Record of Blood (Ravenwood Mysteries #3)

by Sabrina Flynn

  Riot knocked on the iron door, repeating the pattern that Tobias had relayed. Isobel waited, exposed, with the sensation of watching eyes pricking the back of her neck. A shuddering breath of nerves swept past her lips, and Riot turned slightly, catching her eye from beneath his broad-brimmed hat. His beard rather ruined the native effect.

  When the door opened, Riot stepped inside, and his fist came up fast. The punch stunned the doorman for a split second, long enough for Riot to draw his gun, and point it at the man’s face. He walked him backwards against the wall, and Isobel shut the door.

  Unlike the outside, the inside was a world away from filth—teak and polished wood and curved railings. A sickly sweet smell that lay somewhere between flowers and almonds drifted from a side hallway. Opium. Isobel had tried it once, but didn’t much care for anything that muddled her mind.

  A stairway climbed to the right, and the hallway that stank of opium went off to the left.

  Riot asked something in Cantonese. The guard’s eyes twitched to the side, towards the stairway. “Thank you,” said Riot, and reversed his revolver, bringing the stock down hard on the man’s head. He crumpled.

  Isobel dragged the man to the side of the long hallway. Opium fiends were less likely to notice a man passed out on the floor. She walked to the end, and peeked through the beaded curtain. It was dark, and the sickly sweet scents were overwhelming; the occupants were far away, drifting in a dream of pleasure. There were a few women inside, lounging with men, but they were of the same age as Isobel, not younger. An old man moved from client to client, refilling their pipes when one was held up.

  Before the man caught sight of her, she reversed direction. Riot was already at the top of the stairs, and she hurried to catch up. Murmuring conversation drifted from an archway. A reinforced door was propped open, revealing a large room. Men sat at the tables smoking, and deftly moving ivory tiles around on tables. A haze of smoke hung over their heads, and Isobel stifled a cough.

  Riot didn’t even pause. On silent feet, he moved up another set of stairs to the third story. Isobel was halfway up the stairway, when a man appeared above. There was no hesitation, no pause. As smooth as if he’d been planning it, Riot pressed a gun to the man’s ribs, but it did little good.

  “King chak!” the man shouted. Police! The alarm was accompanied with a whirlwind of movement. The man twisted to the side, spun, and brought up his leg, smacking his heel against Riot’s face. And the entire gambling hall erupted with a noise of scraping chairs and thudding boots.

  “Arrest them!” Isobel barked in her deepest voice.

  Instead of pressing his attack, the kicking man raced down the hallway, and Riot gave chase. As the gambling hall door slammed shut, Isobel climbed the stairs two at a time. She reached the top in time to see a foot disappear through a hatch, while another group raced through a door at the end of a long hallway. Riot was on their heels.

  A woman cried out in Cantonese, and Isobel bolted in that direction, charging through the doorway after Riot. It led into a room of carpets and silks, and another hallway. She kept running.

  The building was a honeycomb of trapdoors and rooms that made no sense, but Riot appeared to have a destination in mind. He raced through a decadent room, and kicked in the first door in a long line of them. Isobel sped past, and started on the last, throwing her shoulder against a door. She bounced off, and staggered back.

  It felt as if she’d hit a brick wall, and then the hinges registered in her mind. They were all wrong. The door was false.

  “Mei!” Riot called, disappearing into yet another doorway. Feeling half a step behind, she got there in time to see him disappear through a trap door in the floor. She flew to the opening, raced through another room, up a flight of stairs, and burst out onto a rooftop.

  A woman screamed, Riot stepped off the edge of the roof, and Isobel rushed to the side of the building. A girl in a flimsy silk shift huddled on one side of a fire escape, while Riot grappled with a large highbinder. The man was familiar to Isobel. She had an imprint of his foot on her stomach.

  The highbinder had a hatchet in hand, and Riot had both of his locked around his opponent’s wrist, trying to keep the blade at bay, while he was pounded with kicks. The man laughed, and bashed his head into Riot’s face.

  Isobel aimed her gun, and fired. The pinging echo of metal registered a split second before fire laced across her thigh. Her shot had ricocheted off the railing. She bit back a curse, thrust her gun into her pocket, and leapt down onto the fire escape. Her wounded leg gave out, and she landed with a thud on her side.

