Bronze Gods (17 page)

Mikani was watching her with a puzzled expression, as if trying to untangle her last comment. “Why, Ritsuko. If I’d known you wanted to rub ointments on me, I might have promised you in marriage to some lout long ago.”

“Don’t be absurd. You’d go mad five minutes after the groom carried me off.”

He looked away, murmuring. “So would he, I’d wager.”

“Only in the most delightful ways.” She wanted to laugh when his chin jerked up, as her attempt to distract him was apparently working rather well.

Ritsuko dipped into the pot with her fingertips, then bent so she could see the worst of the damage. With delicate strokes, she painted the area, feathering across his cut brow and around to his cheekbone. Then she smoothed lower, his jaw, his swollen mouth. With a gentle thumb, she grazed his lower lip, though making sure not to get the salve where he could taste it.

“How’s that?”

He looked up at her, blue eyes dark in the gaslight. “Better,” he admitted. “So, we should—” He tried to shift back, and winced.

“Shirt off. You can do it, or I will.”

“Gods, woman, you’re so demanding. I’m
fine
.” He did, however, unbutton his shirt, his bruised knuckles making the process awkward and somewhat unsteady.

“I prefer to think of myself as thorough.” She slipped the linen from his shoulders so it pooled on the chair behind.

This wasn’t the first time she’d seen his bare chest, but it had even more impact this time. Perhaps it was because it was dark, the lamp throwing interesting shadows on his skin, or it might just be because she was about to touch him. Different than a cheek or a jaw, or a wrist, different, even, than the soft underside of his lip. Her pulse skittered, and she hoped her reaction wasn’t noticeable.

Ritsuko slicked her fingers with the salve and knelt beside him, perched on her heels to better see his side, which was mottled with bruises.
No time like the present.
Afraid of hurting him, her fingers danced in butterfly strokes down his rib cage, barely grazing his warm skin. But each touch felt like a lick of heat swirling up her palms to her wrists until her elbows actually tingled. He shifted, shoulders tense and head tilted forward. He laced his fingers together when he rested his elbows on his knees, turning to let her get to the darkening bruises on his back and sides.

“I’m sorry I got you into this mess.” Stark sincerity rang in his tone.

“I’m not the one who looks like he got run over by a hansom. I’ve done all I can, though you may want to see a physician as well.”

She went into the kitchen then, poured him a drink; and the lull gave her a chance to recover her equilibrium.
I should probably leave soon.
He seemed quieter, less likely to do something rash. When she returned, she carried a glass of whiskey in one hand and ice in the other, wrapped in a towel.

“Here. Your two fondest desires.”

He took the towel and pressed it gingerly to the side of his face. Then he reached for the glass, his fingers brushing hers, not quite taking it from her hand. “What, are you going to just leave me half-dressed and helpless, then?”

She couldn’t decide if that was a tease, an opening, or an invitation. It had been a hell of a day, and what she really wanted was to curl up against his legs and close her eyes for a few seconds. Some fingers in her hair would be lovely, too. But such contact rarely stopped in innocence. Soft touches would lead to more, provided he was feeling this way, too. It was possible he was just too beat-up to recognize anything but pain.

The moment stretched on, until she decided on a response. “Of course not. Just tell me what you need.”

He squeezed her fingers lightly. “Stay awhile.”

A long sigh eased out of her, release of the day’s tensions and failures, then for once, she followed her impulses and folded to the floor beside his chair, facing the night beyond the window. She leaned against his legs, just a little, and ached because the closeness felt that good. It seemed like ages since she’d slept. Tilting her head back, she offered Mikani the whiskey again.

He smiled at her and took the glass. After he set the tumbler on the windowsill, his hand drifted down to settle on her shoulder.

CHAPTER 16

A
URELIA HAD LIED TO
T
HERON WHEN SHE CLAIMED SHE MIGHT
let him catch her.

