Heart of Iron

Thirteen

The shop bell chimed.

The man behind the counter looked up, his smile paling somewhat when he saw who stood there. A mercenary gaze raked over Will’s workman’s shirt and leather trousers. “May I help you, sir?”

The display cases gleamed in the weak sunlight. Row upon row of pistols filled the cases. In the corner was another case with less common forms of weaponry; a gilded crossbow, meant for a lady; a handheld mace; even a pair of leather fingerless gloves, with razors cut into the back of them. One punch and you’d kill a man with them. Will looked at them lingeringly, then pushed toward the pistols. He wasn’t here for himself.

“I’m after a pistol,” he said. “Somethin’ dainty.”

The shop owner’s eyebrows lifted. “Something like that won’t come cheap.”

Without looking at him, Will tossed him a purse. It bounced on the counter, heavy coins clinking together. “Weren’t expectin’ it to.”

He leaned on the counter, splaying his hands wide as he examined the contents. A heavy derringer, a German-made M1879 Reichsrevolver, a steam-firing pistol… And there, something small enough to fit Lena’s hand.

The inlay was mother-of-pearl, the fittings gilded. A brass eyesight was mounted on the barrel and delicate little etchings lined the handle. “That one,” he said, stabbing his finger at the glass.

“A beautiful piece, sir. May I ask its purpose? It was designed for target shooting.”

“Protection.”

The shop owner unlocked the case and lifted out the mahogany box the pistol rested in. “It’s a seventeen caliber. Won’t stop much more than a pigeon, or small animal, I’m afraid. Unless you’re a damned good shot.”

“It will when I’m done with it.” He fingered the smooth barrel. A few alterations and Lena would be able to take down a bear—or a blue blood. Her own father had designed a type of bullet that would explode on impact. All he had to do was replicate the chemical mix and refine the bullets to something that would fit the compact pistol.

The shopkeeper fussed about him until his teeth were on edge, now that Will had proven to have good coin.

“And these,” he said instinctively, pointing toward the half-gloves before it was too late.

Outside, sunlight danced over the street. Passersby glanced at him in curiosity, but none said a word. A young woman in embroidered yellow cotton grabbed her son’s hand and dragged the staring child out of the way. Will was tempted to smile at her with bared teeth, but something about what Lena had said to him rang true. He wasn’t a beast. Not truly. No matter what the woman saw when she looked at him. Forcing out a curt nod, he strode past her as if he belonged here.

The night had been long and sleep hard to find. Colchester played on his mind, the adversary he didn’t know enough about.

Yet.

If Lena thought her best defense against a blue blood was to lie down and submit, then she had another thing coming. Last night scared him. Even at a gathering of nearly four hundred people, Colchester managed to get near her.

He found his way to a jeweler’s and strode in out of the wind. A pair of blue bloods were examining the wares at the counter, clad in velvets and lace. One wore a perfumed, fragrant wig, much in the style of Georgian times, and leaned heavily on a cane. Beneath the perfume lingered a faint rotting smell that made Will’s hackles rise.

On the verge of the Fade. The blue blood wouldn’t have much time left before someone decided to put him out of his misery—and spare the city another vampire massacre.

The middle-aged man grabbed his arm as the elder turned, leaning heavily on the cane. “Here, Grandfather. Take a seat.” He guided him to a chair and gestured at the shopkeeper. “Blud-wein. Now.”

Neither of them had smelt him yet. Will prowled the cabinets, fighting the urge to turn and keep them in sight at all times. The scent made his blood chill. He’d only ever faced one vampire. And one was enough, as the scars across his abdomen would attest. They were the only wounds his virus hadn’t been able to heal completely.

In Georgian times, a spate of vampires almost drowned the city in blood. It cost ten thousand lives before the Echelon managed to destroy them all. Now, when the virus finally overtook them and the Fade threatened, a blue blood was closely watched. As soon as his body started paling—his eyes filming over and his teeth sharpening—an ax was sent for.

The shop bell tinkled and a pair of heavy boots strode in. Will caught a glimpse of the newcomer’s reflection in the glass of the cabinet.

A long black great cloak wrapped around the man’s shoulders, with a spill of lace at his throat. His waistcoat was red velvet, a golden pocket watch gleaming against it. White gloves curled around a golden-handled cane and he glanced at the pair in the corner, his lip curling beneath a battered nose.

“Devil take it, Arsen,” the man snapped, tugging out a scented handkerchief. “Haven’t you buried that old relic yet?”

Both of the men froze. Whilst the younger stammered, the elder lifted his pale, powdered face, a hint of malice in those dark eyes. “I’m not dead yet, Colchester. Maybe I’ll take you with me.”

