Miss Verna still wore full black when she hurried into the sitting room, her face pale and her lips bloodless. “Is there any news about Rachel’s case?”
Tyon bowed stiffly, his gaze narrowing. He probably was scanning Verna’s aura. “Yes, we have news we’d like to discuss with you.”
“Please, sit.” She gathered her black skirts and perched on the edge of an armchair.
Hazel took the seat in front of her, the plush fabric of the armchair giving a soft swishing noise.
“We’ve found these.” From a bag, Tyon took out the bundle of Rachel’s letters and offered it to Verna.
She almost snatched them, but her brows drew together as she skimmed them. “I don’t understand. What are these?”
He cleared his throat. “Miss Rachel liked to correspond with her lover. These are the letters she wrote to him.”
“Oh dear. I didn’t know anything about this.” Her hands clenched on the papers, cheeks flushing.
“In the letters,” Hazel said. “Rachel often mentioned the fear of being discovered and the fact that her family wouldn’t understand. We believe Rachel was in love with a servant, someone her father wouldn’t have approved of. That’s why she had to keep their relationship secret.”
“A servant?” Verna tossed the letters on the low table.
“Is there anyone in Lord McCormack-Brighton’s staff who could’ve caught Rachel’s eye?” Tyon asked.
“Hmm.” She slouched back into the chair, her face straining with some hidden emotion. “There were several footmen who seemed smitten by her, but she didn’t pay anyone much attention.” She tapped a finger on her lips. “No, I can’t think of anyone. If she fancied a servant, she never revealed his identity to me. I’m sorry.”
“Perhaps this detail can help.” Hazel gathered the letters. “What did she usually do on Monday?”
Verna scrunched her face. “On Monday? What do you mean?”
“Her routine. Was there a place where she usually went, someone she visited every Monday?” Hazel bit the inside of her cheek. They’d taken for granted the servant was a member of Rachel’s household, but he could be working for someone else.
“Let’s see, on Monday afternoon there was the book club meeting at The Sepulchre. Then we usually took a stroll in Hyde Park, if the weather was fine, and then tea at the Renoir Tea House.”
“Did you always go to the Renoir Tea House on Monday?” Tyon asked.
She nodded. “Yes, after that, I returned home for my meeting with the church charity while Rachel—” She perked up.
“Yes?” he prompted.
“She always told me she’d go to Sir Morris’s who lives next to the tea house, but now I wonder if she went somewhere else.”
“Why would she go to Sir Morris’s house?” Hazel asked, disgust creeping up her throat.
“After the book group meeting, Morris always organised something, a repast, a book discussion, a piano concert.” Verna lifted a shoulder. “I’ve never joined them, but Rachel used to say they were interesting meetings.” She stared at the letters, her lips trembling. “Is there anything else you’d like to ask me?” Her voice held unshed tears and pain.
“The evening of Rachel’s death,” Hazel started. “You went to The Sepulchre.”
Verna nodded.
“There was a moment when the power was out.”
Another nod. “The new electric lights turned off. Chaos erupted in the hall, but it lasted a few minutes. I didn’t mention it because it didn’t seem relevant.”
Hazel glanced at Tyon with a corner of her eye. The maid had said the blackout lasted half an hour. “And were you with a gentleman?”
“No.” A slight flush covered her cheeks, gaze wandering over the letters. “I met my friends at the hall, but went there alone. Rachel felt sick so suddenly, I didn’t have time to make other arrangements and find someone to escort me.” Her voice quivered.
Hazel forced her face to remain deadpan. Verna was lying, and she’d a hint of why. She rose and collected the letters. “Thank you for answering our questions.”
Tyon stood up as well. “Thank you for your time.”
A glint rushed across Verna’s eyes then she averted her gaze. “Everything for Rachel.”
They left the townhouse, Verna staring at them from the window. Her gaze scraped Hazel’s nape. When they rounded a corner, she emptied her lungs. “She lied.”
“She did, but why?”
