Blade could smell the reek of bay rum in the carriage. “Aye.” He glanced past, at the stockinged calf and muscled thigh within. “I seen ’im.”
“We mean you no harm,” Aramina said, sweeping toward him as though he would get out of the way.
Blade flicked the cheroot on the cobbles and ground it out. Aramina stopped in front of him, a little frown of displeasure on her pale, coldly beautiful face. He took a step forward, looking down at her. She didn’t quite stiffen, but it was there in the firming of her lips.
Hands in his pockets, he walked a small circle around her as though examining her. “You’re a swish dove,” he said. “The prince consort sent you to sweeten me up?”
A little clenching in her fingers. Good.
She turned her head, glancing over her shoulder at him. The look in her eyes could have flayed the skin off his back, and he suspected she was envisioning that very act. “You don’t want to make an enemy of me,” she said.
Pretty little viper. He moved. And caught her wrists from behind as she drew in a breath.
“Get your hands off me,” she hissed.
“Listen ’ere, lovey,” he said, his voice cold. “You’re already the enemy. I ain’t ever goin’ to forget it. So let’s cut all this mincin’ ’round. I don’t much like your little games.”
He could hear the other blue blood stepping from the carriage, but the sound of clapping still shocked him.
A quick glimpse made his eyebrows shoot up. Leo Barrons, the last man he’d expected to see with her ladyship. The Houses of Caine and Casavian had been at each other’s throats for years, just waiting for the other to take a misstep. Caine House had nearly destroyed Aramina.
Just what game was the prince consort playing? It was enough to give him a headache.
He let her go and danced out of the way as she spun on him, a little bejeweled dagger in her grip.
“Easy, now, princess. You don’t wanna ’urt yourself with that little pig-sticker.”
Aramina’s lips peeled back from her teeth.
“That’s enough,” Barrons commanded. “I told you he doesn’t like games.”
“An interestin’ assessment from a man who don’t know me from Adam,” Blade countered, sizing up the other man.
Barrons moved with an eerie grace he wasn’t used to seeing on a blue blood of the Echelon. A swordsman, then. The man who knew who Honoria was.
Blade jerked his head in the kind of acknowledgment one duelist gave to the other.
Barrons’s gaze swept the roofline. “Snipers again?” he asked, taking a pinch of snuff.
“One never can be too careful,” Blade replied, gesturing his visitors into the dark entrance of the warren. The metaljackets made as though to follow. “The drones can wait out ’ere.”
“They’re housetrained,” Aramina said.
He held his arm out, barring her way. “Aye. But they ain’t comin’ into my ’ouse.”
She opened her mouth to protest.
“Leave it,” Barrons muttered. “We’ve more important things to discuss.”
Blade lowered his arm. “Aye.”
Aramina looked as though she might protest at having him at their backs, but Barrons stalked past, looking dangerous in his velvets and lace. The darkness of the warren swallowed him up.
“After you,” Blade said silkily.
Aramina swept ahead of him in a swirl of jasmine-scented skirts. Blade gave the street and rooftops a swift glance and then followed.
O’Shay was waiting in what Blade liked to think of as his audience chamber. The room was dark and musty, the floorboards threatening to give way beneath their feet. Rotting curtains hung from the windows, and the fireplace was cold. The only hint that this was something more than a rookery slum was the trio of elegant Louis XVI chairs in the center of the room.
Even Barrons seemed taken aback as he prowled the empty chamber. Aramina screwed up her nose delicately. But Blade had long since learned that you didn’t take a viper to your breast. This was for appearances only. Very few people ever saw his real chambers or the homey sprawl where his “family” lived. Honoria had been the only person in recent memory whom he had allowed within his inner sanctum.
“Wait outside,” Blade muttered to O’Shay, then turned his attention to the two blue bloods. “’Ave a seat.” Slinging out of his red coat, he tossed it over the back of his chair then sat. Lark darted out of the shadows with a footstool. After a moment’s hesitation and a dark glare at her—he weren’t no bleedin’ lord—he cocked his boots up on it.
