Kiss of Steel (42 page)

Vickers stepped back, wearing pristine white and gold from head to toe. Golden tassels clung to his boots and his breastplate gleamed. Powder from his hair flavored the air with its sickly sweet scent, and there was a rapier sheathed at his belt. A powerful figure. Even a handsome figure if one did not know the man. Unlike many of the dukes, he had kept himself trim and fit over the years with daily bouts with the sword.

He smiled at her once he saw he had her attention. “I told you I would find you. You can run and hide, my pretty. But I will always find you.”

Silence became her greatest strength. She forced her expression to a placid contentedness, as though she were merely waiting for him to leave. And then she stared through him.

A flicker of anger swam through the depths of his icy gray eyes. She had won the first bout. The next one would be bloody, for she knew him too well, but she would not yield.

“Your arrogance always was your downfall. It was the first thing that caught my eye all those years ago.”

A knife appeared in his hand. Honoria stiffened then forced her body to relax. He would not bloody her, not today. This was to scare her. Vickers preferred the slow build of terror.

“I thought it was my relative youth and naïveté,” she said. “You never did like to confront someone who could fight back.”

“And now you think you
can
fight back?” Vickers said with a laugh. “Ah, my dear, you always were my favorite. I think I shall remember you the most when you are nothing but dust and ashes.”

Her heart thundered in her ears. “Will you visit my grave too? Will I haunt you too?”

His eyes narrowed as though he wasn’t quite certain what she referred to. “Perhaps I will forget you instead. Like all the others.”

“
All?
” she asked. “Surely you are mistaken? You have not forgotten all of your victims. There is one you’ll never forget.”

A slight tension was visible in his shoulders where before there had been none. “Ah, the mongrel has told you of his poor, pathetic past. What story did he fill your ears with? How I wept tears of blood when poor, sweet Emily was torn apart by that brute?” He laughed again. “No, my sweet. I am afraid that little Emily does not haunt me. She was nothing more than a diversion to while away the years.”

“Blade has told me little,” she replied. “I refer instead to your silent vigil beside her grave.” At the sudden gleam of his eyes she allowed herself a small smile. “I was hiding within, you see. Oh, Vickers, the look on your face. It almost made the womanly part of me weep and long to take you in my arms to comfort. But, then, one does not take an asp to the breast. We all know how that turns out, do we not? You were so close to finding me. You see, I had returned for my father’s diaries, which I had hidden within. All these months and they were right under your nose. It seems, even in death, that Emily denied you what you wanted most.”

Vickers was as frozen as a statue, the knife dangling, forgotten, from his fingers. “You have the diaries,” he murmured, half to himself. A mad light came into his eyes. “Where are they?”

“Where you shall never find them.”

There was a blur of movement and her cheek erupted with a hot sting. He’d cut her. She gasped but then forced her body to still. Vickers had never been driven to violence before.

A drop of blood dripped from her jaw onto her shoulder. He watched it fall and a muscle in his cheek twitched. “It seems you may still have a use then, my sweet.” He put the tip of the knife to her other cheek and pressed hard enough to cut. “You will tell me, sooner or later. Later is, of course, so much more enjoyable. Do hold out for me. Please.”

“I gave them to Blade,” she said defiantly. “I gave him the cure and then I asked him to burn the diaries. It works, even now. He has taken what you want, and you shall never get your hands on it. You are condemned to your bloody damnation, Vickers, while he shall survive. You will be nothing more than a wretched monster, put down by the sword before it can wreak more havoc on the city.” She deliberately took a breath through her nose. “How long do you think your perfumes can hide the scent? It’s starting, isn’t it? The Fade. How long before you are nothing more than a vile, filthy, stinking monster?”

The force of his fist snapped her head to the side. Her ears were ringing, but she barely had time to notice, for he struck her again. And again. White-hot pain speared through her cheekbone. The world narrowed to the feel of Vickers’s closed fist and the taste of blood.

