by Bec McMaster
"I see." No sign of what she thought of the young woman. "You want me to take a look?"
"If you would." Bishop collapsed into one of her sleek chairs, noticing a platter of lemon tarts on the table in front of him. He reached for one. "Drake seems to think there's a memory block too."
Agatha prowled toward Verity in a menacing swish of skirts. "If you get this boy hurt, I will find you. Then I will skin you alive, do you understand me?"
"Agatha!" he protested, spraying tart crumbs as Marie echoed him.
"It's all right," Verity replied, crossing her arms over her chest and returning Agatha's gimlet stare with a slightly challenging one of her own. "She'd have to catch me first, which as you've already learned, Bishop, is no easy task."
"You don't know who you're dealing with," he told her. "I have only half of Agatha's skills."
Verity gave him a very steady look, then straightened as HMS Eberhardt sailed into her orbit. Very few people could meet Agatha's stare when it held those icy tones, but Verity was giving it her best shot.
Dusting crumbs from his fingers, he considered that. Grudging admiration bloomed within his chest. "Careful. She teleports."
"Is that how she escaped you?" Agatha asked, then flexed her left hand with a disgruntled expression on her face.
"Yes. Are you all right?"
Her inner shields engaged, locking him brutally out of her mind. Bishop felt as though she'd slapped him but she merely scowled and flexed her arm. "A slight pain which comes and goes. Nothing much to worry about."
He exchanged a glance with Marie, who shrugged. Agatha didn't know the meaning of the word vulnerable, so it was sometimes difficult to ascertain whether a "slight pain" meant just that, or whether she was in agony and hiding it.
"I'll watch her," Marie mouthed over Agatha's shoulder, to which he nodded and looked away.
Catching them in a conspiracy against her would only arouse her ire.
Agatha caught Miss Hawkins's chin, turning it this way and that. "Hmm," she said, reaching for the girl's left glove and tugging it off. There was a tattoo on the back of her hand, though he couldn't see what it was. "I wouldn't have to chase you, girl. All I'd have to do is go straight to Seven Dials, wouldn't I? Perhaps I'd catch you in a house with a black door?"
Miss Hawkins gasped, drawing her hand against her chest. "How did you—"
"Mr. Murphy is someone I keep my eye upon," Agatha said, prowling around her. She poked Miss Hawkins in the ribs. "He's obviously not feeding his little crows enough, is he? Help yourself to the lemon tarts before Adrian demolishes them." With that, Agatha strode to the tea service and began pouring.
Miss Hawkins gaped after her. As if noticing his interest in this, she shut her mouth and then crept closer. "How did you know about... Murphy?"
Agatha sat and stirred her tea. "Murphy? Or the Hex?"
Hex? Bishop sat up straighter. "You're part of the Hex Society?"
"Witches, mischief-makers, and dabblers," Agatha pronounced, sipping her tea. "If you want to find something of a magical nature that's gone missing in the East End, then you hie straight for the Burrow before it can be sold. Mr. Murphy runs a fine trade in fleeced goods and he wields an entire household of little crows who scurry about and do his work for him. He prefers not to dip his fingers in the Order's pools, however, which makes it interesting to consider that he might have had something to do with the Chalice's theft. He's not usually so stupid. Or bold."
"You're not supposed to know about us," Miss Hawkins blurted, sitting hesitantly on the sofa beside him. "If you know about us.... The Order frequently puts Hex witches to death when they can find them—"
"And boils their babies alive," Agatha added with a faintly raised brow. "Don't forget we like to burn their houses and salt the ground."
A mulish expression crossed Miss Hawkins's face. "I've seen sorcerers burn a Hex house to the ground and salt the earth."
"But did you ever wonder what they were doing inside that house, hmm?" Agatha leaned closer. "Did you ever wonder whether the ground needed to be salted?"
"Salt purifies," Bishop murmured when he saw her perplexed expression. "If there was something bad raised inside...."
"Precisely." Agatha sniffed, and sipped her tea. "We don't want that sort of rot popping out of the Shadow Dimensions willy-nilly."