Colchester.

“I should like to see you try, Monkton,” Colchester sneered. “Perhaps I can do the job Arsen’s evidently been neglecting.”

Colchester was younger than he’d imagined, with the kind of smooth cheeks and rakishly tossed hair that might turn a lady’s head. A big, broad-shouldered fellow, he moved with the smooth-limbed grace of a swordsman.

His blue eyes glanced at Will’s attire and dismissed him. That was his first mistake. Any true predator would have looked past the clothes to the man within. Obviously years of rank and position had inured him to the dangers of the world. In the Echelon, if a blue blood had grievance with another, they dueled. Will, however, was used to streets where men took what they wanted with a quick knife to the back.

“Please, Your Grace,” Arsen stammered. “Grandfather doesn’t mean anything by it. We’ve been watching him closely. We just thought some fresh air would do him good.”

“An ax would be better.”

Monkton’s lip curled up. “Aye. Like the one you forgot to take to the late, unlamented Vickers ’til it was too late?” He laughed, a wheezing sound. “Heard it was a glorious duel with the duke’s wig torn off in front of the court and the truth of his condition betrayed. They say it took a week to get the stink of his rot out of the atrium.”

Colchester’s fist tightened unconsciously. “Don’t make a dangerous enemy, Monkton. You’re nothing but a minor offshoot of the House of Malloryn. And Auvry’s a dear friend of mine. Perhaps I’ll whisper in his ear and see the matter dealt with appropriately?”

Both of the men paled. The younger grabbed his grandfather by his velvet-clad arm and hustled him out of the jewelry shop with a steady stream of apologies. Colchester watched them go with a bored expression on his face. He eased a snuff tin from his pocket and inhaled a pinch of it, wincing through his bruised nose.

Their eyes met in the jeweled mirror on the far wall.

“Aren’t you out of your league here?” Colchester asked, tucking his snuff tin back in his pocket.

“You’d be surprised,” Will replied. His hands twitched. One moment of violence and Lena would never have to look over her shoulder again… He took a step toward the duke.

The shopkeeper reappeared with a pair of glasses balanced on a tray. He blinked to find the room empty. Colchester snatched a glass of blud-wein as he sauntered past.

“Really, Griffith. The people you allow in here,” he muttered, peering at an antique cameo. “I might have to take my business elsewhere.”

“Y-Your Grace—” the shopkeeper stammered.

Anger bubbled in Will’s chest. The chance was lost.

Colchester looked up. “You’re still here?”

“I’ve business ’ere,” he replied, stepping out of the shadows. Heat swam behind his eyes and every muscle in his body tightened. This bastard had done something to Lena. He didn’t know what, but it was enough to terrify her.

Killing him would be only too sweet. And yet, with it would go any chance he had of freeing himself and his fellows from the cages and arenas.

Instinct demanded he kill the duke. But cold intellect argued against it. He could almost hear Blade and Lena’s voices in his ear, trying to explain to him that it would be wrong. Sweat rimed his forehead. This was a world he didn’t understand and never completely would. But he trusted them, knew that they would not be pleased if he did this thing.

Colchester would never know how close to death he came as he straightened. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

“Aye. I know exactly who you are.”

Colchester’s gaze sharpened with interest. Will could feel the heat of his anger burning through him. For once he let it surface just enough to show, the molten gold of it transforming his eyes in the mirror’s reflection.

Colchester sucked in a breath and slapped a hand to his belt, as if reaching for a blade.

“Wouldn’t if I were you.” Will sucked in a breath and looked away. Little gems fractured the sunlight back at him, a thousand different shades and colors. Rings, necklaces, bracelets. An entire corner filled with pearl chokers that were worth more than his life. He focused on them furiously, trying to ignore the duke’s perfume.

Colchester’s image wavered in the glass, his eyes narrowing at Will’s back. “You’re the one they call the Beast, aren’t you? The one with the price on your head if you step inside the city?”

Will glanced over his shoulder. “Didn’t they tell you?”

Colchester’s eyes became slits. “Tell me what?”

“Prince consort himself give me pardon.”

Colchester crossed toward the window, his hands clasped behind his back. His movements were neat and precise; he was on edge, prepared to fight at a second’s notice. Will prowled in the other direction, running his fingertips lightly along the glass counter.

A dangerous dance. The shopkeeper had retreated to the door of the storeroom, uncertain what was going on but aware of the undercurrents in the room.

“I see,” Colchester sneered. “This joke of an alliance they’re spouting. I wasn’t aware of how fully they’d involved you until last night.”

“Guess you ain’t as important as you think you are.”

