Lois Greiman (5 page)

He nodded and pulled his gaze from Princess. “Like I says, I was down to Fairberry Square, talking to a maid or two when some lordy blokes come strollin’ up. They was dressed all proper. One of them had a bulge just there.” He pointed to his own ribs. “Now me, I thought, here’s a likely-looking piece of work, but before I could figure how best to relieve him of that unsightly bump I heard what they was sayin’.”

He paused again and took a bite of the apple he held in one angular hand.

“Are you going to share the conversation with us?”

The lad grinned around his mouthful. “They said Lord Rambert was dead. Now that didn’t mean nothing to me, but then the other one asks how it happened.” He took another bite. Expectation shone in Poke’s eyes, but it was surely not so sharp as the burning impatience that seared Will. “And the second bloke said, he was knifed to death…in Darktowne…by the old mill.”

“And that’s where you found our friend, Mr. Slate,” Poke surmised.

Will’s guts coiled up tight. A knife. Good Christ! He’d killed someone with a knife.

“Yeah, that’s where he was, right as rain. Lyin’ there in
the snow with a ten-inch blade lyin’ between him and another bloke. Only I didn’t know the dead bloke was Vic.”

Will’s stomach twisted and his hands shook.

“Lord Victor Rambert,” Poke crooned, and smiled eerily as he turned his gaze toward Will. “Would you like to expound on the situation, Mr. Slate?”

Emotions erupted in the silent room, but for the life of him, he couldn’t guess what they were. Who the devil was Victor Rambert and why had he needed to die?

“Mr. Slate?”

Will shrugged, fighting for normalcy, for memory. Should he deny it? Admit it? Boast? It was impossible to guess, for the world was a gray haze of uncertainty. “There’s little enough to tell,” he said, his ridiculous words sounding vague to his own ears.

“Little enough!” Peter jerked forward as if on puppet strings. “Tell us how you done it. Vic was the meanest son of a bitch…Begging your pardon, Princess…in all of Skilan. Maybe in all of Sedonia.”

So Peter wouldn’t mourn his passing, but what of Poke? If Slate were to offend the master of the Den, there was little hope he’d escape with his life. In fact, he was entirely uncertain he’d make it to the door, deadly assassin or not.

“We wait with bated breath,” Poke said.

Will considered shrugging again in an attempt to appear casual, but the reminder of pain dissuaded him. “It was dark,” he said instead.

“But you knew who he was?”

“His name didn’t matter a great deal to me at the time.”

“He had a gun,” Peter reminded them, gazing around at the audience. “Slate here only had a knife.”

“So ’e’s dead?” Gem’s voice was soft, her face pale.

“Dead as a stone,” Peter said. “And he was stabbed in the chest. Not in the back like some might.” Not a soul spoke.

“Well,” said Poke finally, “I believe this calls for a drink. Princess, will you bring us a drop of the good whisky?”

She disappeared without a word.

Will watched her go. Felt his stomach cramp. He shouldn’t drink it, he thought, but when she handed him the glass, he took it, watched his fingers curl around the smooth surface, watched the amber liquid slosh gently.

It trembled slightly as he brought it toward his lips.

“A toast,” Poke said, interrupting the moment. Will steadied his breathing. “To Mr. Slate’s survival.” They all raised their glasses. The lovely fluid sloshed gently to and fro. His throat felt painfully dry. “And to Lord Rambert’s death.”

They drank. Slate bore his glass to his lips with greedy haste. It felt like heaven on his tongue. He closed his eyes to the lovely burn and reminded himself to drink slowly.

“So our guest does gift us with multiple talents,” Poke said, swirling the whisky in his glass. Will watched the movement. “He is not only a dancer.” He smiled when he said it. “But he is a killer as well.”

William said nothing. Two-thirds of the whisky remained in his glass. He took another sip, remembering to savor. He’d only have this one, for he dared not become intoxicated. Not in this company.

“Did he come at you, Slate?” Peter asked. “Or was it you what found him?”

The whisky called to him. “It’s not something I care to talk about,” he said, and took another careful sip.

“Not talk about it,” Peter said, and laughed.

“Ahh,” sighed Poke. “’Tis just as I thought. Our Mr. Slate is a man of mystery. Or perhaps…” He watched Will carefully, reminding him not to empty his glass immediately as his body begged him to do. “Could it be that we have a man of morals in our midst?”

His hands felt steadier and his head clearer, but his stomach was cramping up again. Perhaps Gem had been right. Maybe he should have eaten something first, but the whisky was so smooth, so lovely and golden in the glass.