Barrons held Aramina’s chair for her. Blade didn’t miss the look she gave her companion. They might be playing at an alliance, but if one of them smelled poison in the other’s cup, he was certain they wouldn’t mention it until it was too late.
“You claim there’s a vampire in the Whitechapel rookery,” Aramina said, cutting straight to the point. Somehow, despite the circumstances, she made it seem as though he had come as supplicant to her. That took real talent, it did.
“Aye. Ugly brute too.”
“You’ve seen it?” Barrons sat forward. “You said you’d only found the bodies.”
“’Ad a little run-in with it last night. Seen it with me own eyes.” He gave an incredulous shake of his head. “Never seen one before. ’Eard the stories, of course, but…to see it’s somethin’ else.”
“You survived,” Aramina said. Unfortunately, her eyes added.
“Barely,” Blade replied. He gestured to Lark. “The blud-wein, please.”
Lark nodded and darted out of the room.
“It’s faster than I ever seen. Stronger.” Blade leaned forward too. “I stabbed it right inna ’eart and it barely even blinked.”
None of them were old enough to have been there during the Year of Blood. This was a new kind of horror for them, a myth come to nightmarish life.
“You’re certain it was the heart?” Aramina asked.
Blade put a finger just under his sternum. “Right here. Didn’t much like it, but it didn’t cause it any undue concern.”
“Have you located it?” Barrons asked. The man was deceptively at ease, yet there was an intensity in his dark eyes that belied his relaxed frame.
Blade shook his head. “It run off after I stabbed it, and I ain’t had a chance to ’unt it down.”
“You didn’t follow?” Aramina asked.
“One o’ me men were injured. And I ain’t stupid enough to ’unt a vampire by meself. What I want to know is where it come from.”
“We’re still uncertain,” Aramina replied. “The prince consort has requested an inquiry. This isn’t the sort of thing we can allow to stand. Someone knew this was occurring. And someone allowed it to happen.”
Barrons nodded, his gaze locked on a spot beside Blade’s boot. Perhaps it was because he wanted to find the other man at fault for something, but Blade couldn’t help feeling as though there was something the man was hiding.
Lark slipped in through the door, carefully balancing the tray with the blud-wein on it. She offered it to Blade first.
“We’re willing to offer military support,” Aramina continued. “The prince consort has—”
“Aye. A legion o’ metaljackets sent in to cull the creature, and then what? They’re just goin’ to trot back out again and leave me the rookeries?” Blade laughed. “Ain’t bloody likely. And what’ll me people think, seein’ the enemy comin’ in? They’ll riot.”
“Perhaps you underestimate the strength of the people’s intolerance for us,” Aramina countered. “They’ve shown no sign of rioting in other quarters. Unless there’s some other reason you don’t want the legion coming in. Hmm?”
His eyes narrowed. “This ain’t Kensington, milady. And maybe you ought take a look ’round. People is starvin’ and the taxes just keep gettin’ ’igher. Your prince consort ain’t a popular name to say ’round ’ere. They see a horde o’ metaljackets descendin’ on the rookery, and they’re goin’ to think somethin’s up
.” He leaned forward. “And if you’re callin’ me a coward, then just say it to me face.”
Aramina actually colored. One thing he’d learned about the Echelon—they would smile ever so sweetly at you while they plotted to kill you, but calling them on it sent them into a dithering mess.
Barrons smothered a laugh with a cough. “Then what will you accept? The prince consort wants this mess cleaned up as swiftly as possible.”
Blade pretended to consider it, but he’d already decided on the limits last night when he lay on Honoria’s kitchen floor and listened to her breathing in the next room. “A score of Nighthawks.”
Some of the Nighthawks were blue bloods like him, infected with the craving virus and then discarded once they had the hunger under control. With their enhanced senses, tracking down criminals was a perfect avenue for these people. And they worked similar streets to what they would work in the rookery.
“And you,” Blade added, looking Barrons directly in the eye. “I’ll work with you.” Keep the man close, where he could keep an eye on him. And maybe, just maybe, find out what Honoria meant to him. Or more importantly what Barrons meant to her.
