Kiss of Steel (6 page)

“You mean of inside the city walls.”

Her head rested close to his arm. He could almost reach out and touch one of those errant brown curls that trailed from her rumpled chignon.

“The upper class,” she corrected. “The Echelon.”

His fingers brushed the soft silk of one curl. She didn’t notice. “You think I sound like one o’ those fancy lords?”

A pained expression crossed her face. “Not at the moment. Mostly when you forget yourself.”

“Are you askin’ where I come from?” He wrapped the curl around his finger, staring into her eyes. Her hair was very soft, like spun silk. And thick. What would it look like tumbled over her shoulders?

His mind took a swift detour. He wanted to taste that milky-white skin, to run his tongue over the naked curve of her breasts and the rosy, puckered nipples. His cock stirred. With her head bowed in thought, he could see the fine tracery of veins that traversed her throat. Saliva pooled in his mouth, and his vision narrowed to the pulsing, heady throb of her carotid artery, casting the world into a chiaroscuro landscape.

“I’ve heard several theories,” she replied, her voice sounding as though it came from a great distance. “I heard you escaped from the Inquisition in the New Catalonian prisons, where you were infected with the craving virus. Or that you led the resistance in France when the revolution guillotined the entire blue blood aristocracy there.” She was breathing rapidly, not quite as unaffected as her cool, crisp tone presumed. Blood pulsed through her veins, beating in time to the throb of her heart.

Want
it…
“What do you think?” he whispered, leaning closer.

“You don’t have any trace of French or the Catalan dialects. You sound like you were born in the gutters and somehow learned to mimic the sounds of the aristocracy.” Honoria chose that moment to look up, and he tugged the curl that he’d wrapped around his finger. She clapped a hand to the back of her head, her fingers sliding over his. Her eyes widened.

Take
it
, Blade thought. The knife against her throat, nicking her just enough to bleed her; his mouth on her skin, the sudden hot flood of blood against his lips as she struggled in his arms at first, then slowly, slowly succumbed…

He shut his eyes.
I
ain’t an animal
.

And then Vickers’s voice, whispering in his ear.
Yes, you are. Remember the guards? Remember that old woman? Remember Emily?

He would never forget her. And God help him if he did—God help them all.

Sound washed back in upon him. Blade opened his eyes. The world was a riot of color again, not the grim, stark shadows he saw when the hunger forced itself upon him. He could feel it receding, unsatisfied.

“What are you doing?” The words died on her lips as she saw his expression.

He gently disentangled his finger. “Your hair’s as soft as silk.”

He almost laughed to see the bewildered expression on her face as she evidently searched his words for some hidden meaning and failed to find it.

“I’ll thank you to keep your hands to yourself,” she finally said. “And you managed that sentence without a trace of the rookeries in it.”

Blade ran the words back through his head. She was right. He’d sounded exactly like Vickers did, with his hard, crisp vowels and the slight sibilance he placed on certain letters. The comparison annoyed him. “You were right. I were born in the gutters, but I weren’t always street scum.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“No?” He leaned back in the seat as they passed beneath the massive bricked edifice of Aldgate and into the heart of the city, hiding his face from the pair of metaljackets guarding the gate. The pair stood almost seven feet tall, with burnished metal breastplates and overlapping plates to protect the delicate steam-driven mechanisms that made them move.

The enormous spire of the Ivory Tower gleamed in the distance. Since Parliament had been overthrown, the Ivory Tower had become the heart of Echelon power, and its soaring tower served as a watchful reminder of who ruled over London.

There was no place in the city where you could escape the sight of it. Not even in the stews.

“Have you ever been inside it?” Honoria asked, following his gaze.

“Once.” He tore his eyes away. “Painted the floors wet with blood.”

Her gaze shot to his.

“Themselves don’t like rogue blue bloods runnin’ ’round. Only saw the sheriff’s ’otel, mind. Spent a few months there, rottin’ in the dark before I sprang meself. They come after me, but I convinced ’em it weren’t wise to chase me down. Found me way to the ’Chapel and stayed there.”

“Do you think this is wise then?” Honoria said. “Coming into the city?”

“Who’s goin’ to stop me?”

She gave him a dubious look.

Blade laughed. “They got better things to do than make sure I stay out. Too busy stabbin’ each other in the back and pretendin’ they didn’t do it.”

“I think,” she said, “that you like playing cat and mouse with them. Proving that you can go where you like, when you like.”

“Mebbe.” He smiled. “There’s a bit of the blue blood in me after all.”

“Manipulation isn’t a symptom of the disease,” she replied primly. “But a manifestation of the individual’s own nature.”

“Near every bloodsucker I ever met’d sell ’is mother for a bit o’ the ready. And how do you know what the cravin’ does or doesn’t do?” He examined their surroundings as though the question was an idle one. “You ever met a blue blood before?”

“No,” she replied. “But I’ve read a lot about the disease.”

Liar
. Blade smiled to himself. She’d spill her secrets to him one day. Half a century of life had taught him patience if nothing else.

The rickshaw came to a halt and the young driver ground the brakes on. “Here, sir. The White Hart.”

Blade leapt to the ground and turned to offer a hand to Honoria. She blinked and he realized she’d missed the movement. “It’s warm inside and the grub’s good.” He gave her a disarming smile. “Or so I ’eard.”

She didn’t want to take his hand. But her skirts were long and made the jump down somewhat precarious. The warmth of her fingers was somewhat intoxicating. That was what he missed most; he hated the clammy feel of his own skin. Sometimes he wondered if touching him felt like touching one of the Echelon’s cold metal drones. Did Honoria find the sensation disgusting? Other women had turned away from him in the past.

He caught her around the waist before he could find out, and set her on her feet. She barely came up to his shoulder, and it felt as though there was more weight in the material of her full skirts and bustle than in her flesh.