In fact, the converse was true. Even after years in exile, she was still the Architect’s daughter, unable to walk away from intrigue. His mystery demanded a solution. So after a surreptitious visit to a seedy shop sandwiched between Chen the tattooist and Sad Sue’s pharmaceutical emporium, she had the means to discover Theron’s true agenda. Her own skills weren’t up to spying on such a powerful man; hence the nondescript charm hanging around her neck. It wasn’t the same as invisibility, more . . . misdirection, channeling her blood’s power to a new purpose. People’s attention slid away from her, registering her as part of the environment. In this part of town, she supposed she looked like a beggar.

The southern wards had long since abandoned hope of recapturing the prosperity that once lined the streets in figurative gold. The warehouses and industrial sprawl of Iron Cross formed a stark skyline to the east, defying the spires and glimmering lights of the Central District, invisible but for their reflected glow on the clouds from this distance. Leaving the eternal bustle of the Summer’s Gate District, she wandered into a maze of tenements. It had been thus for as long as she could remember; only the old Craven District farther north along the eastern shore of the bay rivaled the Patchwork in decrepitude. The stench was horrific; pollutants from nearby Iron Cross, rotten wood and garbage, as well as the lingering smell of unwashed bodies.

No hansoms operated here, so she walked the last mile, careful not to draw too near her prey. She slipped through the darkness behind Theron. The cut of his suit and his gold watch fob marked him as a target, but a whisper of glamour sent lesser predators scurrying away. His power made the air tingle as she followed, raising the hair on her forearms. Nobody paid her any attention; she was just another impoverished waif.

Aurelia watched as he stood gazing at a wreck of a building, two walls tipping drunkenly inward. His expression revealed distaste, a hint of anger, perhaps; the reading of people wasn’t her forte. Moment of introspection set aside, he pushed through the front door; she waited to a count of ten, then followed. Limelights cast sharp shadows and painful glare on the open area within, spotlighting guards, who didn’t stir as Aurelia hovered in the doorway. Theron ignored them, making his way to the rear staircase.

A towering figure stood at its base, bristling with blades. Theron said, “Tell Erebos I’m here.” The sentry’s eyes widened before he scurried upstairs.

I knew he was a dark horse, but this . . . this is worse than I suspected.
She wondered if Theron was some lord of the underworld, responsible for all manner of criminal enterprise. If so, he might have an ominous purpose in mind for her. His courtship could conceal all kinds of dire intent. She’d expected the usual political machinations, a desire for her father’s support or access to the Architect’s pipeline to new technologies.

Not this.

Once the footsteps quieted overhead, she slipped up the stairs. A woman with more innate caution would have turned and run by now, but it wasn’t caution that led her to surrender her family name and forge a life outside her House. She had chosen Wright, many years ago, as it implied one who crafts, as she had done her own path.
But once, once I was an Olrik. And we do not flee the field before battle is joined.
Her family was better known for cunning than bravery, laying traps for the unwary, and there was nothing so effective as foreknowledge.

The stairs ended in a metal platform, beyond which lay an office. If there had been guards, Theron must’ve sent them away. She stilled in the shadows, watching, listening. Theron stood before a pretentiously sized desk with a squalid man, and a slattern cowered in the far corner. The smaller man pushed himself out of his chair, making an effort to restore order to his hair. There was inherent grime about him that no scrubbing could scour away. Dun hair, sallow skin, and murky eyes could not be enlivened by any number of bright garments or well-tailored coats.

“Theron. It has been too long.”

That’s a lie.
Seldom had her truth-sense rung so hard, vibrating like a bell. She felt certain that this man would be happier if Theron’s head parted company with his body.

“Not long enough for you to change, Erebos. Sit. Then we’ll talk.”

“What about?” The fellow looked as if he might wet his pants.

“I’m searching for . . . someone special. You know exactly what I’m looking for.” Theron leaned across the desk with a menacing air, and Aurelia fought a shiver. “And you hear what goes on in the streets.”

