by KJ Charles
Slowly but not steadily, not all at once. Stroke by stroke.
He’d seen something like this.
Rickaby was at his side again, with a piece of clay tubing, saying something. Stephen ignored him. His whole attention was focused on trying to track back the elusive tweak of memory…
The drawing. That was it. The street scribbler, tracing Crane’s features, creating his fine-boned beauty on paper, stroke by stroke.
And the first victim’s blobs had smelled sharp, like turpentine, and the stuff in them had set hard and glossy as it dried, almost like varnish…
“Has someone painted him?” he demanded aloud.
“Eh?”
“A painter!” Stephen shouted. “Has he had his portrait painted? Find out!”
Rickaby vanished again. Stephen removed his fingers from the tormented mouth and put the tube in. The chances of this working were, he knew, slim, but he had to try.
If he was right, if someone was repainting Hunt’s face into a monstrosity… Well, that was much the same thing as a moppet, surely. He knew moppets. You made a little dolly of someone, and then you tortured it with pins or cut pieces off it or dunked it in a pond, and watched the same things happen on the body of your victim.
A badly made moppet connected dolly to body through the ether, and could be dealt with like an equivalency, which Stephen found almost childishly easy. A well-made one took the essence of the body into itself, and the only solution was to find whoever had the dolly and remove it from them.
Unfortunately, he had no idea who was doing this, and they could be at the other end of the country for all he knew, painting or sculpting away in a studio in John o’Groats or Land’s End.
Hunt’s abused eyeball bulged and rolled in the raw flesh that surrounded it. He made an appalling whistling noise through the tube, and Stephen realised the skin was closing over his mouth.
He grabbed Hunt’s hand, felt its violent, desperate grip as the man held on.
“I will get them,” he said, voice shaking at his own uselessness. He had no idea if Hunt could understand him, but he said it anyway, because he had to. “I swear to you, Sergeant. Alan. I will find them and punish them. I promise they’ll pay.”
Stephen kept his grip as the man’s mouth closed over completely, and the tube, neatly severed, fell away from the smooth flesh that let in no air. Noseless and mouthless, Alan Hunt began to thrash dreadfully, and Stephen, who had seen men choke to death and knew how long it took, reached out with his other hand, still looking into Hunt’s agonised eyes, touched the base of his neck, and killed him with a thought.
He was holding the dead man’s hand when he became aware that Rickaby stood at his shoulder.
“He hasn’t had a portrait done. The Met don’t pay us that kind of money. But there was some artist hanging round the Cannon Street nick a few months back. Man called Newhouse. He was illustrating a book, and he did a fair few drawings, of a lot of coppers, including Hunt. Could that be it?”
“Perhaps.” Stephen contemplated Rickaby’s words, trying to repress a rising sense of panic. “Um, this artist. How many other coppers did he draw while he was there?”
Rickaby stared at him open-mouthed for a few seconds, then his jaw set. “What the devil is this business? Who is this man? How did you know?”
“I don’t know. I’m guessing. But it’s possible this was done via a picture or painting, and it’s possible that’s how he killed Raphael too, and Beamish.” Stephen felt unutterably weary and miserable. He wanted, as much as he had ever wanted anything, to see Crane walk in. If only he were here. Stephen would bury his face in that solid, muscled, tattooed chest, and feel those long-fingered hands in his hair, and for a few minutes he would exist in a world where Lucien’s will and power made everything possible. Safety and happiness and comfort, and a closed door between them and all the misery and pain outside.
Stephen held on to that feeling for a couple of seconds, his imagination bringing Crane so close he could almost taste his skin. It gave him the strength to pull himself together, because he wasn’t finished here yet. “We need to find out if Raphael and Beamish had portraits done. Any kind of depiction, or if anyone used them as models. Particularly if it was this man, Newhouse. Can you find that out?”
“You think one man killed all three. Three police officers. Why?”
