by C. J. Archer
That was precisely why I'd darted away, but I realized my action could have been mistaken for fear that he'd hit me. "This ain't right," I told him. "You can't keep me here."
"Who will stop me?" He shrugged one shoulder. "Nobody will look for you. Your friends gave you up for a few coins. You have no family, no one to worry about you. For all the world cares, you might as well not exist, Charlie Whoever You Are."
Tears burned the backs of my eyes. He was right, but hearing it put so baldly stung. I was truly alone. Not a single soul cared whether I lived or died.
Except me. Sometimes, I wasn't even sure why I did care. It wasn't as if I was adding value to society. Even the blond man whose spirit had saved me in the cell had left behind a reputation for defending the weak from bullies. The only impression I would leave behind would be my freakish way of communicating with the dead.
"Tell me how you did it," Fitzroy said.
"I don't know what you're on about, and I don't want to know. Let me go. I don't want to be here."
His gaze flicked to the clothes still folded on the bed and the food I'd left largely untouched. I'd nibbled at the bread and cheese, but the butterflies fluttering in my stomach wouldn't let me eat more. "Is there something else you desire?"
"My freedom."
He waited, as if he expected me to add something of a material nature that he could command Seth or Gus to deliver to my room. "I will grant you your freedom when you tell me how you became a necromancer."
Necromancer. Was that the name for me? It was quite an improvement over devil's daughter. "I don't know nothing about necromancing." I clenched my jaw, folded my arms and sat on the floor.
After a moment, he crouched by my side. I'd not heard his approach. The man was light on his feet. Even more surprising was that he had no smell. No hint of any soap or hair oil, no body odor, nothing. It was the oddest thing, and more unnerving than his quiet step.
"There is another who can bring the dead back to life," he said. "A young woman of eighteen. Are you related to her?"
"I don't know no women, and I ain't related to nobody." I hugged my knees and pressed my forehead against them. "I don't know anything about bringing dead bodies back to life, neither."
Another long pause then, "Where are you from?"
I didn't answer.
"How long have you lived on the street?"
I hugged my knees tighter. He didn't go on and when I glanced up, I saw that he'd moved away. He watched me from the window, his arms once more crossed. The window was on the opposite side of the room to the door—the door that he'd left unlocked.
"He saved you, didn't he?" Fitzroy didn't pose it as a question. "The prisoners were going to hurt you, but the spirit frightened them off by re-entering his body. At your command."
If he knew that much already, what else did he know?
"How did you do it?"
I snorted. "You've got the wrong boy."
"No."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You do." He said it with the utmost conviction that I knew I could never get him to doubt himself. "Is it something you've always been able to do?"
"You're a tosspot."
He grunted. "I expect a gutter dweller to come up with something more offensive than that."
"A fucking tosspot."
"Better. Now answer my question." He leaned a hip and shoulder against the wall and glanced out the window. A small frown connected his brows.
His distraction gave me the opportunity I needed. I sprang up and sprinted for the door.
But he reached it first. His palm slammed against the wood at my head height, the sound reverberating around the tower room. I watched him through the curtain of my hair, searching for signs that he would use that hand on me. His only movement was a small tightening of his lips.
"I have tried asking nicely," he said in a voice that was much too calm. "I have fed you and clothed you, provided a soft bed for you."
"I need none of that." It was a bold thing to say, considering the man's nickname was Death, but while I was the person with answers, he wouldn't kill me. That didn't mean he wouldn't hurt me.
He straightened to his full height—an impressive size. Not as tall or broad as Gus, but big nevertheless. It would be easy for him to beat me senseless or break my bones.
I shrank away from him, regretting my impulsive actions and words. It might be wiser to bite my tongue in future.
"Then what do you need?" he said.
I glanced at the door.
"You will be worse off out there than in here."
I shrugged a shoulder.
His black brows drew together and his gaze drilled into me. "Who is out there for you? Who do you want to see again?"
My father.
