Cold Stone and Ivy (59 page)

She swallowed, fighting back the rush of emotion, but she felt Rupert’s eyes on her and was determined to hold up under them.

As Rupert spoke to Pomfrey, Sebastien moved slowly into the centre of the room and dropped to sitting, cross-legged on the floor. He took a long, deep breath, his exhale sounding like tinkling crystal, and Ivy thought she had never seen a man so otherworldly as he looked now. His skin was pale, his pupils wide, almost fully black like a cat’s in the night, and she wondered what he was seeing.

“I need . . .” His voice was hollow, echoing.

Rupert turned to him.

“Yes, Laury? What do you need?”

“I need something of his . . .” He turned his strange gaze to Pomfrey. “He sleeps here? In this room?”

“Why, yes sir. He does, sir. Most nights, sir. That is, when he is not working. Which he is not, these days . . .”

“Personal effects?” asked Rupert and Pomfrey shrugged.

“He had a bird, a pretty little songbird, but it died. It looked as if someone had wrung its neck, but who would do such a thing to a pretty little bird?”

Sebastien exhaled again, and Ivy could have sworn she saw his breath fall to the floor like ice.

“His pillow. Give me his pillow.”

Ivy glanced at Rupert, who nodded, so she moved quietly to the bed, lifted one of the pillows. It was heavy with the softest down, its case pure silk, and she carried it as though it were the crown jewels as she crossed the floor.

“Carefully,” said Rupert. “Don’t touch him.”

She nodded and passed the pillow into the Mad Lord’s waiting hand.

He closed his eyes, ran his palms over the fabric, crushed the feathers in his grip. The locket began to spin once again, and tiny sparks flashed in the darkness.

“A hospital . . . The Royal . . . He has gone to the Royal . . . why?”

“Ah, to collect his things, sir,” Pomfrey answered. “His studies have been suspended.”

Rupert crouched down close beside him. “It’s closing on eleven, Laury. He’s not at the Royal now. Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“You need to ask.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You need to.”

Rupert leaned closer, and she could swear she saw the scruff of his chin begin to freeze.

“We need to find him and take him to Lonsdale. He will be safe at Lonsdale, Laury. Frankow will help him.”

“Yes,” said Sebastien. “Frankow will help.”

“So, you need to ask.”

Sebastien nodded, and Ivy watched as he dropped the pillow and turned his palms upward. A wind picked up in the bedroom.

Pomfrey stepped back, eyes wide, and Ivy took his arm in hers. Truth be told, she wasn’t any less afraid.

The wind began to whip their hair and clothing, the drapes along the window, the papers on the dressers. Everything was moving and moaning and beginning to whirl in circles in the centre of the room. She thought she could see faces in the swirling of the wind, and she shuddered at the thought.

Ghostlight was spinning madly now and sending sparks into the wind. It began to rise off his chest as if being pulled heavenward by a powerful magnet.

Or angels.

There was a strange sound and the light of the fireplace began to reflect on the floor. She narrowed her eyes to see. It was ice growing in a slick across the floor. Like a shot, the ice flashed out the door and down the hall. Sebastien leapt to his feet and out the door after it. Rupert grabbed her shoulders, hauling her out of his way.

“You see?” said the Scourge. “Tracking.
Castlewaite!
Fetch the dogs!”

And together, the pair of them followed the Mad Lord out onto the streets of Kensington-Knightsbridge.

SHE FASTENED THE
last button of her bodice, slipped her feet into the boots, and propped her foot onto the desk to draw the laces. There was a healthy fire in the hearth, and she threw a look over to the bed. Julia was asleep, her mousey hair spilled across the pillow, one arm across de Lacey’s chest. He was watching her with sleepy eyes.

She smiled.

“Yer a bonnie boy, my Remy,” she said. “You were always better than the rest.”

He blinked slowly but said nothing.

“The ten pounds? Where is it, then?”

“Why?”

She snatched her shawl from the chair, wrapped it around her shoulders. “I have bills, Remy, and I likes to pay ’em.”

He nodded at the pile of clothes on the floor. “Trousers, back pocket.”

She snatched it up, pulled the bill from the pocket, slipped it into her bodice before folding the trousers neatly and laying them on the desk. She turned and swished over to the bed.

“But I’ll be back, not to worry . . .” And she sat one hip on the edge, leaned over to stroke his fine face. “Ten pounds is too much for a mop like me . . .”

He gazed up at her. “You’re beautiful.”

“I could be,” she said, running a finger along his cheek. “For a man like you, I could be anything. I could be yer moll, Remy. I’d like that. And I wouldn’t have eyes for no other man, I wouldn’t. I would be yers, all yers. Miss Ivy had it fer yer brother, but I’d only have eyes fer you.”

She bent over, kissing him, felt his hands begin to move across her body once again. She caught them, brought them to her lips.

“I’ll be back soon. And I’ll be all yers.”

She rose to her feet and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

IT WAS VERY
dark on the street and Sebastien tried to get his bearings. Late at night, from the looks of the sky, and London judging from the skyline and the people. Only in London would people be out after dark, masked now because of the fog. It was difficult to remember how he had arrived back in London. He hated London. He would rather be dead than be here.

He was in a park, a city park, and he ran through the list in his mind. Hyde Park, Green Park, St. James’ Park, Regent’s Park, Kensington Gardens, Battersea . . .

He smelled water, heard it lapping quietly on a shore. A bridge mirrored in a lake, a silver-blue bridge over water.

Blue Bridge, St. James’ Park. He was on the Mall at St. James, by Buckingham.

He had been following the ice.
Damnation.
He had been tracking.

