Kiss of Steel (8 page)

“What are we ’untin’, Blade?” Will asked. His nose was wrinkling up in distaste. He could smell it too; he just didn’t know what it was.

Blade paused. Panic never did a man good. But sending his lads out to face something they were unprepared for was sending them to suicide.

“A vampire,” he replied. “But keep it fuckin’ quiet, or we’ll ’ave a riot on our ’ands.”

Chapter 5

The last dying rays of sunlight glimmered on the horizon like a molten puddle of gold. Blade walked along the edge of the gutter, hands thrust deep into his pockets. It had been a long, frustrating day. He, Tin Man, and O’Shay had worked the northern end of Whitechapel while Will, Rip, and Lark had worked the south, hunting for a scent trail.

There was plenty of rot in the ’Chapel. Plenty of fetid stinks. The stench from the nearby draining factories filled the air, overwhelmed only by the splash of urine against an alley wall or the hint of garish perfume on a whore’s throat. Blade closed his eyes and kept walking, letting his nose sort through all the distinct scents, through the layers, dropping lower and lower, hunting for that sickly sweet rot.

“Bloody ’ell,” O’Shay muttered from behind. “I ’ates when you do that.” There was a brief flurry of scrabbling feet on the slick tiles. O’Shay swore. “It’s gettin’ dark, Blade. If the vampire’s out there, he’ll be thinkin’ ’bout breakfast.”

Blade stopped. Then opened his eyes. The end of the rooftop was an inch from the toe of his boots.

“I’d rather not
be
breakfast,” O’Shay called. “You know what I’m sayin’?”

Blade spun on his heel. O’Shay clung to a chimney. Tin Man rolled his eyes and hopped over him, sliding down the steep incline of the roof until he hit the gutters. He sunk the hook of his left hand into the tiles and caught himself in time. More metal than man, he’d shown up on Blade’s doorstep ten years ago, mute, his body scarred, and willing to do anything for his master, as long as Blade took in the small bundle in his arms too. Rumor said he’d once worked the coal mines, where the black lung took him. How a poor coal miner ever got the coin to pay for an iron lung was never explained, though. Nor where Tin Man had gained his scars.

Blade didn’t know where Tin Man had found Lark. She could have been his child or even a sister; he didn’t know.

Tin Man stared at him. The man couldn’t talk, but his eyes were eloquent enough.

Blade nodded. Lark was out there, determined not to be left behind. The rest of the men could handle themselves, but she was only fourteen. Or near enough.

“Time to regroup.” Blade dug a whistle out of his pocket. The high-pitched noise shot straight through his ears, but neither Tin Man nor O’Shay blinked.

In the distance an answering whistle screamed through the onslaught of night. “There ’e is, lads. Back to the warren.”

***

Night was edging closer as they made their way back to the warren. Blade felt it coming, felt it seeping its way through his body. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. He scrubbed at them sharply. Of late he’d been more aware of the moment the sun set.

“You all right?” O’Shay was watching him as they walked.

“Happy as a whore with a bottle o’ blue ruin,” Blade answered, forcing a smile onto his lips.

Will, Rip, and Lark were waiting at the warren. Rip stoked the fire with his usual patience, the flames reflecting off his green eyes. Will paced the parlor while Lark sat in his chair with her feet up on the footstool, scratching Puss’s chin.

“Off,” Will commanded, nudging Lark’s feet.

The girl flashed him a cheeky grin, then darted out of the room.

“Got nothin’,” Will said. “Nothin’ but piss and stink. It’s like he vanished into thin air.”

“He went to ground,” Blade said. “They always do.” He poured himself a glass of blood, swirling it under his nose. He refused to buy it from the Drainers, but there were those who offered it in exchange for coin or protection. A man could get too used to taking direct from the vein. Sometimes it was good to drink it cold. “First thing a vampire does is find a lair to ’ole up in. They ’ates the sun—it burns ’em. So it’ll be somewhere dark. Tucked up safe. A basement. An ole factory. Tomorrow we’ll spread out farther. Check the abandoned warehouses down by the docks.”

“And what about tonight?” Will asked.