“I don’t know,” Stephen said, more politely than he felt. “Let’s find out who he is, and then maybe we could ask him.”
Rickaby’s face tightened. “I want to know what you know. I want everything from you.”
“You’ve had all I know, which is nothing. Suppose you look into paintings of the other victims, and I’ll see if any of my lot know about this man Newhouse—”
Rickaby was shaking his head. “You’ll stay where I can see you.”
“I beg your pardon?” Stephen released Hunt’s hand and stood.
The inspector leaned aggressively down to him. “I say, Mr. Day, you’ll stay under my eye. I’m not going to have you vanish off, and then if we even find out who did this, he’s long gone before we get there and never seen again. I want him to face trial.”
“Don’t be a damned fool. What sort of farce of a trial—”
“He’s going to stand trial for this and swing for it. I will not see our men killed like these three and let it go. God damn you all, I won’t have it!”
“Nor will I.” Stephen held the other man’s furious gaze. “I want this swine every bit as dead as you do. Don’t imagine I’m planning to help him to anything other than a swift end.”
“We’ll have justice done first.”
“He’ll get the justice he deserves.”
“Are you going to make sure he stands his trial?” Rickaby demanded. “Yes or no?”
That was the point where Stephen would normally lie. He had no moral qualms about it, and no great objection to people thinking the worse of him, and he had work to do. But he was exhausted and miserable and angry, and somehow the fluent words of appeasement didn’t come.
“No,” he said. “I’m not. I expect I’m going to kill him myself before he has a chance to hurt anyone else. I’m certainly not going to risk letting him loose on some hapless constable, let alone putting him in a prison where nobody would know what he’s capable of and seeing how much damage he can do on the way out.”
“You will respect the law of the land, or you’ll face the consequences!”
Stephen’s temper ignited like gas. “Be damned to the law, and be damned to you too. Stop wasting my time with your blasted pettifogging. I’ve a murderer to catch.”
“Right, that’s it. Motley! Gerrard!” Rickaby grabbed Stephen’s arm, and pulled him towards the door. “You’re under arrest for obstructing the course of justice.”
“What? Don’t be ridiculous!”
Rickaby glared at him. “You’re spending the next few hours cooling your heels in a cell, Mr. Day, so I know exactly where you are, and when I’m ready, you’re going to come out and work according to the law of the land, understand? You two, take this man to Cannon Street, have him booked in. I don’t want him bailed. And don’t take your eyes off him.”
“Yessir,” said Constable Motley, rather nervously. “Um, do we cuff him, sir?”
“No,” said Stephen, through gritted teeth. He could force himself to tolerate this indignity, but he was damned if anyone was putting iron on his wrists, blocking the etheric flow to his hands, rendering him helpless. If it came to that, he would send all three of them crumpling to the floor. The temptation to do that anyway was almost overwhelming. Knock them all out, don’t even have to hurt them, just send them to sleep, walk away, the devil with the job, the devil with all of it… “I’ll come quietly.”
Chapter Seven
They brought him to the Cannon Street police station. A custody sergeant took down his
name and address, then he was put in the holding yard, an open space surrounded by bars. It was viciously cold, and the men’s breath steamed in the air. There had to be twenty or so of them in here, presumably waiting for arraignment or, possibly, just thrown in here to get them out of the way, like himself. None of them looked like people he wanted to be locked in an enclosed space with. Quite a few of them were watching him. A little man in an expensive coat… Stephen had never actually been arrested before, but he had a fair idea how the next part was likely to go.
The law of the Council provided that he could use his powers against the unskilled only if his safety was threatened. Technically, this meant he should allow himself to be robbed as long as nobody hurt him. He had no more than a few shillings in his pockets, he could afford to lose them. Nevertheless…
Over my dead body, Stephen thought. He slithered behind a big man and by a deal table where a couple of shabby individuals played with a deck of greasy cards, and made himself unobtrusive as he went, warping the ether around him so that observation was directed away and attention found itself going elsewhere. It didn’t make him invisible, and if any of his fellow felons who had cast greedy glances his way came looking for him, they would see him.
