Bec McMaster - [London Steampunk 02] Page 2

  Honoria washed her hands, moving away from the bed. Her face was composed, but deep shadows lingered in the hollows beneath her reddened eyes. As she turned, the light caught her profile and for a moment Will stopped breathing, seeing another’s face in the shadows. Then she looked up, arching a brow at him and the image was gone. She shared the same dark eyes and rich mahogany hair as her sister, but Lena’s face was prettier and she was a good inch or two shorter than Honoria.

  Just the ghost of her image lingered, haunting him.

  A quick jerk of the head meant Honoria wanted to talk to him. Outside.

  Shooting Blade one last look, he strode to the door. An old shirt of Blade’s hung loosely over his chest. He couldn’t quite button it, and the sleeves stretched taut over his arms. Foolishness. But he wasn’t knocking on Rip’s door—Blade’s other lieutenant—and asking for a shirt that might have a better chance at fitting him.

  Honoria eased the door closed. “I think he’ll be fine. The bleeding’s stopped and I’ll get some more blood into him. Thank you for bringing him home to me.”

  Will nodded. He never had much to say to her. They’d tried, after she first married Blade, to find some common ground between them. But he knew what she thought of him—had overheard it in quite explicit detail the night before he moved out of the warren.

  Dangerous.

  Unpredictable.

  A threat to her sister.

  Sometimes he wasn’t sure if she hadn’t been half right.

  Her gaze dropped to his wrist. “Do you need tending—?”

  “It’ll heal.”

  “Something to eat then? There’s stew…in the kitchen. I’ll just—”

  “Ain’t hungry.” He nodded his leave of her, then turned on his heel. The back of his neck was itching.

  “Will. Please.”

  He stopped moving and glanced back over his shoulder.

  “You know you can come home now. It breaks his heart that you’re living on your own. And you know…she’s not here anymore either.”

  Honoria would never understand. He shook his head. “She weren’t the reason I left,” he growled. Not the only one anyway.

  Then he turned and stalked out into the darkness, feeling her eyes on his back the entire way.

  ***

  No point going home.

  Will stared at the fire in the distance, still raging out of control. Something bothered him about the attack. The mysterious device. The flamethrower. The silver knife. Those men had been prepared to face a blue blood and incapacitate them.

  He breathed deeply through his nose. It was hard to pick up a scent trail with the overwhelming cling of ash in the air but not impossible. Moving east, he loped across the rooftops, his unease growing as the men circled back toward the north. Toward Whitechapel.

  Just before the wall that circled the rookery, they dropped off the rooftops and disappeared into an alley. Will knew the area well. It was a dead end.

  He followed them in and stared at the brick wall at the back of it. The ripe scents of the rookery spilled over into the surrounding streets. He wrinkled up his nose and looked around. There was a grate in the cobbles, but surely they wouldn’t have gone down. That led to the sewers and from there into the notorious sprawl of Undertown. Weren’t nothing living there now, only ghosts and whispers. People had tried to move back in once the vampire that had slaughtered its residents was killed, but something drove them back out.

  If they came back at all.

  All that space, the caverns and homes carved into the old underground tunnel scheme. Empty. Or was it?

  Will hauled the grate out of the cobbles and dropped down into the dark, landing lightly on the pads of his feet. His nose told him there was nothing there. Nothing but refuse and the odd rat skittering away.

  Without the ash or a breeze, it was easier to follow the trail. The men weren’t moving fast, probably thinking they were safe from the Echelon and their metal army down here. Will shook his head. Dead men walking. The Echelon didn’t just rely on the metaljackets. Give them an hour and the tunnels would be full of Nighthawks, the infamous guild of trackers that did most of the thief-taking in the city. Rogue blue bloods who could smell almost as well as he could and track a shadow over stone, or so it was said.

  He’d have to hurry if he wanted to get his hands on them first.

  He waded into the sluggish stream, his nose almost shutting down. He’d smelled worse things—the vampire sprang to mind—but right now they were only a distant memory. It was the curse of heightened senses. He could smell everything, from a woman’s natural musk to the slight hint of poison in a cup; he could see for miles and if he listened, he could hear things people didn’t want him to hear.

