Simon came to his feet, shaking the last of his vertigo aside with the determination of a bear. His coat was in ruins, but he was largely unscathed. He felt a slight tremble in his legs; the magic had left him weak, but he felt a rush of relief at being alive. He clapped a grateful hand onto the newcomer’s shoulder. “You came in the nick of time, sir.”
“Shut it!” snapped the sharp retort in a thick Scottish brogue and the man brushed Simon’s friendly gesture aside. “You came to a werewolf fight without silver. I’ve been tracking that beast for days. I won’t have you two mucking things up with your petty sorcery. That beastie belongs to me, and me alone!” Then he was gone, racing on the trail of the bleeding beast.
Simon stared after the Scotsman for a brief moment, but then he turned and ran for Beatrice, shouting to Nick as he passed, “Are you all right?”
“Right as rain.” Nick rolled his shoulder with a wince of pain.
Simon fell to his knees in the blood. Beatrice’s brutalized body was splayed on the cobblestones amidst the refuse, twisted like copper wire, clothes shredded. He slid his hands under her. She coughed weakly and her eyes opened. Simon shouted, “Nick! Quickly.”
The other man was at his side already. He squatted and put a hand on Beatrice’s forehead. “She’s nearly gone.”
“Then stop talking,” Simon cried, “and help her.”
Nick concentrated on the woman’s face. He breathed heavily and closed his eyes. Beatrice jerked and cried out in pain. She reached up a red hand and took hold of Nick’s wrist, trying to wrench it from her head.
“Stop,” she whispered.
“No, Beatrice,” Simon soothed. “Nick has some vivimancy. He can help you.”
“Don’t.” She looked up at Simon. “Don’t.”
“Yes.” Simon tried to pull her hand from Nick’s arm.
“She’s right, Simon,” Nick said. “I can’t do her any good.”
“What do you mean?” Simon asked sharply. “You’ve got the power. Use it.”
Beatrice touched Simon’s cheek. “Aether is killing me. I abused it for so long. I’ll die soon anyway. You can’t save me. Just let me go.”
“No,” Simon argued. “Just let Nick get you balanced. Then you’ll come to my home and I’ll care for you. I can come up with something.”
“Simon, please.” She smiled with bloody teeth. “There’s nothing you can do.”
“She’s right, old boy.” Nick took his hands away from her. “You’re overstimulated by your own aether, but try to see it straight.”
“No!” Simon shouted, glaring angrily at Nick.
Beatrice murmured, “I’m glad I saw you again, Simon. You’re exactly the same as you were.” A strange look of sadness and disappointment passed over her face, then all emotion departed, leaving only waxy flesh. She went limp under his hands.
Simon squeezed her cool hand. “Damn it.”
“She was eaten up, Simon. The aether was in every part of her. She should’ve been dead months ago.” Nick stood. “But at least she gave us Lord Oakham. If we can find him again.”
Simon’s voice was brittle. “I know where we can find him. We’ll see to Beatrice first.” He placed her hands gently on her chest.
Chapter Two
The next day, Simon made his usual rounds to the clubs, but he couldn’t find a reason to go inside. He met a few acquaintances on the street, but their gossipy chatter held little appeal. He stopped for coffee in a shop he never frequented to ensure he didn’t have to meet any of his normally amusing companions. He felt no desire to be amused.
Finally, Simon started toward the place he wanted to avoid. In the Rookery, he discovered through a liberal spread of coins among streetwalkers that Beatrice kept a small room near Dyott Street. He also found that many of the older women disdained her for thinking she was better than the others, having come from the world of a society courtesan as she did. The younger girls, however, found Beatrice to be kind and sharing, often allowing them to stay in her room when they had nowhere to go.
The building on Dyott was in vigorous disrepair. Simon could smell every aspect of human life. The floors were cracked and sticky. Cold air blasted through smashed windows. With suspicious eyes following him, he climbed the creaking stairs. His stylish suit marked him as an outsider, a man in search of a tradeswoman. It was a surprise to no one when he stopped at Beatrice’s door. He couldn’t be sure if the news of her death had reached her home yet. In such a community people commonly moved, disappeared, or died without fanfare.
The door was locked, but it was an easy matter for Simon to force it with a white-gloved hand. He stepped inside the cold cubicle, a tiny flat with a cracked window, a thin mattress, and a single chair.
His hand lifted to cover his dismay. Beatrice had once lived in a suite of rooms near Leicester Square with a maid and a cook. It had been warm and bright, full of art and furniture from Paris. Her bed had been larger than this entire flat.