Prince of Hearts (16 page)

“Do as the Earl says,” the Inspector said finally, breaking the silence. He was staring at Lady Christiana’s back with a bleak expression. “You’ve done enough. Said enough. We are not alone here, your Ladyship, if you have not yet noticed.”

Slowly, as if awakening from a dream, Christiana glanced in Aline’s direction, as if just realizing she was there, and her expression grew guilty. “Rowan …”

“Just go, Christiana. I … won’t hurt him,” the Earl said, still not looking at her.

Finally, she nodded. Then after sending one last worried glance Aline’s way, she started back towards the ballroom.

At some point, Romanov had placed his hand on her shoulder. She’d not even noticed, in her shock. He tightened his grip a fraction, and when he spoke, she could feel the fury rising up inside of him, his heartbeat once more pulsing at an alarming rate against her back. “It seems you have much to explain, Harker.”

The Earl nodded. “But for now, let us depart and show Miss Finch the trouble we face.”

“Professor?” she asked, turning her head in his direction, ashamed at how small her voice sounded.

Her heart sank when he met her gaze. He had that soul-dead look again, nothing remaining of the masterful seducer. “I’m sorry, Finch, truly sorry. But you must see for yourself.”

Chapter 6

MURDER IN WHITECHAPEL! The hunt for the villainous Ripper continues despite the Metropolitan Police’s Inspector E. Drexler’s recent violent encounter with a suspect in the case last week. The state of the Inspector’s health is unknown, but he remains on temporary leave from the Force…

-
from
The London Post-Dispatch, 1888

FINCH’S expression was ominously blank as she stared at the woman’s nude, butchered body lying in the moonlight on the floor of the condemned St. Giles warehouse Alyosius Finch had once owned. The killer’s sense of the profane was evolving. He had placed the spectacles on the victim, who was completely unclothed.

The victim also appeared to be unenhanced, which was telling. Either she was younger than she appeared to be, born after the Clean Air Act barely sixteen years ago, which was disturbing enough. Or this woman was of Finch’s generation, which meant the killer had gone to a great deal of trouble to find her. The similarities to Finch were even more pronounced, down to eye color, and Sasha knew there would be little more than a handful of unenhanced thirty-year-old women in this country who fit that description.

And the scene was even more gruesome than usual. It was as if the killer wasn’t even bothering to reinvent Da Vinci’s Heart anymore. There were no indications of experimentation or finesse. The incisions on the chest cavity were crude, and the heart looked as if it had been literally ripped out. Nor had the woman been bludgeoned. Instead, there were suspicious marks on her throat he’d never seen before, two deep gashes over her jugular.

There should have been a lot more blood at the scene with that neck wound, unless the body had been moved to its present location. But something about the violence of the scene, the position of this woman’s limbs, told Sasha the killer had done the deed here.

Another departure from the pattern.

If not for one of his father’s poems scrawled in atrocious Cyrillic script next to her head, he’d almost believe an entirely different killer had done this.

And had he known what they’d find here, he would have rethought Finch’s presence. This was leagues worse than what he’d seen in Genoa. At the very least, the officers could have covered up the woman’s nudity. He knew it broke Drexler’s stringent protocol, but letting Finch bear witness to that woman’s unclothed, butchered corpse just seemed wrong.

It could have been her
.

During the ride across the city in his steam car, Fyodor at the wheel, Aline had remained silent, studying him with unnerving intensity. As if she’d never seen him before. He’d not met her glance once, and he wondered if he’d ever be able to again. He’d nearly seduced her twice in the past week, and now he was taking her to view a corpse.

It should have never come to this. He’d wanted to keep the truth from her forever. But even Rowan had argued that was impossible now. Only ocular evidence of the truth would convince her – frighten her – enough to cooperate, and maybe Rowan was right. But the last time he’d regretted something this much, he’d still been the Tsarevich of Russia.

And when she’d begun to recognize her surroundings and had seen the crowd gathered outside her uncle’s former residence, she’d grown increasingly uneasy, as if she’d known something more dreadful than usual was awaiting her inside.

“But this is my uncle’s warehouse. I lived here,” she’d murmured.