  Like stealthy footsteps, a few hundred yards in front of him.

  Will made no sound as he stalked them. Whispers echoed and then a light appeared. A shuttered smuggler’s lantern by the look of it.

  “Got him,” the short, fat one crowed. “Right in the chest. Won’t be so high-and-mighty now, will he?”

  Will’s eyes narrowed.

  “Shut up,” the taller shadow snarled. The acrid scent of fear-sweat washed off him. “Didn’t you see his bloody face?”

  A shrug. The short man sloshed through the water carelessly. “All looks the same to me. Pasty-faced vultures.”

  “It was him,” the other man replied with a shudder. “The devil himself!”

  “The Devil of Whitechapel?” The shorter man’s face stretched in a delighted grin. “Cor, Freddie! All them years and the Echelon themselves ain’t been able to get near him! And you done him in! You’re famous now!”

  “I’m bloody dead, is what I am,” Freddie snapped back. “If that were the devil, then you know who the other one was!”

  Will took another step forward, drawing the blade at his side. He smiled. That’s right, you son of a bitch. You’re in trouble now.

  “Who?”

  “The Beast,” Will hissed, his voice echoing out of the darkness.

  Freddie screamed and swung the lantern.

  Will smashed it aside and it hit the water and hissed out. Darkness fell like a theatre curtain, but he was already moving, driving his fist up under the whistling swing of an arm and connecting with a pair of ribs. Bone snapped and then Freddie was down with a gurgling cry, splashing under the water.

  Will stilled, listening to the frantic sound of breathing.

  “Freddie?” the fat man whispered. He fumbled for the sides of the sewer, his breath high-pitched and panting.

  Will took a slow step forward, water sloshing around his knees.

  “Oh, God.” The fat man tried to run. “Oh, God, no! I didn’t have naught to do with it! It were Freddie! Leave me alone!”

  Will grabbed his cloak and hauled him back. He landed with a splash, his legs kicking in the sewer water as he squealed like a downed pig. Fisting the cloak, Will wrapped it around the fat man’s throat and then hauled him up in a choking grip.

  “Who are you? Who do you work for?”

  The fat man kicked, making strangled sounds. Will held him long enough for the kicking to falter, then dropped him in the water.

  Movement behind him. He lashed out, catching the heavy metal tube as Freddie swung it and followed through with a punch. Blood sprayed as his fist connected with Freddie’s nose. The coppery tang of it flavored the air, and Freddie screamed and fell back into the water.

  “Jaysus.” The fat man sobbed, his throat hoarse.

  Will caught him up by the coat and slammed him back against the slimy walls. He slid his hand into the man’s coat, rifling his pockets. A switchblade the idiot was too dumb to draw, a piece of waxed paper, and an odd, finger-shaped device. Another one of those noisemakers. He pocketed both it and the piece of paper.

  “Consider yourself lucky he ain�
�t dead.” The thought set off the red-hot flare of rage in his head, and he slammed the fat man against the wall. Then again.

  “Please, please don’t kill me!”

  Careful, a little voice warned. Don’t lose control.

  Will growled, the sound echoing inhumanly through his throat. They already thought him a beast. Why the hell shouldn’t he rip them apart? They’d put a knife in Blade. Nobody touched his adopted family and lived to tell of it.

  Shouts echoed through the tunnels. Will’s head shot up and he clenched his fist. Nighthawks. On the trail already, damn it.

  He leaned closer and sniffed the air beside the man’s ear. “Got your scent now,” he whispered. “You ever come near Whitechapel again and I’ll come for you. I’ll rip you apart, one piece at a time…and feed it to you. You don’t want that, do you?”

  The stench of urine filled the air and the man sobbed his agreement. Will dropped him with a splash then turned on his heel.

