by Kim Lenox
A public house occupied the distant side of the road. A lively tune, being hammered out on a piano, jangled through the door of the Queen’s Elm. Perhaps a drink before confrontation. He enjoyed his vices, tobacco and liquor, and because of his immortal constitution, fortunately suffered no ill effects from their consumption. He entered and made his way through a jumble of mismatched chairs and tables, toward the bar, where he stood, rather than taking one of the stools. The sour-sweet scent of wood cured by spilled ale tainted the air. Two boy-faced sailors hunkered over the piano, joined arm over arm. They sang a slurred tune, swinging their pint tankards in time with the music.
Six little whores, glad to be alive,
One sidles up to Jack, then there are five.
Four and whore rhyme aright,
So do three and me,
I’ll set the town alight.
Jack the Ripper. Bastard didn’t deserve a song. Peculiar how mortals glorified those things they feared the most. More men in military dress sat at the tables, likely on pass from the Chelsea Barracks, only a few streets away.
“Good evenin’, gov’na.” The bare-pated publican moved close, wiping down the polished wood bar with a green checkered rag. “I’d offer y’ the snug”—he gigged his thumb over his shoulder—“but someone’s already there.”
Mark glanced to the window, cut into the wall at a raised level so as to offer its occupant anonymity and privacy—but a full view of the room.
“I won’t be staying long.” He pointed out a bottle of Irish whiskey.
The man hoisted the bottle. “Looks like we’re almost out. Don’t want to give y’ the dregs. I’ll go back t’ get another.”
Mark nodded. Eventually, the publican returned, bottle in hand. With a knife, he wedged out the cork and poured a stream of amber liquid into a battered and chipped glass. Mark slid his hand into his pocket for the necessary payment, but the man tapped the bar.
“No need, it’s paid for.”
Mark stilled. “By whom?”
“The gentleman up there.” The barkeeper jerked his head in the direction of the darkened window.
A gloved hand lifted a mug in salute.
Slowly . . . Mark did the same.
Lowering the glass to wood, he smiled. His pulse surged. God, despite the danger, it was good to be back in London. Rounding the bar, he ducked up the narrow cut of steps and shoved the door open. The small room was empty, save for a wooden bench.
Sensing her, he whirled.
A figure lunged, a blur of wide-brimmed hat and cloak, planting a knee-high boot at the center of his chest. The impact sent him crashing inside. His back slammed down, and skidded across the bench. He’d already identified his tracker, and by way of greeting, good-naturedly allowed the violence. Her full weight landed on his chest, crushing the laughter from his lungs. God, a knee to his ribs. Hands wrenched his head up by the collar.
Selene glared down at him, her eyes entirely black.
He grinned. “I’ve missed you.”
“I should kill you now, Brother.”
“Mirror, mirror on the wall.” With a stiff flex of his muscles, he flung his twin against the wall. Crash. Plaster rained down about them both. She fell, a tangle of long, trouser-clad legs and cape, to the floor. “You’re your mother after all.”
“Don’t talk about her,” she hissed, springing onto her feet and lunging close. “You’ve no right. She’d despise you for what you did as much as I do. You threw it away, Mark. You threw it all away, for a moment of vainglory. And let there be no doubt, I’ve sent missive upon missive to the Primordial Council, begging them to let me be the one.”
“Selene . . . ,” he warned.
“Your assassin,” his twin seethed, adjusting the brim of her hat. A fat, purple feather quivered against the band. “I’m just waiting for the order.”
Before his eyes, she twisted, her features collapsing into nothingness. Into shadow.
With that, she was gone.
Mark knew the violence of their exchange had brought on a shift in the color of his own eyes and quickly thrust on his spectacles to conceal the bronze glow—just as the publican rushed up the stairs.
“Wot the ’ell?” he shouted.
“It’s a private family matter,” Mark growled.
“Where’d ’e go?”
Mark brushed past. At least now he knew who had been tracking him along the street. Straightening his necktie and returning his hat to his head, he ducked again and clambered down the stairs. He didn’t expect to find Selene in the public room below, and she wasn’t there, not even in shadow.