Aramina blinked. “Barrons? But why? He’s a duelist, but he’s no match for a vampire.”
“Because ’e talks straight,” Blade replied. “I like that. And if ’e’s tryin’ to play me, I can’t see ’ow.”
“Besides our mutual, shared acquaintance,” Barrons murmured.
Their eyes met. Barrons knew precisely what Blade wanted of him. The hair on the back of his neck rose, but he managed a curt nod. “Aye. There’s that.”
“Acquaintance?” Aramina didn’t like being in the shadows.
“An old friend.” Barrons gave her a swift smile, then stood. “We accept the bargain. I’ll work with you to coordinate the hunt. The prince consort will supply a score of Nighthawks. And I would urge you to accept a squad of metaljackets, despite your caution. They can be useful at clearing tunnels when we don’t want to risk lives.”
A sensible thought. Blade chewed it over. “A squadron I’ll accept. Some of ’em Spitfires and a couple o’ Earthshakers. We can either burn ’im out or dig ’im out.”
Blade handed his empty glass to Lark and swung to his feet, holding out his hand. Barrons eyed it for a moment, then clasped it with his own. Despite the froth of lace at his wrist, the man’s grip was firm and there were calluses on his palms. And when Blade squeezed just a fraction more than necessary, Barrons smiled and squeezed back.
They broke the grip and nodded at each other.
“Done,” Blade said.
“Done,” Barrons agreed.
Aramina stood, smoothing out her skirts. “Well,” she said. “I’m glad you’ve reached an agreement. I’ll be in the carriage if you need me.” Turning on her heel, she swept out, leaving behind the heady, exotic scent of jasmine.
“She’s a beauty,” Blade said. “But a man’d ’ave to be stark-ravin’ to take such as ’er to ’is breast.”
“She’s not so bad,” Barrons disagreed, “when her claws are clipped.” He smiled and it wasn’t nice.
Blade gestured toward the door. Silence welled up between them, an almost visible tension that crab-walked down his spine.
Barrons said nothing as his host saw him out, but paused in the entrance. “Do you know who she is?”
There was no mistaking who he was referring to. “Aye. What’s she to you?”
“A very old acquaintance,” Barrons replied.
“Acquaintance. I don’t like that word. It tells me nothin’.”
“Her father worked for the duke of Caine for many years, until Vickers lured him away. I grew up with her.” Barrons’s gaze turned sharp. “I won’t claim that we’re friends, for we’re not, but I wouldn’t like to see anything happen to her.”
That eased Blade’s mind somewhat, but not wholly. “She came to me,” he replied. “I’ve given ’er me protection.”
“As a thrall?” Barrons was insistent.
“Aye.”
Barrons laughed under his breath, but there was no humor in it. “Gods. And I drove her to it.”
“What the ’ell does that mean?”
“It means she came to me first. And I refused to help her. If I’d known what she intended, I might have been more tolerant.” Barrons gave a little nod. “I’ll refer the agreement on to the prince consort and return with my accompaniment on the morrow.”
“Aye,” Blade bit out, but the other man was already gone, striding toward the carriage with a loose-hipped grace.
She came to me first…What the hell did that mean?
Chapter 11
The colloidal silver was thick in the vial. Honoria pushed the syringe through the rubber seal, trying to ignore her brother’s wince. The needle had to be large enough to draw the viscous liquid; hence it hurt like the devil. But the worst thing was when the colloidal silver interacted with the virus, sending Charlie into spasms of pain.
Sometimes the cure was worse than the disease. But, then, this was no cure at all. It simply held off the disease a little longer, buying more time for them.
“Here we go, Charlie,” she murmured. “Which arm?”
“Right,” he sighed, extending his scarecrow-esque arm. Little scar marks nestled in the groove of his elbow. With such frequent injections, the virus couldn’t heal the wound site.
Honoria tugged the leather strap tight around his upper arm, then slid the needle into the vein with practiced ease. Charlie bit his lip and tried not to cry.
