Record of Blood (Ravenwood Mysteries #3)

by Sabrina Flynn

  “I don’t sleep easy, Bel.” He sounded halfway to sleep.

  “Neither do I,” she whispered.

  36

  His Queen

  Sunlight streamed through a crack in the curtains and a fire crackled in her ears. Isobel was loath to move, to fully wake. A dim warning in the back of her mind promised bruises and sore bones. She felt like a brick on a feather pillow.

  Reluctantly, her mind passed from gentle drifting to stark clarity. Softness cradled her, and the scent of clean linen calmed her. She opened her eyes, and blinked. The bed was empty. Had she dreamed those reassuring arms?

  With a yawn, she carefully rolled over, and studied the empty space. The outline of his body was barely discernible on the quilt. But it was there. Along with the Queen of Hearts on his pillow. Isobel smiled, plucked the card from its resting place, and plopped onto her back. She studied the card in the light of the room.

  She had seen severe queens that would make her mother nod with approval, and others that would raise a brow at impropriety. Most queens were shapely and airy, but not the one in Riot’s preferred deck. His Queen of Hearts had a cunning air about her. There was a mystery in her eyes that was every bit as entrancing as the Mona Lisa.

  She laid the card on her breast, and looked around the room. A set of neatly folded clothes sat on a nearby chair. Two sets in fact: one male and one female. Riot truly did think of everything. He just didn’t know who she wanted to be today. But good God, how long had she slept? She squinted across the room to the mantle clock. Past noon.

  “Insufferable,” she muttered. But when she swung her legs off the bed and tried to stand, a burst of pain reminded her why she had slept so long. The past three days had caught up to her. Her bruises had blossomed, and she moved like a woman triple her age. Grimacing, she limped over to Ravenwood’s chair. It was progress.

  She uncovered a plate on a tray, and started salivating over bacon. As she ate, she wondered which set of clothing she should don. Mr. Morgan would be simple, unless she intended to talk with Dr. Wise and Jin, which she did. But if she left the room as Miss Bonnie, there might be raised eyebrows.

  Life was far too complicated.

  Isobel glanced towards the window. She could climb down the drain pipe, but the thought made her cringe. Climbing down took more effort than climbing up, and as much as she dreaded admitting it, she was exhausted.

  In the end, she chose impropriety, and donned a simple skirt and blouse. Most of the residents seemed to keep to themselves, and she hoped that anyone who saw her would assume she was another elusive boarder.

  Isobel cracked the door, and eyed the hallway that skirted the winding stairway. It was empty. She stepped onto the landing, gently closed the door, and made it almost all the way downstairs without encountering a living soul. A young lady sat primly on the bottom step. She faced the front door, and had a sketch book balanced on her stockinged knees.

  Isobel tried to pass her on the stairway, but the girl looked up, her eyes narrowing in a thoughtful way. “Morning, Miss.”

  “Bonnie.” Isobel was too tired to smile. “You must be Sarah Byrne.” The newspapers had taken great care in describing her upturned nose and the spattering of freckles across her cheeks.

  “Are you a relation of Mr. Amsel?”

  Isobel nearly jumped out of her skin. “Who?” she squeaked.

  “Lotario Amsel,” Sarah said, turning her sketch pad around so Isobel might see. It was an illustration of her twin. Young (and old) women had a habit of falling in love with him. Dogs and cats, too, for that matter. He was an insufferable flirt in any gender he assumed. “He was kind enough to escort me around the city yesterday afternoon. We’re to go to Golden Gate Park tomorrow.”

  Unfortunately, Miss Bonnie was not related to Lotario. She was related to his alter ego, Madame de’Winter, but any connection between Miss Bonnie and Lotario could put them both behind bars for the rest of their lives.

  “Everyone has a twin, they say,” she said breezily. “Enjoy your outing.” Isobel hurried away from the girl. There was nothing worse than a precocious child.

  What on earth had Lotario been thinking, coming here as himself? If she and her brother were seen together, the evidence would be damning.

