Dearly, Beloved (32 page)

“Not because I want to, believe me,” she said. “I’m doing it for Pamma
and
Aunt Gene.”

Leaning back, I said, “Miss Roe? Why? You think Allister might know something about the bombing?”

“No. He’s nasty, but I don’t think he has it in him to do something like that.” Nora reached out and adjusted the crocheted place mat in front of me. “Colonel Lopez has offered to take the Roes in at his estate, but they barely know him. It’s clear Pamela wants to go, get out of the city. So I’m going to make that happen.”

That I could respect—though I knew the idea likely displeased Nora on a number of levels. “Is Allister acquainted with him?”

“Of course. All the rich families know one another—most of them are related by marriage, actually. Ren came up with a clean record for Lopez, but there’s got to be more to him.”

“Why not ask your dad about him?”

“I will, but honestly? I can probably get to Michael before I
can get to Papa. He’s been home, what, twice since the hijacking? Besides, once I clue him into the stuff we talked about last night, he’s going to clamp down again. So anything outside the house I need to get finished
yesterday
.”

“You’re right … and I’m with you. Up to a point.”

Nora sighed. “Ducking under Papa’s inevitable crackdown looks stupid, I know. But you’ll be with me, we’ll be in public. It could be our only shot for a while.”

I could allow for that. “Fair enough. But how are we going to set this up?
I’m
supposed to leap through hoops to spend time with you—how are you going to be able to meet up with him? You’re going to need to get him alone if you want him to talk.” In fact, it irked me, the idea that I tried so hard to balance respecting the rules with breaking the rules, and she was acting like this meet-up would be a walk in the park to plan.

Nora pouted her lips a bit in thought. “
I
can’t get him alone—but he’s from an aristocratic family. They can get away with things, especially the boys. If
he
wants to see me somewhere, we can probably do it. We can rent a chaperone.”

“Wait. You can rent a chaperone up here?”

“Oh yeah. Parents hire them sometimes, especially if they let their children date instead of court. Neutral third party.”

Biochemistry was easier than this social stuff. “So basically, you have to ask him to ask you, and then pay for the privilege. Your people are
insane
.”

“You’re just figuring this out? But yeah, he won’t talk if we march in with the whole gang. A hired chaperone is probably the best I can do without encouraging him in ways I’d rather not think about.” She leaned her head on my shoulder. “It won’t be long. Just half an hour, tops, and we never have to see him again.”

Even as I shook my head I said, “Fine. Whatever will help the
Roes.” Nora stood up, and I looked her striped bodice over once again. “But if he gets fresh, he’s losing flesh. For the record.”

She narrowed her eyes and stepped in between my legs, her skirt brushing my knees. “If that slug lays a single finger on any part of me, you have my permission to rip his head off and drink long and well from the blood that will spurt from his neck stump like a fountain. Okay?”

I found myself blinking. “Wow,” was all I could say. How the royals managed to produce someone like Nora, I’d never figure out.

“Pardon me.”

We both straightened up and glanced at the door. Renfield was there, dressed in trousers and shirtsleeves, expression anxious. He looked like he hadn’t slept. “Hey, Ren. You got the kitchen bugged? We were just talking about you.”

“Funny choice of words.” He backed up a tad, his movements tight and energetic. Experience had taught me that this meant he had an idea in mind, or a project he wanted desperately to pursue. Experience had also taught me that this could be a very good thing, or a very bad thing. “I just thought I’d ask before I start tearing the house apart—does Dr. Dearly have any books on eye surgery or illness?”

“Eye surgery?” Nora asked, confused. “I don’t know. He’s not a surgeon. Try his study?”

“I will as soon as Dr. Samedi awakens, thank you.” His disappointment was almost palpable. “None in his room, then, that I could look at now?”