“Which are you, Mr. Slate?”

Will tightened his hand on the smooth crystal and hardened his muscles against the pain in his gut. “I am…” His stomach knotted up hard, pitching him forward. He fought down the agony, gritting his teeth against it.

“My apologies,” Poke said. “I didn’t realize you were averse to strong drink.”

“I…” he began again, but in that moment his stomach revolted, violently rejecting the offensive alcohol. He shivered, hacked, and shivered again. When next he glanced up through burning eyes, the room’s occupants were staring at him with various expressions of disgust.

“Well,” said Poke. “It looks as if our conquering hero is not yet quite mended. We’d best leave him to his rest.”

The room emptied as if he were a leper. He dropped his head against the wall, drained and sick. Aye, he might well be a hero, but he was most certainly a drunkard.

“S
late. Master Slate. Wake up.”

William did so groggily, opening his eyes and wondering for a hazy moment who Slate was. But memories came rampaging back in, bombarding him with information that seemed to rip through his body and trample his mind.

“You gotta eat something, luv.”

Gem was back at his bedside. He’d wondered a dozen times why she bothered. After all, she was a thief, and he was nothing to her. He remembered seeing her in the misty days and nights just past. She had repeatedly brought him water, and though his stomach had rebelled at the idea, he’d managed to keep it down. Now she sat with a bowl on her lap. Steam curled dreamily into the air, and the smell of cooked onions filled the room. Surprisingly, his stomach didn’t churn at the scent.

“I brought you some broth.”

What he wanted was a drink, but the memory alone was enough to make his gut twist. His hands trembled as he tried to sit up.

“’Ere then,” Gem said, and setting the bowl hastily aside, hurried to assist him. The process was almost bearable.

“There you go,” she said, pulling the blankets up to his waist. “Feeling better?”

If better was being flailed from the inside out, then yes, he was feeling quite grand.

“You got some color in your cheeks today.”

He drew a careful breath and dared turn his head to look at her. “What color is that?”

She stared at him for a moment, then laughed. “Well, they ain’t gray no more.”

“Ahhh.” He carefully rested his head against the wall behind him. “Is that good?”

She was silent so long that he finally turned back toward her, though the effort cost him dear. Her baby’s mouth was pursed, her eyes wide and strangely limpid.

“I thought we was going to lose you there for a while.”

Were there tears in her eyes? His mind bobbled at the thought, for he seemed strangely certain suddenly that in the entirety of his life, no one had ever cried for him. But perhaps that was the way of gladiators and warriors.

“But things is lookin’ up now,” she added. He tried to think of something to say, but no witticisms came to his battered mind. “Come along now, you gotta eat.”

What about his mother? Surely there had been one. And surely she had cared.

“Luv,” Gem said.

He glanced at her. “I’m not sure I can.”

“You gotta,” she said, and there was such feeling in her tone, such intensity that he couldn’t help but ask why.

She drew a deep breath. “Cuz otherwise you’ll die.” There had been several hours during which he’d been certain death was undesirable. Now, with his hands shaking and his body screaming, he wasn’t quite sure.

“And…” His mind was attempting to solve this puz
zle, to work out the mystery of this place. These people. “You’d care?”

“Course I’d care.”

“Why?”

She stared at him an instant, then lowered her gaze to the bowl she’d retrieved from the floor. “I ummm…” She paused, glanced up, then flickered her gaze down again. “Vic…” She cleared her throat. “Lord Rambert weren’t no friend of mine.”

He wanted to ask why, but it was none of his concern, and, if the truth be told, he could see the answer in her eyes. In fact, the feelings there were so raw and intense that he had to look away.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Sorry?” She looked up quickly, blinking. “What for?”

“That you…” He paused, wanting to tell her that this shouldn’t be her life. That she should be elsewhere, somewhere safe and pampered and loved. But what did he know of love? Or any of those other things? “I’m sorry you suffered at his hands.”

“Well…” She put on a smile. It wobbled a bit at the corners, but it was an honest expression, and for a moment he couldn’t help but wonder how many of those he had seen in the years before he’d become Slate. “’E won’t be ’urtin’ nobody no more, will ’e?”

There was such gratitude in her expression, such kindness that it was a struggle not to look away. “Why are you here, Gem?”

She glanced up with the spoon halfway to his mouth and the bowl propped beneath it. “Cuz this is where I live,” she said, and urged him to eat. He did so with some misgivings, but the broth tasted delectable, beefy and soothing.

“Why?” he asked.

She shrugged and gave him another spoonful. “It gets damned cold on the streets.”

“Surely you have other options.”