I edged away from him and sat on the floor again, my back to the wall. I pulled up my knees and curled into the tightest, smallest ball possible. He watched me from beneath that severe brow. His anger seemed to have dissolved somewhat, but I still didn't trust him. He was too quick and too hard to read. He could haul me up by my shirt in a heartbeat and thrash the answers he sought out of me.
A knock on the door made me jerk. "Mr. Fitzroy, sir," said Seth from the other side. "Lord Gillingham is here to see you."
A lord? A real live lord was under the same roof as me? I suddenly wanted to look out the window and catch a glimpse of this lord's carriage and horses. I'd wager it was magnificent and the animals fine.
"Tell him I'm unavailable," Fitzroy said.
"Er…" Seth cleared his throat. "He already knows you're in here talking to the boy. Gus told him, not me."
I would not have known Fitzroy was irritated if it weren't for the curling of his right hand into a fist. His face remained unchanged from its glowering severity. Without a word, he opened the door and left. The lock clicked into place, and I was once more a prisoner and alone.
I expelled a long breath and got up to look out the window. A gleaming black coach pulled by two grays was indeed waiting down below. I unlatched the window and pulled up the sash.
"You there!" My loud whisper didn't so much as cause the horses' ears to twitch. "You there!" I called.
The driver glanced around, but seeing no one, shook his head.
"Up here!"
He tilted his head back and touched the brim of his hat in acknowledgment.
"Help me! I am being held prisoner. Tell the—" Not the police. They wanted me over the theft and escape. "You must help me get out!"
The driver merely stared up at me. Then, with a shake of his head, he turned back to the horses. My heart sank. It was hopeless. He probably thought me a mischievous child, having a lark. It would be impossible to convince him otherwise from such a distance.
With a sigh, I picked up the wedge of cheese and bit off the corner. It tasted delicious, not like my usual fare of stale crumbs that even the rats turned their noses up at. I devoured the rest, shoveling it in, unable to eat fast enough.
Then I promptly threw up in the corner. What a waste. I should have opened the window and deposited the contents of my guts on the front steps. That notion made me smile.
The lock clicked in the door. Fitzroy must have finished his business with Lord Gillingham already and come to question me again. I steeled myself and took courage in the fact that he'd not yet hit me.
But instead of my captor, another man entered. I guessed him to be about forty, with rust-colored hair starting high on his forehead and a short beard of a redder hue. He cut a fine form in a dark suit, with shoes polished to a high sheen and a gold watch chain hanging from his waistcoat pocket. He clutched a walking stick in one hand, and I caught a glimpse of the tiger shaped head as he adjusted his grip. It wasn't his clothing that told me he was Lord Gillingham, however, but his bearing. His body was ramrod straight, his mouth turned down in disapproval, and his head tilted back so that he looked down his nose at me, even though he wasn't very tall. Fitzroy may be a gentleman, but this man
was a cut above—and he knew it.
"Close the door," he said over his shoulder to Gus.
Gus and Seth, standing in the hallway outside the room, frowned at one another, then Gus closed the door. I was alone with the stranger.
I debated whether I should bow to Lord Gillingham, nod, or take his hand. I was still trying to remember the proper etiquette for when a boy met a lord—and whether I wanted to conform—when he spoke.
"You are the child." He sounded as if his mouth were full of strawberries that he didn't want to spill. It was quite ridiculous. I had to press my lips together to suppress a laugh.
"Don't see no other in here, do you?" I said.
"My lord."
"Name's Charlie, but 'my lord' will do just as well." I winked, warming to my bit of fun. Mimicking and mocking the upper classes had always been a popular pastime in the slums, no matter if it were Stringer's gang or any of the others I'd lived with over the years.
Gillingham's wide nostrils flared and his pale blue eyes flashed. "Do not play the fool with me."
"Yes, my lord." Perhaps riling him wasn't a good idea when he could prove an ally. I knelt on the carpet and clutched my hands together. "Please, my lord, will you help me? The man named Fitzroy has kidnapped me and is keeping me prisoner here. Against my will," I added when he gave no sign of concern or surprise.