The other patrons gave him a wide berth, though god damit, if someone hadn’t made off with his drink. He caught the eye of the barkeeper.
“Another,” he growled.
Mark seated himself on a stool and glared into the large mirror spanning the wall behind the bar, and sipped his whiskey. His spectacles glinted in the hazy darkness. The thin layer of silver beneath the glass had deteriorated, leaving his reflection mottled and incomplete—a far more accurate portrayal of himself than he would have liked to admit.
Selene was clearly just as furious at his decision to submit himself to Transcension as she had been six months ago. He understood the underlying source of her anger—her fear of being left alone. For centuries, they’d had no one but each other in the world, no one else who truly understood the emotion and history behind their mercenary and solitary ways. That she would wish to be his assassin . . . well, he would not expect anything less from her.
At the same time, her lack of confidence stung. She shared his ambition, and the burning desire to make a name for herself. Surely she understood that if he returned from Transcension, he’d be an unparalleled legend amongst the Guard—and amongst the entire Amaranthine race. Once he found the scrolls, and the reparative conduit they promised, she could be certain he would present himself and demand her apology.
Someone slid onto the stool beside him. The mirror showed her to be dark haired, dark eyed and slender, and one of several prostitutes who trolled the pub for customers. Her unbuttoned bodice displayed a profusion of shabby lace and bosom. She leaned, positioning her breast so that it crushed against his arm.
“Want t’ work off some o’ that frustration on Annie?” An audacious smile curved her lips.
He’d never had a taste for street prostitutes. The reality of their lives put him off. They were dirty, desperate and diseased. Still, if he crossed his eyes, this particular girl might look something like . . . Miss Limpett.
Take her.
Use her.
Devour her.
Pain shot through Mark’s temple. He pressed his fingertips against the throbbing pulse. The command echoed inside his head. Staring at the mirror, into his own flat eyes, he reminded himself the voice didn’t belong to him. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard it, the whispers and sly instruction. Sometimes the voice belonged to a man. Sometimes there were several. Tonight . . . the voice was distinctly female. Velvety soft, she not only offered dark suggestions, but painted lurid pictures and urged him to do exceedingly wicked things.
He strongly suspected his brief indulgence in violence moments before had awakened the predator inside him, though only a mere fraction of the monster he could become. With that slight turning, he must have opened his mind to the madness within, so best he return to the boat, and quickly.
Just then another woman drew his attention, perhaps because of the way the light glinted off her bright, red-gold hair. Young, and certainly beyond her twentieth year, she stood in the open doorway, eyeing the crowd. Fatigue painted itself in dark streaks beneath her eyes. An ulster coat hung from her shoulders, much too large for her frame. A brown linsey skirt peeked from beneath, bits of grass clinging as if she’d spent the day, and perhaps the previous night, living in the rough on the banks of the Thames.
“What do you say,” whispered the woman, just beside his ear. Her hot breath bathed his neck. A heavy pulse sti
rred his groin. Devour. Devour. Devour. “Want to give Annie a try? You won’t be sorry.”
The girl, the bright-haired one, circled the room, a forced smile turning her colorless lips. She sidled up to the nearest of the two sailors and rested her hand on his arm.
Annie’s hand, however, slid beneath the cover of the bar to press against his upper thigh. His vision blurred, and he imagined he was somewhere else, with someone else. The idea of losing himself in his false Mina Limpett, and forgetting his present troubles, if even for a quarter hour, held a sordid appeal.
“I said no,” a man’s voice shouted. All conversation in the room ceased. The seaman glared down at the girl. “Ain’t interested. Somethin’ you don’t understand about that?”
Mark focused on the girl. Her cheeks went apple red and her eyes glazed over with tears. Slowly, she retreated to the door and disappeared into the night.
The intensity of her desperation soured Mark’s arousal. He gripped Annie’s wrist and thrust her away. Whom was he trying to fool? The woman beside him would require a pillow over her face to even remotely resemble Miss Lim pett. He dropped several coins to the bar and stood. The prostitute cursed him.