“She’s trying to protect him, Rachel’s lover.” She huddled her coat tighter about herself as a sudden chill crept up her spine. “I’m sure Rachel’s lover was the man with Verna at The Sepulchre. What if Rachel’s lover wasn’t a servant, but probably someone powerful?”
“And married,” he added.
“Good point.” She paused. “I guess we’re going to see Sir Morris?”
“Yes, I was planning to see him next.” He stopped a cab.
The horse trotted to a halt in front of them, shaking his glorious mane. Tyon gave the driver Sir Morris’s address and helped her into the cab.
She dropped into the seat, nibbling at her fingernail. Verna had seen those letters before, or known of their existence. Who was she protecting?
His thumb caressed her cheek. “We’ll find the man.”
“There’s something odd in all this. Something we’re missing.”
“Let’s see what Morris has to say. Once we have all the pieces, it’ll be easier to see what we missed.” He scratched his chin. “Verna’s aura was darker than yesterday.”
“What does it mean?”
“I don’t know.” He pressed his knuckles against his lips.
She stared out of the window, the cab racing past London’s busy pavements. Sin-breathers mingled with normal people. A few days ago, she wouldn’t have believed it, but now she wondered how many sin-breathers roamed the streets.
“We’ve arrived, sir,” the driver said from the box.
Tyon paid the fee, opened the car door, and offered his arm.
Hazel smiled. Touching her wasn’t a problem anymore. She wanted this, she wanted him forever. “How do you create a new sin-eater?” she blathered out, loitering on the pavement in front of Sir Morris’s front door.
Tyon’s jaw clenched so hard the muscles rippled. “The same way my brothers and I were created. Dying. I was nearly dead when the Monk turned me.”
A chill made her shiver. If she wished to stay with him, she’d need to die.
He closed his hand around hers and kissed the knuckles. “I’ll protect you with my life from anything and everyone.”
The seriousness in his voice calmed her racing pulse. “I know.” She tipped her chin towards Sir Morris’s house. “Let’s face the lion in his den.”
A young maid welcomed them into the house, and it was like walking into an Indian palace—red and gold carpets, silk cushions, and a narghile. Even the air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and patchouli. Sir Morris had to be an East India Company trader.
In stark contrast with the colours of the foyer and the corridor, he wore strict black, which brought out the carroty colour of his hair. Even the collar of his shirt was dark.
Stepping into the sitting room was like diving into gelid waters. Dark drapes covered the windows, and the stuffy air weighed on her chest like a hand squashing her sternum. Perhaps he mourned in this room.
His gaze seared her down as he adjusted his cravat. “What the hell do you want?”
“Ask a few questions about Rachel.” Tyon didn’t offer a bow.
“Why would I answer?”
“Because Mr Sebastyon is a private detective,” Hazel replied. “And I’m his assistant since, as you remember, you dismissed me.”
“Private detective hired by who?” he demanded. His hair seemed to become more red.
“I’m afraid I can’t reveal the name of my client,” Tyon replied without missing a beat.
“What if I don’t want that whore—”
Sir Mor
ris never had the chance to finish his sentence. Tyon lunged, seized his neck, and slammed him against the wall. Hazel staggered when the floor quaked. The glass of a window cracked and dropped on the carpet, smashing into glittering dust.
Tyon’s power pushed against her as if it wanted to shove her away, but she planted her feet in a wide stance and held her ground. A push and pull war started. Tyon’s power slammed against her like waves on sea rocks, and she drew it back. It was like walking against a strong gust.
“If you ever disparage Miss Ravenwood in my presence again, I’ll cut your unworthy tongue and pitiful balls. Is that clear?” Tyon’s voice rang low and menacing.
Hazel shifted her weight, not sure she wanted to interfere unless Tyon was going to kill Sir Morris.
His face reddened, and spit came out of his mouth. His eyes bulged, but he nodded.
Tyon coiled back like a snake ready to strike again. “Good.”
Sir Morris slumped against the table, coughing and gasping. “What the hell do you want?” he asked again.
Tyon straightened his jacket that the fight had set askew. “Every Monday, Miss Rachel came here after the meeting at The Sepulchre, is that correct?”