If looks could kill. “I washed my hands of it weeks ago. It took years to put you savages in your proper places. Why invite you back into our lives with an expression of cordiality?” His gaze ran over Will. “The entire concept is an insult.”

The barb went wide of its mark. He didn’t give a damn what Colchester thought of him.

As if realizing it, Colchester stepped closer. “I must admit, I’m disappointed. After what Cavendish told me, I was expecting a raving lunatic. They’ve leashed you well, it seems.”

“There’s a time. And a place.”

“Mmm.” Colchester leaned over, examining a pretty butterfly brooch. When wound, the wings would flutter. “Tell me,” he said, drawing little circles on the glass with his finger, “has she told you about me yet?”

Silence. “She?”

“Helena,” Colchester said, placing intimate emphasis on the name. He looked up. The smile on his lips was as nothing to the one in his eyes when he realized his words had finally drawn blood. “My dear, sweet Helena Todd.”

Will held onto himself with the thinnest of leashes. “Why would she?”

“Because she’s going to be my next thrall—”

No.

Will had him by the throat before he realized it. His fingers dug into the pallid flesh as Colchester laughed.

“You leave her alone,” Will snarled, his voice cold and harsh. “You catch so much as a sniff of her and you turn and walk the other way.”

“A sniff?” Colchester managed to gurgle. “I’ve had more than that, you filth.”

“What’d you say?”

“She didn’t…tell you?” Delight turned Colchester’s pale blue eyes warm. Then they bulged as Will’s grip tightened.

He could barely see through the red haze choking him. One twist and he could tear the bastard’s head from his shoulders. But movement caught his eye. The shopkeeper, trembling in the doorway as he watched in horror.

Not here. Not now.

But one day, he promised himself.

Forcing his hand open, he shoved Colchester back. The duke staggered into the glass cases, spraying glass across the floor. He was still laughing and the sound of it rode Will’s nerves like a saw. He saw red again and turned away, breathing hard.

“She has the sweetest blood, you know?” Colchester called. “Purrs like a little kitten under the touch—”

The next thing he knew, he was slamming Colchester face-first into another case. The shopkeeper cringed, but the laughter finally died. Will dragged the duke out of the mess of glass and jewelry and smashed a fist into his midsection. Colchester bent over like a sack of spilled suet, blood and glass encrusting his face.

A boot hooked behind his and they both went down. Something hot bit into his back but he paid it no mind, riding the edge of the storm within him. Locking his arm around the duke’s neck he twisted and slammed him down onto the hard floor, scrambling on top of him with his fist raised—

It never descended.

A hand caught his, iron fingers wrapping around his fist like a manacle. “That’s enough,” someone barked.

Will looked up, his teeth bared.

“Control yourself,” snapped a vaguely familiar voice. The stranger was almost as tall as Will himself, but built lean and hard. His eyes were the same chilling blue as a glacier and he wore black leather from head to toe, the hard carapace of a breastplate covering his chest.

Will blinked, finally noticing the pair of guards behind the stranger. He looked down to find his other hand twisted in Colchester’s waistcoat. Blood ran down the duke’s pale face, with chips of glass embedded in his cheek.

“Get him off me,” Colchester snapped, spitting blood. “I demand this creature be arrested.”

And that was when Will realized who the stranger was.

Sir Jasper Lynch, master of the Nighthawks guild of thief-catchers. They’d worked together three years ago to bring down the vampire. Lynch was a hard man, but efficient. Unfortunately he was also a blue blood.

Yanking Will to his feet, Lynch stared down his hawkish nose at the duke. “Your Grace,” he said in a voice completely lacking inflection. “On what charges?”

“Assault.” Colchester rolled to his feet, brushing glass off his coat. He looked around. “Property damage.” A smirk appeared. “Attempted theft.”

Will growled and strained forward, but Lynch yanked his arm up behind his back and shoved him face-first into the wall. Even in the grip of the fury, he recognized a man who knew the right pressure points to press to hold him there, despite his superior strength.

“Don’t be a fool,” Lynch whispered deadly soft. “That’s exactly what he wants.” Then he gave one last wrench on Will’s arm and let him go.

Will shoved free, glaring at Colchester.

“We’ll need to have you make a formal complaint at the guild headquarters,” Lynch said. “Then we’ll have to find a magistrate who’ll charge him. And the witness of course,” he added, with a nod to the shopkeeper.

Colchester paused in the act of brushing himself off. “What the bloody hell do we need him for? You saw him. He attacked me with no provocation.”

“I’m afraid I intervened in an untimely manner,” Lynch replied. “I only saw two men fighting.”

The pair of them eyed each other. Colchester’s eyes narrowed. “You’re making a mistake, Lynch. I’ll have you replaced before sundown.”

