Winterblaze (Darkest London 3)

“Miss.” He turned his gaze to the table beside her and was finally able to see what she worked on. “Is that what I think it is?”

With a delicate touch, Miss Evernight handed the ring to him. “A pistol ring, sir.”

The thing was exquisite. About an inch wide, the steel ring held on its top a tiny, six-chamber wheel.

Miss Evernight took the ring from him and slipped it on. It hung loosely on her slim finger. She turned it so that the chamber fell toward her palm. Intricate scrollwork adorned the sides, aiding in concealing the true purpose of the ring. “It relies on the element of surprise.”

“I should say so.” Win smiled as she handed it back to him and urged him to try. The fit was snug on his finger.

“Fires a 5-millimeter shot. Close range for true efficiency. A flip of the wrist to aim it…” She pointed to the ornately carved metal panel resting at the side of the firing chamber. “Push the panel to shoot.”

Poppy took the ring next and held it up to study it. “Marvelous, Evernight.” She peered into the empty chambers. “A 5-millimeter shot does not pack much of a punch. I assume you have taken that into account.”

Miss Evernight’s cheeks dimpled, and she appeared a schoolgirl. “Each silver bullet contains a small dose of oil of vitriol.”

“Which will do quite a bit of damage to many a beast’s insides,” Win said with admiration.

Poppy’s severe brow quirked, and he repressed the urge to tweak her ear. “I am not entirely ignorant, you know,” he said instead.

“I would never presume to call you ignorant, Mr. Amon.” Lips pursed, she handed the gun back to Miss Evernight. “Excellent work. When will it be ready for the field?”

“If testing goes well, next week.”

Poppy dug into the parcel bag she had slung over her shoulder and pulled out Colonel Alden’s artificial arm.

The reaction in Miss Evernight was immediate and stunning. The young woman held her hand out for it with a look of near reverence. “I remember this.” Her fingers skimmed over the steel hand before pausing on the tiny star mark.

“The Evernight mark, yes?” Poppy said.

Miss Evernight’s dark eyes lifted. “My grandfather’s.”

“Mr. Eamon Evernight,” Poppy said. “He passed away two summers ago.”

“Yes.” Miss Evernight’s slim fingers did not stop their exploration of the piece, even as she gave her attention to them. “I was a girl at the time, but I remember him working on it. He was quite proud of this hand.”

“Do you know anything more about it?” Win asked.

“It was a special commission. It had made his name within the SOS.”

Win exchanged a glance with Poppy.

“Do you know who placed the order?” Poppy asked.

Miss Evernight finally took her hand from the steel limb. “They were Regulators. A man and a woman.”

“How can you be sure?”

“The pin upon the woman’s cloak.” A small grimace twisted her mouth. “I wasn’t supposed to watch.”

“But children will be children,” Win said, drawing her in. “Did you see their faces?”

“The man I saw. He was about your height, Mr. Amon. Dark hair, strangely pale eyes.”

“And the woman?” he prompted.

“Never got a good look at her, I’m afraid. She wore a hooded cloak that covered her hair. However, I remember thinking that they were more than simply partners, for the man called her ‘darling’.”

Poppy’s mouth thinned. “Moira Darling?”

Miss Evernight’s dark eyes lit up. “Yes, that’s it.”

They had moved to go when Mary Chase burst into the room. Her footsteps were oddly soundless as she hurried past the workbenches to get to them. “I’ve found Mr. Talent,” she said without preamble. “I’ll need your help.”

Chapter Thirty

Deep in the bowels of the ship, Mary Chase searched. Sound echoed here; the Thames slapped against the outside of the iron hull and made the air a damp blanket. The stench of rot and dank water grew stronger. A sick fug that clogged her nostrils.

The inspector and Mrs. Lane had fanned off in other directions, each of them taking a section of the ship. Now she was alone, and she did not like it. So many places she’d been, so many things she’d seen, and still her heart whirred and clicked with quick fear. She yearned to break free of her heavier body and drift away. But an iron door loomed before her, calling her forth. Whatever lay behind it was wrong. So wrong. She felt it to her very core.

