He carried the papers and his pack up to his room, the excitement of the hunt rising to a glorious tenor.
By the light of as many candles as he could spare, the hunter read every gossip article in The Times, The Tattler, and The Morning Chronicle. He started on the oldest issues first and worked his way forward. Most of it was inane nonsense, such as who was wearing what, whose ball was deemed a success, what courses were served at this party or that, ad nauseam. But one name stood out in all this drivel, rendering his headache and strained eyes worth the endeavor: Ian Ashton, the Duke of Burnrath.
The gentleman fit the profile of a hidden vampire to complete perfection. He came and went unpredictably, traveled far more than the usual nobleman, and all of his so-called “ancestors” were so similar that they may as well have been the same individual.
Ben chuckled in reluctant admiration at the “tradition” for all dukes of Burnrath to marry foreign brides and live abroad until their heirs returned to the family seat. It was a perfect deception.
Now the duke’s disguise seemed to be on the verge of crumbling. Due to the recent popularity of vampire tales, Lord Burnrath’s oddities were beginning to receive closer scrutiny. If Ben were to catch this prey, he would have to act fast, before the London gossips frightened the quarry away. He licked his lips in satisfaction. The hunt was on.
***
Scallywag John’s was a deplorable hovel. The antithesis of its aristocratic counterpart, Gentleman Jack’s, the tavern turned boxing club was a haven for the working class. Old barrels functioned as stools around a splintery slab of wood that served as the bar. A few shoddily crafted tables occupied dark corners, but most of the place was standing room only on the filthy sawdust-covered floor.
Ian’s nose wrinkled against the miasma of sweat, stale beer, and dried blood as he pushed his way through the mass of shouting bodies. At last, the ring came into view. The structure was little more than a square of frayed rope strung through old dock pilings. The rickety craftsmanship didn’t matter, for men did not come here for luxury. They came to see the fighters. Ian was here for one in particular.
“And now for the fight ye’ve been roaring for.” A small, rat-faced man stood on a crate and shouted over the din. “The Ox is the challenger!”
A gargantuan mass of a man lumbered into the ring, holding his scarred fists up to the cheers of the audience.
The announcer waited for the noise to abate slightly before declaring, “His opponent is our own champion, the Spaniard!”
Ian grinned as his second in command, Rafael Villar, strode into the ring. The crowd cheered so loudly that the building trembled, but Rafe ignored them. His amber eyes were only for his adversary. The Spaniard did not need to hold up his fists to flaunt his scars. One side of his face and the majority of his left arm were covered with puckered, ugly flesh. They were burn scars from the sun, but Ian knew little else, except for the fact that the damage was so severe that Rafe’s left arm was nearly useless.
A bell clanged, signaling the beginning of the fight.
The Ox clenched his ham-like fists and stomped toward his opponent. Rafe watched him with bored detachment as he reared back to land a sound blow. Rafe shrugged away nonchalantly. The Ox snarled in irritation and charged forward with renewed determination. Ian smiled. The poor sod had no chance.
The Spaniard was truly a wonder to behold. He moved with feral grace and a quickness that had the spectators gasping. Ian was also impressed, but not with Rafe’s speed, for he was actually slowing himself down. His control in holding back his true preternatural abilities defied belief. Even with one functioning arm, the vampire could crush a man before he could make a fist.
Rafe’s current opponent, however, was as unaware of this as all his predecessors had been. With an arrogant smirk, he shot his fist up in an uppercut at Rafe’s seemingly vulnerable left side.
To Ian’s view, Rafe’s right arm moved lazily to block the punch. Then, with equal ennui, he tapped his fist to the man’s chin, dropping him like a mail sack.
The crowd roared as their unique champion was once more declared the victor.
Rafe’s gaze met Ian’s, and with a slight nod, he quit the ring. Ignoring congratulatory shouts and thumps on the back, he made his way straight to Ian and bowed with a flourish.
“Your Grace, would you care to join me in the ring?” Rafe’s lips curved in a strange sneer that was the closest thing to a smile he had ever been known to manage.
Ian sighed as everyone in the club doffed their caps and bowed. He preferred to remain anonymous in this part of town. From the gleam of Rafe’s amber eyes, the rogue knew it.