a hand through his hair. He stalked to the door, but paused on the threshold.
“Just so you know,” he said, speaking to all of them but still watching Benji, “I’m going to retrieve Bens body.” A muscle hardened in Benji’s jaw, though he wisely kept his eyes averted. “But don’t expect me to extend the same courtesy to the rest of you when your time comes.”
With that, Grant turned on his heel and ascended the spiral staircase to the manor above. Fifteen minutes later, no one stopped him when he slipped out the front gate and into the silent city streets.