Even so, she kept going, her feet nothing more than a whisper over the floor. The lock proved intricate and advanced, but she’d dealt with worse. She crouched before it, her knees aching. The puff of her breath obscured her view, and she willed herself calm, willed her numb fingers to work.

The tiny snick of the lock turning sent her whirring heart into high speed. Slowly she rose and lifted the hatch lever. Damp, hot air escaped the door in an audible gasp, and the fetid scent of iron, blood, and human waste assaulted her. Opening all of her senses, she slid the spiked baton out of its hiding place within her sleeve and grasped the handle tight. And then she crept into the dark maw of the room.

Steam curled her hair and filled her lungs. All was quiet. She eased into the room, keeping her back to the wall, and glanced about as her blood pounded in her ears. It was dark, but that was all right; she could see well enough. A table, iron and crusted over with dried blood, sat dead center. Blood coated the floor, creating sticky pools that pulled at her boots and released them with a sick, squelching sound as she moved on. Despite the unbearable heat of the room, her hands turned to ice. An orange glow came from the far corner, the source of the heat. The small furnace burned at full power, hissing and cackling as it ate up its fuel. Her mouth went dry. Another step and she was almost next to the furnace, and the whole of her left side burned, her skin going tight and too hot. Her body shook as she scanned the rest of the room and stopped. A scream surged up her throat and came out in a helpless gasp.

She stumbled forward, her gaze darting around. She was alone. Save for him. And then she let herself really look, and bile burned her throat. She’d found him.

Jack Talent hung on the wall, na**d and crucified. Thick iron spikes drove through his hands, shoulders, thighs, feet, and heart. Iron to keep him from shifting. His blood ran in thick rivulets to be collected in iron pails beneath him. Hair shorn off, his head hung forward, resting against one pike.

“Jack,” she whispered, shaking so hard it came out as a sob. Whatever she felt for him, he did not deserve this. No one did. He did not move. The scent of death was too thick for her to determine if it was his or another’s. Oh, but he was pale. So pale. Her baton clattered to the floor as she reached him. His skin was clammy yet hot and covered with symbols carved directly into his skin. A grunt, so low and weak she might have missed it, broke from his cracked lips.

“Help!” She hadn’t realized she’d shouted the words until footsteps pounded along the iron floor. She glanced back and saw the familiar outlines of Mr. and Mrs. Lane.

Mary pressed her palm against Talent’s quivering side, and his pain screamed in her ears. “Help him.”

The inspector swore as he rushed forward, his strong arms lifting Talent’s weight off the spikes as he began to wrench them out. But it was Mum’s face that captured Mary’s attention, for it promised vengeance and death.

Jack lay within the womb of his bedding. If he kept perfectly still, barely drawing a breath, he could almost remain numb and think of nothing more than how good the weight of the quilt felt on top of him and the softness of the mattress beneath him. But it was impossible to keep himself in that state of nothingness forever. A sound would break out from somewhere in the house, a laugh or the creak of a floorboard, or perhaps the rattle of a passing conveyance outside, and he’d flinch, his entire body seizing with terror and pain, and then the panic would claw at him. He was safe. Safe in Ranulf House. His true home. The thought held as much weight as smoke. It drifted away too soon, leaving him with the memories. Pain, degradation, the sick slide of it that had him shivering like a babe and burrowing down further into the bed.

When the terror had him, those once soft and secure blankets meant nothing. They could not protect him. Not from the memory of those hands on him, pinning him down, holding him tight as the knife scored through his flesh, or worse, when they’d stroked him, gently, manipulating a response that rose his gorge. And then the horrid, churning humiliation as they pinned him in a different manner, and their laughter as they enjoyed him.

Jack curled in on himself, gagging even as he held himself as tightly coiled as he could manage, his arms wrapped about his drawn up-knees. The position hurt and tore into his wounds. But he’d fly into pieces if he didn’t hold on.

The door opened, and he tensed. He was safe. Safe. It wasn’t them. Couldn’t be. He shivered hard and held on.

“Jack.” Ian’s voice. Ian’s scent, as familiar as his own. He swallowed convulsively. He’d never admit it to anyone, but Ian’s scent struck a chord deep within him, at the childlike part of him that immediately thought, “father.” His own father meant nothing compared to this man. Humiliation writhed inside of him that Ian should see him like this. That he should know what had happened—for Jack was certain he did—he could not bear it.