“It’s glutted for the moment,” Blade said. “Won’t be out till the ’unger builds up again. We’ve got a day or two, at most. Tomorrow I want the word spread. I’m puttin’ martial law down on the rookery. Let ’em think it’s ’cos we’re about to go to war with the Ech’lon. Nobody’s allowed out at night past dusk.”

“People won’t like it,” Rip said.

“They don’t ’ave to like it,” Blade replied. He slid into his armchair, hooking his left ankle up on his knee. “If they’re caught out on the streets, they’ll answer to me. And they’d better have a bloody good answer.”

“So what’ll we do?” Rip asked, kneeling down and offering Puss a piece of hardtack from his pocket.

“Get some rest,” Blade said. “I’ve got the rookery lads keepin’ watch for the night with whistles. So keep your boots on, boys, just in case we get a sightin’. Tomorrow I want maps. We’ll mark out the areas we’ve searched and try to pinpoint where it mighta ’oled up—”

Will turned and sniffed at the air. “Someone’s comin’.”

Blade tugged his pocket watch out and examined it. Nine o’clock. If it was Honoria, she was early.

“Miss Todd,” Will said, a flash of disapproval crossing his face.

Blade tucked his watch back in his waistcoat. “Go on, off with you. No drink. No women. And keep your knives close.”

“That go for you too, ey, boss?” O’Shay shot him a leer.

“Miz Todd ain’t the sort of woman you’d be likely consortin’ with,” Blade replied. “And this serves a purpose. I ain’t forgotten ’bout Vickers.”

Even the men could hear the sound of her footsteps now, and then the brief rap on the door. Lark stuck her head in. “Miz Pryor’s ’ere. You want I should let ’er in?”

A brief swirl of Honoria’s scent swept through him, reminding him of the previous night. His blood heated. “Aye. Send for a light supper.” No doubt she’d barely eaten. “Some o’ that kidney pie and fresh bread Esme baked for dinner. And a pot o’ tea.” Ladies liked tea, didn’t they?

O’Shay snickered under his breath as he and the other men filed from the room. A cascade of striped skirts glimmered in the hallway, and each of the men took their fill of her. Honoria’s eyes widened at the sight of them and she politely murmured greetings. Then her gaze lifted and met Blade’s.

For a moment he felt as though the air was thick with the mysterious charged lightning the Echelon could produce. Though her cheeks were thin and pale, there was no sign of surrender in her eyes. She had come here with her defenses fully raised.

Blade dragged the stuffed armchair around, placing it close to the fire. The autumn nights were still long, yet a hint of winter’s chill hung in the night air. “Come,” he said, gesturing toward the chair.

Honoria tugged at her kid gloves. He pretended not to notice how thin and worn they were as he took her hat. Thick braids formed a coronet on her head, and her dress was an eye-watering confection of charcoal and white stripes. The cut of the cloth juxtaposed against itself, the stripes forming different slanting angles. A scrap of lace edged her throat, hiding the enticing glimpse of her carotid artery. Covered from top to toe. He almost felt like laughing. Did she really think it would be so easy? She reminded him of a present, just begging to be unwrapped. Starting with the buttons at her wrists. His lips, cool on the soft skin there as he licked the pale veins, feeling the pulse of her blood against his tongue. From there his mind took a detour. A slow exploration of the spill of lace at her throat. Tugging it free, revealing the smooth slope of her neck. Lips to throat, tasting the salt of her skin. His cock surged at the thought.

Of course, she was just as likely to conk him with the satchel in her hand if he tried.

“’Ere. Let me take that,” he murmured. His fingers brushed hers as he took it. His imagination felt that touch in other, darker places, but Honoria looked far less affected.

“You’re being entirely too charming,” she said, turning on him with guarded eyes. “What are you up to?”

“Per’aps it’s merely me nature to be charmin’.”

“Unlikely.” She gave him a reserved look as she seated herself. “You want something from me.”

“A gentleman never professes ’is desires to a lady,” he admitted. “It ain’t polite.”

A healthy flush of color touched her cheeks. “You’re quite right, of course. But a gentleman should never admit to having such desires in the first instance.”