  The Nighthawks would smell him, but they wouldn’t catch him. This was Will’s turf here, and they wouldn’t dare cross the wall circling Whitechapel to hunt him. Time to get the hell out of here. He gave Freddie and his fat friend one last hungry look, then turned and fled into the darkness.

  They’d remember his threat. That was all that mattered.

  ***

  Will tossed the shirt away with a wet slap and then started on the buttons of his breeches. Both stunk from the tunnels, but he felt a damned sight better. The tension between his shoulders eased with every blow he’d dealt.

  He’d wanted blood. Wanted to kill. But sometimes it was best to leave them alive. Witnesses. Men who’d spread the stories in hushed tones in local alehouses, warning others not to risk the wrath of Whitechapel’s Beast. It was all part of the legend he was carefully cultivating. A lesson he’d learned from Blade.

  Fear was often the best defense.

  The air was chilly as he kicked off the rest of his clothes and strode for the washbasin. He usually didn’t notice the cold, but he’d been wet for hours and his stomach was empty. Scrubbing the stink off himself, he draped a blanket around his hips and then turned toward the kitchen. There was bread and cheese left over, and a jug of clean water.

  Resting his backside against the table, he bit into his meal and stared at his shirt. There was something sticking out of it. A piece of paper. The note the fat man had carried.

  He padded across the room and knelt, chewing slowly. The paper was thick with wax. Whoever had written it had wanted it to stay dry, which meant he thought the recipient of it would get wet at some stage. Will frowned. Just where had those two been heading—in the sewers? The water this time of year was barely knee high.

  There were whispers that it was deeper down below, though. In some parts of Undertown.

  Fishing it open, he tilted it toward the single lamp. Lines of symbols crisscrossed the parchment—letters, numbers, and odd slashing marks. An incomprehensible mess.

  What the hell had he stumbled upon? Will took another bite of his bread and cheese and stood, crossing closer to the lamp. The better light made no sense of the symbols, not that he’d expected them to.

  Will flipped the paper over, but there was nothing on the back. No scent but the odd waxy substance. He frowned. Burning down the draining factories, coded letters, strange devices that had obviously been made to incapacitate blue bloods… Somebody was looking to start a war.

  Two

  “How spectacularly…gaudy.”

  Lena glanced away from the curtained platform, her attention drawn by the dripping malice in her friend’s tone. “Whatever do you mean, Adele?”

  Adele Hamilton—a former diamond of society—leaned closer and turned her lip up. “They’ve got puppets. I’m surprised Miss Bishop hasn’t invited an entire menagerie to perform for us this evening. Or a circus troupe.”

  “You’re just jealous because she signed a thrall contract with Lord Macy and you thought he was going to offer for you.” Lena turned her head to the balcony where Miss Bishop was sipping champagne and glowing with happiness. Having signed a thrall contract with Lord Macy, Miss Bishop was now set for life. It was the highest ambition of any debutante. To be protected. Showered in diamonds and fancy golden steam carriages. Dripping in pearls.

  All it cost was a little something in return.

  Blood.

  Lena shivered and looked down into her half-empty glass.

  “As if I’d accept someone like Macy.” Adele sniffed and drained her glass. Yet her pretty almond-shaped eyes watched the pair on the balcony like a hawk.

  Macy rested his hand on Miss Bishop’s gloved one and slowly stroked her fingers. Even from the gardens below, Lena could see her breathing quicken and Macy’s eyes darken with desire. He seemed so much older than Miss Bishop in that moment. So much more powerful. It made Lena feel sick to her stomach.

  Stop it, she told herself sharply. Don’t think about it. It was Miss Bishop’s choice. She wasn’t being forced into this.

  Except by circumstances.

  “I can’t believe they’re carrying on so in public,” Adele continued. “He might as well throw her down now and have her.”

  Caught in her own discomfort, Lena’s voice was sharper than she intended. “Sheathe your claws before you cut yourself.”

  Adele shot her a devastating smile, one that had won half the hearts in the Echelon. And then broken them. “Miaow,” she purred.