The room flashed orange—as if illuminated by an invisible fireball.
His hand shielded his eyes. Heat, greater than a desert sun, scorched his skin and heated his clothes.
Skeletons. Everyone in the bar . . . a skeleton.
Mark stared, trying to make sense of the moment. They weren’t really skeletons. Instead, the peculiar orange light rendered their skin and muscle transparent. All around him, in a surreal caricature of normalcy, the bones talked and laughed. They wagered with hats perched on their heads, and uniforms or dresses or whatever garments hanging from their matchstick frames.
He felt a tug on his jacket sleeve. The prostitute stood behind him. Her clawed hands rested on the butterfly-wing bones of her pelvis. Hollow eyes peered up at him, and her yellow teeth clacked. “Change your mind, luv?”
The bartender threw back his white skull and cackled.
Mark hurtled out the door into the night. He bent at the waist, his palms on his knees, and gasped for air. Confusion crowded his thoughts, as if a thousand pincer-headed worms ate into his skull and multiplied a thousandfold. He looked through the window, into the pub, and saw everyone there . . . as they had been before.
No skeletons. No maniacal laughter.
His skin went clammy . . . cold and hot at the same time. Two doors away, a pair of shoeless old men in rags, probable residents of the local workhouse, eyed him from a darkened stoop. Likely they’d missed the evening locking of the door and would be forced to spend the night on the street. Like them, it appeared he’d run out of time. He reached out to touch the brick wall as vertigo threatened to send him sprawling. Rigidly, he continued south at as rapid a pace as the lingering dizziness in his head would allow.
Beyond the Embankment rail, the Thames shimmered like a black serpent, covered by a vaporous blanket of haze. Grand terrace houses overlooked the river. Distant lights bobbed on the water, lanterns on unseen ships and barges. Once returned to the Thais, he would release the yacht from its moorings and take it out into open water, where he’d anchor for the night. By secluding himself in such a way, he would be aware of anyone who approached, and isolate himself until his mind returned to course.
In the distance, Albert Bridge illuminated the night with its blazing pagoda lamps and lattice of suspension cords. Cadogan Pier waited just beyond. He felt cautious relief.
A dense wave of despair struck him, from the direction of the bridge. At the railing stood the girl from the Queen’s Elm. She leaned over—too far for safety—precariously peering into the black water below.
Chapter Four
Mark’s heart should have beat more quickly when he realized what she intended, but years of jaded existence merely fixed him to the spot.
The girl whispered to herself and climbed onto the rail, her leg swinging up to bunch in her skirts. Shadow Guards, by strict rule, were forbidden to interfere in the life and death matters of common mortals. But now, banished from the Guard, he supposed he lived by his own rules.
As if to challenge that assertion, the voice inside his head commanded:
Take her.
Claim her.
Devour her.
An echo of its previous demand. His mental fortitude faltered, and for a shattering moment . . . wrong became twisted into right. He staved his fingers into his hair, wishing he could tear the voice from his brain. In defiance of the voice, and all the things it commanded him to do, he advanced toward the girl. Oblivious of his presence, she pushed off, her arms and coat spread like the wings of a bird.
He evanesced . . . and twisted, veering deep.
A scant moment later he lowered her to the bridge.
The voice raged louder in his head, insisting that he—
He hissed in defiance. With a touch of his hand to her cheek, he dazed her, muddying her memory of her rescue. At the same time he drew from her recent memories and most vivid thoughts. She stared at him, her eyes wide and incredulous. Her lips parted, but no words issued forth.
“You’re having a very bad night,” he said.
Through white lips, she wheezed, obviously perplexed by the chunk of missing time and the sudden presence of the stranger beside her.
“He misled you. And now he’s left you. You’re without any means of support. You’ve had no choice but to turn to the streets.”
She blinked and whispered, “Yes.”
“And you’ve no family to go to for help.”
She shook her head, and a tear spilled over her cheek. “My mum, she’s in the workhouse. My da’ . . . ’e won’t never forgive me for all I’ve done.”