It seemed an age before he let up. Honoria blinked through swollen eyes, her head ringing with the sound of his blows. She spat blood, her entire jaw feeling as though it had been branded with red-hot metal. Through it all, she could hear the sound of him panting.

He caught her chin in a cruel grip and she cried out.

“A mistake,” he hissed. “For that cure could have been the only thing I’d have traded you for.” With that he let go of her and stepped back, wiping his bloodied fists on his pants, smearing red across the flawless white.

Through the pain and the coppery taste of blood, somehow she found the strength to laugh—a short, choking hack. “I would rather see you in hell,” she whispered.

His nostrils flared and for a moment darkness rose in his eyes. Then he took a step back, breathing in slow, controlled breaths. “No. No, not yet. You will have to wait until I can deliver your broken, battered body to your lover. We shall see how much you laugh then, you little slut.” And then he turned and stalked from the dungeon, leaving her to her pyrrhic victory.

Chapter 28

Blade thundered down the stairs, his hand on the hilt of his short sword. Five hours. Five hours since that treacherous bastard had taken Honoria. It had taken that long to return to the warren and see the wound in his side stitched. It was still deep, an angry throb that clenched with each movement, but the stitches would hold it together.

How much could Vickers do in five hours? Blade’s thoughts were full of time, and he could almost hear the tick of some silent clock echoing in his head. It had to have taken at least two hours for the handler to return to the city with her. Another hour perhaps to summon Vickers. Which left two hours, maybe less, for the duke to have done whatever he willed with her.

Fear turned Blade’s gut to lead. How long would it take him to get to the Ivory Tower? If the streets were crowded, he’d go insane. He couldn’t bear the thought of her in Vickers’s pale hands.

The lightweight black leather armor he wore made no sound as he moved. Overlapping plates shielded his sword arm, and the gleaming steel breastplate protected his chest cavity and the wound at his side.

Storming the Ivory Tower would be suicidal. It had taken Barrons’s cool logic to see that. In the first few moments after Blade had emerged from the water into the humid, ash-stained air of the tunnel, he’d barely been able to see for the sudden, flaring storm of fury. Both Lynch and Barrons had held him down until Barrons’s words finally penetrated.

If he went after Vickers alone, he would die. And Honoria would be lost. The only way to get her back was to challenge Vickers on his own ground.

As he hit the ground level, the smell was the first thing that gave him warning. Blade looked up with narrowed eyes as he stalked down the hallway. Familiar faces looked back—Will, Tin Man, and even Rip, standing there and leaning heavily on his sword, using it like a crutch.

“No,” Blade said flatly.

Will was the one who lifted his chin in defiance. “How you goin’ to stop us? You go and we’ll follow.”

“This ain’t a scragger’s fight,” Blade said. “You can’t ’elp me with this. I go to duel.”

“Then we’ll watch your back,” Rip replied.

He met their gazes and saw no yield in them. His jaw clenched. “If I don’t succeed, who’ll protect me people? What ’bout Esme? And Lark?”

Rip straightened. “Esme were the one as told us.”

“You can barely stand straight,” Blade hissed. “And I ain’t bringin’ a newly infected craver ’neath the noses of the Ech’lon. They’ll collar you for sure.”

“You don’t ’ave to,” Rip said. “I’ll follow ’long behind.”

“You stubborn, bloody fool—”

Will grabbed Blade by the arm. “Time’s wastin’.”

Damn him. Damn them all. Will was right.

Blade shook out of the verwulfen’s grip. “I can’t protect you,” he said. “If they see you, they’ll lock you up. You won’t escape again.”

“Ain’t your choice,” Will said. “We knows the consequences. And we’re prepared to pay ’em.”

Blade tried one last time. He looked at Tin Man. “And you? What ’bout Lark?”

In response Tin Man slowly hefted the massive spiked axe he held in his hands.

“We’ve given Esme money. She knows ’ow to make ’em and the Todds vanish,” Will said. “If need be.”

