Firelight

by Kristen Callihan

  “Don’t be disgusting.” She shifted down farther into her collar where the air was fresher. “I’m not planning on showing my face—”

  “Eh, Billy, who’s the fancy bloke?”

  Billy turned with a snarl to the younger rough that had come upon them. “He ain’t no bloke! This ’ere’s Pan, a regular brick and me pal, so I’d watch me mouth if I was you.”

  The rough, who was no older than sixteen, backed up. “No need to raise your dander.”

  Billy gave a sharp jerk of his head. “Eh, hook it. An’ keep an eye on Meg. Lazy toffer’s been treatin’ her corner like a doss.”

  The youth ambled off.

  “Turned to the skin trade, have you?” Miranda asked. The idea of Billy as a pimp soured her stomach.

  Billy gave a twisted smile. “A man’s got to make his livin’, hadn’t he?” He picked at something between his teeth and then spat. “An’ you’re getting too old to blend here, Pan.”

  Which was more than likely true. Versed as she was in blending on these streets, she was now too tall to pass as a youth and too slender to look like a man, despite her bulky attire.

  “We made a fair bit o’ tin together,” he went on, “but it ain’t safe. Even for you.” The hardness in his eyes would never truly fade, but for a moment, they softened in concern.

  Looking at him, she felt the same sense of oddness as always in his presence. That he, the youth who would have raped her in an alleyway some three years ago, should be something close to a friend these many years later. Their paths had crossed for the second time when Father had lost his fortune and forced Miranda into a life of petty crime. Only Billy Finger, who’d been nipping palms, among other unsavory activities, found out one day, spying on her as she lifted a wallet from a nob walking down Bond Street.

  He followed and, once again, cornered her in a dank alley. With no mysterious stranger to come to her aid, Miranda had been forced to show him just how unfriendly she could be. Only she’d become carried away, and the entire alley became engulfed in flames. His piteous screams tore into her conscience. Horrified by the damage she wrought, she stamped out the flames consuming his ragged clothes and took him home to wrap him up in cool cloths soaked in milk Miranda had filched from the market.

  From that day on, Miranda had a partner. It was Billy who taught her how to be a bouncer, to pretend to be an honest customer in a shop, flaunting her beauty, distracting the clerk while Billy, as palmer, pinched his goods. The most miserable days of her life.

  Yet they had become something of friends. He taught her more than any respectable lady could imagine. And when he was caught on the job, he held his tongue, and did not rat her out, but did his time. No longer was he her partner, but still an invaluable resource for information should she need him. She needed him now. No stone could be left unturned.

  The fire in the gutters flickered then died, and the crowds surged in, an occasional nervous laugh the only sign that anything untoward had occurred.

  “What do you make of this?” Miranda handed him Archer’s coin. He turned it over with his stubby fingers, and she caught a glimpse of the tight, shining skin rippling over his left wrist. Scars that had earned him the esteemed new moniker of Burnt Bill. Her fingers went numb.

  “An odd sinker, this. Lookin’ for bit fakers, eh? I know a few…”

  “No,” she said. “I don’t need counterfeit money.” The idea was laughable. “I thought perhaps it might be a marker for an address.”

  “Might be. I’ve ’eard tell of fancy blokes usin’ such rubbish for their lil’ societies.” Billy’s blunt nose, crooked from too many breaks, twitched. “Right glockey, if you’re askin’ me.”

  She smiled but only just; should Billy realize he had made her laugh, he’d wax comical to distraction. “It was just a thought,” she said with a shrug. A sinking realization that she might be spinning her wheels made her insides burn.

  Billy shifted closer. Behind him, the laughter of street doxies seemed to swell before settling down into the din of West Street. “This isn’ about them peerage slayin’s, is it now? I ’eard your new cove is in the thick of it. Lord Archer, is it?”

  Shock pounded against her temples. “How did you know?”

  He rocked back on his heels, gripping the green-and-yellow plaid satin lapels of his coat. Really such attire should be outlawed. “Me ’ead isn’ stuck up me arse. I ’eard you got hammered for life to one Lord Archer. A right canny fellow, if them news rags is to be believed.” Keen eyes bore into her. “Wotcha doin’ g’ttin’ involved with that lot, anyways?”

