Heart of Iron (21 page)

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.

Fourteen

A cool breeze whispered over her skin. Lena looked up from the mess of cogs and gears that covered her small writing desk. Slipping the magnifying glassicals up on top of her head, she put aside her fine pliers and stood. Her nightrobe tumbled around her bare feet, the rose-colored silk caressing her shins.

“Hello?” she called, tugging her robe tight and retying the sash. It was almost midnight. Mrs. Wade had retired hours ago, but she hadn’t been able to sleep. Too many things whirling through her mind. She’d decided she might as well use the time to work on the life-size transformational Mercury wanted her to create. Clockworks were easy and they always fit together… Unlike her life. Besides, she had only a week until the treaty’s official signing. She’d started the clockwork interior of the piece, but a week was barely time enough to finish it. She’d have to use Mandeville’s help for the outer casing.

The door between the sitting room and her bedchamber wheezed, stirring in a breeze that shouldn’t have been there. Lena snatched up the poker.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she crept toward the door. Nobody would dare attack her here, would they? The place was well-guarded, even at night, as it wasn’t unknown for assassinations to occur in the Echelon. The Duke of Caine was frequently indisposed, and Leo ruled as acting head of the House. No doubt a half-dozen minor offshoots of the House were starting to grow ambitious.

Thunder rumbled in the distance.

The soft glow of a turned-down gas lamp barely lit the shadowed bedroom beyond the door. For a moment Lena was half tempted to wake the household. But if the latch had merely blown open, she’d have woken them for naught.

Her eyes darted around the room as she slipped through the door. Soft gauzy curtains floated in the wind, rain spattering the polished floors. One of the French doors to her balcony had become unlatched, but there was no sign of anyone in the room.

“Damned wind.”

Pressing the door shut, she latched it tightly. Lightning flashed and suddenly the floor creaked behind her.

A scream tore from her throat, captured by a man’s large hand. He yanked her back against his hard chest and water from his clothes saturated the back of her. Her lips pressed wetly into his hand and his warm breath brushed against her ear.

“Shhh.”

Will. She could smell his scent now, of musk and rain and fresh air. The poker fell from her nerveless fingers. He caught it with his boot before it hit the floor, then eased it onto the rug.