“Like which?” She brought the spoon up again and he watched her as he took it. She had a sharp little face, with eyeteeth that slanted in and hair that glowed like a flame. Devil’s hair, his mother had called it.

The idea stopped him cold, for his mother was there, in his mind—a woman of noble birth, well dressed, perfectly coifed and cold as death. Which meant that he was what?

A gentleman?

“You feelin’ sickly again?”

He marshaled his senses, calmed his nerves. “There must be scores of men begging for your hand,” he said, and when he glanced up, he couldn’t help but believe it, and that truth stunned him, for she was a thief. But his mother had been a lady, and he knew in the depths of his questionable soul that there had not been a droplet of kindness in her. And perhaps that was what had driven him to his present life. But what the hell kind of life was that?

“Not ’ardly,” she said, but there was something in her eyes, a misty hopelessness that drew his thoughts from himself. She was so young, so wounded, and despite what he might have endured, it was a Sunday in the park compared to her life. He knew that without question.

“One man then?” he guessed.

Her gaze skipped to his and her hand stopped midway to his mouth. “What makes y’ say so?”

“Because you’re kind,” he said. “And tough. Pretty.”

Her eyes dropped again. “Maybe once upon a time there was a fella who woulda wanted me, but—”

“You two flirtin’?” Oxford stood in the doorway. He was shorter and broader than Will remembered, but all memories were hazy at best these days.

“What you doin’ ’ere?” Gem asked. “Poke says you was supposed to be in Wayfield.”

The Irishman took a step into the room. Tension crowded in with him. “I thought maybe our friend ’ere might be sidlin’ up to me lassie, so I ’urried on back. That ain’t ’appenin’, is it?”

Will watched him carefully. He had seen evil before, that much he knew, but it was rarely so openly revealed. So blatantly flaunted. Amongst the gentry it was usually hidden behind preening smiles and perfect toilets.

“I ain’t yours, Ox,” Gem said. “And you better get gone afore the master gets back.”

“Poke…” Oxford said, and snarled a smile as he stepped closer, “ain’t my master.”

Gemini looked pale, but her back was stiff and her hands steady. Steadier than Will’s, certainly.

“What about you?” Ox asked, staring at William in open challenge. “’E your master?”

Dammit to hell! Maybe he’d been as fierce as a poked lion in the past, but he felt as weak as a bunny just now, hardly ready for a battle with this ogre. “What do you want, Oxford?” he asked, and his voice was surprisingly level. Impressively steady. Like a warrior’s. Like a hero wounded in battle.

“What do I want?” snorted the Irishman, and stepped closer still. “I’m wondering what
you
want.”

“I’d like to eat my broth in peace.” And that was the truth if ever he’d spoken it.

“And to fuck the girl ’ere!” the other snarled. The words were startlingly sharp, and in that moment Will
realized the Ox had been drinking. He could smell it on the man’s breath and, despite everything, the scent was intoxicating, scrambling his wits, tilting his insides.

“Is that the way of it?” rasped Oxford. The smell of whisky was almost overpowering, but Will steadied himself as best he could, remembering to focus on the business at hand. The business of living. It took a hell of a lot of concentration these days. Had it always?

“You’d best find a bed and sleep it off, Oxford,” he said, and hoped his tone conveyed bored self-assurance. The cocky words of an armored gladiator instead of the sniveling whine of a foppish fool.

But the Irishman laughed “Oh I’m planning on finding a bed,” he said, and, reaching out, yanked Gem to her feet.

The soup bowl flew into the air, then landed, spinning crazily on its side. Gem gasped and tried to jerk away, but Ox held her tight. Her expression was defiant, but she couldn’t control the horrific dread in her eyes. Dread he’d seen before, though he didn’t know where. Revulsion twisted Will’s gut, but there was nothing he could do. This was the life she’d chosen after all. The life of a thief. And Oxford had a knife. Will could see the handle protruding past the belt of his greasy trousers. He could see the knife and remember fresh, startling pain with shocking, breathtaking clarity. The smell of blood. The taste of terror.

Oxford looked into William’s eyes, and there he saw the horrific truth, for he laughed as he yanked the girl to his side.

She struck him with a fist to his chest, and he backhanded her across the face. She staggered away, still held by her wrist.

“Ox!” Will said, startling himself. The single word fell
like poison into the room, and Will’s stomach roiled with dark premonition.

The world went silent. Ox turned slowly. “Aye, laddie?” he said, and pulled his knife from his pants. It gleamed in the firelight but no more brightly than his eyes, which glowed like a rabid wolf’s. Half-human he looked. Savage and wild and capable of anything.