“No.” Nora glanced at me. “I guess there’s the basement. He’s got some vintage medical books down there, part of his First Victorian collection. Two big gray trunks. I always used to unwrap them by mistake when I was looking for his adventure and military history book—”

Disappointment turned to manic speed—seriously, the guy disappeared beyond the doorway faster than a lightbulb could burn out. I stood up and followed him into the hall, Nora moving after me. “What’s up, Ren?”

“Nothing,” the scarecrow assured me as he started to try door after door, looking for the one that led to the cellar. “Nothing at all.”

“It’s the next one.” As I said it, he found it and disappeared inside. “Um … can we help you?”

“No, no, I have it!”

“You’re going to want light. Hitting your head could end badly.” Nora ducked under my arm and flicked the light switch near the door, illuminating a set of unpolished stairs and a cluttered room beyond. “The trunks are in the corner near the boiler.”

“Thank you!” Ren shouted up. Something crashed. “Blast! Wait. Are the city university libraries open to the public, do you know?”

“I have not the slightest idea. You know, you’ve got this thing upstairs Papa’s paying for called ‘the Aethernet.’ I think you might be familiar with it. If you wanted pictures of marmalade kittens in corsets, you could find them, so if you haven’t found what you’re looking for online? I’m pretty sure it doesn’t exist.”

“Of course, using the Aethernet never occurred to me. Thank you, Miss Dearly.”

Nora twisted her neck, looking up and back at me. “He … does this occasionally,” I said. “God knows what’s gotten into him. Cure for eye cancer? The key to finally being able to see through walls and watch ladies in various states of undress—the realization of a lifelong dream?”

“I heard that!”

Nora shook her head. “Does this have anything to do with the actual issues we are all facing, Ren?”

“I’m not sure.” I heard a trunk opening. “Carry on!”

“I think he’d say so, if it were.” I took her by the waist and urged her away from the door, shutting it behind us. “He’s the least of our worries. Look, let me follow up on the calls I made last night and talk to Sam. Then we’ll do whatever you want with Michael.”

Nora smiled gently, and bounced up to kiss my chin again. “I’ll make it up to you.”

She just did, but far be it from me to tell her that.

The Brother I’d gone with the night before had taken forever to find his mark. We’d ridden in circles for hours through the middle-class parts of town, a third Brother driving, stalking a bit of nameless prey and drinking.

“There,” he eventually said. “That’s
him
.”

“That’s who?” I asked, peeping out through the carriage’s venetian blinds, only to find that it wasn’t just a him. It was a
them
. The zombie wasn’t alone. The dead man was nondescript, but the living girl walking with him was nothing less than an uncanny angel. She had what appeared to be naturally snow-white hair, despite her obvious youth, and was dressed in pale purple, with a bouquet of violets pinned into the upswept shell of her bonnet. Above her head she carried one of those stupid gas lamp parasols, the light within it red. “What’s red signify? I know there’s a code the girls use.”

“Sympathy for the dead,” the Brother crouched by the door hissed. “Sympathy for the goddamn dead man who infected my sister.”

Vodka started to creep back up my throat. Like me, this Brother had a vendetta. He hadn’t been indecisive, he’d been
searching. “We’ll have to wait until they’re separated and grab him.”

“I won’t hurt her.” He looked at me, the eyes of his mask expressionless. “Just him. I’m willing to risk it.”

“What? You can’t be serious. She’ll turn around and report us.”

“That’s why we have the masks, you dolt!”

The Brother playing chauffeur drove ahead of the perambulating couple and slowed, lowering the partition. “So we’re not getting this one?”

“No, we can’t,” I said. “It’s madness to kill a zombie right in front of a witness. The Brothers aren’t even here to see it.”

That was when the other Brother opened the door and sprang out, despite the fact that the carriage was still moving.

My heart stopped and I whirled around to watch as the driver slammed on the brakes. Within two breaths he’d flown at the zombie and pulled out a revolver, shooting him in the head. The zombie slumped to the pavement, and the girl began to wail, her hands going to her cheeks. The scene was unpoetic, cold. Somehow it seemed crueler than anything I’d ever dreamed of doing.