“You give me too much credit. I have ears to the ground, but . . . one soul in a city this size? That’s impossible.” Fear laced the man’s tone, edging toward visceral terror.

Aurelia couldn’t sort the nuances, whether it was Theron the man feared or the object of his search. She had no doubt that Erebos knew precisely who Theron’s quarry was, and he believed the man to be a ruthless killer.

Her throat felt so dry, it hurt to swallow.
Please don’t let the charm wear off.
Some measure of self-preservation kicked in then, and she backed toward the edge of the landing, toward some stacked crates and barrels.

“You will
not
disappoint me. I’ll turn your warehouse into a killing floor if you cross me. See you again soon.” The words were loud enough to reach her though she couldn’t hear Erebos’s reply.

Theron glided past her, but he froze on the stairs, his head snapping up. Muted noise came from buildings all around. She had no words for what happened next, but his face went hard and predatory, a wolf offered a chance to hunt. He loped down the steps, his anticipation so fierce she could taste it in the night air. Her heart pounded like a kettledrum as she left the warehouse, a few moments later. Aurelia had no intention of continuing after what she’d seen—she was sufficiently scared—but the scene playing out wouldn’t permit her to escape.

Two shadows slipped into the street from the alley beyond, keeping to the walls and piles of debris. Clad in black, they bore no lights and were geared for death. She saw the faint glimmer of starlight on blades and the barrels of their guns and nearly called out a warning, but if she did, the magic of the charm would be broken. She didn’t know him well enough to risk her own life, particularly when she thought he might pose a danger. Two more men slithered down, clad and armed as their companions, from a roof to the left.

If I see them, surely he senses them.
Theron appeared oblivious, tinkering with his gold watch.
They can’t credit that he’s so unwary. Erebos must have warned them.

In the wavering darkness, Aurelia rubbed her eyes, doubting her vision. Tendrils slid along his fingers, edging them in talons sharp enough to slice the first assassin’s throat. He lashed out with lightning speed. Ignoring the dying man’s feeble clutch, he forced him to his knees, black blood pooling at their feet as he faced the others.

No. That’s . . . old magic.
Aurelia had only heard legends of such things, Ferisher princes with such power.
He has the ability to shape his garden to his will,
a small, sly voice reminded her. And terror clutched her until she went light-headed.

“You were careless.” He curled his claws as he flashed a predator’s smile, giving the body a little shake. The corpse made a wet sound as it hit the ground. “Never again.”

Two others rushed him, and Theron dodged a bullet in the motion. Spinning, he tore out another man’s larynx, the blood dripping hot through his fingers.

One of Theron’s enemies landed a blow; the knife skimmed his ribs, and in response, he split the man from throat to groin. The noise he made wasn’t human; it sounded like sirens, rising and falling beneath a drowning rain. Aurelia crammed a fist into her mouth to stifle her horrified gasp; and only pure self-control kept her quiet and still. She
knew
if he caught her, she would end up as another body on the ground, later a pale and bloated corpse floating on the waves.

Theron ducked as another fired. Lead slammed into the wall behind him. Another four shots hit the cobbles behind and beside him, a mark of the marksman’s panic, Aurelia suspected. Theron rolled to his feet, both hands embedded in the third man’s torso. He rent his flesh before discarding the gibbering assailant to his final moments of agony. She had never been so frightened in her life, muscles locked, her breathing light and quick.

The last attacker backed against the wall, trembling. With hands dripping the blood of the others, Theron approached. Took the gun. The man shuddered when warm, slick claws touched his flesh, closing his eyes. She couldn’t look away as Theron grasped the survivor’s chin between dripping talons.

“Erebos hired you to kill me.”

“Yes.” A whimpered admission.