Blade sank into the opposing armchair and hooked his ankle up on his other knee. He laced his fingers together across his middle, eyeing her with a slight smile. “Your notions are practic’ly middle class, luv.” The Echelon was all about the pursuit of pleasure. As if in defiance, the middle and working classes had become somewhat conservative. They dressed in solid, work-a-day colors and sturdy fabrics and kept well-mannered households.

“I am middle class,” she retorted.

“And I’m of the gutters.”

“Your manners perhaps.” She ran an appraising eye over him. “You have the gaudy instincts of the Echelon and a theoretical notion of etiquette, so it seems. When it suits you. I shall have my work cut out for me.”

Dragging the satchel into her lap, she opened it and started assembling an array of papers and notes on the small table beside her. “I thought perhaps we should start with an overview of what is needed. I have none of the equipment I use at Macy’s, but I’m certain we can make do. Your speech shall be the most difficult task. There are some books here that I borrowed from my brother…” She dug them out, relegating him to merely another student. He would just see about that. She looked up beneath thick, dark lashes. “Can you read at all?”

“Some,” he admitted. It weren’t the sort of thing he’d had much time for, between his early life on the streets and his later life in the rookery. “Me name. Dates. Numbers. I’m good with numbers.”

Honoria uncapped a pen and made a brief notation. A knock sounded on the door and she looked up.

“Come in,” he called.

Lark shoved the door open, giving an old automated drone a shove. The drone rumbled forward with a teakettle whistle of steam escaping from its vents. A gleaming silver tureen held Honoria’s meal, with steam vents keeping it warm within, and the teapot jostled on the tray as the drone jerked toward them.

“Bloody ’ell,” Blade said. “You’ve resurrected old Bertie.”

They didn’t bother to sit on formality at the warren. The drone had been fenced years ago, and with its faulty wiring it had never been sold on. Esme or Lark must have hauled it out of storage, though for what purpose he wasn’t certain.

Lark hauled the drone up short just as it prepared to plow through Honoria’s chair. “Bloody scrap o’ tin.”

Honoria stared in astonishment. “What is this?”

“An eighteen fifty-eight service drone,” he admitted. “Either that or a rusted bucket of bolts with the steering capacity of an ’erd of stampedin’ bulls.”

“Yes, but…” Honoria gave the pot of tea a swift glance, then eyed the silver tureen with far more interest. “It’s well after supper and you don’t eat.”

Blade lifted the lid. A steaming waft of kidney pie filled the air. He deliberately fanned it her way with the lid. To the side sat a small plate of biscuits and ginger cake. “I thought per’aps you might be ’ungry. Me ’ousekeeper’s grub is delicious, I’m told.”

“That’s very kind of you, but I assure you I’m not.” As if to defy her, her stomach gave an audible growl. She flushed. “You shouldn’t have.”

“Tea?” Blade offered.

Honoria stilled his hand with a touch of her fingers. “Allow me.” She reached for the pair of cups and elegantly handled the tea service, her gaze darting between it and the plate of kidney pie.

Blade smuggled a smile.

“Anythin’ else?” Lark asked, waggling her eyebrows at him.

“Get to bed,” he muttered.

Lark left them alone with a sigh of relief. The drone bobbed up and down, occasionally erupting with an almost flatulent gasp of steam.

“I’m not some starving kitten you’ve fetched off your doorstep,” Honoria said briskly, gesturing toward the lumped sugar and pitcher of cream. “You’re utterly transparent, you know?”

He shook his head to the condiments and accepted the teacup and saucer. “I ain’t the foggiest clue what you’re referrin’ to.”

“Fattening me up,” she snapped. “Like a Christmas goose. I’m not eating it.”

“Let it go cold then. I don’t give a damn, but me ’ousekeeper might think it rude.”

Her mouth opened. Then closed. “You’re incorrigible. I shan’t enjoy a bite, knowing my brother and sister are at home without—”

“Take some cake ’ome then,” he suggested, “if that’ll ease your guilt.”

She still looked cross. But she shot the pie a longing look.
If
only
she’d look at me like that
, he thought and rubbed at his jaw.