Record of Blood (Ravenwood Mysteries #3)

by Sabrina Flynn

  “Do you have one that will keep his mouth shut?” she asked.

  Tim looked at her, eyes dancing with wild amusement. “This ain’t our first dance, girl.” He stomped over to a bench, shrugged into a heavy coat, stuck bare feet in rubber boots, and slipped through the doors.

  Isobel looked at Riot. “He’s forgot his trousers.”

  “Not the first time.” He sounded tired, defeated. But he held out a hand, and spoke quick words in Cantonese. Jin stood in the wagon, said something in return, and jerked her chin towards Isobel, and then hopped over the side, ignoring his offer of help.

  During the exchange, Isobel caught the words faan tung again. “What does that mean?”

  “It translates into ‘rice ladle’ or ‘rice bucket’.” Noting her confusion, Riot explained, “It means ‘worthless’ or ‘eats and contributes nothing.’ She’s given you a nickname.”

  Isobel snorted.

  Jin reappeared, standing just to the side, glaring around the corner of the wagon. Isobel had not given her back the knife. But she fiddled with a leather bracelet woven with beads, turning it round and round her wrist. A sign of fear, or a nervous habit?

  “Wai daan,” Isobel said to the girl, and promptly stuck out her tongue.

  “Like two peas in a pod,” Riot quipped. “My stray is far more civilized.”

  Isobel sighed. It was just her luck to find a wildcat instead of a girl. But then those scars crisscrossing her young face were hard to ignore. Sao Jin had not had an easy life. Far from it.

  Without another word, Riot grabbed the edge of the tarp, and pulled the hatchet man out. Together, they carried him up the stairs into Tim’s workshop-cum-living area.

  Jin gawked at the machinery and tools. The array of knickknacks and oddities. Isobel hoped that there were no loaded revolvers lying around, but then the various blades, sharpeners, shears, and crowbars would do just fine as a weapon. As they shuffled through Tim’s clutter, she tried to catch Riot’s eye, but he was half-turned, watching his steps as he walked backwards.

  As soon as he deposited the patient on a cot, Riot left the room. Too fast, as if fleeing. She soon heard him rummaging about Tim’s small kitchen, and the knot between her shoulder blades eased.

  Isobel sat by the hatchet man’s side, and began poking at the bandages. The jacket he wore was heavy. And something clinked when she moved it. She looked at the lining, and rubbed it between her fingers. Chainmail and padding.

  Jin swatted her hand aside, and glared, until she scooted over. The girl skillfully peeled back the dressing. A wound lay just below his collarbone. The skin around the hole was angry and red, and it was smothered with a green ointment. Isobel was no physician, but given the jacket’s lining, she wagered it had slowed down the bullet. Since there were no bubbling or sucking noises coming from the wound, it had likely missed the lung, and lodged in a muscle or against bone.

  “What is that?” Isobel pointed at the ointment.

  Jin took out a delicate jar from her voluminous tunic, and dabbed more of the green gunk over the wound. It smelled of herbs. She replaced the bandages, and the jar disappeared up her sleeve. Jin sat, stoic and aloof, pointedly ignoring Isobel.

  No matter. Isobel turned her attention to the cleaver. A weapon like that could have easily put the dent in Lincoln Howe’s skull.

  Riot returned with tea, bread and butter, and two pieces of pie that Tim had no doubt snatched from Miss Lily’s kitchen. He set down the tray, handed a cup to Jin and Isobel, and then put his back to a wall, as far from the hatchet man as he could get.

  Riot gestured to the food, and Jin began stuffing it in her mouth. When the girl had licked the last of the crumbs from her dirty fingers, Riot asked her a question, and Jin froze.

  Again, Riot repeated the question. Jin finally spoke, quick and brief.

  “She insists he is her brother, and that they were living on the dunes,” he translated for Isobel’s benefit, and continued to do so. “Did you know your brother is part of Hip Yee tong?”

  The girl’s eyelashes twitched, but other than that small reaction, she remained stone-faced.