“Get out.” His voice was no more than a dry whisper.

Footsteps sounded, bringing Ian closer, not away. Jack tucked his chin into his chest. Ian stopped next to the bed. Jack could feel him there, hovering.

“Lad.” Ian sighed, and Jack shivered until his teeth rattled. His eyes burned, a hot, wet pressure building behind them. Oh, hell, just leave. Do not see this too.

But the edge of the bed dipped as Ian sat. In the periphery of his vision, Jack saw Ian’s broad hand and his golden wolfhead ring wink in the light. Jack squeezed his eyes shut.

Ian’s voice came just the same, blunt and unemotional. “It’s a bolloxed shite thing that happened to you.”

Jack stilled, his heart in his throat and his stomach twisting. Ian made a sound of anger. “I do not know what to say to you, mo mhac. Other than if you think yourself unmanned because of… of what they did, then I’ll personally rip yer cods off and feed them to ye.”

Irritation made Jack snort. It wasn’t bloody Ian’s body being tortured in that bloody room. Bastard lycan.

“Brassed you off, did I?” Ian retorted. “Good. You deserve your rage.”

He moved, and the edge of his thigh came close enough to touch. Or punch. It was tempting, but the shaking had started again.

“You’ll heal,” Ian said. “You’re too strong to do anything less.”

The shaking grew until Jack couldn’t control it, and his world grew watery. A blur as the rage and pain tore out of him in a sob. He wasn’t aware of moving; perhaps he hadn’t, but in a blink, his face was crushed against Ian’s chest, his fists slamming into Ian’s sides as if he could pound him to dust. But the man who’d called him his son, the man he called father in his heart, simply held him fast and took the punishment as Jack raged against the irrevocable tear in his soul.

Chapter Thirty-one

London, 1869—Love Requited

Well, I think you are wrong.”

Winston stopped and gently turned Poppy away from the foot traffic that flowed along the busy sidewalk on Oxford Street, tucking her between his body and the large glass window of an empty storefront to let. Most couples took their strolls around Hyde Park or some such landscaped area. Not Poppy. She preferred to roam the city proper. And as Winston would follow her anywhere, he simply let her take them wherever her whim demanded. “Explain.”

Her stubborn chin rose a touch. “Ophelia absolutely did not go mad because of Hamlet’s defection. It is utterly absurd to presume that unrequited love can drive a person to madness. Clearly that poor woman contained a fractured mind well before Hamlet waltzed onto her stage.”

His cheeks ached in an effort not to grin. He braced an arm on the window frame, which gave him an excellent excuse to lean in close and lose himself in her lemony scent and feel the subtle warmth of her body. The ever present ache in his gut—one that she’d put there—tightened a bit more. They had been married a week. A strange time, for whenever Winston thought of events before their marriage, his mind went a bit fuzzy. They’d fought. She’d been afraid to marry… and that was when his memory became muddled. He’d gone to Paris, drunk too much absinthe—a beverage he resolved never to touch again—and he’d come home, only to be cut off by his father. Win hardly remembered the words they’d exchanged. But Poppy had married him. That joy he knew to be true.

Now, however, he needed to find work, preferably with the Metropolitan Police, needed to find a home for them, for they were staying with her father, and still his want of her stayed foremost in his mind.

“You do not think it romantic that her love for Hamlet was so great that she fell into unending despair when he left?” he asked.

Sharp red brows snapped together, and he wanted to kiss the little furrow between them. His hand curled into a fist as she, oblivious of his lust, proceeded to lecture him. “Romantic? Bah. Such is a man’s idea of how a woman ought to love. By all means, let us poor, emotionally weak females fall into utter helplessness for the want of a man. Especially a man who couldn’t be bothered to treat her with any sort of—”

He kissed her. Because he couldn’t stop himself and didn’t have to. Her lips were soft, her tongue tart and slick. He slid an arm about her slim waist and suckled her lower lip before breaking away. “You’ll soon have me in despair,” he whispered, smiling against her mouth, “if you don’t believe in all-consuming love.”