  “I had no idea you read,” she said in true surprise.

  His scanty brows rose. “ ’Course I don’t bleedin’ read. Meg’s the one with the learnin’. Don’t listen to her go on normally, ’cept for this here…” He reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled out a folded piece of newsprint.

  The corners were battered and a spot of grease marred one edge, but it had been carefully wrapped in a length of wax paper to protect it from further harm. She unfolded the paper with a trembling hand. There—along with a story proclaiming Archer as a person of high interest in the peerage slayings—was a line sketching of Miranda, named as Archer’s mysterious and exotic new bride. Her lips had been drawn into a rather smug-looking smirk, but the artist had captured the essence of her quite well.

  Billy bent over the paper, bringing along a fresh wash of ripe onion to her nose. “A right fair doodle, if I say so.”

  “Quite,” she rasped. Such salacious news stories had ceased to bother her. But that Billy kept a drawing of her on his person… Guilt clawed at her throat with wretched, hard fingers. She hadn’t given him a passing thought in a year.

  Eyes carefully averted, she handed him the drawing. “Have you heard of a West Club? Or Moon Club?”

  Billy shook his head. “Only club ’ere is ’Eaven an’ ’Ell.” He jerked a thumb toward a solid structure three houses down whose doors were opened wide to allow for the steady stream of London dandies and roughs coming in and out. The small sign above the door read HEAVEN on top with a pair of angel’s wings and a blue arrow pointing up and HELL with a distinctive red pitchfork pointing the way down.

  “Fancy a romp with a judy an’ it’s up to ’eaven you go.”

  She ducked her head as a group of gentlemen got out of a newly arrived carriage. Some of them looked vaguely familiar, and no doubt counted themselves among those who frequented the same parties that she did. “And what do you do in Hell?” she asked, eyeing the men from under her brim.

  “ ’Ell’s for darker stuff, love. A bit o’ this an’ that…” A gleam of mischief lit his eyes as he flipped Archer’s coin through his fingers with ease. “Fancy a look?”

  “Thank you, no.” She took the coin midflip. “Is there a Moon Street in London, perhaps?”

  “Not that I’ve ’eard.” He scratched beneath his hat, sending it further askew. “Look ’ere, if anyone’s ’eard of this West Moon Club, I’ll find ’em, right?”

  “Thank you, Billy.” She handed him a wad of pound notes.

  “Keep your chink.” He shoved her hand away. “It ain’t like that wi’ us.” A shocking wash of pink crossed his wide cheeks. They both looked the other way in awkward silence, and she noticed an older man headed in their direction. He moved with a presence that rippled down the whole of West Street.

  The man wasn’t very tall, probably as high as Miranda’s shoulder, and wore an unassuming suit of black under his thick dark cloak, but the crowd parted for him with a deference that spelled trouble. Billy cast his eye that way and paled. He made to grip her elbow but stopped, realizing that the gesture would mark her as a woman.

  “Let’s make scarce.” He kept his stance casual, not looking toward the man, but he remained aware of the man with all his senses.

  “Who is he?” she murmured as they walked toward a small alley.

  “Black Tom. He runs the Dial’s. Knows who belongs an’ who don’t. He ain’t
keen on outsiders unless they’re ’ere to pay. Come on.”

  They turned a corner, almost making it to the safety of the alleyway, when they ran into a wall of men. The motley crew eyed them with various levels of humor and malice.

  “Goin’ so soon there, Billy?” came a musical voice from behind.

  A foul oath passed Billy’s lips as he slowly turned, taking her with him.

  Black eyes gleamed like onyx beneath thick brows as the man Billy had called Black Tom regarded them. A wide brim top hat lay cocked upon his head, leaving greasy locks of raven hair to fall about his large ears and into his high collar.

  “I should be offended, not gettin’ an introduction,” Tom said lightly.

  Billy shifted his feet. “Blimey, Tom, didn’t think you’d want to bother wi’ such riffraff.”

  “Thought wrong, boyo.”

  A soft chuckle went through the group as though they were one entity.

  Stiffed-backed, her pulse throbbing, Miranda could only stand and wait. The black eyes of the boss hadn’t left hers for a moment.