Truth. But why?
To protect whomever Theron was hunting? After what she’d seen, she had no doubt that Theron’s prey would meet a brutal end. Before, she’d seen him as an entertainment, a way to stave off ennui, but now . . .
You’ve stumbled into such deep waters.
The irony was, her father had predicted exactly this, years ago, during one of his endless lectures about her headstrong ways.

“As I thought.”

The man’s dying scream woke sleeping dogs six blocks away. Covered in dried blood and dirt, Theron moved in leaps and bounds befitting beast better than man. Reaching the warehouse wall, he tensed and jumped. Razor fingers dug into crumbling mortar. With a hiss, he started climbing. Talons slipped into stone with a soft whisper, withdrew with the rustling fall of mortar dust.

Aurelia fled, then.

She couldn’t follow him on such a monstrous climb; nor did she have any desire to. Her knees felt too weak to support her; and without the charm, it was certain she’d have been robbed and murdered before she stumbled the mile out of the Patchwork’s maze and into more hospitable environs. Tremors rocked her from head to toe, and her thoughts felt scattered like a deck of cards flung to the winds.

I just saw four men, murdered. I ought to . . . report it. Shouldn’t I?
Given they had been hired to do harm, they probably hadn’t been
good
men, but it was still wrong to kill them. The lights seemed too bright after the shadows between the derelict buildings, the alleys heaped with refuse. It was so noisy, too, with hansoms and people rushing by, laughter ringing out with a tinny echo.

She reeled, nausea rising until she doubled over. Aurelia caught herself on a lamppost, leaning her brow against the cool metal. Pedestrians strolled past, not seeing her distress, ignoring it, in fact.
Why isn’t anyone asking if I’m well? Why . . . ?

The charm. Of course.
With unsteady fingers, she reached up to pull it over her head, but before she succeeded, someone stumbled into her, slamming her chest into the metal post.

“Filthy street peddlers,” the man muttered, giving her another shove.

She was already shaky, and her heel slipped off the curb. Aurelia reeled backward, too stunned to attempt to break her own fall. A chugging steam carriage rushed straight for her; she scrambled on hands and knees, but she was dizzy, disoriented again, then strong hands locked on her arms, hauling her out of the street and back to the safety of the sidewalk. The carriage thundered by; and she squeezed her eyes shut.
Two more seconds. Just two. And I wouldn’t be standing here.

“Thank you,” she managed, after a few seconds.

The man who had saved her looked familiar. “Are you well? That brute
shoved
you, practically under the wheels of the coach.”

At that moment, it was beyond Aurelia’s ability to lie. “I’m better than I would’ve been, if you hadn’t come along. It’s been a . . . difficult night, all around.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Wright. Can I escort you somewhere?”

When he spoke her name, she placed him—Mr. Gideon—employed by her production as a technician.

She managed a polite smile. “If I wouldn’t be imposing, would you mind walking me to the Royale?”

Leo would know what to do, surely. That was, if he believed her wild tale of old magic, savage transformations, brutal murder, and near death. Though she’d experienced the events herself, Aurelia still found everything hard to credit. It sounded like a story written to terrify small children.

“Not at all. Though I think, perhaps, we ought to take a hansom, if you wouldn’t be too unsettled after your near accident. It’s a long way.”

Startled, Aurelia took stock of the streets and her surroundings, then realized he was right. It was over four miles to the theater, and she didn’t feel up to walking. “I’d appreciate if you hailed a coach, but you needn’t accompany me. I’ll be fine.”

“If you’re certain.” Doubtless, Mr. Gideon had plans in the area, for which he was already late because he didn’t argue the necessity of riding with her.

Efficiently, he flagged down a hansom, gave the driver her destination, and bundled her into it. Then he tipped his hat and stepped back as the carriage clattered off. Aurelia was halfway to the Royale before she touched the charm at her throat. With a faint frown, she pulled the necklace over her head to examine it. The glass was cracked, so possibly she’d broken it when she fell, or when the ruffian pushed her into the lamppost.