"Demons and hell spawn," he added, as Miss Hawkins might know nothing of the Shadow Dimensions. "Imps, sometimes. Depends on how strong the sorcerer was who raised them, or whether they sacrificed something."
He'd never seen Miss Hawkins so disconcerted. "This is not right," she finally said, eyeing the platter of lemon tarts. "We're supposed to be a secret."
Marie, ever the nurturer, poured Miss Hawkins a cup of tea and patted her gently on the shoulder in sympathy as she handed it over. Agatha might be the blunt cosh a thief used, but Marie was the velvet glove. Verity couldn't take her eyes off the tarts now, and Marie noticed, handing her a small plate.
"There's very little that I'm unaware of when it comes to occult forces, though I'll concede that few within the Order have the extent of my knowledge, or Adrian's. Perhaps only a half dozen people," Agatha admitted, tipping her head toward him. "The Hex, however, are constantly monitored. If they play within the lines then we pretend we haven't noticed them. Sometimes a young misguided sorcerer needs a place to go when he's cast out of the Order, and they're considerably good at picking up minor Talent off the streets and keeping it from burning half of London to the ground. They know our rules and so they teach their members to control themselves, at least minimally, and keep their heads down. Nobody wants some young fool ripping the roof off a house because he can't control his temper. It's in all of our best interests to keep magic and sorcery out of the papers, and away from those who would use word of it to further their cause in parliament. The Order is busy. We don't have time to police the entirety of London, so we allow them to continue unmolested."
"I just... I cannot believe, all this time...." Verity sprayed crumbs as she shoveled lemon tart in her mouth.
When was the last time she'd eaten? Bishop frowned.
"Shocking, isn't it?" Agatha's smile looked predatory. "Now drink your tea up so that I can read your future in the tea leaves. There's more than one way to slip a compulsion, and I'm very interested in discovering who's been skirting around certain laws."
Chapter 3
'Not everyone sides with the Order of the Dawn Star. It might be the most legitimate group of practitioners in the Empire, but there are those who chafe against its rules, or who were cast out in exile... And then, of course, there are those occult beings who were never truly quite human in the first place...'
* * *
- 'Thoughts on Occult London', by Sir Geoffrey Mellors
* * *
"THAT WOMAN IS terrifying," Verity grumbled as Bishop helped her down from the carriage. She could still see those dark eyes glaring right through to her soul, the claws of Lady Eberhardt's magic trying to pierce her compulsion... and failing. All it had left Verity with was a slightly throbbing headache, and the impression from Lady Eberhardt's murmured, "Hmm," that she was going to be hounded until this mystery could be solved.
If only you knew who'd placed the compulsion upon you and ordered this theft. Life would be so much easier, wouldn't it?
For she could be leading them into a trap, right now. Bishop wanted to retrace her steps on the day she'd been given the commission. It would be easier if she remembered what those steps were. Verity had argued against it, determined to see if Mercy and the rest of the Crows were all right.
"I actually think she liked you," Bishop told her, scanning the area. One would have to get up early in the morning to get a jump on the shadowy assassin.
"What gave you that impression?"
"The fact she offered you her lemon tarts. Trust me," Bishop threw over his shoulder as he stepped out of the gutter onto the footpath. "Agatha's very fond of lemon tarts, and she doesn't share
them with just anyone. Besides, she wouldn't have called you 'girl.' It would have been something far more disparaging, believe me."
"She threatened to skin me alive," Verity muttered, snagging a handful of skirts and following him.
"That's only because she likes me, and you stole my Chalice."
The broad planes of his back met her gaze. Or, because she's worried I'm going to get my "hooks" into you. Which was precisely what the old witch had muttered as she'd snagged Verity's arm whilst Bishop exited the room first.