  “What did the man look like who shot him?”

  Jin shrugged. “It was dark.”

  “What’s your brother’s name?”

  “Wong Kau.”

  “Why were you out on the dunes?”

  “Fishing,” she repeated again.

  Isobel rolled back her cuff, and brandished the raw flesh. “The men who did this—the ones who shot your brother, they thought I knew where to find ‘the girl’. Any idea why they are after you?”

  As Riot translated this last, he started rubbing his temple. His fingers sinking into the white hair over the rut in his skull.

  Jin pressed her lips into a thin, stubborn line.

  They would get nowhere like this. “It’s clear she’s lying, Riot.”

  “We’ll give her some time,” he said. “Would you trust us if you were in her place?”

  Isobel glanced at the scars, the dark circles under Jin’s eyes, and finally looked into her fierce, glittering eyes.

  “I don’t think I’d trust anyone.”

  The next hours were a blur. It took Riot’s considerable powers of persuasion to convince the girl to rest. Finally, Jin warily planted herself in Tim’s plush chair by the stove and fell asleep in a matter of seconds. Isobel tossed a blanket over the child, more to hide her from sight than from any sort of maternal instinct.

  The physician soon arrived—a short-haired Chinese man with round spectacles and a mustache. He introduced himself as Ewan Wise in impeccable English, and greeted Riot with a hearty handshake. With swift decisiveness, he began rolling up his sleeves, and promptly sent Riot and the others away.

  Tim was standing outside the door, and Riot pulled him aside. “Strap that man to the bed as soon as Ewan is through,” he ordered through clenched teeth. “And put some guards around the house.”

  Tim’s bushy white brows shot up. “Do you want trustworthy men, or do you want hardened men?”

  “I need them to protect lives.”

  “I can’t guarantee the silver, but I have a few who’ll do. Miss Dupree might want to close shop for awhile though. What the hell kind of trouble did you bring home?”

  “He’s a hatchet man.”

  Tim sucked on a gold tooth. “I’ll keep both eyes on him. What about the girl?”

  Riot looked at the sleeping child. “I don’t know,” he sighed. “She’ll likely bolt, but I won’t keep her here against her will.”

  “Bribe her with food,” Isobel suggested.

  Tim chuckled. “Miss Lily’s cooking would make anyone settle down.”

  Riot was in no mood for humor. He brushed past his friend, moving towards the stairs.

  “You plan on tellin’ me anything more, A.J.?” Tim tossed the words at his back.

  The question halted Riot, and he turned on the stairway. “I don’t know, Tim. Were you ever planning on telling me?”

  “Telling you what?”

  “That you’ve been lying to me for three years.”

  The blood drained from Tim’s face. Riot waited, the silence was thick in the air, and the tension practically crackled. Isobel remained perfectly still, her mind reeling, trying to answer the questions that wanted to burst from her lips.

  “I did it for your own good,” Tim whispered.

  “You fed me lies, Tim!” There was anger and betrayal in that vehement whisper. “How could that possibly benefit me?”

  Tim walked down the steps, until he was of the same height as Riot, and stared him straight in the eye. “If I had told you the truth, you’d have turned yourself in.”

  “You’re damn right,” Riot said.

  Isobel held her breath, watching the standoff with equal parts curiosity and dread.

  “They killed Zeph,” Tim bit out.

  “One person killed him.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Don’t I?” R
iot asked.

  “Do you?” Tim leaned forward. Pale blue eyes inquiring.

  Riot clenched his jaw. “The man who shot me in the head is currently lying in your bed.”

  “Is he now?” Tim whistled low. “I suppose seeing him knocked your memory back into place. Were you there when Zeph was killed?”

  Riot appeared surprised by the question. Tim didn’t know as much as he had imagined. Isobel knew next to nothing, and she wanted to shake both men and demand answers.

  “No, I wasn’t,” Riot said.

  “Look, A.J.” Tim held up a hand. “Whatever happened, or didn’t—that tong was dealing in slavery a long while, using girls up until they died. That’s abduction and murder of the innocent. You saw to it justice was done.”