“Unlikely, Your Grace,” Lynch replied. “The Council commands law enforcement in the city. Not you.”

A moment of heavy silence descended before Colchester looked away. “So be it.” Colchester’s fists clenched at his sides, and he looked past Lynch at Will. His teeth were bloody as he smiled. “Don’t think you’ll be the first. The little slut’s got a taste for it.”

It took the three Nighthawks to hold him back this time. Will fought to push past, straining for Colchester. The duke straightened his lapel, brushed the glass shards out of his cheek, and then sauntered out the door.

“Let him go,” Lynch snarled. “You’ll only get yourself killed and he’s not worth it.”

Will looked up. They’d pinned him against the wall and he was distantly aware of something warm and wet trickling down his back. Lynch stared at him for a moment then nodded curtly and stepped back.

“Let him go, boys.”

They stepped aside, breathing hard.

“You’re bleeding.” Lynch’s nostrils flared.

Will winced. The rage washed out of him, a half-dozen cuts and bruises suddenly springing to attention. The throb in his back intensified as the heat washed out of his head and his vision returned to normal. He glanced over his shoulder, then swore as it pulled through the muscles in his back. There was something sharp there.

Lynch reached out and yanked a glass sliver out of his muscle.

Son of a bitch. Will hissed. “Some warnin’ would have been nice.”

“You’ll heal.” Lynch said. “Perhaps it will teach you to keep a cool head.” He glanced at one of his comrades. “Take a witness statement, Garrett. And an estimation of the damage.”

For the first time Will looked around. Glass littered the room, precious jewels tumbling from their cases onto the timber floors. Blood dripped from a nasty sliver of glass casing and he had the pleasure of the memory of smashing Colchester’s face into it, again and again.

The shopkeeper stared at the damage soundlessly. His eyes were wide and unblinking. “How am I going to tell Martha?” he whispered. “The duke’ll blacken my name. He’ll destroy me.”

Will’s fingers curled in shame. He should have held his temper. “I’ll pay the damage bill.”

Lynch grabbed his arm and gestured toward the front door. The grim crawl of evening darkened the sky outside, thick clouds boiling on the horizon. “I’d suggest it’s time for you to leave. It wouldn’t surprise me if Colchester returns—with a few friends. He’s not likely to take this lying down. And I’ve done as much as I can.”

Will nodded. Christ. What had he been thinking? He hadn’t obviously. One mention of Lena and the rage had overtaken him completely. Then his eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why help me?” He could count the number of people who’d ever volunteered to help him on one hand; in his experience, there was always a price.

Lynch paused in the doorway, eyeing the curious crowd that was beginning to form. Tiny lines feathered out from the corners of his eyes, and his dark brows drew together in a frown. “Three years ago Blade saved my life down in the sewers. I owe him. Consider this repayment.”

Will eyed the other man’s tense shoulders. “And?”

Lynch stroked his smooth jaw. “There is…a certain amount of pressure coming from the Council. I need to locate a revolutionary by the name of Mercury. He leads the humanist movement here in London and he’s directly responsible for the firing of the draining factories. I’m not a fool, Carver. Blade has ears in places I could never reach.” A direct look into Will’s eyes. “And so do you. I could smell your scent in the tunnels when we arrested the pair responsible for the draining factories.”

“We had naught to do with that.”

“I know. The pair told us everything. They thought they’d killed Blade.”

“Only stuck him a bit.” No need to spread word that Blade was fallible. His legend had kept the Echelon at bay for fifty years. “You want word o’ Mercury then?”

“Anything you know.”

A chill feathered down his spine. Lynch was desperate. He could smell the edge on him. No doubt the Council was tightening the noose around his throat. Everybody knew that the Nighthawks were comprised of rogue blue bloods—those created illegally or accidentally. Most rogues were killed when they first became infected with the craving. Those that could control themselves were offered another choice: a grim, solitary life as a Nighthawk, kept on the leash of the Council. They were useful to the Echelon, but they would never be a part of them.

Expendable.

Especially if they didn’t perform.

The image of that coded letter he’d found on Lena sprang to mind. If there was any way she could be connected to the humanists, to this Mercury… The fear grew, gnawing at his gut. What had she gotten herself involved in? First Colchester and now this.

“I’ll keep me eyes open,” he said, aware that Lynch was watching him intently. “Anythin’ I hear I’ll pass along.”

Lynch searched his gaze. “I wouldn’t cross me on this, Carver. If there’s anything you know—anything at all—you’d best tell me.”

Will nodded. The Nighthawk had picked up on the tension in his body no doubt. “Aye. I’ll send word if I hear anythin’.”

First he had to figure out exactly what was going on.