He’d finally looked at her. Or at her shoulder. “I know.”

But now …
now
, there was no expression on her face, and he felt as if he might do something desperate, like scream. Or cry. For a few moments, the warehouse was silent, almost frozen in time, as Finch stared at the corpse.

Then she raised her head, looked right at him, and said, “She looks like me.”

Of course his Finch would cut straight to the heart of the matter. And though her expression was blank, her eyes were filled with such horror, and such accusation, he nearly did cry. But he strangled his emotions and nodded. And then, as if his legs were no longer connected to his body, he started in her direction, to somehow comfort her, as out of practice as he was at such things.

And he wanted to be near her, God help him – craved it. He knew exactly how her skin would feel, feather soft, supple. He knew exactly how her hair would smell, of lemon groves and oceans of mint.

He clenched his hands at his sides, and made himself stop, shaken by this inconvenient desire for his secretary. Ever since he had kissed her, he could not look at her without remembering every detail of the way she'd felt, the way she'd smelled and tasted.

It was getting out of hand.

“Excuse me,” she said dully. “I think I’m going to be sick. I’ll be outside.”

He moved to follow her once more, but she sent him such a dark look he stopped cold.

“Stay with Fyodor and Matthews,” he told her. “Don’t leave their side.”

She nodded tersely and walked back towards the entrance. He watched her until he was certain Fyodor was with her. When he turned around, Drexler was studying him with a rare sympathy. As if he understood him. And maybe he did, a little. Sasha suspected Elijah had nearly as many demons as he himself, having been born in a gutter – quite literally – and raised in London’s worst slums. Something drove the man to pursue the most unholy of England’s criminals with a nearly reckless single-mindedness.

Something also drove the man to inject opiates into his veins on a regular basis, a fact that no one else seemed to realize. But Sasha had trained as a doctor in his last life. He knew an addict when he saw one.

Yet Elijah had never confided in Sasha, and Sasha had certainly never confided his own dark history. Sometimes he wanted to, wondered what it would be like to have a true confidante.

But how could he ever burden another with his past? A past soaked in blood and violence and hate that no one in this warehouse, including Drexler, could ever conceive of? How could anyone truly know him without knowing the unspeakable?

And that Finch was here now, in the presence of even this small part of his legacy, made him insane.

He turned to Rowan. “Have your associates been informed?”

Rowan shook his head. “Not yet. I’m thinking that perhaps we should keep this between ourselves for now.”

Sasha gave Drexler a pointed look. The Inspector shrugged. “None but Matthews and myself have seen the victim. The witness is in our custody and too scared to speak.”

“The crowd outside?”

“Know little of the facts. There will be a thousand stories on the streets by daybreak.”

“The Council will have to be told. Eventually,” Rowan continued. “But if one of our kind is in league with this madman, keeping our hand close for the moment might prudent.”

“So you believe me,” he said.

“I have always believed you, Sasha,” Rowan growled. “But I still think you know this madman. You just don’t remember him.”

Sasha shook his head. “It isn’t possible.”

Rowan sighed. “I know you don’t like to speak of your past, but the few times you have, you said there were holes in your memory.”

“I remember too much,” he growled.

Rowan shook his head. “When you were reborn, you said you were out of your head for months – years. I think you need to remember that time. I believe our killer was there, with you. How else would he know everything? He knows you were struck in the head, then cut open while you were still alive…”

“Stop,” Sasha demanded, unable to bear another words. He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at his friend. “Now tell me what is truly going on, Rowan. Why you are suddenly so ready to consider my theories. And to conceal information from the Council.” He paused and glanced at the Inspector. “Moreover, why do you speak of the Council at all in front of this human? We’ve never revealed ourselves to the Inspector.”

The Earl shook his head. “Elijah will have to explain this tangle. I confess I still don’t quite understand what’s going on. But not here.”

Sasha decided to have both Fyodor and Matthews escort Finch back to Mayfair in the meantime, unwilling to take risks with her safety, or to make her stay a moment longer than she had to. After he’d seen to this task, he let himself be led into the bowels of the warehouse by Elijah and Rowan, away from prying eyes.

