Kiss of Steel (4 page)

“She’s mine.” She just didn’t know it yet.

“I don’t understand why she’s so important?”

Blade turned, his gaze alighting on his two lieutenants. Rip scowled, crossing his arms over his chest. Most people thought him merely muscle, but he had the kind of cunning that could have ruled a rookery gang. Instead he’d thrown his lot in with Blade. Fewer knives in the back that way.

Blade’s second lieutenant, Will Carver, crossed toward the fireplace on silent feet. He held his hands out, the firelight gleaming in his amber eyes. He topped Rip by a hand, and his shoulders were nearly twice again as broad.

Blade leaned against the mantel. “Well? Will?”

“She smells good. Clean.” Will shrugged. “Ain’t your usual sort.”

Blade smiled. “Vickers wants ’er.”

Both lieutenants stiffened.

“What’s
’e
got to do with ’er?” Rip scowled.

“Now that’s a question I can’t answer, me ducks,” Blade replied. If he breathed in, he could almost smell Honoria’s scent lingering in the air. The hunger crawled up his throat, and he closed his eyes, forcing his body to release that scent-laden breath. He’d fed only last night. He shouldn’t be this close to the edge yet. Something about the girl stirred him. Perhaps her fear, an intoxicating scent. He didn’t deny it. Or maybe the defiance in her eyes as she’d stared him down despite the racing throb of her heartbeat.

“Six months ago, Vickers put a price on ’er head,” he said, forcing the words out. “He’s given the Nighthawks a contract to find ’er, a younger sister, and a brother.”

Will whistled soundlessly. “And they ain’t found ’em yet? That’s—”

“Almost unheard of,” Blade interrupted. He wasn’t sure how she’d escaped Vickers, but she’d left very little trace if the Guild of Hunters hadn’t tracked her. “Her real name’s Honoria Todd. Goes by Miz Pryor. Works out o’ the city, for a man named Macy. Keeps ’er head down.” He considered her. “Stubborn. Arrogant. Proud. The only thing I don’t know is why Vickers wants ’er.”

It didn’t matter. If Vickers wanted her, then Blade would have her. But he would have liked to know why Vickers had offered such a high reward for a mere slip of a lass, just so he could play the game right. Maybe she’d heard something that could help Blade bring down that pasty-faced maggot who called himself a duke. Or maybe she knew of a weakness.

“She mighta spurned ’im.” Rip squatted down and offered his fingers to Puss to sniff. The cat allowed him to scratch between its flea-bitten ears. “You know how his lordship gets when he sets his sights on somethin’.”

“Maybe.” Blade slid his hands into his pockets. “It’s a big reward for a spurned lover.” With those dark, flashing eyes and that weary, determined way she’d glared back at him, she was just the type to set Vickers’s cold heart aflutter. If he had one.

She wasn’t young enough for Vickers, but he would have liked her courage. He’d have wanted to crush it. Blade had spent half a century staring into the eyes of someone and working out whether the person would fight to the death or collapse at the faintest amount of pressure. Hell would freeze over first before Honoria Todd gave anyone the pleasure of seeing her succumb.

“What’s so amusin’?” Will growled.

Blade looked up, and felt the smile on his lips die. “Nothin’.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, ignoring Will’s piercing gaze.

“So how’d you find her,” Rip asked, “if the Nighthawks couldn’t?”

“’Cos I know everythin’ that goes on in the rookeries, bucko. Two young women in my turf with a young lad? All three with the crisp, cultured tones o’ Oxford?” He sneered. “You know I likes me puzzles. And I’m possibly the only one as knows ’bout the price Vickers put out for three fugitives. I can put two and two together.”

“You want I should find out what Vickers wants with ’em?” Rip asked.

Blade reached for his gold cheroot case. “Hmm. No. Already got eyes in that corner. You keep well away from Vickers.” His gaze flickered to Will as he tugged out a slim cheroot. “You too.” Will gave him a nasty little smile.

“Then what do you want with us?” Rip asked.

“I want an eye kept on the ’ouse.” He bent and lit the cheroot in the fire. “Will, I want you on watch in particular. With your nose and ’earing, Vickers won’t get close.” Taking a deep breath, he let the smoke curl through his lungs. “And make sure everyone knows she belongs to me.”