  Sparks flew as the hatchet scraped along a rusty rail. Riot drew his gun, smoke filled the space between, and he was slammed back against a railing. The entire fire escape shuddered, and groaned. His revolver fell, clattering against metal as it spiraled its way down. An anchor snapped, and the hulk of metal tilted at a severe angle.

  Both men lost their balance. Riot bent precariously back against the railing, and the big highbinder was thrown his way. His opponent took advantage of momentum, and locked his hands around Riot’s throat.

  The need to get that man away from Riot was overwhelming. Isobel grabbed the highbinder’s long queue, and wrapped it around a metal support. She put her feet against the wall, and heaved with the strength she used to hoist a mainsail. It wrenched the highbinder backwards. He lost his footing, and fell against the stair with a thud. A rapid-fire series of groans and snapping sped down the side of the building, as the anchors on one side gave way entirely.

  Isobel scrambled for purchase, as hatchets and guns slid over the grate, and clattered their way down. Mei started to slide, too. She grasped weakly at the rails, but her fingers slipped. As she slid, Isobel grabbed her around the waist, and held on tight.

  The metal shuddered. Riot grunted, and Isobel looked down the sloping fire escape. He dangled off the edge. His fingers were hooked on the metal grating, and the highbinder brought up his foot to stomp down on Riot’s hand. Anchored by his queue, the highbinder was careless of his balance, not at all at risk of falling. He stomped on Riot’s hand again.

  Isobel hooked the girl’s arm around a railing, and reached into her pocket, taking out her Tickler. As the metal shuddered with every stomp and grunt of pain, she started sawing on his queue. The highbinder’s heel slammed down again, and Riot fell. The hair gave way, and the highbinder pitched forward, tumbling over the railing as well.

  Both men disappeared into the darkness between buildings, and a crash roared from that Stygian lane.

  Isobel’s heart stopped. She couldn’t breathe, could not think. Every inch of her had fallen into that darkness. Mei lost her grip, and slipped, and Isobel reacted, grabbing her around the waist again. The girl was light, and weak, and rescuing her gave Isobel something to do. Bracing her feet, she punched at a flimsy wooden shutter. The wood splintered, revealing the interior—a small, cramped room of a rookery. A man stood in front with a broom handle raised. Behind him stood a woman and two children, cowering in the corner.

  “Help us,” Isobel said.

  The man glanced at Mei, and stepped forward, pulling her inside. As soon as Mei was safe, Isobel scrambled down the twisted ladder of metal.

  “Riot?” With a shaking hand, she pulled out her candle and matches. It took two failed attempts before she managed to light one. She called his name again. And then she saw him, lying on his back in the muck of the lane—bloodied, battered, and not moving. Isobel hurried over to him, skidding to a stop and dropping to her knees. She stuck her candle in the mud, and took his head in her hands, bending over him. Blood dripped from a gash in his forehead, staining his collar.

  “Riot!” She pressed her hand over the gash. His chest rose as he sucked in a breath, and the eye that was able, opened.

  Her heart began to beat again. She pressed her lips to his, blood and all, and when she pulled away he blinked in surprise.

  There was puzzlement in that eye. “Who are you?’

&nbs
p; The question hit her like a punch to the gut. She stared for long moments, stunned, and reeling. No answer came to her mind. And then he winked.

  “You bastard,” she said, slapping his chest.

  Riot winced. “Ow,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Sorry—no I’m not.” She glared down at him, and then kissed him again.

  “Marry me, Bel?” he murmured against her lips.

  She pulled away. “You’re delirious. How’s your hand?”

  “Probably broken.” Riot slowly sat up, and with her help climbed to his feet. “I think I should stay away from fire escapes,” he said, reaching into a pocket to retrieve a pristine handkerchief with his good hand.

  As he wiped the blood from his face, she studied the brick wall, retracing his path. He must have caught the window underneath, and then slipped. No small surprise with his bloodied hand.