  “It wasn’t justice; it was vengeance!”

  “As if you’d never killed a man before that night.” Those words fell like a brick in the space between the men. Riot retreated a step, and put his back to the wall as if he’d been struck. He breathed heavily, his chest rising and falling, perspiration beading his brow. Finally he pushed off the wall with a slap, and hurried down the stairway, taking the stairs two at a time.

  “Shit,” Tim hissed.

  Isobel cleared her throat. “I’d say something stronger is called for.”

  The wizened man looked at her. “Then why the blazes are you still standing here?”

  His question knocked sense into her. Without a word, she trotted after Riot, and caught him halfway down the driveway. Visibility was low in the mist, and she hoped keen ears weren’t lurking.

  “Riot?” she said softly.

  No answer. His eyes were fixed ahead, his pace quick and hurried. It was clear he wasn’t much for company, but she wasn’t about to leave him alone. Ignoring the cries of her protesting muscles, she kept pace.

  Despite her discomfort, the cool air was a welcome relief after the heated conversation in the carriage house. She matched his pace step for step, and soon relaxed, appreciating the peace of the night.

  The silence deepened, occasionally interrupted by a distant foghorn. Soon the houses grew farther apart, and died out altogether. She could smell the salt in the air, and hear the steady bells of the bay. After a time, a barely perceivable change came over her silent companion—his footsteps slowed and he drifted closer.

  “Do you have a particular destination in mind?” she asked.

  His shoulders slumped. “I generally walk until I exhaust myself. I find it helps.” From the sound of his voice, she surmised he had reached that point. “I apologize, Bel.”

  “There’s no need for an apology. I understand.” She slipped her arm through his as if they were a couple out for an early morning stroll. “I’ve always found the fog comforting.” It muffled her voice and enhanced it all at once. “It’s always quiet—peaceful-like. I feel like I’m drifting in an ocean.”

  “She’s the city’s mistress,” he said, tucking her arm close to his side.

  Isobel glanced at him. The words were soft, barely uttered.

  “A moody one?” she asked.

  “Very.” There was pain in that word. “I’ll say it again, Bel. I’m not the man you think I am.”

  “And there’s plenty you still don’t know about me. Anyhow, from what I overheard, you’re not the man you thought you were either.”

  He chuckled, a bitter, dry sound that put her on edge. “I’m a thief, a gambler, and a gunfighter. And I’ve sent enough men to the undertaker to be considered his friend.”

  Isobel sighed. “I killed my own brother, Riot. We both have a record of blood. Do you want me to turn myself in?”

  “No.”

  “Then that option is off the table for you, too.”

  “You don’t know what I did.”

  “I don’t know much of anything at the moment,” she countered. “There’s a conspiracy of silence as thick as this fog.”

  “It’s not an easy thing for me to talk about.”

  “I can see that,” she said softly. “It’s why I haven’t pressed you, but I’m beginning to feel like I’m caught in an idiotic Shakespearean play where the characters refuse to communicate with each other. I’m guilty of it, too. Leaving the other night was a foolish mistake.”

  “It wouldn’t be much of a mistake if it wasn’t foolish.”

  Isobel slid her eyes to the side, and wished she could see him better. But she couldn’t see much of anything at the moment. “You didn’t have to agree with me so readily,” she muttered.

  “I was referring to my own actions that night. I gave you every reason to leave.” Riot stopped, and sighed. It was the sound of a man who carried an unbearable weight. “Your question the other night stunned me. I haven’t been able to remember that day for a long while. I didn’t know how to answer you.”

  “Amnesia?”

  Riot pushed his hat up, rubbing at his temple. “The days leading up to Ravenwood’s murder are a blur. I was accompanying the Chinatown Police Squad on raids at night, and spending my days in court. I had been running myself into the ground for months. Ever since—” he came to a grounding halt, and quickly looked away. She gave him a moment to compose himself, and when he started again, she felt as if he had skipped over what he’d found difficult to say. “The day Ravenwood was murdered comes in flashes. As if someone keeps closing the shutter on a lantern and reopening it over and over again.”

