Aghast, I stood there, not knowing what to do.
Lionheart moaned softly.
Knees shaking, I stepped toward him.
“Clemeny, please. Please go. I’m sorry. Clemeny, please. Please go,” he whispered.
I stared at him.
Without knowing what better course to take, I turned and left the chapel, the square, the city. Walking blindly, I made my way back across the river, my mind turning in a fit of confusion. It wasn’t until I’d slipped into my window at Missus Coleridge’s that I finally shook myself out of my dazed state. Exhausted and confused, I sat down on the floor, pulling my knees to my chest, and closed my eyes.
“Bryony,” I whispered, remembering her lifeless blue eyes. “I’m sorry.”
Chapter 22: Red Roses
I must have fallen asleep because I woke late the next day when someone knocked on my door.
I swallowed the anxious feeling inside me, dreading who might be on the other side of the door. If it was Edwin, I owed him an explanation. If it was Lionheart, I wasn’t ready. If it was Missus Coleridge, I was in no mood.
“Yes?” I called.
“It’s Sir Blackwood.”
I opened the door to find the Templar knight standing there. He handed me a package.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“From Sir Richard.”
“How is—”
“He left on an airship this morning. He’s taking Cole back to America, and then he plans to return to the Holy Land for a time thereafter.”
I stared at the werewolf.
“I suspect things will be quiet now, Agent Louvel. But I am available if there is a need. Until Lionheart returns, of course.”
“Very well.”
Sir Blackwood nodded then paused. “There is something else for you. Outside. With Lionheart’s compliments. I… I already discussed it with your landlady,” he said then coughed politely. “Very well,” he said, bowing briefly, then he left.
Closing and locking the door behind him, I opened the parcel. Inside, I found a piece of paper with an address in London, written in Lionheart’s elegant hand, and a key. Nothing more.
No note.
No words of explanation.
No nothing, just an address and a key.
I frowned. What did I expect? Hell, I didn’t even know what I was thinking, feeling. Why did I expect Lionheart to know any better than me?
I set the package down. Working quickly, I cleaned myself up and redressed. I would need to go to headquarters and file about a million pieces of paperwork—and face Edwin—soon, but not yet.
Moving as quietly as possible, I headed downstairs to find Missus Coleridge waiting for me at the bottom of the steps.
“Clemeny,” she said, her eyes shining with excitement. “Was that your gentleman? Oh, a fine cut of a man. Not talkative though. Come look,” she said then pushed open the front door. I followed her outside to find Lionheart’s steamcycle sitting there.
“Noisy machines, but at least you won’t have to walk everywhere anymore, eh Clemeny?”
“It’s on loan from a friend,” I said.
“The handsome friend?”
“A different handsome friend.”
“Oh, my. I’ll need to start advertising your room soon,” Missus Coleridge said with a laugh.
I clapped her on the shoulder then went to the steamcycle. Of all means of conveyance that weren’t my feet, the steamcycle rattled my stomach the least. And Missus Coleridge was right, chasing wolves by foot was getting old. Lionheart would have a hard time getting the cycle back from me when he returned. If he returned. I stared at the bike. But Lionheart already knew that, knew that I needed something. That’s why he’d sent the bike to me.
Noting the address written on the paper once more, I stashed the note and key in my pocket, pulled on a pair of goggles, and climbed on. Switching on the machine, I gave Missus Coleridge a wave.
“Be careful,” she called.
I grinned at her. If she only knew. I turned the bike and headed back into the city. As I wound down the narrow London streets, I moved with the machine. Feeling the wind on my face and controlling the movement of the cycle made my stomach ease. Perhaps I could get used to this after all.
Making my way through the city, I drove to a small neighborhood not far from the Tower of London. The address Lionheart had given me directed me to a narrow street. I drove slowly, noting how the buildings narrowed to form a bottleneck, which opened up into a cul-de-sac. From the look of the buildings, I could tell this was a very old part of London. But it was well-kept. I parked the machine at a gate at the address on the paper and switched it off. I looked at the building. The other structures appeared to have been built up all around it. Slipping off my goggles, I went to the wrought-iron gate which was locked. I was no expert on architecture, but this place had to date back at least to the medieval period. On the other side of the gate was a narrow passage that led into a green space on the other side.
“Hello?” I called.
A door inside the passage opened, and a very bent old woman with white hair appeared.
“Oh,” she said, clasping her hands together when she saw me. “Here you are. Come along, dear. Miss Louvel, isn’t it?” she asked, opening the gate for me.
“Um. Yes.”
“Good, good. Professor Spencer said to expect you,” she said. “Your key will unlock the gate as well. Just go ahead and use that next time. We have everything cleaned up and prepared for you. This way,” she said then motioned for me to follow her.
She led me through the narrow passage under the building. The low, arched gateway exited on the other side into a small courtyard. Much to my surprise, a small building was sitting there, a garden, including an apple tree, in front of the house. The garden was full of flowers and statues. In one corner, I noticed a stone structure that looked a bit like a cave. It was shell-shaped and made of stone. Years and years of candles had dripped wax down the cave walls. A statue of a woman sat on a pedestal at the center. All around the space was an ancient looking stone wall.