“Prepare yourself,” Rowan warned as he set down the steam torch he’d brought along for illumination on an old table.

Sasha just shrugged at Rowan’s dramatics. He was fairly certain nothing could shock him after all the things he’d witnessed in his long life.

Sasha was wrong. He was very shocked indeed when Inspector Drexler tore off his Iron Necklace, revealing a neck that appeared as if it had never been touched by a Welder’s blade. It looked just like Sasha’s own neck, underneath the fake Necklace he wore to blend in. Drexler then set aside the long cane he was never without and straightened to his full, towering height, his limp miraculously disappearing.

Sasha was even more shocked when Drexler reached up and detached his brass-Welded eye carapace.

“The old Earl gave Elijah the Weldling eye when Elijah was just a boy. His real one had been damaged beyond repair. I saw for myself,” Rowan said quietly. “But now…” He trailed off, speechless.

Sasha took up the steam torch and approached Drexler for a closer look. Drexler didn’t look pleased, but he stoically endured the inspection. Sasha reared back in shock. Like the Necklace, the carapace had been nothing but a facade, for underneath was a very healthy human eye.

The only indication that the eye was not quite right was its unusual color. Only Elders had eyes the color of yellow amber, but never just the one.

“I’ve never seen the like,” Sasha murmured. “Your eye …
grew
back?” It sounded absurd to say aloud.

Drexler nodded uneasily.

“Even I cannot regenerate,” Sasha murmured. “What
are
you?”

Drexler’s expression grew grim. “I’m a vampire,” he said bluntly.

Sasha laughed. He couldn’t help himself. “There’s no such thing,” he scoffed.

“There’s no such thing as four hundred year old Elders with Da Vinci Hearts,” Drexler shot back. “Or at least that was what I always thought until I was changed.”

“How long have you known about us?” Sasha demanded.

“I’ve known about the Earl since I was changed eight years ago. Before you came to London. I knew
you
were one of
them
the minute I saw your eyes,” he said bitterly.

“I’m not one of
them
, not exactly,” Sasha protested.
They
had never let him call himself an Elder – not that he’d ever wanted to. “I’m only three hundred forty two, by the way. And I still say there are no such things as vampires.”

With that, Drexler’s canine teeth descended into sharp points that gleamed in the lantern glow, and the whites of his eyes flooded with amber fire. He picked up Sasha with one arm, tossing him into a wall ten feet away, so quickly Sasha hadn’t time for a single blink. The wall caved inward with the force of his impact.

Shaken, he remained where he’d fallen, leaning against the crumbled wall for support, brushing mortar out of his hair.

“He’s nearly as strong as we are, Sasha,” Rowan said darkly. “Nearly as fast.”

Drexler sneered, and with those fangs still extended, it was a chilling sight indeed. “Stronger, faster, after a feeding,” he muttered.

Sasha did not want to test either of their claims. He climbed to his feet, but kept his distance from the Inspector. “What the
fuck
, Elijah?”

“Could you put those away, old boy?” Rowan said, eyeing the fangs and glowing eyes uneasily.

“Sorry,” Drexler said. “They’ll go away in a moment. I’m just a bit on edge.”

“
You’re
on edge?” Sasha cried.

“Well, yes. I have just revealed what I am to not one but two Elders tonight. Forgive me for being concerned for my life.”

“I am
not
an Elder,” Sasha insisted. Though he didn’t know why he bothered. “And why would you be concerned? The last time I checked Council law, there was nothing about killing
vampires
in them,” he said wryly.

“Not in so many words,” Rowan said. “But what he is … it’s forbidden.”

“If I have to say I don’t understand one more time tonight, I will rip someone’s head off,” Sasha cried.

“You have always wanted nothing to do with Bonding, so you would not be very familiar with all of its rules,” Rowan began.

“I have read the rules. A long time ago.”

“Foremost among these rules – rules that, if broken, are punishable by death, if you’ll recall – is that no Bonded may share his blood with a mortal. It is an inviolable rule, one that I thought no one had ever broken. Until tonight. Now I am questioning everything.”