The sundial that portrayed the heart of Seven Dials loomed in the gloomy afternoon sunshine. The rain had stopped, though heavy clouds threatened another shower sometime in the near future. Seven roads scythed out from the sundial, leading to a variety of paths—and fortunes. There was a pub on each corner of the roads, and outside each sat a man or woman on a stool. Some were reading the paper and surreptitiously watching the streets. Some leaned against the walls, picking their nails or fiddling with a straight razor, as if to proclaim an aura of danger. One stared at her directly, his fingers twitching as if to reach for the weapon tucked in his belt, no doubt a hex-thrower. Every single one of the them wore only one glove, and there was a tattoo on the back of each of their ungloved left hands proclaiming their allegiance to their gang: a scorpion, a black cat, a one-eyed crow, a white rabbit's foot, a clock face, a bat, and a four-leaf clover.
"This way," Verity said, leading Bishop down the only road that was safe for her. The Hex had distinct rules that they referred to as the Code. Step outside the rules and you were considered easy prey, with no consequences from the Hex Society leaders.
Bishop looked around with seeming interest at the distilleries and gin sellers along the street. No sewers or dustbins here. The Seven Dials rookery of St. Giles was a sprawl of filth, and the pair of them stood out like sore thumbs. It had been cleaned up somewhat when the Hex took over the Dials, but signs of gang warfare revealed itself in sooty scorch marks against brick walls. A shop window had been smashed out and hastily boarded over, a pentagram within a circle painted on the boards.
"You grew up here?" he finally asked.
"I wasn't born here," she admitted, stepping lively and looking as if she knew exactly where she was going. "My mother died when I was seven, and I ended up in the workhouse. Colin Murphy offered me a position in the One-Eyed Crows when I was twelve."
A vastly abbreviated version of her history, one that sounded almost sanitary. How could a man like Bishop even begin to understand what life had been like for a young girl of twelve who knew what the alternatives were if she didn't accept Murphy's offer? Twelve was a dangerous age, after all, for a girl.
Verity's gaze slid over a pair of whores prowling their particular corners. A very dangerous age.
"You don't sound anything at all like I'd expect for these parts," he replied. "Unless you're cursing at me."
Heat found her cheeks. "My mother was a serving maid, once upon a time. When Murphy took me in, my dialect was good enough, but he insisted upon me learning how to pass in the West End."
"Why?"
"Why do you think?" she retorted. "I'm the decoy when he's got a bit of breaking and entering on the mind, or a better-racket planned. I spent hours on Bond and Oxford Streets, mimicking my betters and dipping pockets. It's strange, but a rum cove will let any girl get close enough to pluck the very eyes from his sockets if he can see halfway down her dress and she sounds all polite and fancy-like." Verity rolled her eyes. "If I knew my numbers and letters and how to speak, then it meant I didn't have to lift skirt. Gives a girl a little incentive to learn."
The look he gave her fired her anger.
"Why?" she demanded, feeling the urge to prick at him. "Not quite like the silk sheets you were born on, my lord?"
"Silk sheets?" he replied in an unimpressed tone. "I thought you said you'd studied me?" He hesitated. "And I wasn't sneering at you. It sounds horrible. I can't... blame you for doing what was necessary to escape these circumstances."
"Does that include stealing your Chalice?"
He shot her a look that melted her all the way through. "I wouldn't go that far."
"Yes, well." She stared straight along the streets. "What do you mean you weren't born on silk sheets?"
All of the easiness fled from his expression. "Just that. I'm illegitimate, Miss Hawkins."
With that, he strode ahead of her, one hand sliding to his belt as a pair of youths took a step in their direction then thought better of it.
He handled threats well. Confidence was its own armor here and Bishop somehow made it seem like he was the predator, not the prey. The fact that he towered over most of the street lads, and looked big enough to fight "Diamond" Jim Purcell in fisticuffs also gave them all pause.
You've fallen in with a dangerous man, Verity Anne.
One who didn't quite fit the mold that she'd expected of him. "If not silk sheets, then where?" she muttered to herself as she followed him.
Bishop paused in the next intersection.
"What's going on?" Verity stood on her tiptoes, but the street was clearly blocked. Men were arguing up ahead and some sighed under their breath, as if this had been going on for some time. There were children about, hands held palm up, which she always hated to see. And her without a single coin on her.
Verity caught a glimpse of the obstruction; a dray carrying coal was wedged sideways in the street, blocking traffic. Someone had obviously tried to turn it around, and now the horses were stuck in their traces and clearly weary of it.