“What is this place?” I asked.
“Are you a scholar like the professor? As I explained to Professor Spencer, Saint Joan’s cathedral was torn down long ago, but the rectory and grotto remain. Of course, the grotto dates before Saint Joan’s time. It was built right near the Roman wall. Of course, you probably know that already. The grotto—that’s what Professor Spencer was interested in, the Roman connection. I believe he said the grotto used to be part of the Roman Temple of Vesta. I never knew that part. Holy ground, that’s what Professor Spencer called this place. You have your key?”
I stuck my hand into my vest and pulled out the key Lionheart had left me.
“Very good. Now, I already employed a maid for you. She will start next week. Go in and have a look around. My place is just off the passageway inside the gate. Knock if you need anything. I’m so glad to see that someone will be using the house again. I was afraid it was going to be torn down. Welcome to your new home, Miss Louvel,” the old woman said then turned and left.
With a shaking hand, I went to the door.
Was this real?
I unlocked the door and pushed it open. “Hello?”
My voice echoed throughout the space.
I entered slowly.
There was a tick of a grandfather clock somewhere inside the house. The place smelled of wood polish and soap. Everything sparkled. The furniture was dated but nice. The floors and walls were all made of hardwood which had been finely polished. Oil paintings of pastoral scenes adorned the walls. The lamps had been converted to gas. The first floor consisted of a cozy parlor, a small dining room, a kitchen, butler’s pantry, and a library. I wandered up to the second floor where I found two bedrooms. The first bedroom was primly decorated, lavender sprigs on the wallpaper. There were paintings of the French countryside hanging on the walls. That room, apparently, was meant for Grand-mère. I entered the second bedroom t
o find it mostly empty save a bed and a massive old wardrobe. The wardrobe’s door was slightly ajar.
I crossed the room and opened it. When I did so, an entire hamper of bright red rose petals cascaded down on me. I was engulfed by their heavenly perfume. After they had washed over me, dusting the floor all around me, I looked back at the wardrobe and found a beautiful red gown hanging there.
Taking the fabric in my hand, my fingers slid across the silk. I closed my eyes, a wash of emotions crashing over me.
Lionheart had found me a house.
On holy ground.
He wanted to keep me safe.
He wanted to keep me safe where he had failed his wife…and now Bryony.
He must have picked up the place after that day at Missus Coleridge’s. That meant whatever feelings Lionheart had for me, whatever intentions he had, were born long before that kiss. I remembered Lionheart’s words in the chapel, the pain in his voice. Closing my eyes, I inhaled deeply, breathing in the rosy scent.
What in the hell was I supposed to do now?
I went to the window and looked out on the little square.
Sunlight streamed into the garden, casting a cheerful glow on the flowers growing there. I imagined my grand-mère in this pretty place, happily attending to the flowers. She would love it here. And she would be safe here. What happened with Fenton wouldn’t happen again.
“Okay, Lionheart,” I said to the absent werewolf. “I’ll take it, but that doesn’t make me yours.”
If that’s even what he wanted.
God knows I had no idea what he wanted.
I closed my eyes, remembering Bryony once more. Lionheart had gone back to the holy land. He was trying to find himself and his way back to God. I knew he would feel responsible for Bryony’s death, that it would weigh on him. There was nothing I could do to lift his burden, but I shared it. If I had stopped Alodie earlier, Bryony would still be alive.
I squeezed the key in my hand.
I really needed to go back to headquarters, to talk to Edwin, to explain everything. But what was I going to say? I hardly understood myself. With Alodie gone, I was down one problem. But now? I shook my head. Until I knew what to say to Edwin, maybe I had no business saying anything at all. Or maybe that was just me running scared. But of what? The one thing I wanted most? To love and be loved by someone who could love me back.
Slipping my key back into my pocket, I headed back outside. Locking up the house behind me, I went to the steamcycle and slipped on. The engine started with a hiss. I pulled away from the little house and headed away from London to the one place where I knew I could find good advice.
Chapter 23: Horizons
“Agent Louvel? I’m sorry, Mrs. Briarwood is out, but Agent Briarwood is in the garden. Shall I let him know you’re here?”
“Please.”
Motioning for me to come inside, I entered Jessica and Quinn’s sunny little house and waited for the footman to announce me. The foyer was painted a lively yellow color, and the walls were covered with colorful paintings of flowers created by Jessica herself. She had a deft hand. Her oil paintings were rich and bright.
“Clem?” Quinn called from the back of the house.
Grinning, I followed the sound of his voice, passing the footman along the way.
I found Quinn in the garden, leaning against his cane as he looked me over from head to toe, concern on his face. He motioned for me to come then closed the glass door behind me. “Jessica is out. She was invited to tea.”
“You didn’t want to go and chat with the husbands?”
Quinn laughed gruffly. “No, thank you.”
I smirked at him then went to the easel sitting in the garden. On it, I found a painting in progress. Jessica was painting the bright pink, orange, and purple tulips growing in the flowerbed. “Pretty,” I said.