“It will pass, my little man,” she murmured, eyeing the slowly depleting metal. “Won’t be long. Few more moments.” Then the colloidal silver would bind with the virus and he’d be trying not to scream. God, she hated this so much. There had to be a better way. The preventive vaccine had worked on both her and Lena. She didn’t understand why it hadn’t worked with Charlie.
There had always been a few people who didn’t catch the virus when exposed to it. Her father had played with combinations of their blood, at a loss to explain it, but prepared to inject willing test subjects with the resistant blood. It worked in most cases. Perhaps one in several hundred exhibited signs of the disease. It was only cruel fate that had made Charlie one of them.
Or perhaps not. She’d always had her suspicions. Her father had scratched her once with a syringe he’d used on a patient at the Institute, claiming it was an accident. She couldn’t help but wonder whether Charlie had a similar mishap. The thought made her ill, but, then, science had been everything to her father. The vaccine was everything.
“Here we go,” she said, withdrawing the needle and pressing gauze padding to the injection site.
Charlie was trembling with the effort of keeping himself still. He made a sharp, animal-like sound of pain, then turned his face into the pillow. Honoria put the needle aside and rubbed his thin back. She felt each rib as she ran her fingers over his skin.
“Did you keep breakfast down?”
He shook his head, making strangled sounds. Honoria slipped into the bed beside him, wrapping her arms around his tiny body and holding him tight. “Hush, little Charlie, don’t say a word,” she started crooning, slipping into the lullaby their father had sung for each of them as children. “Papa’s gonna buy you a mechanical bird. And if that mechanical bird won’t sing, Papa’s gonna buy you a clockwork king. And if that clockwork king breaks down…”
It was long minutes before he stopped crying. Longer still before the torturous shaking left him. Spent from the pain, he collapsed against the sheets.
Honoria slipped her fingers into his. “All over now, Charlie, for another day.”
“I wish it were all over forever,” he whispered.
A lump caught in her throat. “Don’t say that. You don’t mean that.”
“I do.” She heard the sound of tears in his voice. “You don’t know what it’s like.”
“Shush.” She rubbed his back, her mind white-hot with pain. I promised you, F
ather, that I’d take care of him, but how do I protect him from this? From himself? Then bitterly, You promised it would work. That the preventive vaccine would work.
But it hadn’t and her father had never finished working on a cure. There were only his notes, in the diary and…
Her fingers froze. Her father had written most of the diary in code, but she knew the code. Maybe she could finish his work.
It was a desperate idea. But so was she. She’d been trying to fool herself for weeks, but the truth was that Charlie was getting worse.
Lifting up on one elbow, she peered at Charlie’s face. His lashes fluttered against his cheeks. The pain had exhausted him. He often slept for hours following an injection.
Honoria slid off the bed and scratched a swift note for him, then tucked it on the pillow beside him. She paused just long enough to kiss his cool forehead, then gathered her shawl to keep her warm. It was a long walk to the Institute.
***
Nothing. A whole day spent canvassing the rest of the rookery and not even a single reek of vampire. Blade scowled to himself as he stalked along the rooftop, balancing on the capped tiles.
“It’s got to be ’ere somewhere,” Will muttered, following on his heels.
“It’s in Undertown. It’s the only place we ain’t checked.”
“Bloody ’ell.”
It was a sentiment Blade shared. Undertown was a refuge for the homeless and poor, those who couldn’t afford to pay the Echelon’s taxes, and those who didn’t want to be found. The desperate. The Slasher gangs ruled Undertown, hiding in the tunnels of what had once been the Eastern Link Underground Rail’s project to connect to the district line, before it had collapsed and buried hundreds of railway workers alive. The resulting scandal drove the ELU Railway Company into dun territory, and the project had stalled for want of finances. Various attempts to clear the tunnels had resulted in toxic explosions as live gas deposits were hit, and rumors had spread of ghosts that tore the living apart. It hadn’t taken long for the Echelon to declare the tunnel project a failure and board them up.
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