He cried out and slumped. “Bitch.”
Tyon pounced, assessing a punch on the man’s head. A dark blade flashed in the thug’s hand, catching the sunlight. Hazel stepped back, Tyon shielding her.
The fight’s speed was slowing down. The movements had become easier to follow.
The man lunged, Tyon skirted to the side, and the black blade slashed the air. Spinning, the thug attacked again but aimed at her. Ironically, now the world slowed to a crawl. Hazel smacked her back against the wall, Tyon rushed towards her, the man thrust, burying his knife deep into Tyon’s abdomen. Ruby blood soaked his waistcoat, spreading like watercolour poppies on a canvas.
All the air flushed out of Hazel’s lungs as if she’d been punched. “No!” She raced forwards, twirled, and slammed her boot’s heel on the man’s nose.
A crack of breaking bones resounded as the man dropped the knife to clamp both hands on his bleeding nose. He muttered curses words too crass for her to understand. She kicked him on the chest. He tumbled back in a heap of limbs and hit the wall with his head. Arching his back, he straightened and darted out of the alley on trembling legs.
Tyon grunted, his knees shaking, a hand pressing on the wound.
She slid an arm around him. “Can you walk?”
He nodded, leaned against her, and half walked, half ran towards the end of the alley.
“We need to find a medic.” She licked her dry lips, tasting the saltiness of her sweat. Gut stabs were the worst. She’d seen it in the streets. People bled a lot and were gone in a few minutes. “I’ll find a cab and take you to the nearest hospital.”
“It’s not necessary.” He slowed his pace, putting a hand on the wall. Blood oozed through his fingers and pooled on the cobbles. The coppery scent made her gag.
“You’re bleeding too much.” She gulped the bitter taste in her mouth. “You stay here. I’ll get some help.”
“It’s healing.”
“What are you talking about?” Her voice held a hysterical note. She tugged at his arm to make him lie down because she couldn’t hold his weight, but he didn’t move.
“Look.” He unbuttoned his soaked waistcoat and shirt, revealing sculpted muscles, golden skin, and a gash next to his navel.
Caked blood surrounded it, but as she bent closer to take a better peek, the skin sealed itself. The rugged edges of the wound closed until only flawless skin remained.
Impossible. “Good. God.” She rubbed her eyes and checked again. A laugh bubbled in her throat. Impossible like what? Like a glowing tattoo on her palm? Or an earthquake provoked by lust?
He was panting, and his cheeks were ashen. Even his lips were pale, but the wound was gone.
“I, I can’t believe it.” She peeped again. The gash stopped bleeding.
He grimaced when he buttoned up his shirt. “You don’t live eight hundred years without the ability to heal yourself.”
“Oh.” She shifted on her feet, not sure about what to say. She’d experienced enough uncanny things to have learned to not ask more questions. They’d only lead to more eerie discoveries. “You should’ve showed me your healing ability before. I would’ve believed you immediately. This obviously is something science can’t explain.”
His brow spiked, a corner of his lips quirking up. “And what was I supposed to do? Stab myself? I heal fast, but the problem is that”—he buttoned his coat, covering the stains of blood—“it’s bloody painful. A stab is a stab even for me, and I need time to regain my strength.”
“Yes, well, I guess you’re right.” She kicked a cobble. “Would you like to go home? I can hire a cab.”
He shook his head. “The drug store is close. The owner is a friend of mine. I’ll rest there.”
They slogged towards the end of the street, walking by the occasional busboy, coal lass, or hurrying maid. His jacket covered the stained clothes, but he walked with a faint limp and tended to bend forwards. Hazel rubbed his back, and he shot her a surprised glance.
“I’m fine.” He grinned, but there was a strain on his face muscles.
Tyon stopped in front of the glossy black door of a shop, golden leaves decorated the window frame. A bell dinged when Hazel pushed the door open and dozens of different smells assaulted her. Cinnamon, cardamom, and lemon flavoured the air, but the sting of carbolic acid lingered as well.