  “But not anymore?”

  “Seeing the… boy, his face, it shed some light on a few dark corners.”

  Standing still, in the early morning, Isobel shivered, more from the despair in his voice than the cold. “You don’t have to tell me a thing, Riot. Not if you can’t.”

  “I need to tell you.”

  “Why?”

  “A small hole not mended in time will become a big hole much more difficult to mend.”

  “Disastrous at sea,” she agreed. “I’ve not heard that bit of sailing wisdom before.”

  “It’s a Chinese proverb,” he said. “Silence isn’t always a good thing, and I’m afraid this hole has gotten too big for me to fix alone.”

  “A união faz a força,” she quoted.

  Riot cocked his head. Portuguese was not one of his languages.

  Isobel reached up, gently halting his fingers, and drawing his hand away from the scar tracing his skull. She interlaced her fingers with his. “Strength made from union,” she whispered.

  “I could use a great deal of that right now.”

  “Then you have it,” she said with feeling. “I’d offer you a hot bath and warm food, but my boat is a long walk away and it’s likely cold as this air.”

  “My offer from the other night still stands.”

  “Arms and all?” she asked.

  “You’d best hear me out first.”

  “I’m cold and hurting, Riot,” she admitted. “Nothing you say is going to keep me from a hot bath.”

  Concern spurred him to action; it gave him something to focus on. Riot tucked her arm under his, and turned back towards Ravenwood manor.

  “Besides, I’ve already made up my mind about you,” she said.

  “So have I.”

  “What’s the verdict?” she asked.

  “Ladies first.”

  Isobel snorted. “I’m no lady.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. I wouldn’t know what to do with a proper one.”

  Isobel’s sharp laugh bounced in the muffled silence, and a number of dogs barked in answer. “Your turn,” she said. “What have you decided about me?”

  “You never gave an answer.”

  “So perceptive,” she said. “I can see I’ll have a time trying to manipulate you for any future schemes.”

  “Please works well with me,” he said.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Since you’re still avoiding my question, I’ll answer for you.”

  She arched a brow. “Oh, really?”

  Riot made a contemplative sound. “There’s t
he facts, of course. I have a superb selection of hats, which is always impressive to the gentler sex, I’m sure.” A smile tugged at her lips. “I worked as a galley cook. You’re in dire need of one, by the way. But I’m double your age, so that makes me a bit long in the tooth.”

  “A vida começa aos quarenta,” she said. “Life begins at forty.”

  “And here I thought it was because I met you.”

  “You are too charming, by far, Riot.”

  “It’s not charm; it’s simple truth.”

  “Pure charm,” she persisted.

  “Was that your answer? That I’m too charming?”

  “I suppose, for now.” Her voice held a smile, and she leaned into him as they walked. “Now what have you decided about me?”

  “That I love you.” The words were calm and matter-of-fact, leaving no doubt, but then she already knew it in her heart. Those three words were simply an answer; not a declaration.

  “You must be delirious.”

  “You told me to jump in, Bel,” he said easily.

  “These waters are treacherous; my life is a mess.”

  “And mine isn’t?” he asked.

  “I’ll reserve judgment until after you tell me what happened.”

  “Fair enough, but I feel like I’m treading water here.”

  “You’d sink,” she quipped.

  “You have that affect on me.” It was nearly a purr.

  She glanced sideways at him. “I never said I’d make it easy for you.”

  “I hardly expect you to.”

  In the dark, in the fog, alone in the world, they strode arm in arm, comfortable in the lost hours before dawn.

  “We have a bit of a walk left,” he said into the peaceful night. The gentle humor was gone from his voice, and she felt a shivering tremor shake his body.

  “There’s no rush, Riot.”

  “I know, but if I don’t tell you now—” He cut off, and changed tack. “I’d rather be moving when I tell it.” And he did, starting with a mutilated girl.

  30

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