  Isobel’s flight towards the grocer’s door did not go unnoticed. When she passed the kitchen, she heard a pleasant, “Good afternoon, Miss Bonnie.”

  She stopped, cleared her throat, and took a step back, poking her head in the kitchen. Miss Lily sat at the family table with needle, thread, and a pile of clothes to mend. There was a keen look in her eyes, but then that was usually the case.

  Isobel stepped into the woman’s domain. It gleamed with cleanliness, and smelled of herbs. “Afternoon.”

  “Let me know if you’re still hungry.”

  ‘Still hungry’… not, ‘would you like breakfast?’ In those polite words, Lily acknowledged that she knew where Isobel had slept. She was a sly one.

  “The breakfast you left was plenty. And please thank your daughter for the loan of her clothes.”

  Lily smiled, as she deftly worked her needle. “Those clothes are spares. Mr. Riot had me purchase various pieces a few weeks ago in case we had unexpected guests.” Considering that they fit Isobel perfectly, it wasn’t difficult to deduce who it was he’d had in mind.

  Lily eyed her bruises. “Would you like some ice?”

  Isobel touched her swollen lip. “That would probably be best. You wouldn’t happen to have face powder to cover up the bruises?” The absurdity of the question struck her a moment later.

  “I don’t have any light enough for your complexion, but I’ll ask the other women boarders. Miss Dupree is sure to have some.” Lily set down her sewing, and went to the ice box.

  “Thank you,” said Isobel. “I don’t mean to trouble you.” God knew the woman had enough to do.

  “No trouble at all. I’ve been there myself, Miss Bonnie. The best thing I did was leave.” Lily took an ice pick to the block, chipping away as she talked—quick, strong, and precise. Lily filled a cheese cloth with chunks of ice, tied the top, and handed it to Isobel. “No man is worth it.”

  Isobel pressed the ice to her nose and lips. “I’d hardly call them men if that were the case. This was nothing more than an unfortunate bicycling accident.”

  “Hmhmm, if you say so, Miss Bonnie.”

  “Poor Tobias, I bet he can’t get anything past you.”

  “No, he cannot.”

  “Call me Charlie. All my friends do.”

  “And all of mine call me Lily—the ones that don’t really know me.”

  Isobel smirked from behind her ice pack. “I suppose you know about our guests in the carriage house?”

  “That I do.”

  “I’m embarrassed to admit that the girl did this to me.”

  Rather than find that amusing, Lily sighed. “It’s a shame—no child should have that look in her eyes.”

  “No,” Isobel agreed.

  “I hope she’ll let you and Mr. Riot help her.”

  “So do I.”

  So much for not attracting attention, Isobel thought as she walked across the yard to the carriage house. She found Tim stomping around the wagon, oiling spokes. “How’s our patient?” she asked.

  “Alive,” he grunted.

  “Is Riot here?”

  Tim glanced at her, and paused. “Nice shiner.”

  “Compliments of that hellion masquerading as a girl.”

  Tim chuckled. “She has a glare on her. Me and Miss Lily have been keeping her here with food. I’m not sure she’s ever slept or ate before.” There was sadness in his voice. “She won’t let Wise or me near her. In my experience, it’s best not to push feral children, but maybe a woman can get farther with her.”

  Isobel wasn’t going to hold her breath. She had no idea how to deal with children. They were small, conniving oddities who were vastly underestimated, so she tended to treat them like scheming adults.


  “I’ll try,” she said, without much hope. From what Isobel had gathered, Tim had helped a very young Riot once upon a time. She wondered how many other children he had pulled from the gutters.

  “And no, A.J. isn’t here,” Tim said, wiping his hands roughly on a rag. “He checked in with Wise, and took off without a word.”

  “He didn’t tell you where he was going?”

  “Never does.”

  Isobel muttered an oath. It was vexing to be on the other side of the coin. Leaving Tim to his tinkering, she walked upstairs, and found Jin sleeping in the same chair as the night before. Daylight hadn’t improved her appearance, but judging from the tray and the polished plate, the girl seemed to have a hearty appetite.