  “Tis me kinsman from the East End,” said Billy through white lips. “A simple lad, really. Right nickey in the noggin’, he is.”

  A scant brow rose. “Get on wif you, Billy. Havn’ a laugh at our expense? Why, it’d take a flat not to know toff from a toffer. Even in cove’s clothes.”

  Strong hands wrenched her from Billy’s side. Her head hit the iron lamppost as two roughs pinned her against it for Tom’s inspection. At that, the small man doffed his cap and offered an eloquent bow. “ ’Ello, there, darlin’.”

  Resignation pulled down Billy’s long features as two others took hold of him. The boss stepped in close, the smell of gin and unwashed male hitting her nostrils like a brick.

  “Wha’s your name, then, luv?”

  “Meg,” she mumbled, trying to sound as simple as Billy claimed. A useless endeavor. A simpleton would only be easier sport.

  A dirty finger traced her cheek, his long nail scraping flesh as he licked his wet lips. “But you’re a fine bit o’ stuff, aren’t you now.” A smile split his cragged features. “This ’ere’s my bit of dirt you’re standin’ on.” He took a step closer, and the men held firm, their hard fingers bruising her flesh. “Wha’ come on my turf is mine. An’ I takes wha’s mine.”

  Male arousal hung thick in the air, a palpable excitement that turned her stomach. Crowds of people milled about, not one of them looking, not one of them foolish enough to do so. She closed her eyes and swallowed hard, their laughter penetrating the weak veil of darkness. She was as good as raped and dead if she did not act. Yet a cold sweat broke over her skin at the thought. She shivered, sickness and rage gaining purchase with equal speed. The sounds of the night came in from all sides. A street filled with people. Witnesses all. And innocents as well.

  A thumb caressed her bottom lip. Blood thundered in her ears and with it the gathering storm. Do it. I cannot. Quite suddenly she wished for Archer so desperately that tears threatened. Don’t think of him.

  The sound of laughter and joviality rang out down the street. Yet here… Hot breath hit her cheek, hot as the air that gathered around her. “Fancy a toss, luv?”

  She felt rather than heard Billy move, and the resulting scuffle. Her eyes flew open to see her friend held fast with a knife at his throat. His eyes bulged, fear making him quiver.

  “You workin’ me, Billy Finger?” Tom said without taking his eyes from Miranda. “Denyin’ me my piece?” The man spoke lightly but the evil flatness in his eyes betrayed his tone. He’d gut Billy and enjoy every second.

  Billy’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Don’t—” The knife at his throat cut him short.

  Black Tom cocked a thick brow. “Don’t, wha? Hurt your littl’ toffer?” Rotted teeth flashed. “She mean that much ta ye, then?”

  Billy licked his lips quickly. His skin took on a grayish hue as sweat seeded over his high brow. “Don’t piss ’er off,” he managed.

  The stovepipe hat on Tom’s head tilted back as the man gaped. “You bammin’ me?” His laughter cracked out, joined by the rest.

  “ ’Ere now, lad,” he said through chortles, “ ’as no man ever taught ye how to ’andle a haybag?” Tom’s cold black eyes snapped to Miranda, hatred and pleasure burning in them as he took another step forward. Sick dread overflowed in her belly, leaking down her limbs and setting them to shaking.

  “You need a toss, sweetin’.” A blow to her head knocked her hat free, sending half of her hair awkwardly over her cheek. A throb of heat went down her spine, and with it, the urge to hurt. No. Too many people.

  “Don’t.” She did not want to do this. The face before her wavered as her control was overwhelmed by need.

  A warped smile winked at her. “Too late for beggin’.”

  White-hot heat stretched her skin tight and crackled through her hair. Dimly, she heard Billy moan, saw him strain to pull away from his captor, away from her. But the coarse hands of Black Tom kept reaching for her. The laughing eyes of his crew looked on as he ripped her coat open. Cold air blew through her thin lawn shirt. A small child ran between the legs of the men, chasing a broken bottle. Too many innocents. Blood throbbed in her ears.

  “Very nice, indeed,” he muttered a moment before he grabbed her breasts and squeezed.

