Janossi gave a crack of laughter. Ben managed a stiff nod.
“So I’d start in those places, for lack of anywhere else. But as I said, I can’t guarantee he’s still in London at all, and if he is, he’s lying low. If you do find him, Constable, don’t try to take him in yourself. He’s reckless, reasonably powerful, and very slippery. I’d give you someone to work with, but we don’t have anyone to spare.”
“If we get him, what will we do?” Janossi asked her. “No point handing him to the Met if he gets away five minutes later. That’ll just irritate them.”
“Windwalkers.” Mrs. Gold pulled a face. “He’ll have to be hobbled. I expect we’ll cut the tendons in his calves. It’s about the only way to bring his sort down to earth.”
Janossi grimaced. “Saint won’t like that.”
“Yes, she will,” Mrs. Gold said. “Or perhaps she won’t, but she’s leaving us along with Steph, so be damned to her opinion. Good luck, Constable. Joss will make a list of places you can try looking. If you should snout anything out, come back to us rather than the Met, and we might even give you a fighting chance.”
Ben left Janossi and the Council not long afterwards. He had never wanted to leave a place so much. His head was throbbing with all he’d learned. He hadn’t eaten all day but the thought of food made his stomach roil; he would have liked a pint of ale, or more, but he could not bear to sit. He strode out instead, through the London streets, not knowing or caring where his legs took him.
Jonah, part of a criminal gang. Jonah hobbled, gaoled, unable to walk. Jonah, in some molly club, fucking other men. Enthusiastically.
Jonah, accessory to murder.
Bile rose in his throat and he almost retched, holding it back with an effort of will. The taste was sour in his mouth. He’d thought Jonah had stripped him of everything, had thought there was nothing more to lose, but he’d been wrong. There had been a few last precious memories, but they were falling around him in shards now, their painted shell cracking and peeling away to reveal the true rotten nature of the man.
He wanted to scream aloud, or to weep, or to pound his fist into that laughing mouth till it was broken and silenced for good. Treacherous, murderous Jonah had ruined his life, and that left Ben nothing but vengeance.
One year ago
It began in a discreet establishment in St. Albans.
The tiny cathedral city was not a place one might have expected to find a house of ill repute. That was all the better, so far as Ben was concerned. He needed to be far enough from his own town of Berkhamsted that he could feel reasonably sure he would not be recognised; he needed a place where every man present knew what he was after. No misunderstandings that led to cries of outrage and the summoning of the law.
He didn’t do this often. Perhaps four times a year, some way from home, with the utmost discretion. Just for the human contact, just for the knowledge that there were other men like him, just for the company.
Not just for the company. That was clearly not true.
As it happened, the company that night was poor. The inconspicuous little place was half-empty, and nobody who was there caught his eye in the least. Many of them tried, which would have been flattering in a different crowd. Ben was a powerfully built young man, and his square shoulders and serious expression evidently gave him some sort of appeal, but he was well aware that he had not been blessed with remarkable looks. He was an ordinary sort of fellow, and that was quite all right with him. He wasn’t here for much. Faceless fumbles with strangers or quick, shameful, hidden encounters in back alleys. That was what there was for him, and he didn’t waste much time bemoaning it. He controlled his appetites, indulged them now and again, arrested people at work, didn’t get arrested himself. It was his life, and it worked well enough.
Still, it would have been pleasant to meet someone to share a few words with.
He sighed and sipped his drink in the consciousness of an uninspiring evening to come. He would have another ale, and pick whoever looked the least likely to be poxed, and have his cock sucked in the alley outside, since it would be pointless not to bother having come this far, and that would be that for another few months. It was about as much as he could expect. He would have been a fool if he’d hoped for more.
The door opened. Ben looked up, and the foundations of his life began to crumble.
The man walked in with a light, athletic grace to his movements. He had black hair that looked windswept, and deep cobalt-blue eyes that sparkled like sapphires in the gaslight, and a wide, wicked mouth that seemed poised to smile. He glanced around, one quick, practised sweep of the room, and his gaze found Ben’s. Then he was over, pulling up a chair without asking permission, the quick-dawning smile on his lips fulfilling all their promise.