  Wise was also sleeping in a chair, in that time-honored position of every doctor—at the bedside of his patient. She quietly stepped beside the narrow bed, and looked down at Wong Kau. The bonds around his wrists and ankles didn’t elicit even a twinge of sympathy. Although they currently weren’t needed. He was pale, and slept like the dead. But the slight rising and falling of his breast assured her that he wasn’t there quite yet.

  “Time and patience will decide his fate,” a soft voice said.

  Isobel glanced to the side. Doctor Wise studied her from his chair. He hadn’t moved, but his eyes were open, and from the depth of those dark pools, she had a feeling that his name suited him. He rose smoothly, and gestured towards the doorway.

  When they were out of earshot, she asked, “The bullet?”

  “Thirty-eight caliber.” Wise produced the mash of metal, and dropped it in her palm. “His jacket is lined with chainmail and padding. The bullet lodged in his pectoral, against his clavicle at an angle.” Wise mimed shooting a gun with his hand, angled up from his waist. “I think it was fired at close range. Possibly during a scuffle.”

  “Has he said anything?”

  “Only feverish murmuring. He keeps repeating a woman’s name—Mei.”

  Isobel glanced back into the small room. Another girl? Unfortunately, feverish murmurings weren’t very reliable. This Mei might be dead or entirely fictional.

  “And what of your injuries, Miss Bonnie?”

  Isobel blinked. “Pardon me?”

  “Atticus told me that you’re in need of medical attention.”

  “Oh, did he?” She nearly growled. “Where is he?”

  “I’m afraid changing the subject will not protect you from a doctor’s concern.”

  “It’s only a split lip and a knocked nose.”

  “And numerous kicks to your stomach. May I?” He held out his hands.

  “Nothing is broken.” She did growl this time.

  “You are as distrustful as that child. Most women are not comfortable with a Chinese doctor. I understand.”

  “I don’t like any doctor near me—Chinese or white.”

  Wise smiled. It transformed his face from a wise sage to a benevolent uncle, and he leaned in close, lowering his voice.“She won’t let me near her either. I had hoped that your cooperation would ease her trepidation.”

  Isobel glanced at the chair, and saw a pair of eyes peeking around the back. They narrowed at her.

  “Fine, but make sure you tell her how brave I am.”

  “That was the plan.”

  Isobel grudgingly submitted to Wise’s examination. He took her pulse, frowned over her wrists and cleaned them again. Then he asked a string of questions that irritated her immensely.

  “Are you cramping?”

  “No.”

  “Blood in your urine?” he asked.

  “Yes.

  “Is this tender?”

  She grunted as he pressed on her stomach.

  “Here?”

  She tried not to wince.

  “When was your last menstrual cycle?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she bit out.

  A snort rose from the armchair.

  “Vomiting?” he asked.

  “No,” she said with a click of teeth.

  His brows drew together. “Have you been feeling queasy?”

  She shrugged.

  “Hungry?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you like to discuss this in private?”

  “No.” Isobel sat up, putting an end that line of questioning. “It’s a shame Jin is too scared to be examined by you.”

  “It’s understandable,” Wise said. “I see it too often. The more defiant the child, the harsher the keeper. Breaking a girl’s spirit is paramount to the trade.” There was pain and resignation in his voice. “Girls such as Jin have known nothing but severe abuse.”

  Isobel glanced at the wounded hellion. She was watching them with suspicious eyes, turning the bracelet around her wrist over and over again. Isobel was reminded of animals she had seen pacing their cages in zoos.

  “Do they ever heal?”

  Wise smiled. “Yes. Some. With time and love.”

  The warmth and hope in his voice was unmistakable. He reminded her of her own father.

  “Do you have children?” she suddenly asked.

  “I do,” he said. “Two daughters. They are the joy in my world. And my wife, the heart.”

  “They’re fortunate to have you for a father, Dr. Wise.”

  “I am the fortunate one, Miss Bonnie.”

  An ache filled her own heart—for her own father, aging and grief-stricken. She swallowed it down. “What will become of Jin?”

  “I do not know,” he said. “I have no idea if she has family.”