And that is their choice, Stephen thought grimly, and they can take the consequences.
He perched on a bench, drawing his knees up to his chin and wrapping his arms round himself, as small and unworthy of notice as he could be, and wondered what to do.
He didn’t want to contact the Golds for bail. If Dan hadn’t come to Hunt’s death, it would be for a damned good reason. He winced at that thought, flinching away from imagining what Esther might be enduring. In any case, and not thinking about that, Rickaby hadn’t wanted him bailed.
Crane’s lawyers would bail him whether Rickaby liked it or not. Hannaford and Greene were the most vicious legal team in London, attack dogs with steel pens for teeth, and he had been given carte blanche to use them at will. A message to them and he would be free.
Assuming that he had the right to call them, of course, when he had walked out on the man like that.
No. Crane would not object to him using the lawyers. Even if he’d pushed him too far this time—he hadn’t, he hadn’t, Lucien would forgive him if he just apologised—but even if Lucien never wanted to see him again, he could use the lawyers. Stephen had no doubt of that. Still, if he did, Rickaby would be told. Stephen assumed that bail would be posted in the name of Hannaford and Greene rather than Lord Crane, but even at that remove, the idea of linking himself publicly to his lover made him nervous. For the same reason, he resisted the temptation to send a note letting Crane know where he was, why he hadn’t come back yet, that he was sorry. The chances that Rickaby would have detailed someone to read it were too high.
Crane would be wondering where he was, though. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe Stephen had tested his patience too far for that.
He pushed those thoughts away as well. He would sit here for a few hours, wasting his time, but not giving Rickaby any more weapons to use against him. He didn’t for a minute imagine that the painter would be easily found, but if he was—well, he’d warned Rickaby, that was his responsibility. It was up to the inspector to stop playing the fool, and Stephen would just have to wait him out.
With nothing else he wanted to think about, Stephen set his mind to the three dead men and the painter.
He’d been in the holding yard for a couple of hours, cold and bored and tired, when the doors opened for about the fifth time. Stephen glanced up, just in case it might be Rickaby changing his mind, but it was merely another prisoner. He went back to his thoughts for a moment before he became aware that the new arrival was walking purposefully in his direction.
Stephen looked up, and saw a man of medium height and athletic build, in his twenties, with deep blue eyes, and tousled black hair marred by a thick, dramatic white streak that slashed down one side. That was the only feature hadn’t been in Miss Nodder’s description of the rogue windwalker, and it hadn’t been there before, either, when Stephen had seen him under the lamplight, flirting with Crane.
“I’m going to kill him,” Stephen said aloud, realisation dawning. He shoved himself to his feet, feeling his hands tingle with building anger as he stalked forward. “You. Jonah Pastern. Get here now.”
Pastern took an urgent step back as Stephen advanced on him. “Wait a moment, Mr. Day—”
“For what?” Stephen slammed the ether shut around Pastern, felt the man push back with impressive force, and tightened his own grip, binding him to the spot. He glared up at the windwalker. “You are coming to the Council, on your feet or your knees. Play the fool and I’ll hobble you. Don’t think about provoking me now.”
“Oh, good heavens, you’re arresting me,” Pastern said. “How charming. You’re under arrest, remember?”
“Yes, and so are you. Twice,” Stephen added, indicating the gaolyard.
“Oh, well, arrest.” Pastern dismissed that with a wave. “Boring business, isn’t it, and I wouldn’t normally go through it. But I needed to talk to you.”
“What? Why?”
Pastern gave him an almost flirtatious grin. “I’ve got your ring.”
Stephen took a breath to shout that he knew, and choked on it as he realised what Pastern meant. “My ring?” he repeated, playing for time.
