After being chased from Maremount, he’d decided to assume a false name—Cooper Smith. At this point, he had no way of knowing how much the Purgators knew about him. They hadn’t been much of a threat in the past century or two, but they seemed to be regaining strength.
So for now, he was Cooper, chipper and modern. He’d say things like Nice to meet ya, I’m Cooper. Nice weather, huh? How about the Sox? He’d wanted a contemporary name, and everyone these days was named after a medieval tradesman. He rubbed his sore biceps. Might as well be a barrelmonger. He hadn’t yet met anyone named Basketmaker, but it was only a matter of time. He reached for the bottle of Bierzo on his coffee table and uncorked it. He poured himself a small glass of red wine, inhaling its earthy aroma.
As he leaned back to sip it, he closed his eyes. His left calf muscle spasmed painfully. The flesh-eating wasn’t working as it should anymore, even after he’d devoured Elsa. He set down his glass and reached into his shirt pocket, pulling out a golden pocketwatch and inspecting its surface. He was well overdue for a tune-up. A haunted and skeletal man decorated its front—a reminder of what would happen should the mechanism fail. He examined the tiny cogs through a small window on the back, but he really didn’t know what to look for. It was time to pay the Earl a visit. He suspected the old watchmaker had set it to slow down every few decades just to get more gold out of him.
A flickering motion caught his attention, and he looked up to see his death’s-head moth, Papillon, dancing in the spring air outside his window. He sprang up and ran to the window, unlatching it and swinging it inward. Papillon fluttered around his head, whispering into his ear in her high little voice.
As he listened, he began to understand that some of his plans had entirely backfired. Not only had his Harvesters strung Fiona up on the Tricephalus, but that filthy Tatter boy had saved her. This would only bring her closer to Tobias.
Jack would rip those Harvesters to shreds if they weren’t dead already. He closed the window with a scowl. Papillon still hadn’t found her, but Jack would pay her a visit soon enough.
CHAPTER TEN
Fiona
Fiona’s footsteps echoed off the high, arched ceiling on the second floor. As she walked to her new bedroom, she ran her finger along the dark wooden wainscoting.
Painted a deep maroon, the top half of the walls were hung with oil paintings: wolves, an iron castle in a forest, a forlorn Roman soldier. Antlers hung between the golden frames.
Bloodstain seemed an odd color choice for walls. If it hadn’t been for the light streaming through the large bay windows, it might have looked like the corridor of a wealthy Victorian serial killer. Though for all she knew, that could very well be an integral part of the Ranulfs’ family history.
As she drew closer to one of the closed doors, she heard muffled voices through the oak. She pressed her ear to the door, holding her breath. The clipped cadence sounded like Mrs. Ranulf, speaking to her daughter in hushed tones.
“Mom.” Munroe’s voice pierced the wood. She was obviously less concerned with discretion than her mother. “The doors are locked. Relax.”
“Just make sure no one goes in,” Mrs. Ranulf snapped.
Fiona bit her lip. Goes in where?
Creaking floorboards hastened her toward her own room. She scuttled down the hall, pushing into her own bedroom just as Mrs. Ranulf left Munroe’s.
Fiona pulled the door shut behind her and surveyed the large bedroom she’d been assigned to share with Mariana. Mariana had chosen a four-poster bed in the center of the room, and she lay flat on her back, her arms outstretched.
A threadbare rug with a twisting floral pattern covered most of the floorboards, and the ticking of a ship’s bell clock on the dresser echoed off the high ceiling. The room smelled of mothballs and rose perfume. Green, floral wallpaper covered the walls. There was a grandmotherly feel to the space, but at least it wasn’t as creepy as the hallway.
Mariana stared at the ceiling. “Of all the things to throw down about, you chose to pick a fight over the legitimacy of IQ tests?”
Fiona crossed to her own bed. She’d chosen a smaller one nestled into an alcove. “The IQ test I took said I had poor impulse control. That part was accurate.”
Mariana sat up. “Why were you tested?”
“I thought everyone was.”
Mariana licked her thumb, trying to clean off some of the ink on her arm but leaving a thick, black smudge. “Nope. Just the freaks.”
Fiona fanned herself, cooling off her neck. Dust motes floated in the light streaming from a window over her bed. Through its panes, warped with age, she could see four boxy gardens surrounded by hedges. And within the hedges grew a riot of brightly colored wildflowers.