  A thud echoed in the stillness. Isobel remembered where and when she was, and scrambled for the revolver in the muck. She aimed it straight at the noise. It came from a small shack jutting from the rookery. The roof was half-caved in. Had the big highbinder fallen in there? Another thud shook the board, and it cracked.

  “Yiu!” a small voice growled.

  The board shuddered again, and Isobel lowered her gun. As Riot fumbled for his spectacles, Isobel limped over to the shaking shack. She picked up a metal railing slat that had fallen with the fire escape, and wedged it between two boards. With a bit of a pressure, the board cracked from its nails, and she helped it the rest of the way with a good tug.

  As Riot approached with her little candle, the light illuminated the interior. Sao Jin stood in the shack, fists raised, braced to charge. A single bowl of rice lay scattered on the floor, along with an unshackled chain. Blood dripped from her nose, and her nostrils flared.

  “Did you pick that lock?” Isobel asked, impressed. Her own lock picking skills were advancing at a less than desirable pace.

  “No, I broke it with my teeth, Faan Tung.”

  “Impressive,” Isobel said. “Maybe you should use those teeth of yours on the wood, too.”

  “I could have gotten out,” Jin said defiantly.

  “I’m sure you would have, but I figured you’d want to see Mei sooner rather than later.”

  Jin’s eyes widened, not with rage, but with relief, and something close to hope.

  The following hours were a blur. First, Isobel found herself bouncing in the back of an ambulance, with Mei laying on the cot, and Jin clutching her hand. Mei was weak, and exhausted, and her feet were bloody and swollen, deep lacerations crisscrossing her soles, but her eyes remained fixed on her young friend.

  Then they were ushered into 920, and the moment the door shut, a small army of Chinese women and girls carried a string of food, hot tea, blankets, and bandages their way. Tobias was there, too—talking and gesturing as wildly as a hyper squirrel. Danger took some that way. Noting his excessive energy, Donaldina put Tobias to work straightaway, and that quieted him for some blissful minutes.

  As Riot gave his report to Sergeant Price and Donaldina Cameron, Ling hovered over him, cleaning the gash on his forehead. Isobel sat in a daze, leaning against the wall, half-listening and feeling as if she were melting into the bricks.

  When the squad of police had come charging down the fire escape and into the alleyway, she had nearly bolted until Riot grabbed her arm. Police made her uneasy when she was in her male garb. Worse, Sgt. Price struck her as a man with sharp eyes.

  “We were able to round up a few of the highbinders, but Big Queue wasn’t one of them,” Price was saying. He was a taciturn man with a fine mustache.

  “He’s slippery for a big man,” Donaldina said.

  “And notoriously dangerous,” Price said. “You’re lucky to be alive, A.J.”

  “He is barely alive,” Ling corrected. “How are you going to give me away if you die?”

  “I swear I will wait to die until after your wedding, Ling.”

  She sighed, and wrung out her cloth. As she dipped the cloth in her disinfectant, her eyes flickered to Isobel, and widened with alarm. “Ai ya!” Ling exclaimed. “You are bleeding.”

  A small puddle was forming around her boot. Riot moved immediately to her side, took a knife from his jacket, and widened the hole in her trousers. A round hole in her thigh was leaking blood.

  “Who shot you?” he asked.

  Isobel frowned in thought. She felt muddled and distant, and poked at the hole with her finger. It hurt. When she remembered her ricocheting shot, she cleared her throat. “A, erm… highbinder from across the way.” It was fortunate she’d only had a Shopkeeper, and not a Peacemaker. In the struggle, in the fear, in the rush of the moment and the wave of relief, she had forgotten all about the pain in her thigh.

  Riot cocked his head. “I don’t recall a second highbinder.”

  “He was there,” she said firmly.

  “Ah, yes, the one on the railing.”

  Isobel glared.

  “We’ll summon a doctor,” Riot said.

  Her fingers brushed the lump of lead under her flesh, and she bit back an oath. “I can make it home, Riot. It’s not deep.”

  “We can make up a room for you,” Donaldina offered.

  “No really, some hot water and pliers will do.”

  The women ignored her. “I’ll get hot water,” Ling said.

  “And I’ll let the doctor know,” Donaldina said. He was currently with Mei. As both women left, Price excused himself after getting Riot’s promise that he would stop by the Chinatown Police Headquarters at a later date.