He stalked around the room, pinching his nose when he spotted my sick, then came back to stand in front of me. "He tells me you have not yet answered any of his questions."
I went to stand, but he poked his walking stick into my shoulder. "Stay."
"I am not a dog," I spat.
His top lip curled up. "No. A dog would do as his master bid and be thankful for what he's been given. People like you are fit only for picking up the shit of dogs."
Charming fellow, although hearing "shit" said in his toff accent was quite amusing. Stringer and the others would laugh if I mimicked this conversation for them.
"Where is the girl?" he asked.
"I already told Mr. Fitzroy, I don't know no girls, I ain't got no relatives, and I don't know what happened in no prison cell. My answers ain't changed."
"Not yet."
"Huh?"
His top lip curled again and he circled me slowly. He didn't lean on his stick, and I wondered why he carried it. It was part of his nobleman's image, I supposed, like the accent and sneer. "Fitzroy is too lenient this time," he said quietly, as if speaking to himself. "I do not pretend to understand why, when a good beating ought to produce answers. He rarely shows mercy, so why start now?"
I gulped. "Where is Mr. Fitzroy?"
"I will ask the questions. Where are you from? Who are your parents?"
I swiveled to keep him in my sights.
His face turned pink then a mottled red, and his lips quivered. "Answer me!"
I clenched my jaw and held the man's gaze with my own. I would not let him intimidate me. He might be a lord, but he wasn't my master. "Buckingham Palace, and her majesty the queen. I call her Mum."
The walking stick smacked across my back. I arched forward and gasped as hot pain bloomed. I gathered my nerves and steadied my breathing to control the agony. If I let it rule me, I would give in, and I didn't want to give in to this man. I went to stand, but he shoved me so hard with his boot that I fell onto my side. I scrambled away, but he followed me, stick raised. Glacial eyes pinned me to the carpet as thoroughly as his boot did.
"I'll ask again," he snarled. "Where are you from and who are your parents?"
I hesitated, trying to think of the ramifications if I told him the truth about my Tufnell Park home and Father. But I couldn't think. The fierce pumping of blood through my veins and the knot of anxiety in my stomach were playing havoc with my mind.
He raised the stick again and I braced myself. It cracked across my shoulder with bruising force. He raised it again and I scampered further, only to hit the wall. Gillingham stalked toward me like a hunter tracking his prey. With a gleam in his eye, he brought the cane down on me again. And again. And again.
CHAPTER 3
I endured each blow, managing to protect my face, but my left arm, shoulder, side and leg took the full force of his strikes.
And then they suddenly stopped.
"What the blazes are you doing, Fitzroy?"
I peeked through my fingers to see Fitzroy holding the stick and glaring at Gillingham like he wanted to smash him with it. I hadn't heard him enter. Over by the door, Gus and Seth stared like simpletons at the lord and their master, their lips apart, their eyes wide.
I wiped my tears and snot on my sleeve to remove the evidence of my fear and pain. But I couldn't stop the shaking.
"Don't touch him," Fitzroy said in a low voice that I had to strain to hear.
Gillingham tugged on his jacket lapels and tilted his chin even further. "The ministry hasn't become what it is today without laying a corrective hand or two on little rats like him."
"He is a child." Fitzroy spoke through a jaw so tight that it barely moved.
Gillingham wrinkled his nose at me. "Children are capable of duplicitous thoughts and behavior, just as adults are. Children like that one are vermin, not fit for the comforts you offered him. Of course he won't tell you anything useful. Look at that." He nodded at the clothes still folded on the bed, untouched. "He doesn't want to help himself. Filthy creatures like him are a scab on a decent, God-fearing society. He even threw up the food you provided, the ungrateful little wretch."
The angles on Fitzroy's face sharpened. His eyes narrowed to pinpoints. The air in the room stretched thin, taut. I held my breath, waiting for his temper to explode. "I am in charge of the ministry now, and I say how we treat our informants." Fitzroy's voice was cool and ominously quiet.