Terracotta and glass jars competed for space on the wooden shelves and counter among plates filled with colourful powders and marble mortars.
A young man with unruly brown hair and warm chestnut eyes hurried from a door behind the counter. She studied his familiar face. He was the lad she’d seen in Tyon’s house the morning after Rachel’s death.
He beamed when he saw Tyon. “Ah, Mr Sancerre, I was wondering how you were faring.”
She’d expected an old man with grey hair and a pair of glasses perched on his nose. Instead the young man sported an open boyish smile that brightened his rich brown eyes.
Tyon returned the smile. “William, may I introduce you to Miss Hazel Ravenwood?”
William’s gaze widened as he wiped his hands on a cloth. “Pleased to meet you, madam. It’s the first time Tyon brought a woman here.”
“Pleasure.” Hazel dropped a curtsy, a flush creeping up her neck.
Tyon shot him a glare, and William chuckled.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
Tyon nodded towards the back. “I need to sit down for a while and then to ask you a few questions.”
The bell dinged again, and two women strolled inside. William waved towards the back of the shop. “Of course. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll take care of these customers and be with you in a moment.”
Hazel wrapped an arm around Tyon and helped him cross the room. They slipped inside a small sitting room, and she closed the door behind them, easing Tyon on a couch. His muscles contracted, but he didn’t flinch as he’d done before.
The room was fitted with a stove, a selection of books, and a cosy armchair, a place where she could easily hide in and forget the world for a while. More shelves of herbs and jars of salves crammed the space, reminding her of the picture of a wizard’s lair she’d seen in a book. So fitting.
“There should be water in the decanter over the stove and a cloth over there,” Tyon said, opening his jacket again. “Would you fetch them for me? I want to clean the blood from my skin.”
“Of course.” She took the pot of warm water, a bar of soap, and a fresh cloth from a table. “William is quite young to be an apothecary.”
“He’s two and twenty, and his parents were apothecaries like their parents before them. A family tradition.”
Hazel wetted the cloth and rubbed it on the soap. “Does he know about you?”
“More or less. He doesn’t ask too many questions.” He went to take the cloth, but she didn’t hand it to him.
“Let me do it. You must be still sore.”
He stiffened. “I am, but I’d rather do it myself.”
“We walked here practically hugging each other. Your control is getting better.”
“Not without effort,” he whispered.
She sat next to him on the couch and gently passed the soapy cloth over the dry blood. The wound was a thin pink line with the edges a bit swollen, but aside from that no one would guess he’d been stabbed a few minutes ago.
“Why stabbing you? I don’t understand.” She wiped the area over his well-defined abdominal muscles and wondered how they’d feel under her lips.
“The man was an anger-breather.” His fists clenched, but Hazel supposed it wasn’t because of the attack or the pain. “Which means Aleximanus sent him.”
“Are you sure?” She paused wiping the wound.
“Who else would unleash a sin-breather against me?” He grimaced. “Besides, the man didn’t want to stab me.” His voice lowered when he said the last words, worry dripping from them.
She stilled. “He wanted to kill me. If I die, you won’t find one of your knights
.”
“Yes.”
A whirlwind of emotions shuddered through her—fear, worry, and she couldn’t deny that a tinge of excitement thrilled her. Perhaps because as long as she was close to Tyon, nothing bad would happen to her. She resumed wiping the blood, slithering her hand lower over the waistband of his trousers. His fists clenched some more, and the hard ropes of his abdomen rippled.
“You’ve been great, kicking that man.” His husky tone was like the soft caress of a lover.
“A woman who lives alone has to learn how to protect herself in a city like London.” She slowed her strokes, the blood all gone now, but she kept brushing the cloth over his tempting skin.
“Hazel.” There was a warning and a plea in his voice.
She ignored him, dropped the cloth, and trailed a finger over the hard plane of his chest.