Mark slipped his hand into the breast pocket of his coat. “Things will be better now.” He pressed a slim leather wallet into her hand. “It’s enough to see you well kept in a respectable lodging house for a month, until you get back on your feet.”
Suspicion furrowed her brow. “What do you want from me?”
The voice supplied an array of wicked suggestions.
“I want you to go,” he gritted.
Oblivious to his torment, she peeked inside the wallet. “Oh, sir.” Another tear fell. “Yer me bloomin’ angel, aren’t you? Sent down from ’eaven?”
The voice cackled, clearly amused. She taunted him—told him there was still time to snatch the girl. That no one would see.
“Go . . . now.” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded strange. Hollow.
She seemed to sense the danger in him. Backing away, she clutched the case against her breast and hurried off the bridge. Just before she disappeared into the shadows, she turned to look back. She lifted her hand in good-bye. With that she was gone.
He followed the path she had taken off the bridge, but proceeded west toward the moorings, just yards away now. He could not help but claim a dark satisfaction. In saving the girl’s life, he had defied the voice and proven that he remained in command, that some kernel of humanity still existed. He was not yet completely consumed by Transcension.
From off the Thames a cold gust of wind struck, causing a dramatic change in temperature.
Pain ripped through his temples.
He staggered—
Mina awakened to darkness. Paralyzed, she blindly stared at nothing, too fearful to move. Too fearful to make a sound. Then she saw it, a sliver of lamplight from one of the tents. She scrambled toward the glow, clawing frantically through the fog.
No, thank God. . . .
She almost sobbed with relief.
Not fog. Bed curtains, striped in green and gold. She twisted her fingers into the cool brocade and raked them aside, exhaling her fear and inhaling the comforting scents of lemon oil and orange blossom soap. She had survived another night. Three nights since the mysterious event at the cemetery. Three months since her father had left her to make her way alone. She collapsed back onto smooth she
ets, buttery and delicious against her skin.
A moment later she padded across the floor. Starting at one window, she pulled the heavy curtains and did not stop until she’d pulled them all wide, exposing every inch of the elegant room to light. She stood behind one panel, her dishabille hidden from any gardener or passerby, and took comfort in the sight of Hyde Park, which spread in the distance just beyond the courtyard. She must have slept late, because riders already obscured the Row and hunger gnawed at her stomach. Through the speaking tube she called down to the kitchen for breakfast.
Last night she’d lain in bed until her lamp flickered out for lack of oil. She’d lain there some more, listening to every creak and shift of the house, waiting for a pair of bronze eyes to appear. At some point, she must have fallen asleep. One glance at the sunshine out the window, and at the white, yellow and purple crocuses cheerily dotting the flower beds, and she felt assured she would soon forget her fears and be able to fully embrace this new life.
Even now, her pulse trilled with the melodramatic symphony of a theater orchestra each time she remembered the far-too-handsome-for-words Lord Alexander’s request to call on her. Two days had passed, with no sight of him. She prayed, in defiance of her feminine heart, that he’d forgotten her. His attention had unnerved her. He was too much—too golden, too audacious and, she strongly suspected, too wicked. And he understood the importance of the scrolls. He was exactly the sort of man she could never allow herself to trust.
There came a soft knock at the door. At her answer, a maid entered with a silver, dome-lidded tray and a few calling cards. The only one she recognized was that of Mr. Matthews, from the British Museum. Mr. Matthews had once been a close friend of her father’s, but six months ago it had been he who accused the professor of theft. She wasn’t ready to receive him just yet.
Over the next half hour, the girl helped Mina into her petticoats and corset, and finally, one of her three dull, black dresses. She also brushed and pinned Mina’s hair before pouring her a cup of tea and leaving her alone again. The assistance of a maid was something Mina had never before had the opportunity to enjoy. The experience had taken getting used to. Because she had traveled so much with her father—and because such a luxury could never have been afforded—she’d always tended to her own needs. Since coming to stay with the family, she could not help but feel spoiled. To her surprise, she rather liked it.