He took a long deep breath, turned both palms upward to the sky.

“Adiuvate me,”
he whispered.
“Ostendite mihi viam.”

He could feel the chill start from his ribs, up his back to his throat, and his teeth began chattering.

“Adiuva me. Ostende mihi viam. Adiuva me. Ostende mihi viam. Adiuva me. Ostende mihi viam.”

He repeated the plea over and over until he was shaking with cold. He scanned the street, caught a flash of lamplight in the gutter. He stepped over toward it, eyes straining in the darkness.

There was ice in the gutter.

It crackled and stretched like a living thing, pointing like a finger, leading him eastward.

He went east.

THE FIRE WAS
dwindling as he slipped from the bed. It was late and she had not returned. He cared nothing for this Julia in this bed. She was a warm body, nothing more. But he did try not to disturb her as he raised the thin sheet and left her alone to begin the process of dressing.

He rolled up his stockings, pinned them to the garters before stepping into his trousers. He slipped into his shoes, pulled the spats overtop, watched with fascination the tendons in his hands as he worked the buttons. The cold air and warm fire made his skin prickle and he noticed the gooseflesh raise the hairs across his arms. Bodies, he thought. Bloody marvels.

Their clothes were strewn everywhere in the tiny room, and he noticed a broken window, stuffed with paper and cloth. He shook his head, wondering how people lived this way. Hollbrook House must have seemed a palace to her. He bent to pick up a skirt, folded it neatly, placed it on the desk. A blouse, stockings, a chemise, a shawl, all he carefully handled, placing them in a meticulous stack. His shirt he plucked from the floor, shook out the ashes and bits of straw, and gasped as his head suddenly split with the pain that had plagued him for years.

He dropped the shirt and sat on a stool, rubbing his forehead until the ache subsided. He had not had one of these for weeks, and he released a long breath, looked for and spied his medical bag by the door. Not a good place for it, he reckoned. In this lodging house, anyone could slip a hand in and nick it.

He swung it onto the desk next to the clothes. There was a whisper in his ear, and he turned. No one was there, only the girl, and she sleeping soundly as the grave. He frowned, turned back to the bag. His pills were in there and he reached in for them, somewhere between the hypodermic syringes and the stethoscope. There were his surgical instruments as well—his haemostats, gauzes, forceps, and blades. The Lister, one of his favourites. A beautiful knife, producing a smooth cut. And Williams’s surgical blade, a fine black-handled piece, razor sharp and easily gripped.

Pick it up,
whispered a voice.
Feel it in your hand. It is a good blade. That’s my boy. My saucy boy.

His head throbbed, and he closed the bag quickly, let his eyes slide over to the figure of the sleeping woman.

“I could be yer moll, Remy,”
she had said.
“I’d like that. And I wouldn’t have eyes for no other man, I wouldn’t. I would be yers. All yers. Miss Ivy had it fer yer brother, but I’d only have eyes fer you.”

Marie had been right. From the moment she had set foot in Lasingstoke, Ivy had had eyes for Sebastien. She had tried to deny it, but he had seen it, plain as day. She had strayed and lost her heart. She had given it away, a heart she had once promised to him.

But now all is silent around the good old home,

They all have left me in sorrow here to roam;

While life does remain, in memoriam I'll retain

This small violet I plucked from mother's grave.

His mother had given her heart away, and so his father had taken it back.

There had been so much blood.

He shook his head, trying to clear it, but the whispers were growing louder.

Bloody marvels. Bloody, bloody marvels.

The voice of angels.

He looked back at his bag. It was opening all on its own; something grey was reaching out.

And that was the last thing he remembered for the rest of the night.

Of Six Dogs, Ten Bells,
and a Cry of Murder on Dorset Street

SHE PRESSED HER
nose against the window glass, trying to catch a glimpse of fur among the carriages clogging the streets at this hour. Apparently, Sebastien was tracking his brother and the dogs were tracking him. She wondered how Castlewaite in the dickey could keep them in his sights as they wove between the wheels and horses’ legs, but the dogs were well-trained and did not bolt off after cats, steamcars, or other distractions.

She threw a weary glance at Rupert. He had a cigarette in his teeth, but was chewing on the butt more than smoking it. He noticed her look.

“What?” he asked flatly.

“How is he doing this?”

“You think I understand, skirt? From what Frankow has said, the women are using the locket to track their killer.”

“The dead women?”

“It would be rather difficult for a living woman to track her killer, since she is living.”

She scowled at him. “But if he can do this, why doesn’t he do it all the time?”

The man shrugged, pulled the stub from between his teeth, tossed it to the floor of the cab. “Because he doesn’t know how. Because he isn’t trained. Because he never had the locket. Because it’s what led to the madness of his father. Take your pick, skirt. This is not my world, remember?”

“Why can’t we touch him?”

“By God, you’re a badger,” he grunted, began lighting a second cigarette. “He used to have seven dogs. Once before, when he gave it a try, one got worried like Tag, got too close, nudged him with her nose. Sucked all the heat out of her in a heartbeat. Shattered into a thousand pieces all over the Persian carpet.” He blew out a long stream of smoke, stared out the window. “Cookie was not amused.”

“Oh . . .” was all Ivy could think to say as she tried not to imagine a shattered dog or Cookie.

They continued their journey through the bleak streets in silence.

HE HAD FOLLOWED
the ice for hours. He was cold, wet, and exhausted, and now the ice was gone and he stood under the gothic limestone pillars of Christ Church Spitalfields.

A church. Trust dead women to lead him to a church.

He knew it. He should have sent the very first one to the little chapel the moment he’d laid eyes on her. He had been too young. He hadn’t known what to do.