Death yawned in William’s face. Death and pain and lingering agony, and for what? A thief? Fear gnawed at him. Ox grinned. Evil shone dark and deadly in his eyes.

“Come on then, lovey. ’E ain’t gonna bother us none,” growled the Irishman, and jerked Gem forward. She whimpered, and it was that sound, that tiny whisper of fear, that galvanized Will’s resolve.

“Let her go, Ox.” For a moment William truly didn’t realize the words came from him, for it would be so much more practical to turn away, to remain in the darkness of his own mind, but he could see the imprint of Oxford’s knuckles against the paleness of Gem’s cheek. And suddenly he knew—he was not the kind of man to let the innocent suffer. Not when there was something he could do to prevent it.

“What’d you say?” The Irishman seemed surprised to hear him speak.

Will drew a deep breath, steadying his nerves. So even heros felt fear. That much was clear. “I told you to let her go.”

Oxford squared off, still holding Gem’s wrist. “And tell me, me bonny lad,” he said, and smiled again. Death shown in his eyes. “Why might I be doin’ that?”

Fear was a glacial block in Will’s gut, slowing his motions, gumming his thoughts. His muscles screamed. At any moment, the Irishman was going to charge, and there was little he could do in his present state. Except maybe
pray, if he remembered how. He tried that immediately, a garbled, incoherent thought to a God he hoped would favor boldness, no matter how idiotic. “Because Lord Rambert’s dead.” The words seemed to come of their own accord.

Oxford snorted. “Who the fuck is…” But he stopped, and his eyes narrowed.

Will remained absolutely still, letting the silence soak into the room, and praying like hell it would drown his terror. “I believe you may have called him Vic.”

The Irishman scowled. “’E’s dead?”

“Yes.”

Oxford shrugged, but there was caution in his eyes now. “And what’s that got to do with you, bonny boy?”

“I’m sure you’re not as daft as you look, Oxford.” He said the words with a stiff grin, though he would have sworn he had no wish to die. “It would almost have to be true. So I’ll let you work it out in your own mind. We were in Tayside. I was wounded. Vic was killed. That tell you anything, Ox?”

The Irishman snorted, then shuffled his feet as if to turn away, but he didn’t. Instead, he kept his narrowed eyes steady on his adversary. “You sayin’ you killed ’im?”

William watched him for a moment, saw the fear spark in his eyes, saw the caution overtake the bravado, and for a moment he almost felt whole, almost felt human. Indeed, his hands were all but steady, and he smiled.

Ox shifted his feet about again. “You’re a fuckin’ liar.”

Will managed a shrug. Pain shot like slivers toward his heart, but he held on tight to the grin. Held on tight to the other’s gaze.

“Let the lass go,” he said finally, and his voice was low and even, though his muscles were cramped tight with gnawing tension.

For a moment, Will was certain Ox would refuse, was certain he would lunge. Could already feel the pain of his strike against the burning ache of his chest.

But instead he snorted and shoved Gem aside. “Don’t ’ave time for a skinny wench like ’er nohow,” he said, and, turning like a stiff-legged mongrel, stalked off.

The room fell into absolute silence. From some distant part of the house, a door slammed. Will’s body went limp. In fact, he let his head drop back against the wall behind him and hoped to heaven he wouldn’t be sick again. After all, it might undermine his role as conquering hero.

Footsteps pattered across the hardwood as Gem hurried to gather up the bowl from where it spilled onto the floor. “I’m ummm…” she began, and Will turned to glance at her. She straightened, searching for words. “Y’ didn’t ’ave to do that,” she said. “I can fend for myself.”

Better than he could. He was now quite certain of that, and yet something had flared in his chest. Something hot and wild and irresistible. Like life itself.

“Still, I’m…” The word “grateful” seemed to quiver on her baby’s lips, but it didn’t quite come. “I’ll fetch more broth,” she said, and, turning, hustled from the room.

And he was going to piss in his pants. Fucking hell! His bladder felt weak and his stomach queasy, and he wondered vaguely if he could make it to the window before spewing his guts onto the street. Or perhaps, while he was at the window, he might just throw himself out before the facts were revealed to one and all, for he knew the truth now. Oh yes, he knew. He’d been in a drunken stupor when he’d been accosted by the two thugs who had left Rambert dead on the street.

“Should I fetch your bowl?”

He raised his eyes with some difficulty. Princess stood in the doorway, her brows slightly raised as she stared at him. Will held his palms flat against the coverlet lest she see them shake. “What bowl is that?”