“Why not mark her?” Will held up his wrist, with his tattoo visible.

“Not yet,” he murmured. An insane urge struck him. He wanted his mark on her skin. But he wouldn’t force her to it. She would ask for it herself, when she was ready. When he looked up, both of them were watching him, particularly Will with those bloody amber eyes of his. “Go on,” he growled. “You’ve got your orders.”

Puss attacked Rip’s boot as he stood. The big man grimaced and tried to disentangle the cat without hurting it.

“’Ere now, Puss.” Blade knelt down, clicking his fingers.

The cat gave him a look, considering the entreaty. It rolled to its feet, letting Rip step away, and then slowly strolled over to Blade to investigate.

“Bloody cat,” Will muttered, giving Puss a wide berth.

Puss’s lip curled up as Will slipped past. The cat hissed, fur standing on end and glaring at the youth.

Blade grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. “That’s enough now,” he said, settling the cat in his arms. “Will’s our friend.”

Will smiled darkly, flashing his teeth. “One day I’m going to eat that creature.”

Blade stroked the cat. “And one day I might just have me a wolf-hide rug for me floor.” He smiled. “But it ain’t today. Now, go and make sure Miss Todd has a safe night’s rest.”

***

Charlie was coughing again. Honoria had her hands buried in the sink when she heard the familiar
hark-hark-hark
noise begin in the small room that Charlie and Lena shared. Her head shot up and she cocked it. She’d had plenty of practice in judging the severity of the sound over the last month.

“Not again,” she muttered, wiping her hands on her apron. Weak dawn light crept through the windows. She didn’t have time to linger. Mr. Macy would be expecting her at nine. But Charlie was her brother.

Their small flat had a kitchen and two tiny private rooms. She and Lena had shared a room when they first came to the ’Chapel, but when Charlie started getting the night tremors, Lena had moved her small cot in to be with him. The two of them had always had a special affinity, and her presence—though it frequently vexed Honoria—seemed to calm Charlie.

“Now, come on,” Lena was murmuring when Honoria opened the door. “Take a deep breath. That’s my boy. Deep and slow.”

Honoria’s shadow fell across the bed. Lena looked up, dark circles beneath her eyes. Charlie’s face was so pale that Honoria could have counted each freckle on his cheeks, and his arms stuck out of the sweat-soiled nightshirt like a scarecrow’s.

He gave her a weak smile. “Honor…” And then he broke into another coughing attack.

Lena’s lips thinned. “He
was
doing fine.”

Honoria ignored her, sitting on the bed and reaching across to rub Charlie’s back. Her fingers ran over the knotted protuberances of his spine. No matter how much he ate, his body kept getting thinner and weaker, as though he simply could no longer find sustenance from food.

“I’ll fetch some water,” Lena muttered, disappearing through the door.

Honoria held Charlie’s face against her shoulder as he coughed. “There, my boy,” she crooned. “Let it out. It’ll be better soon.” A bitter taste filled her mouth. “I’ll make it better.” Another promise she couldn’t keep. She was getting heartily sick of them.

By the time Lena returned, the coughing had stopped. Honoria rocked him gently, stroking the silky strands of hair off the back of his neck. It was day now and his skin was feverishly cool, almost pallid. At night he would twist and sweat, his teeth grinding together for hours.

“You’d best be going,” Lena said, holding the glass for Charlie. “Or you’ll be late. Again. You know what happened last time.”

Mr. Macy had given her a lecture about tardiness with the implied hint that he’d dock her pay next time. “I won’t be late. I’ll run if I need to.”

“In that?” Lena’s eyebrows shot up.

Honoria clenched her jaw. The dress she wore was her finest, with a cream-colored, floral brocade overdress and a flounce of cream pleats. Against the dull brown wool of Lena’s homemade gown, the dress looked beautiful. It was also a point of constant contention between them. Honoria’s job relied on keeping up appearances. Lena’s did not.

“Yes,” she snapped. “In this.”

“Don’t,” Charlie muttered hoarsely, grabbing her hand. “Don’t fight.”