  Alone, sitting on a bench, Riot laid his head back. “Well, that didn’t go as planned.”

  “Does it ever?”

  His splinted fingers brushed her thigh. “No,” he admitted. “It never does.”

  50

  Restless Detectives

  Thursday, March 7, 1900

  The sun was full by the time Isobel, Tobias, and Riot dragged themselves back to Ravenwood manor. While Riot left to check in with Tim and tell Kau that his sister was safe, Isobel limped into the kitchen, and Tobias tried to skulk right past his mother’s domain.

  “Tobias White,” Lily said. “Get back here this instant.” The boy dragged his feet every inch of the way, until he stood next to Isobel.

  She was relieved to see Sarah sitting safely at the table. Margaret had returned her, and was sitting with the others sipping tea. As soon as she caught sight of Isobel, she rose, and hurried over. “You look the worse for wear… erm?” Margaret glanced at Sarah, who had rushed over too.

  “Mr. Amsel?” Sarah asked. The poor girl was utterly confused. Damn Lotario, and his careless ways.

  “Henry Morgan,” Isobel introduced.

  “Oh, like the pirate?” asked Margaret.

  “But you look exactly like Mr. Amsel,” Sarah persisted. As soon as Sarah said the name, Margaret’s eyes narrowed in thought. And then recognition.

  “Remarkable, isn’t it?” Isobel patted the girl’s shoulder, resisting the urge to knock her over the head.

  “What happened?” Margaret asked, trying to distract the precocious girl.

  “I’ll tell you later.” She squeezed Margaret’s hand. “Everything that you’re probably already thinking.”

  But Sarah wouldn’t be put off that easily. “You look exactly like Miss Bonnie, too.”

  “She’s my cousin.”

  Tobias snorted. “As if you’re foolin’ anyone, Miss Bonnie.”

  His mother smacked the back of his head, and Grimm chuckled silently. Lily shot her children a firm look. “We are who we say we are, isn’t that right?”

  Isobel sighed. She had not been very careful. “I’m tired, and the bullet hole in my leg is starting to hurt. I apologize for attempting to deceive you all. But if it gets out that I’m running around dressed as Mr. Morgan, and look anything like that other fellow…” She looked pointedly at Sarah. “I’ll either end up in jail, or an asylum. Can you al
l keep my secret?”

  “We all have things we don’t want aired in the light, Mr. Morgan,” Lily said. “It won’t leave this room. Isn’t that right, Tobias?”

  The boy looked at his toes. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Isobel wanted to disappear. She wanted to melt into the floorboards. Why had she made friends? Why had she inserted herself so carelessly, without plan or plot, into this household?

  “I can’t thank you enough for retrieving my boy,” Lily said. “Have a seat, and I’ll get you some breakfast.”

  “I’m not fit for this kitchen,” Isobel said.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” Maddie snickered. “Tobias is going to clean it spotless with a toothbrush.”

  “Honestly, we wouldn’t have rescued the girls if it weren’t for Sarah and him.” That wasn’t entirely true, but despite (or due to) Tobias’ sharp eyes, Isobel found she had a sudden soft spot for adventurous children on the verge of being grounded for life.

  “I’ll have a talk with him about that later. Maddie, would you please go pour Mr. Morgan a bath, and make up his room. Sarah can stay in yours if need be.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You should have seen it, Ma.” The boy was bouncing in his seat.

  “Hush,” Lily said. “Sarah’s told me some of it already, and I’m not sure I want to hear about the rest of the trouble you got yourself into.”

  “It was terrifying,” Sarah said, softly.

  Margaret put a hand around the girl’s shoulder, and hugged her close. “You did fine.”

  With everyone safe, Isobel murmured her apologies and gratitude, and shuffled towards the stairs. She paused in the front hall, staring at the door. She should leave this house and never come back. There were too many discerning eyes, too many caring hearts.

  Isobel grabbed the knob, preparing to leave them in peace, but a rasping creak of a stair pulled her back. She looked to the stairway, expecting to see Maddie, or another mysterious boarder, but it was empty. Old houses often whispered to their exhausted guests.