“You’re fools, the bloody lot o’ you,” Blade snarled, pushing past. “Aye, then. Come and dance with the Ech’lon. You can be me bloody retinue. King o’ Fools and ’is merry band o’ jesters. If they don’t laugh us out o’ the tower, it’ll be a bleedin’ miracle.”

***

Barrons was waiting for him at the gates to Caine House. He leaned out of the gilded carriage, his face whitening with pain. A rapier dangled from his belt, and he wore the same heavy armor-plated manica that Blade did. His was painted red, with the golden hawk emblem of the House of Caine embossed upon it.

“You’re late,” Barrons said. His gaze flickered over the hulking trio behind Blade. “Bold. But it might work.”

“Not much choice in the matter,” Blade muttered. His heart tightened in his chest. He’d been trying not to think about it, but the sight of Barrons…“’Ave you ’eard of ’er? Is she alive?”

“She’s alive. He’s got her in the dungeons.” Barrons’s lips thinned. “She’s not pretty, Blade. By my man’s reports, he’s bloodied her up.”

A vision flashed through Blade’s mind: the thought of slashing the smirk from Vickers’s pale face. He breathed in slowly and then let it out.
Kill
, whispered his demon.
Not
yet
, he told it and clenched down on the urge to destroy the world.

“Will ’e fight me?” Blade said aloud.

Barrons gestured him into the gaudy carriage. “I’m going to try to force his hand on the matter. If he won’t fight you, then I’ll challenge him.”

Blade glanced down at the way the man favored his right leg. “You ain’t fit to stand to piss, let alone fight.”

Barrons returned the look. “Are you?”

Blade fingered the dagger at his belt. “This ’as been a long time comin’. I’ve got reason to kill the bastard.”

“So have I,” Barrons replied. “He slit my father’s throat.”

Blade glanced up at the mighty facade of Caine House. “I thought the duke were enjoyin’ good ’ealth.”

“He’s currently indisposed,” Barrons replied. His voice dropped. “A little dash of laudanum and hemlock in his blud-wein. If he knew what I was about, he’d hang me up by the heels and flog me. He and Vickers have an alliance.” Barrons looked grim. “And I’m about to destroy it.”

“’Ow long till the poppy wine wears off?”

“Not long enough. We’d best hurry. Your men can follow mine.”

Blade gave the order then sprang into the carriage. Barrons followed with considerably less agility. Whatever the depth of his injuries, it was vibrantly clear that he couldn’t carry the duel himself.

Blade fingered the hilt of his dagger. That suited him perfectly.

***

The Ivory Tower speared halfway to the heavens. Marble columns and gothic arches supported each level, leaving a balustrade around the edge for the Echelon to take air upon. Half the business of the realm was conducted there, it was said, during those long, slow strolls between allies and enemies alike.

Barrons alighted from the carriage with an attempt at his usual grace and started toward the double doors, hobbling slightly. Blade fell in behind him, examining the outlay of the place. Two metaljackets at the main doors, another twenty in the perimeter. All of them Spitfires.

There would be none within the tower, Barrons had explained on the way. Metaljackets were dangerous but unable to use initiative—and under strict control of their handler. The Coldrush Guards were comprised of blue blood rogues from the lower families of the Great Houses. Boys who’d been ineligible for the blood rites, but infected by circumstance or accident.

Though Barrons stalked toward the doors as if he simply couldn’t fathom being turned away, Blade couldn’t help holding his breath. A pair of ladies strolling in the forum beyond glanced their way, their eyes widening as they recognized his face. They should. There’d been enough cartoons drawn and printed about his continued defiance of the Echelon. Complete with horns. One of the women’s eyes darted toward his head as though searching for them before her companion tugged her away with scandalized glee lighting her eyes.

“It starts,” Barrons murmured. “They’ll spread the word.”

The enormous gothic arch of the doors shadowed them for a moment and then they were inside. A strange hush fell. Blade looked up through the central spire of the tower. A pair of staircases circled upward, sinuously winding around each other. Rooms and chambers speared off them at each level, but the core was hollow. The top of the tower—the atrium—was almost lost to view.