He closed his eyes and reclined his head, his Adam’s apple bulging in his throat. An instant flush of desire slinked through her body. The sight of him undone by her touch was too exciting to stay still, and she pressed her lips over his smooth skin. A low growl tore from him, and something twitched in his trousers. She darted her tongue out over his flat nipple. She paused, waiting for the floor to shake, but nothing happened. When no earthquake disturbed them, she trailed her lips up on his collarbone and neck.
His fingers dug in her curls and pulled her towards him.
The kiss never had the chance to start slow. He moved his mouth over hers and took possession of it, his tongue stroking hers with a firm touch. She melted in his arms, somehow slipping on his lap and circling his neck with her arms. He held her in place as if worried she might escape. Still the earth didn’t jerk.
Panting, he broke the kiss, keeping her close. He opened his eyes, golden light spilling from them. “Hazel.” A world of desire filled that single word.
“Your power is quiet.” She ran her tongue over her bottom lip where she could still taste him. With trembling fingers, he buttoned his shirt, and a pang of sorrow left a cold trail in her chest.
“I’m too tired.” He regarded her from hooded eyes. “My power doesn’t have the energy to disturb us.” He trapped her face and pressed another kiss on her lips, a hot, possessive kiss that made her toes curl and heart speed up.
A knock came from the door, but Tyon didn’t pull away.
“May I come in?” William asked.
Tyon grazed his teeth on her bottom lip before releasing it. She slid out of his lap, her body on fire.
Tyon covered himself with his coat, casting a heated stare at her. “Yes,” he said to William.
Hazel rinsed the cloth and pretended she hadn’t just kissed the most amazing man she’d ever met.
“What did you want to ask me?” William took a chair and sat in front of Tyon.
He ran a hand over his thigh, right over his cilice. “What kind of poison can cause a person the symptoms of a stomach ache while leaving dark marks on the skin?”
William shrugged. “A large number. Can you give me more details?”
“It should be something that doesn’t taste particularly foul,” Hazel replied. “We think a person ingested the poison probably from their cup of tea or another drink.”
“Hmm.” He cradled his chin. “That restricts the range. Some substances react when in contact with tea changing its colour, so I can exclude some more. But you know, poisons are like hats.” He stood up and rummaged through the shelves.
“Hats?” Tyon asked.
“One year, one of them is all the rage, the next, it’s another hat’s turn.” He selected a register and flipped the pages. “I’m checking the last few months’ sales of poisons. I have to record them by law.” His brown curls fell over his cheeks as he skimmed the pages.
She cast a furtive glance at Tyon. His cheeks were still pale, but his shoulders less tense, and his lips deliciously kiss-swollen.
“I had a few costumers buying atropine. It’s trendy nowadays, more popular than arsenic.” His gaze travelled skywards. “People think atropine hails almost everything from consumption to headache. In small doses, it can cause nausea and dizziness. It’s soluble in water, odourless, and tasteless.”
Hazel slouched back into the seat. “So, finding someone who bought atropine would be impossible.”
“Probably.” He picked up a pencil from the table. “In the past two months, I sold atropine to five people, but the apothecaries that sell it in London are at least twenty.”
“We can’t check them all.” She massaged her forehead. “Not in a short time anyway.”
“But”—William raised a finger—“if I were a criminal, I wouldn’t buy atropine from an apothecary who records the trade. I wouldn’t leave any trace.”
“Black market then?” Tyon wrapped his coat tighter around himself.
“Yes and no. Atropine sold in the black market isn’t of good quality. I wouldn’t buy it there and risk it didn’t work. But there are drug stores that sell it without registering it for a higher sum.”
“But even if we search these drug stores,” Hazel said, “we wouldn’t find anything if they don’t keep records of the people who buy poisons.”
William held up a hand. “I should’ve been more specific. Some chemists pretend to not keep records, but they do it in secret. In case they need to blackmail the person.”
She shook her head. “I’m not sure I follow.”
“A person planning a murder buys the poison from one of these chemists, reassured they won’t keep records, but the seller records the trade all the same in a secret register. Usually, they send a busboy or an urchin following the customer home. So, the chemist knows who the person is and where they live. If he needs a favour or money, he’ll use this information against the buyer.”