The two sisters looked down at him.

“We’re not fighting,” Honoria said instinctively. She stroked her hand through his hair, tipping his chin up. “We’re…” And then she stopped.

“Charlie?” she whispered.

There was blood on his lips. His glassy eyes met hers. “What?”

“Oh, my goodness.” Lena sat up. “Oh no! Your dress!”

Honoria looked down in shock. Her shoulder was stained bright vermilion. Charlie touched his mouth, then stared at the blood on his fingertips.

“It’s nothing,” Honoria blurted. “You must have bitten your tongue. Lena, stop being such a…such a…” The blood was slick between her fingers. His condition couldn’t have gotten as bad as it had so swiftly. She’d been rigorous with Blaud’s iron pills and the injections of colloidal silver. Poor Charlie’s arm looked like a pincushion.

He gazed hypnotically at the blood. “There’s rather a lot of it,” he said. His little pink tongue darted out, licking at his bloodied lips. Something, some flash of darkness, swam through the pale blue of his irises.

“The rag!” she ordered, gesturing at a piece of stained flannel near the washstand. She snatched his hand and held it down, wiping the blood off with the rag Lena gave her. “There. Nearly done.”

“Honor. He’s…” Lena’s whisper died away.

Charlie was staring at Honoria’s bloodied shoulder. Hungrily.

“Lena.” Somehow her voice was cool and composed. Inside she was shaking like a leaf. “Run and fetch Doctor Madison. Tell him Charlie’s had another turn.”

“I can’t leave you with him—”

“Go,” Honoria commanded. “And send a lad to Mr. Macy’s to tell him Charlie’s ill again and I can’t make it in today.” That would be another shilling to send the message. And more for the doctor, on top of what they already owed. But it couldn’t be helped.

Lena spun on her heel and bolted in a flurry of skirts.

“Charlie,” she said in a low voice. “Charlie, look at me.”

His gaze lifted slowly.

“
Stop
it.” The hard, flat tone had never failed to work before.

His nostrils flared. “I can’t…” Suddenly he buried his face in his hands. “Can you go? Just go away a bit so I can’t smell it.”

Each step back from him felt like a weight settling on her shoulders. “Is this better?” she asked, staring at him from across the room. His face was almost as white as fresh snow. He looked so small against the bed, a little bloodied figure lost in the tangle of bed sheets. Seeing her brother in this condition was harder than anything she’d had to do before.

Charlie nodded, then erupted into another coughing attack.

Honoria could do nothing as another bloodied rain landed on the sheets. Heat burned behind her eyes. It wasn’t fair. Why wouldn’t fate simply leave them alone?

***

“Hmm.” Doctor Madison thumbed Charlie’s eyelid back.

Honoria hovered. “Well? Is he going to be all right?”

Madison stepped away from the bed and wrung his hands. “If I could trouble you for some tea, Miss Pryor?” He gave her a piercing look.

Honoria pasted a smile on her face. Inside, her stomach plummeted. “Of course, Doctor. If you’ll join me in the kitchen?” Leaning closer to Charlie, she tucked the sheets up over him and kissed his cool forehead. “Get some rest. I’ll bring you something to eat.”

“Not hungry,” he said in a quavering voice.

“Some of that nice stew Lena made the night before last,” she said, as though he hadn’t spoken. “I’ll soak the bread in it too so that it’s easy to get down.”

Getting it down didn’t seem to be the problem. Keeping it down was.

She closed the door behind them and crossed to the small stove and kettle. She’d sent Lena to work. There was no point in both sisters hovering over Charlie, and they needed the money.

“You know,” she said in a quiet voice, concentrating on stoking the stove. “When Mama died, I promised her I’d look after them. Charlie was so sweet. So small…” Her hands fell to her sides and she stared through the stove, seeing Charlie’s pink face and the tuft of silky blond hair on his head.

“How long has he been like this?”

“The coughing? Three weeks and five days. There hasn’t been any blood before—”

“Not the coughing, Miss Pryor.”

Though it was said gently, the words felt as though they’d taken her feet out from under her. “Five months. Five months since the first symptoms started showing up.” There. She’d said it.