  The child in question was still watching, still glaring.

  “I suppose we’ll drop her off at one of the missions,” Isobel said. Jin’s eyes widened, and heat flushed her face. But only for a second, before she ducked back behind the big chair.

  Isobel pounced, moving to the side of the chair. “You do speak English.” She loomed over the girl.

  Jin blinked innocently. “No sabe.”

  “No sabe my ass.”

  Wise cleared his throat, and Jin’s eyelashes flickered.

  Isobel crossed her arms. “Don’t play innocent with me. You understand me perfectly well. I noticed last night when my partner mentioned that fellow in there is a hatchet man.”

  Jin bolted out of the chair. She was quick, and halfway to the stairs when Isobel tackled her. “I won’t go back to the mission!” she screeched in perfect English. “You can’t make me, Faan Tung!”

  Isobel hoisted the girl off her feet, and more kicks pummeled her legs. Tim raced up the stairs, and Wise moved to assist, receiving scratches for his efforts. Teeth sank into Isobel’s hand, and she lost patience. She simply dropped the child onto the floor. Jin thudded onto the floorboards, and scrambled to her feet. The girl retreated, and took up a crouched stance, preparing to fight the three adults with her last breath.

  “No one is keeping you here,” Isobel growled. “If you want to help your brother then you need to talk to us like a civilized human-being. If not, then go.” She thrust her finger towards the stairway.

  Jin’s eyes blazed. She pressed her lips together, thrust out her chin, and stalked off, disappearing down the stairs.

  “Let her be,” Isobel said, when Tim made to go after her. “If her stubbornness gets her brother killed, it’s her fault.” Isobel yelled the last towards the stairway. Frustrated, tired, and temperamental, she gathered her handbag.

  Wise held up a halting hand. “Miss Bonnie, I was about to recommend a day of rest.”

  “I can’t.”

  Tim looked skyward.

  “At least wait for me to prepare some herbs,” Wise said. “My tea will help with internal swelling.”

  “I have to check on something.”

  “Look,” Tim said, glancing from the doctor to her. “Someone has to watch the hatchet man in there. Wise has to go, and I have some telegrams to send. What do you need? Maybe I can do it.”

  Isobel blinked at the suggestion. She was accustomed to doing everything on her own. The thought of help had
never occurred to her. “I need to check with a runner in front of the Call building. If he’s not there, then I need to check messages at the nearby Western Union.”

  “Name?”

  “Bill Cody. The stinky one.”

  “Got it.” Tim thrust a shotgun in her hand, grabbed his coat, and bolted, leaving Isobel no choice. As Wise headed off to make his medicinal tea, she sank into the chair beside the man who’d shot Riot. His life, she decided, was as strange and complex as her own.

  37

  Year of the Rat

  Atticus Riot leaned casually on his stick, hands crossed on the engraved silver, as he watched police patrolling a barricade of barbed wire. The fence ran down the sidewalk, blocking off a Chinese grocer’s, dipping back in for a boarding house for whites and a saloon, and then jutting back out to barricade a silk merchant.

  Chinatown was under quarantine. The bubonic plague had come to San Francisco, or so a quarantine officer by the name of Joseph Kinyoun claimed. The newspapers, however, were far more skeptical, calling him mad, or a man with a political agenda.

  A group of residents stood behind the barbed-wire, facing off with a number of police. Barred from reaching their jobs, locked in with a killing disease, their faces were grim—desperate even.

  As Riot climbed Sacramento Street, he mused on the apparent prejudice of rats. How nice of them to stay away from white businesses. At the top of the hill, Riot stopped in front of a familiar door and used the much abused knocker. A slat slid to the side.

  “Atticus Riot to see Miss Cameron.”

  The eyes behind widened, and a second later the door flew open. “Mr. Riot!” He could not help but smile as a grown girl of eighteen pulled him inside.

  “Hello, Ling,” he said, removing his hat.

  She gripped his hand with both of hers. “We were so worried about you,” she said in a rush. “I saw the newspapers and knew you returned. How are you?”