Tyon nodded. “And for money, they’ll tell us everything.”
William clapped his hands. “That’s it. I’ll give you the addresses of these apothecaries.”
Hazel peeled her gaze off Tyon. It was time to focus on catching a killer.
Chapter 14
ALEXIMANUS TROD DOWN the aisle in the dark temple. The desecrated ground singed the skin of his bare feet as if he were walking on hot coals. The temple had been a church once, a lovely cathedral rising with shimmering white walls in the middle of an emerald meadow right outside London.
Then five years ago, a new master of the sin-breathers had risen to power by slaughtering seven young women on the altar in a brutal ritual, and the church hadn’t seen a devote since then. Even its walls had turned grey and dull, half choked by poison ivy and bindweed. After that, the new master killed his predecessor and recruited Aleximanus. Recruited. Tortured and blackmailed him was more like it.
People steered clear of the temple’s ground, muttering prayers and signing themselves when they walked past. At night, the villagers said the screams of those girls could be heard, mayhap crying out for justice since their murderer had never been caught. He wished the culprit had been found. Now Aleximanus would know who the Hierophant was.
The church was no place for the pure of heart. Only dark souls were welcomed here, and he fit the bill. His black robe fluttered around his ankles when he arrived at the unholy altar.
Black stains still covered the marble steps. No matter how much they’d been scrubbed, brushed, and washed, they never went away. An eternal reminder of primary evil, the evil that corrupted everything that was good and innocent just for the sake of destroying it. That fit the Hierophant’s bill.
Even rats and snakes avoided the church, preferring a dirty sewer to this profane place. Aleximanus hated it himself. The walls reeked of blood as if the ritual had been performed moments ago, and evil impregnated the air like a disease, churning his stomach and souring his mouth. But it was the place where he could summon his master, and sometimes he wished the Hierophant didn’t answer his calls like the Monk refused to appear to Tyon.
He took a knee in front of the altar. The only ray of light during the summoning was receiving n
ews of his daughter. Not that the Hierophant said much about her. She’s been held somewhere for the past five years. Hell, she would be a woman now, and he hadn’t seen her growing up. He’d missed so much of her life.
Bowing his head, he touched the floor with his fingertips. “Ex luce, ad tenebrem. Ex sole, ad umbram.”
From the light, to the darkness. From the sun, to the shadow.
A circle of fire erupted around him, and he forced himself to not recoil. The Hierophant wouldn’t approve of his weakness and punish him through his daughter, flogging her as it’d happened once. The Hierophant had been sure he’d heard her screams. She hadn’t begged the Hierophant to stop though. Kaela was like her mother, will of steel and strength of stone.
The tall flames flickered and shed a crimson light over the Grecian columns that lined the walls. Yells echoed into the domed ceiling. Then the fire wavered, and a jade glow illuminated the unholy altar. Aleximanus tipped up his head. Energy sizzled in the air. The Hierophant was close.
A dark silhouette swept into view in the middle of the green circle of fire.
His throat went dry. The tall figure towered over him with a flowing golden robe. The hood hid his face, and the cloak draped over broad shoulders. He stared, closing a fist on the tile. The Hierophant’s presence sent a chill of dread through his veins. When he’d been a knight and met the Monk, calm and peace had always suffused him. How he missed those days.
“Don’t stare at me.” A cavernous voice rumbled in the silent church.
Aleximanus lowered his head. “I demand forgiveness.”
The Hierophant floated closer. “You reek of fear.”
He shivered, the chains around him rattling. His tongue burned to ask about his daughter. What had happened to her?
“That’s good. Fear is good.” The Hierophant’s hot hand rested on his head. “I know you’re worried about your daughter.”
A soft popping noise came, and white beams blinded Aleximanus. In a flutter of white fabric, a young woman materialised next to the Hierophant. Curled strawberry-blonde hair fell on her shoulders in soft waves. Her emerald eyes stared at him in horror.
The Pact of the White Blade Knights Page 15