“I’ve already answered the police on this regard.”
“And you’ll answer me.” Tyon towered over him. The short hair exposed the taut muscles in his neck.
They stared at each other, and a light tremor coursed through Sir Morris. The pressure eased on Hazel’s chest when Tyon’s power retreated.
“Yes, Rachel used to come here,” Sir Morris snapped. “She came here with other members of the group. We had tea, sandwiches, and read something. Sometimes a guest played the piano.” He strode to the shelves and snatched a book. “She even forgot her copy of The Sepulchre here.” He tossed the book on the couch. “And I don’t have anything else to say.”
Hazel picked the book up. Its dark red leather cover had lost its glossy coating after hands had used it, and the golden letters were a bit faded. She opened it and skimmed it. Hand notes filled the pages’ margins with Rachel’s elegant writing she recognised from the letters.
“Leave now.” Sir Morris poured himself a glass of brandy from the sideboard and gestured towards the door.
“Our pleasure.” Tyon opened the door for Hazel.
She brushed past him. He remained behind her, his back to her, and focused on Sir Morris. The air quivered and warmed. Sir Morris’s hand holding the glass paused midway to the mouth as his gaze grew unfocused. Some brandy sloshed on the carpet. He staggered and shook his head.
Tyon turned, put a hand on the small of her back, and strode towards the front door.
“You ate his sins, didn’t you?” she asked when they were in the foyer.
“Some. His aura is pitch-black again.” He studied her face as if searching for an injury. “You kept the book.”
She flipped the pages, standing on the soft carpet of the foyer. “There are Rachel’s notes here. I thought perhaps we might find some clues about her mysterious lover.”
A maid hurried to open the door. “I’m sorry to have you waiting, sir, madam.”
“Don’t you trouble yourself,” Hazel said. “Can we ask you a few questions about Miss Rachel?”
The maid flinched but nodded. “If I can help find her killer, I’ll answer gladly, ma’am.”
“Was there a footman or a servant who seemed particularly fond of Miss Rachel here?”
“A servant? Do you mean a man servant?” She gave a chuckle. “Sir Morris employs women for the most part.”
Why wasn’t Hazel surprised?
“The male staff is quite low.” She counted on her hand. “There is old Matthew who takes care of the carriage and the horses, Francis the footman, but I don’t think Miss Rachel ever met him, the gardener rarely enters the house, and I doubt he’s ever spoken with Miss Rachel, and we don’t have a butler but a governess.”
Hazel tapped the book in her hand. They drew another blank.
“Besides,” the maid continued, “Miss Rachel never stayed here for long. She drank her cup of tea, chatted a while, and hurried away.”
“Did she say where she went?”
“No, ma’am. It wasn’t my place to ask, but once, after I opened the door for her, she grabbed a cab and gave a South Kensington address to the driver.”
“Thank you.” Hazel clenched the book against her chest and stepped into the pavement. “Where are we going now?” she asked when the maid shut the door behind them.
Tyon gazed away. “Aleximanus. I promised to help him.”
Chapter 19
ALEXIMANUS DIDN’T REMEMBER that being punched could hurt so much, and being punched by Captain Sebastyon hurt like hell.
He shifted his position in the stuffed chair of his library, but no matter how many cushions he added, his back throbbed and ribs were sore. The lights of the gas lamps stung his eyes, and the words of the page he was reading became a blur. He slammed the book closed. An entire library of volumes on sorcery and dark magic, and he hadn’t found a single useful line about how to kill the Hierophant. Yet, the sodding bastard had managed to kill his predecessor, so it was possible to kill a powerful sorcerer.
The Monk would know what to do. Aleximanus’s time was limited. The Hierophant would soon learn he hadn’t killed Hazel, and both he and his daughter would be dead. Tyon wouldn’t be able to help him, if he’d meant it when he’d said he’d help.