“Wait ’ere,” he told the driver, flipping him a bull.

The boy looked down in surprise. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Honoria watched as the five shillings disappeared and the boy dragged the rickshaw out of the way. “That’s far more than what he earned.”

“Aye.” Blade shrugged, then set his hand into the small of her back. “After you, milady.”

The White Hart was tucked between two buildings. It was probably a good thing, for the roof was crooked, leaning drunkenly against the building on its right as though that was all that held it up. A gas lamp lit the coat of arms hanging over the door and gleamed on the glass windowpanes that formed the front.

Inside, the room was in full roar. Timber panels with carved bas-relief lined the wall, and green leather booths offered a modicum of privacy. There was an embossed bronze panel—depicting a stag fleeing from hunters—over the bar, blackened by years of smoke from the enormous hearth in the corner.

Honoria stopped and Blade almost stepped into her. The heat from her body shimmered in the inch between them. He drank it in. So warm. So full of life. He wanted to sink himself into her, drown in her heat. But then she was stepping forward, toward a narrow booth near the window.

Blade caught the serving maid’s eye and jerked his head. The woman flushed a healthy pink that spread all the way down her throat, and he paused, watching as the blood flushed through her pale skin. For a moment the color faded and he was left with a world of gray again. It was enough for him to shake it off and follow Honoria.

One of her eyebrows shot up. “See something you liked?”

He slunk into the seat opposite her, their knees bumping. The plump serving maid bobbed toward them, her breasts threatening to spill out of her neckline. She was everything that Honoria was not; full of fleshy curves, with a healthy shine to her hair that spoke of rich meals and good health.

“Yes,” he replied, watching Honoria’s lips thin. Was that jealousy in her eyes? Or cool disinterest? He couldn’t tell with her and it drove him crazy. Honoria could give a cardsharp a run for his money.

“Well, don’t let me stop you,” she said.

“I’ve already eaten,” he replied. He leaned closer. “Do you know what I see when I look at her?”

“A pretty young woman who would be more than happy to be with you. Unlike certain others.”

“Do you?” He took another look at the serving maid. “I s’pose she’s pretty enough. I ’adn’t noticed.”

Honoria snorted. Then looked horrified at her poor manners.

“I see blood. Flushin’ up ’er neck, runnin’ through ’er veins. ’Er skin’s pale enough to show ’em, almost blue beneath the surface. Like a map showin’ me where to go.”

“Oh.”

“But I don’t dabble with strangers,” he said, sitting back. “When I first saw the Ech’lon lords, with their blood slaves and thralls, I thought it barbaric. I understand now why they take ’em. Drinkin’ from thralls is safer. They knows what to expect and what not to do when I’m bang up with the ’unger. In return I make sure they’re well fed and sheltered, with enough coin to keep ’emselves as they wish. It suits ’em and it suits me.”

“A very convincing argument. Do you tell that to them, or are they free to make up their own minds?” Heat flushed through her cheeks.

“I ain’t ever taken an unwillin’ thrall. You ain’t got nothin’ to fear like that. Only if you wish it, luv. All you have to do is ask.”

Honoria’s face paled and she tried to stand. He caught a handful of her skirts and held her there.

“One day you’ll beg me to take you in,” he whispered.

“When hell freezes over,” she replied.

The serving maid arrived. “Sir?” she asked hesitantly.

“Damn your pride.” He let go of Honoria’s skirts. “What’s the special?” he asked the maid.

“Mutton stew with bread and dripping.”

Blade gave Honoria a direct look. “Do you want it?”

“I don’t want anything from you.” For the first time her facade cracked. He caught a glimpse of tears, and then she looked away, choking them back down as she slumped into the seat again.

“A bowl of it,” he told the maid. “And two pints. Of ale.”

“No!”

He ignored Honoria’s protest and nodded to the serving maid.

“Damn you.” Honoria started digging in her change purse.

Blade caught her hand. “Tonight’s on me.”

“No.”

“Put the bloody money away.”

She slapped a handful of shillings on the table between them. “I won’t be your whore. I won’t owe you anything.”

He growled and caught her hand, holding it flat over the cold metal shillings. “All I want’s for you to talk to me. A bit o’ good conversation for the cost o’ the meal. So I can ’ear ’ow you says things.” He flashed her a smile. “Me first lesson.”

He pushed her hand and the shillings under them back toward her. Honoria’s gaze dropped first. He knew what she was thinking. She couldn’t afford the meal, but she wouldn’t let him pay for it. By turning it into a transaction, she could keep some semblance of pride.

The serving maid returned with two foaming mugs of ale. Honoria flushed and dragged her hand away, taking the shillings with her. The heat of her lingered in his fingers as if he’d stolen a touch of it. He rubbed them together, feeling the residue.

“Well, where you from?” he asked. “You appear six months ago out o’ nowhere. Ain’t no relatives visit. Ain’t no friends. No suitors. Like you sprung from nothin’.”

A minute thinning of her lips. She was good. A bleedin’ Jack-in-a-box. He took a sip of the ale and forced it down. If he concentrated, he might be able to swill it all, but most of the time he had no need of food or drink. Still, he missed the taste of things sometimes.

“Oxford,” she replied. “My father was a professor. I taught the local young women their finishing touches.”

“What ’appened? How’d you end up ’ere in the East End?”

A flash of something real, something painful, flickered through her eyes. “He passed away. The lease was sold and we were without a roof over our heads. I had a cousin in London, but that didn’t work out. I took a job with Mr. Macy, but the pay wasn’t enough to support a life in the city, and I can’t say I like the idea of being under the Echelon’s thumb.”

“Why the prejudice against ’em? You ever run afoul o’ the Ech’lon?”