‘Fifteen thousand in gold. That is the most I can offer.’
‘Fifteen thousand in gold,’ he repeated. ‘Holy Mother of Christ.’ He looked around the smoky room and drew a deep breath through flared nostrils. ‘Well, that answers the question of how much Pike wants it. If you’d offered me that a week ago, I’d have taken it. But not now.’ He licked his lips. ‘Now there’s something I want far more than just money, and it’s the only thing I’ll take for the journal.’
What on earth could he want other than money? She did not have the authority to promise anything else.
‘What is it?’
He leaned forward, his eyes fixed on her like the ravening hyena she had once seen at the Exeter ’Change. ‘I don’t want to lose my Terrene powers,’ he said softly. ‘The only way I can keep them is to bond with another Reclaimer — you. Tell Pike if he makes me your Terrene, he can have the journal.’
‘No!’ She jerked back from the demand. ‘I already have a Terrene.’
‘You just said you ain’t bonded yet. Easy for me to step in and take over.’
‘It is a ridiculous idea. You could never enter my world. You are too low.’
‘That won’t wash in the Dark Days Club, my lady,’ he said, pitching his voice for Reclaimer ears only. ‘Pike was a butcher’s son, now he’s Second Secretary. I grew up in the Brighton workhouse, and I rose to be Benchley’s Terrene. It don’t matter where you come from in our line of work. Besides, you’re trying to place your own maid as your Terrene. She’s got an estate and fine manners, has she?’
‘At least she is civilised,’ Helen snapped. He had been in the workhouse? She almost felt a stab of pity. Almost. ‘Pike has already agreed to my choice. The matter is settled.’
He regarded her with narrowed eyes. ‘Pike don’t want two women doing what we do — it ain’t natural.’ He sat back and crossed his arms. ‘I know he’d get rid of you if he was able, but he can’t change the accident of your birth. Mark my words, he’ll jump at the chance of getting rid of your maid and putting me in her place. Not only will he get the journal, he’ll save his precious Home Office fifteen thousand pounds and get an experienced Terrene to keep you in line.’
‘No. Pike …’ Helen’s mouth dried around her words. He was right: Pike would take the offer in a heartbeat. And if she was to believe the scrap of paper in her pocket — which she did — the journal really did contain information about her parents and most probably Lord Carlston too. Even so, she could not have this man as her Terrene. It was unthinkable.
‘I don’t want you.’ It was all she could manage to say.
He shrugged. ‘Did you take the oath?’
She pressed her lips together.
‘Of course you did. You’re bound by law to do what Pike says. Or will you go against your King and your word?’
‘You have.’
He squinted at her, sizing her up. ‘You wouldn’t break an oath — far too noble and moral for that kind of thing.’ He wagged an admonishing forefinger. ‘You need to learn how the world really works. Go tell Pike he can have the journal as soon as you and me are bonded. We’ll do the ritual on the twenty-fourth, the full moon — it makes the strongest bond. That means you got seventeen days to make the preparations. I’ll tell you where we meet. And if you do as I say, like a good girl, I’ll let you see what else Benchley wrote about your traitor mother.’
Helen clenched her fists, every fibre in her body aching to reach across and close her hand around his throat. To force the information out of him. Force the whereabouts of the journal out of his swelling, blue face.
He gave a yip of laughter. ‘I can see the violence in your eyes, but you won’t do it, will you? You can’t. Don’t worry, when we’re bonded I’ll make a real Reclaimer out of you.’ He leaned across the table, fleshy lips wet, his voice only for Reclaimer ears. ‘And a real woman. I’ll enjoy holding you down, grounding you to the earth like a good Terrene.’
Abruptly she stood, the bench toppling over from the force.
The two men at the nearest table turned. Helen felt their interest spread to the group on the next table and the one after that, a cascade of unwanted curiosity. She bit back her words and stepped over the bench. Her body wanted to fight or run or scream, but all she could do was back away.
Lowry picked up his tankard again and gave her a lazy wink. ‘Good evening, Mr Amberley. I’ll be seeing you again.’
She turned and made for the doorway, pursued by the image of Lowry lying across her body, his sweating weight pressing her against the earth. Like a good Terrene.
Chapter Eight
Ten minutes later, Helen was gripping the edge of the gig seat as the chestnut clattered back across the bridge. She had uttered only one word in the yard — ‘Go’ — and had not spoken since, afraid that she would scream or weep if she opened her mouth. Not the kind of behaviour expected from a young man. She stared ahead, mind churning, barely seeing Hammond’s anxious glances as he steadied the horse into a trot down School Hill.
She could not take Lowry as her Terrene. She pressed her hand to her mouth. The man was foul. Yet she and Hammond had to retrieve Benchley’s journal from him. How could it be done without sacrificing herself? She had to find a way and be quick about it. They had less than three weeks before the full moon.
‘Lady Helen, tell me what happened.’ The lamp at the side of the gig cast a weak light across Hammond’s face, shading his eyes and mouth into dark pits of worry. ‘Please say something.’
She held up her hand: Not yet. A glimmer of an idea was showing itself. She sat forward, gaze on the road ahead but all her attention fixed upon the problem. For the moment, Pike only wanted the journal; he did not know of Lowry’s demand. Did he know its contents had been written in such gruesome ink? She would wager he did. The journal’s alchemical property was probably what he was hiding from them. Did it contain more than just information? Whatever the case, if she and Hammond found the book and delivered it to Pike, they had achieved their mission. They would be safe, and Pike would have no need to bargain with Lowry.
Yes, they had to find the journal and steal it. But how? Lowry could have hidden it anywhere.
Helen shook her head, the size of the task overwhelming her train of thought.
They passed the White Hart, its oil lamps and torches casting a yellow glow into the dark street. Three men departing through the front door stopped and watched them whisk past. Closing her eyes, Helen lifted her face into the breeze made from their speed, letting the cool air clear her panic.