The bell of the front door pealed, the ringing echoed in the corridor, and he cursed. Mayhap dismissing all his staff for the day hadn’t been such a great idea, but he couldn’t stomach fussy maids or his butler’s concerned gaze. The poor bugger was a kind man, always worried about his master like a father. Aleximanus couldn’t bring himself to taint him with evil.
Wincing, he stood up and slogged towards the foyer as the bell gave another shrill ring. How did normal humans cope with the pain and the slow healing process?
Just unlocking the damn bolt shot pain along his shoulder. “Who is it?” He meant to fling the door open, but a fresh pang caused him to inch it inwards.
Tyon glared at him from the threshold, amber eyes glinting. Next to him, Hazel stood smiling and pretty in a light green dress. They were a stark contrast like watching the brightest day of summer next to the darkest, coldest night of winter. Aleximanus’s heart gave a lurch. Tyon was here, scowling and all dark menace, but he was here for him.
“Captain.” Aleximanus’s voice roughened to hide the swelling emotions in his throat.
“Don’t say ‘captain’ like that,” Tyon growled out.
“Like what?”
“Like you want to say bloody bastard.”
Aleximanus folded his arms over his chest. “If I want to say bloody bastard, I’ll just say it. Bloody bastard. There. See?”
“I don’t—”
“Gentlemen, please.” Hazel spread her arms and slipped inside. “Can we discuss more important things?”
“Of course, ma’am.” He stepped aside and bowed, trying to not grimace. “Captain.”
Tyon’s eyes flashed with the promise of retribution when he slid inside. Perhaps Aleximanus had a death wish after all, but he couldn’t deny the bubble of hope kindling in his chest.
“I’m afraid I can’t offer you anything more than tea and biscuits.” He led them to the sitting room.
“We’re fine, thank you.” She tugged her gloves, one digit at a time, her brow puckering in concern as she studied his face. “Do you need help?”
He laughed because it was such a preposterous question. Not because he didn’t need help or didn’t appreciate her asking, but because she had no clue about the things he’d done. That such a kind woman would worry about his rotting soul seemed ridiculous.
Tyon glowered harder, those lethal fists closing again.
Aleximanus held up a hand. “I didn’t mean to offend.” Besides, laughing with a broken lip and a face that was a mask of bruises was painful. “It’s just, w
ell it’s been a long time since someone worried about me.”
Hazel’s expression softened, and even the tension in Tyon’s shoulders eased.
Aleximanus gestured to the armchairs. “Please, take a sit.”
Hazel sat on the couch, but Tyon remained standing, looming over her like a guardian.
“I gave you my word I’d help,” he started gruffly. “And I always keep my word.”
Aleximanus didn’t sit either, despite the fact his head was spinning a bit. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me.” Tyon stuck out his chest in the same way he usually did when he was about to give an order. “First, you’ll help us catch Rachel’s killer and free the hallow. When another one of my knights joins me, we’ll find a way to destroy your master.”
“I don’t know his identity. I’ve never seen his face or learned his real name.”
“We’ll discover it then.” Tyon’s stance relaxed a bit.
“How?” Aleximanus grimaced and leaned against the wall for support.
“I thought you knew how the dark arts work. The Hierophant is a man, a sorcerer who gathered energy, evil energy and became immortal. There’s only one way he could’ve done this.”
Aleximanus shrugged. “A sacrifice.”
“What do you mean?” Hazel asked.
Tyon shifted uncomfortably. “An act of violence provides evil energy. The Hierophant must’ve committed a ferocious act of cruelty to collect enough power to kill the previous sin-breathers’ master.”
“Like what?” She shivered.
“Like slaughter seven innocent girls,” Tyon replied.
“The West Hampstead massacre,” Aleximanus completed. “The Hierophant never admitted it, but I’ve always thought the massacre and his rising to power were connected.”
Hazel’s eyes widened. “Those poor girls who were slaughtered in that church? Oh Lord.”
Tyon stroked her shoulder, a quick gesture that told everything about their relationship. “This tells us something about his identity. The killer might be the Hierophant. Who else would kidnap seven girls and kill them in a church?”
The Pact of the White Blade Knights Page 20