“Strigoi!” she shrieked, dropping her parasol, taking two steps toward the body.

“Are you sorry for him?” Brother Shooter demanded, grabbing the girl by the arm and yanking her away from the zombie. “What about those he bit? What about my sister, crazy and strapped to a bed until she rots! Are you sorry for them, too?”

The white-haired girl started to thrash. “Let me go! Oh my God!
Strigoi!
”

“Be still!” Brother Shooter ordered. “Be still, necroslut! Listen to me!”

But she wouldn’t stop moving, wouldn’t stop screaming. After a moment of struggle, Brother Shooter lifted his hand, flicking something out from beneath his gun. To my infinite surprise, he
was carrying an Apache revolver—gun, knife, and brass knuckles in a single contraption. As I watched, frozen, he started to slash her beautiful face to ribbons. She sank to her knees, trying to fight him off with increasingly bloody hands. “You want to be one of the dead? Huh?”

Just then I saw something and started to scream, myself.

He hadn’t gotten the zombie fully.

The monster grabbed for Brother Shooter’s legs and pulled him down like a wolverine toppling larger prey, growling, seeking to bite him, to unmask him. Against my better judgment, but knowing that in defending Brother Shooter I was defending myself, I flew out of the carriage and to the prone masked boy, hauling him to his feet. It was a struggle to both get him away and keep the zombie on the opposite side of his body, a struggle full of limbs and teeth, but in the end I won out by kicking at the zombie’s arms. Together we ran back to the carriage as the zombie pushed himself up and gave chase.

“Go!” I shouted to the driver as I got the door shut. The carriage revved forward. “Did he get you?”

“No.” Brother Shooter touched his mask, breathing hard. “And he didn’t see me.”

“You
idiot
.” I was white-hot with rage. What the hell was he thinking?

“I know.” He looked at his hand, the bloody gun still clutched in it. “I know.”

The dead man stopped in the street as we gained speed and roared after us like a lion issuing a challenge. I turned my head. He was not my concern. My concern was the girl—who was hurt, who was going to tell, who was going to ruin everything.

I sat back, catching my breath. I didn’t even know what to say.

A few minutes later I sat bolt upright as lights leapt out of the shadows behind us. A carriage, hot on our tail. When we drove through a puddle of lamplight I saw the zombie we’d just threatened
behind the steering wheel, wound at his temple, his eyes like fire. A mobile phone was clutched in his hand.

“He’s following us!” I yelled. “The zombie! He’s calling someone!”

“What do I do?” our driver screamed.

“Drive back to the pickup point!” I turned around and thrust my body through the partition, grabbing the terrified driver by the shoulder. “Where we got the carriage!”

“No!” Brother Shooter said. “The pub! The Murder will be gathered at the pub! We need backup!”

“We don’t know how many will be there!” I looked back and saw the zombie practically on our bumper. “Head back to the chop shop. Make sure your masks are on tight!”

I couldn’t even begin to describe what happened next, or how I managed to keep my liquor down during it. We raced through the city at full tilt, sights both familiar and unfamiliar whizzing past at a phenomenal pace. No shots were exchanged, no daring stunts engaged in; it was all sheer speed, sheer adrenaline. The zombie in pursuit never let up. A couple of times I felt like he was closer to me than my own skin.

When we reached the seedy part of town south of the port, we finally lost his carriage in a maze of poorly lit side avenues. By then we were only two streets away from where we needed to be, but the driver made the decision to keep going, to lead the undead bloodhound away from our rabbit warren. In retrospect it was a good idea.

It took an hour altogether. Half an hour for the maggot man to stop chasing us, and another half hour of sitting silently in the darkness, almost afraid to breathe lest the zombie somehow hear it and descend upon us again. Hunted men, we crept back to our nightly carriage pickup point with the lights still off—the underworld chop shop Green Jacket had arranged for us to work with. It was located in an old wooden building, one so sloppily built it
didn’t appear capable of sheltering anything, least of all a gang of criminals.