  Despite her unease, Lena couldn’t stop an answering smile from tugging at her lips. Adele was the kind of friend you certainly couldn’t trust, but after the debacle last year where she was caught in the gardens with Lord Fenwick—who later refused to contract her—Adele was also an outcast of sorts. She’d clawed her way back into society via an icy heart and an unwavering smile, but her time, like Lena’s, was running out. And unlike Lena, who was here for a purpose, Adele had no other options in life.

  A crowd was gathering in front of the curtained stage. Service drones hovered, the silver platters fitted on their heads offering an array of beverages. Lena slipped another pair of champagne flutes from the tray, avoiding the drone’s steam vent. They were highly practical, rolling quietly through the crowds, but more than one young lady’s dress had been ruined and Lena was wearing crushed violet silk.

  She kept an ear open as she moved through the crowd, idly listening—and then discarding—conversations. Being a debutante was the perfect disguise. In a way, she was almost invisible. People said things in front of her that they would otherwise have kept quiet.

  It was a most convenient way to spy. She barely had to do anything at all.

  “Puppets.” Adele shook her head. Yet, she too gathered in front of the stage, desperate not to miss a thing.

  The night was mild, stars glittering overhead. Lena looked up, her vision adjusting to the light. A thousand diamonds, her mother used to say when she was a little girl. “All for me,” Lena would cry, and her mother would laugh and kiss her good night.

  Now the stars seemed to have lost some of their luster, and the diamonds too. The world around her was too bright, too shiny, all silk and gold and malicious laughter. The world of the Echelon had once been the only thing she’d ever wanted, and now that she danced along its verge, she couldn’t help wondering if there was something more out there for her.

  Not that she would ever admit that.

  She’d begged her sister, Honoria, for this chance when it became clear that there was nothing left in Whitechapel for her. Pleaded for weeks to be allowed back to her former life, and the possibility of making a thrall contract.

  Strangely enough, an ally had come from an unexpected source: Leo Barrons, her half brother. As heir to the Duke of Caine, Leo could never reveal the truth of their connection—and his own illegitimacy—but he’d offered to take her as his ward and Lena had gratefully accepted. When he
r father had been alive, she’d hovered on the edge of the Echelon. Now, with a man as powerful as Leo as her guardian, she was embraced completely.

  And she’d never felt more alone.

  An uneasy feeling lifted the hairs on the back of her neck. The sharp, horrible sensation of being watched. Lena looked around but there was no one there. Something hissed and she flinched. It sounded like a kettle giving vent to its rage. The crowd pressed closer and conversation dimmed. On stage, the tinny sound of an organ grinder began to play.

  It struck a chord in her memory; the raucous sounds and laughter of Whitechapel, the press of unwashed bodies, and the bawdy language that she’d pretended not to memorize. Music on the streets, in the penny gaff houses. A sound best forgotten. She’d left Whitechapel behind a year ago. It felt longer. In that time, she’d lost all of her youthful pretensions and realized exactly what type of world she lived in—and the fact that there was very little she could do about it.

  But what she could do about it, she would. There was a movement brewing to restore humans to equal status as blue bloods—no more blood taxes, no more martial law, no more involuntary thralls—and she was in an ideal position to help them. Lena had access to a host of the Echelon’s secrets…if she kept her ears open.

  “It seems Miss Bishop has a monkey after all,” Adele whispered.

  “Shush,” Lena said, rising on her toes to see. As she did, she ran her gaze across the crowd, relaxing only when she realized there was no one watching her.

  Just nerves… She was safe here, with the crowd and Adele at her side.

  The curtains parted with a melodramatic jerk. On the terrace, the gas lamps suddenly faded, the muted flames casting a surreal blue light across the gathering. Steam curled out, obscuring a figure on the center of the stage. Its arms jerked into the air, the strings clearly visible against the gaslight.

  “Marionettes,” Adele dismissed.

  The Contract Ball of Miss Bishop had been talked about for the last month as the event of the Season. Gossip had promised delights and curios far beyond anything ever seen, but so far the night had been disappointing. Lena relaxed down onto her heels just as the crowd gave an appreciative gasp.