On the third, fourth and fifth days of resurrection he had also had visitors. But they were all the same, and they were all called Juno Locke. This one was different. It wasn’t lovesick, it wasn’t full of gratitude, it wasn’t female, and it was called Leander Smith. “Greetings,” said Leander. “He who was dead is now living. Unto them that hath shall be given.” Dion pressed a button and the bed raised him to semi-recline. “How the Stopes did you know where I was?” “Dear fellow, you are too modest by far. Half England knows you are in the London Clinic. And the other half is still quasi-enthralled by your totally out of character derring-do… It is rumoured even that the Queen proposes to knight you. Sir Dion Quern. Superb! What an aura of respectability the very words conjure. I must congratulate you. No one in the Lost Legion has yet achieved such notoriety.” “I am no longer in the Lost Legion. I contracted out. If Hallowe’en was anything to go by, you’re just a bunch of hop-happy sados.”