"This way," Bishop said, gesturing her down an alley.
"If we go down there, we enter neutral territory," she protested, then added to clarify, "It means we're going to have to be careful of other gangs."
A small, dangerous smile played over his mouth. "I should like to see them try to assault me. But we'll skirt back around into Crows’ territory the second we get a chance."
His confidence was infectious, even though she knew better. "As soon as we get the chance," she repeated, then hesitated once again.
Bishop, however, had made up his mind. Verity scurried after him, using her hat to shield her face as she entered the gloom of the alley. It opened up into the next street over, which could have been identical to the one they'd been on if only all of the hairs along her arms hadn't risen.
"Seven gangs," Bishop murmured, offering his arm to her. "How did the Hex form? I don't know a lot about it."
She accepted his arm, pasting her body close to his side. All the better to hide her face. "The founding members of the Hex got together in 1789, barely a decade after the Order of the Dawn Star formed. Some of them were outcasts from the Order; some couldn't conform to the rigid ways the Order expected them to use their power; and some were simply hedge witches and occult tinkerers. Forming the Hex Society protected them as individuals and they took over the Seven Dials, either by forcing other gangs out or assimilating them."
"Hence the use of superstitious symbols as gang flags," he murmured. "One-Eyed Crows, what does that mean?"
"That we see all." A group of children rollicked past them. "The original founder of the Crows was Norse."
The scrimmage of street children ended as one tore loose from the others; casting a nasty hex under his arm as he grabbed the puppy they'd all been chasing. A young lad, barely ten or eleven, whistled under his breath, winking into the shadows of an alleyway.
Verity watched him, suspicion dawning.
"Oh, hells," she blurted, slamming to a halt as a trio of young men slipped out of the alley directly in front of them. They'd been made.
Another slunk off a barrel, cupping his hands around a thin cheroot that he lit with the flame flaring off his finger. There was a splash of black ink tattooed on the back of his hand, and Verity didn't need to look closer to know which gang he ran with.
"Friends of yours?" Bishop asked.
"No," she said emphatically. "They're members of the Black Cats. The Black Cats are curse t
hrowers, con artists, and grave robbers."
"Trouble?"
"Could be. But we're not in their streets," Verity replied, checking to make sure that, yes, they were still on Monmouth and hadn't yet crossed into Clare Avenue. "So they won't start a fight unless they're interested in a turf war, but I'm not sure what they want." At his confusion, she added. "Monmouth Street splits territories in the Dials. This is neutral ground. Nobody wants the Hex to go to war with each other. It's bad for... business." Not to mention hell on walls and buildings, and pretty much anything softer. Like flesh.
"Madame Noir," called the man with the cheroot, tipping his cap back as if to get a better look at her. "Fancy seeing you here, sweet pickles."
"Zachariah." Verity smiled flirtatiously, adding a little swing to her step to hide her nervousness.
"Who's the bit of bread and butter?" Zachariah asked, strolling around Bishop as if sizing him up. Zachariah Morrissey was the main enforcer for Harry "Hex" Perkins, who ran the Black Cats. He liked flashy tweed waistcoats, strangler hexes, and the butcher knife that was no doubt hidden somewhere on his person. He could spit a curse at twenty paces and have it stick like glue, which was his main source of amusement.
"A friend."
"Smells like burnt cinnamon to me," Zachariah said, taking a puff of the cheroot and blowing the smoke in Bishop's face.
Oh, shit. Verity stiffened, but—
"Burnt cinnamon?" Bishop muttered under his breath.
"Sorcery," she whispered. "Zachariah's a Sniffer. Can spot Talent a mile away."
"A new lad, eh?" Zachariah's grin split his face in half. "You want me to introduce him to the rules 'round here?"
"I don't think you want to do that, Zach," she warned, her hands held up to placate him. Come on, stand down, you cocky little shit. Energy swelled within her as she drew in whispers of power. If he pointed a single finger in her direction then she was legging it out of there. Zach's curses tended to be cruel, with an edge of humor—as long as you weren't the intended recipient.