Either Gillingham didn't fear his temper, or he wasn't terribly observant, because he didn't back out of the room as I would have done if I were him. He straightened and squared his shoulders. "You are only in charge because the committee put you there. And the committee do as I say, Fitzroy."
"No."
"No?" Gillingham spluttered a humorless laugh. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"It means that you need to get out of Lichfield Towers before I turn your stick on you."
Gillingham did take a step back then. His gaze flicked from the stick to Fitzroy's menacing face, where it settled with renewed determination. "You get above yourself again, Fitzroy. Do not forget who I am, and do not forget what I know. I can crush you."
"Seth," Fitzroy said.
Seth stood to attention. "Yes, sir?"
"See that Lord Gillingham finds his way safely to his coach."
"Certainly, sir." Seth didn't bat an eyelid at the tense exchange, but Gus, just behind him, gawped openly as Gillingham and Fitzroy glared daggers at one another.
Seth cleared his throat. "My lord, the, er, stairs are this way."
Gillingham pushed past the men without a backward glance at me. "The committee will hear of this!" His heavy footsteps echoed for some time until they muted into nothing.
The tension in the bedroom relaxed somewhat, but a sense of awkwardness lingered. Or perhaps it was me who felt awkward, as all eyes focused on me now. I wished they would ignore me. I preferred to go undetected, blending in with the other boys when I could, or simply vanishing altogether when I could not. This attention was far too unnerving.
"He forgot his stick," Gus said with a nod at the cane still in Fitzroy's hand. "Not that he needed it. Bloody toff walked out of here without a limp."
Fitzroy had been watching me from beneath lowered lids, but now he grasped the stick with both hands and snapped it over his knee. He opened the window and threw both pieces out.
Someone below cursed loudly. I hoped it was Gillingham.
Fitzroy shut the window. "Help him out of his shirt."
"Don't come near me," I snarled at Gus and Seth.
Seth frowned, but Gus approached. He reached for the top button on my shirt.
I slapped his hand away.
"I'm only trying to help!"
"Don't come near me," I said again.
"I ain't going to hurt you, Half Pint," Gus said. "Just get your shirt off and let us look at your sores." He reached for me again and this time I grabbed his hand and bit it.
He yelped and went to slap me. I jerked away and he made no connection. It was just an empty threat.
"Leave him," Fitzroy said.
"I weren't going to hit him," Gus grumbled. "Just scare him into doing as he's told."
"Fetch clean water, a salve and bandages."
Seth hurried out of the room. Gus regarded me with hands on hips. "Saying we get him to take his own shirt off, do you think he'll let you tend his wounds, sir? I wish Lady Harcourt were here," he added before Fitzroy answered. "She'd know how to get the lad to trust us."
A lady? That was all I needed—another bloody toff. I'd only met one, but that had proved to be enough for me to thoroughly dislike the lot of them. "I can tend my own wounds," I said before one of them got ideas that they would do it.
"You cannot see all your wounds," Fitzroy said.
"I don't need to."
Fitzroy's eyes narrowed. "Help him stand."
Gus came forward, but I put my hand up. "I don't need help."
To prove my point, I got to my knees. Pain spiked through my body and made my head spin. I put a hand to the wall and concentrated on controlling my breathing. Everything hurt, but I couldn't let the men know, or Fitzroy would insist on inspecting my wounds.
The breathing helped and although the pain didn't lessen, I could endure it. I got to my feet and raised my brows in triumph at Fitzroy.
"Sit on the bed," was all he said.
I eyed the bed. "I have lice."
Gus pulled a face and scratched his head.
"That's why you were given clean clothes," Fitzroy said. "Remove your rags and throw them in the fireplace. We'll shave your head. Gus—"
"No!" I inched away from both men. "I'll change into them clothes myself when you're not looking. And you're not touching my hair." I'd had beautiful hair as a child. Long golden curls had reached down to my lower back. Now it was above my shoulders, with a long fringe, and it was light brown. Shaving it off meant losing a little bit more of the real me, as well as losing the veil it provided.