  A roar lit through her ears. She could not think; the thing had her. It broke in a terrible wave of heat. The gas lantern above her head exploded in a volley of fire and pelting glass.

  Tom flew back, blazing with yellow flames. His scream mingled with the loud pops of the lamps down West Street exploding like cannon fire.

  Chaos erupted, men and women screaming as the hapless onlookers scrambled to get away. A stream of rushing men and women caught her up and carried her along as the fire danced toward the ramshackle building behind. The aged timber and empty rooms acted like a tinderbox to the fire’s greed, and the structure roared to life with a burst of scorching air.

  “Billy!”

  Screams of mass panic swallowed up her dry shout. Black Tom rolled upon the ground, an inhuman sound vibrating from him as the fire ate him.

  “Billy!” Her knees cracked against the hard cobble and the red leviathan grew higher. It looked her in the face, kissing her cheeks with a hot blast. For one blessed moment, she spied the familiar outline of her friend against the flames as he ran off into the wild night, then a hard blow from behind brought her down.

  Smothered by the foul stench of fish and wet wool of a lady’s skirt, she struggled to get free of the woman lying on top of her. Arms tangled with limbs as they both tried to rise.

  “Get off!” shouted the frantic woman. A sharp kick to Miranda’s ribs sent her flying back, and the woman scurried away. A foot crushed her hand, and she sobbed. Blinded by fleeing bodies and thick smoke, she could not tell up from down.

  Suddenly hands had her, strong and sure. She surged upward, pulled into a hard embrace. Black smoked burned down her throat as they hurtled forward, knocking people down like pins, crashing through an old wooden door and into the cool quiet of an abandoned brick building.

  Panting in the dark, she tried to move. Her rescuer kept her crushed in his embrace, pressing her tight against the wall. Heated breath touched her ear as he turned his head. She reared, flailing her limbs in useless protest. A large hand clamped over her mouth, the arm about her a vise.

  “Stop,” he hissed. “Stop, I say!”

  She kicked out, finding a shin, and a grunt wrung from the man’s lips before his embrace tightened.

  “I saved your life, you.”

  Her struggles slowed as the vague familiarity of the voice seeped through her panic.

  “There now,” Lord Ian Mckinnon breathed, letting his hand fall. “Easy. I don’t want to receive the same treatment as that poor prig did back there, I can tell you.”

  As usual, letting the fire out had drained her physically. She sagged against a cold, damp wall and took a deep breath of air. It was da
nk and smelled of decay, but was blessedly free of smoke. In the distance, the clanging of the fire brigade bell rang. Mckinnon eased back, but he did not break his embrace. Miranda blinked up to find his strong features arranged in a grin.

  “That is quite the trick, lass.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Sharp canines showed beneath his thin mustache. “You know precisely what I mean. I saw it all.” He leaned in until their breath mingled. “Even the moment when it broke free.”

  Her stomach lurched, but she affected calm. “You watched me get attacked,” she said, ignoring the obvious. “And did nothing?”

  The caress of his voice at her ear sent little prickles of unease down her spine. “I watched you defend yourself. I saw the look in your eyes. You were never truly afraid.” He edged back to look into her eyes. “That interests me.”

  “What do you want?”

  With slow ease, he studied her. “What are you doing here?” he asked after a moment. “Don’t tell me it’s to play dress up. I won’t believe you.”

  She shoved at his bulk but he did not budge. Rather, he settled in comfortably, letting his length nestle along hers. A tight knot claimed her stomach. His embrace might have been intimate, yet it left her cold and irritated.

  “Get off, will you?” She shoved again.

  “Not until you tell me.”

  “I owe you nothing.”

  He laughed shortly as she struggled again to free herself. “I saved your life.”

  Which was precisely the reason she couldn’t feel the burning anger toward him that she felt for Black Tom. It did not stop her from wanting to smack the smug look off of his face, however.

  Mckinnon laughed again. “Never mind,” he murmured against her ear. “I know.” His hand plunged into her pants.

  Screeching, she bucked, the heat rising once more. But suddenly he was off, dancing back with haste.

  “Easy now,” he said lightly. “Cool yourself. I was simply looking for this.”

  He lifted his hand high, and a golden flash caught the weak light. Archer’s coin. Inwardly, she groaned.