“You should see the nursery. She’s painting a mosaic.”
I smiled and nodded.
“So, what happened?” Quinn asked.
“Nothing much.”
“Come on, Clem. I’ve known you too long,” Quinn said, slowly lowering himself back into his seat. “Something happened.”
Sighing, I flopped into a white wicker chaise. “Alodie is dead.”
Quinn nodded stoically. I could sense his mixed feelings, but he didn’t say anything. “Was I right about Cyril’s boy?”
“Yes and no. It was Alodie’s plan to crown him. But he didn’t want to be here, got sucked into Alodie’s game.”
“Then he’s lucky to be alive. Who took out Alodie?”
“Lionheart. Alodie went after Bryony Paxton. Lionheart didn’t get there in time. Alodie paid dearly,” I said, remembering the pulpy mess that had once been the she-wolf. Her body had been broken almost beyond recognition. I remembered the blood on Lionheart’s face. I shook my head.
Quinn sighed. “I’m sorry to hear about Bryony. Her quick thinking saved my life. It’s a terrible loss.”
“Yes.”
“The Templars have the city under control now? Fully?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you here? What happened?”
I sighed. “Lionheart.”
Quinn grunted, but he didn’t sound entirely surprised.
Neither of us said anything for a long time.
Finally, Quinn said, “Edwin Hunter is a good match for you, Clemeny.”
“I know.”
“And I think you care for him.”
“I do.”
Quinn tapped his cane. “I remember when you and I first went around to see Lionheart. That old werewolf would barely speak two words to me, but when he saw you, something in him woke up.”
“He’s very awake now.”
Quinn sighed. “He cannot be trusted. He isn’t like us.”
Like us. “He was. Once.”
“Once, but not anymore. Don’t make the same mistake I made with Alodie. I felt sorry for her, sympathy for her plight. I forgot that we are not the same. It nearly cost me my life.”
Reaching inside my vest, I pulled out the paper Lionheart had given me at the pub. I handed it to Quinn.
“Evelyn DuLac,” he read then wagged the paper in the air a moment. “Why do I know this name?”
“She’s a druid.”
“A druid. That’s right. Why do you have her name, Clem?”
“What if… What if I’m like them?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
Quinn frowned. “No.”
“No what?”
“Whatever you’re thinking, no. You aren’t one of them.”
“But there is something different about me.”
“You’re smart, strong, and perceptive, and you have a powerful sixth sense, but that doesn’t make you one of them. At least, not in the same way. The lupine affliction, the vampiric seed, and all the rest…it changes the victim. Maybe they were once human, but they aren’t anymore. Even if you are gifted, you aren’t preternatural,” he handed the paper back to me. “Are you going?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I need to settle things here first.”
“Then settle things. I take it this business with Lionheart made a mess of things between you and Edwin.”
“I’m not sure. I don’t know what Edwin’s thinking. Hell, I don’t even know what I’m thinking.”
“Edwin is a good man. You deserve a good man.”
Not werewolf. Quinn was right. Whatever was trying to bloom between Lionheart and me shouldn’t come to life. It wasn’t good for anyone. Not for Lionheart. Not for me.
I rose. “Thanks, Quinn.”
He nodded. “If you decide to go to Cornwall and you need your partner, I’m always here for you.”
I leaned in and kissed him on the forehead. “Thanks.”
“Want a drink before you go?”
I shook my head. “Lionheart left me his steamcycle. He… He’s gone to the Holy Land for a bit. I don’t want to wreck the thing.�
��
“Holy Land? Well, that ought to put him back to right. All right, partner. All right. Be safe out there.”
“Thank you.”
“And make good choices.”
“Of course.”
“And don’t fall in love with a bloody werewolf.”
I chuckled, squeezed Quinn’s hand, then turned and headed out of the house.
Sliding back on the cycle, I pulled on my goggles. Quinn once told me that one day I was going to want something different, one day I was going to want a peaceful life. At the time, the idea seemed ridiculous. With Edwin in my life, however, my opinion had started to change. I’d just spotted the edge of that life on my horizon. There was only one person who had a place in a future like that. And he wasn’t a werewolf. I clicked the bike on and pulled out, heading back toward London, headquarters, and Edwin.
Thank You
Thank you for reading Bitches and Brawlers. If you enjoyed the novel, would you mind leaving a review, and let other potential readers know you enjoyed the story? Word of mouth is an author’s best friend!
Clemeny will be back in Howls and Hallows, Book 5 of the Steampunk Red Riding Hood Series, in autumn 2018.
Thank you so much for reading,
Cheers,
Melanie
Keep in touch with Melanie online
Melanie Karsak is the author of Steampunk Red Riding Hood, The Airship Racing Chronicles, The Harvesting Series, The Celtic Blood Series, and the Steampunk Fairy Tales Series. A steampunk connoisseur, zombie whisperer, and heir to the iron throne, the author currently lives in Florida with her husband and two children. She is an Instructor of English at Eastern Florida State College.
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