“The Magpie Lord’s ring. The one that your lover Lord Crane gave you. Which, considering…” Pastern tipped his head to one side, looking Stephen up and down. “No offence, but you must be a firecracker in bed.”
Stephen sent a vicious flare through the binding ether and relished Pastern’s gasp of pain. “Shut your mouth.”
“That hurt.” Pastern wore a wounded expression. “I was just saying—”
“Don’t.”
“Your ring, Mr. Day. I’ve got it.”
“Then give it back.”
“I’d love to.” Pastern sounded entirely sincere. “I don’t want the damned thing. Look what it did!” He gestured at the white streak that shone bright in his black hair. “I put it on once, and this happened, and it’s getting worse every day. I look about ten years older.”
“It will kill you if you keep it much longer,” Stephen said. “A cancer, perhaps. Maybe a consumption. It’s not yours, and it will hurt you.”
Pastern flinched, apparently ready to believe that bit of invention. “All the more reason for me to get rid of it. Can we sit down, Mr. Day? You need to listen to me.”
Stephen flexed his hands. “Why don’t I just make you tell me where the ring is, and then drag you to the Council and see you thrown in gaol for theft?”
“I’m working for Lady Bruton.” The words were blurted hastily, but they stopped Stephen in his tracks. Pastern went on, “If you want to know about that, you’ll have to listen to me.”
Stephen stared at him. Pastern stared back, deep blue eyes full of apparent sincerity.
Trick? Trap?
It didn’t matter. He had to know.
He released his etheric grip on Pastern, and they walked together to the side of the yard, ignoring the curious glances of the other inmates. Pastern seated himself on a bench and patted it invitingly. Stephen stayed on his feet.
“Go on. Make it good.”
Pastern laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back. “Well, it’s simple, really. Lady Bruton—dreadful harpy, isn’t she?—told me to do some stealing in London, to incriminate Miss Saint. In particular, to make sure that I got your ring, and that you thought it was Miss Saint who did it. Preferably to take it from Lord Crane’s rooms. That took some arranging, I can tell you. Lady Bruton knows all about you and his lordship, of course.” Pastern gazed off into the middle distance, with a little sigh. “He’s really quite something. Those cheekbones. Those tattoos.”
“How do you know about his tattoos?”
&nbs
p; “Terribly dominant, isn’t he? And twice your size, it must be thrilling. I do like a big assertive man. Well, so do you. Goodness, he makes you squeal.”
It occurred to Stephen with some force that, while in general it was perfectly safe not to shut the curtains because nobody could see into Crane’s fourth-floor flat, this did not apply to people who could walk on air. “Shut up,” he said savagely. “Get to the point. Why are you doing Lady Bruton’s work?”
“Why do you think? Because she has me over a barrel, of course.” Pastern’s voice was suddenly bitter. “She’s got a hold on me, and she’s a lot more powerful than I am. I don’t have a chance in hell of fighting her. But that doesn’t mean I want to work for her.”
“So?”
“So I thought that you and I could come to an agreement. I haven’t given her the ring yet. I’d like to, because my hair, and she’d certainly like me to, or at least she says so, but it’s never actually come to me handing it over. I think she’s frightened of it.”
“She ought to be. It nearly killed her once already.”
“She knows that she has me where she wants me, and it isn’t biting her while I carry it. So she’s leaving it with me, and that means I could give it back to you.” He raised his brows with an inviting look. “For a price.”
“Which is?” Stephen would cheerfully commit Crane’s money to this purpose. Particularly as he had every intention of reclaiming it from Pastern at his leisure once he had the ring back.
“Get me free of her.” There was no humour in Pastern’s smile, only teeth. “She’s after you. You and Lord Crane. The pair of you made her a widow, and not the good kind. She wants the Magpie Lord’s power, thinks you owe it to her, and she wants revenge for what you did. You’re going to have to kill her. Do it now, quickly, and the ring’s yours.”
“I’m a justiciar. I don’t commit murder.”
“You kill warlocks. She’s a warlock.”