Moonglow (14 page)

Rage and confusion blurred until he surged up, smashing his skull against the bars, his teeth snapping at the metal.

Out. He wanted out. The man inside him wanted out, too.

“To her,”
the man pleaded.
“Find her and the pain will end.”

The wolf had to believe it so. He and the man had been one for so long. What was his memory was the man’s. They only needed to be let out. The wolf banged against the cage again, and again. And each time, the metal bars bent a bit more.

Northrup got his Scottish under control, but not his muttering. Complaints drifted through the quiet as he led her back down the foul alley to the abandoned dwelling of the perfumer. Daisy’s eyes watered as the stench hit her. She allowed one pull of the air into her nostrils so that she might detect anything of use. Beneath the horrible fug of death and decay came a strong, almost painful mix of numerous base notes and florals. Yes, perfume had been made here.

Distaste flattened Northrup’s mouth as he turned to regard her. “Stay here. Take your little gun out and shoot whatever comes close. No hesitation.” He spoke in halting tones as if trying not to breathe or smell if he didn’t have to. “I shall not be far.”

He moved to enter the hovel but she stopped him with a hand to his arm. “Take this.” She offered the flimsy protection of her scented scarf.

A small smile lifted one side of his mouth. “Kind of you, lass. But I’m afraid I’ll be needing my nose.” His skin shone slightly gray in the moonlight. Daisy’s stomach turned in sympathy. She could not imagine willingly inhaling the source of the smell. The wry yet resigned look in his eyes told her they understood each other perfectly on that notion. He said no more, and Daisy was left alone in the thick darkness.

Nothing stirred except the faint sounds of Northrup moving through the shack. The mouth of the narrow alley was an impenetrable wall of inky black. Simply looking at it made her heart pound. Something small and rodentlike skittered past. She shivered and focused on the gaping front door of the perfumer’s home and willed Northrup to hurry. Waiting in the shadows while surrounded by the air of death, one minute felt like an hour.

Daisy huddled farther down into her scarf when a thought occurred. Northrup was only there to scent out the wolf. But more needed to be done. She hesitated. Despite what she’d said to him, she did not want to go into the shack. But she knew she must. Bracing herself, she clamped the scarf more firmly to her nose and strode forward.

Moonlight pouring in from a hole in the roof illuminated the wreckage in the front room, highlighting the glinting edges of broken bottles and the dull shapes of furniture strewn about.

Daisy’s breath came in short bursts as she crept forward, her booted feet crunching on bits of glass. Northrup was nowhere to be seen, and her voice was trapped in her throat, hindering her from calling out. The dark corners of the room seemed a living thing, intent on following her, pressing in on all sides as if to swallow her up. Deep
within, she knew Northrup was close, but it did not stop her body from trembling or her mind from urging her to run away.

The smell was a tangible thing, coating her skin, clinging to her hair. She swallowed against the bitter taste of it, and her stomach rebelled. A creak to her left had her whipping about, her heart in her throat. The sight that greeted her was too much.

Lips curled back in a ghoulish grin, the dead woman seemed to mock Daisy. A fat fly buzzed about dull yellow curls before landing on a grizzled cheek. A cry, almost animalistic, broke from Daisy’s lips, just as a pair of warm hands closed over her arms. She screamed again, and he pulled her close.

“It’s me,” Northrup said, hugging her tight. “It’s me.”

Daisy sank into his strength and shuddered. “Was it… did the werewolf do this?”

“Not to her, but there is a man beyond the bed. The perfumer, most likely. The
were
certainly had at him. No”—he tugged her back when she glanced at the dark shape against the corner—“don’t look.” He cupped the back of her head for a moment. “Are you well enough to move?”

She nodded and then, steeling herself, she pushed away from him and began to search the room in quick, halting steps.

Northrup was at her side in an instant. “What are you doing?”

Casting aside an overturned chair, she opened her mouth only as much as necessary. “Record book.”

They made quick work of searching, Daisy keeping as far away from the bodies as she could. Her hands drifted over the disarray of bottled oils and essences. A fortune
in the perfume market, and most likely stolen. When she turned around, she found Northrup standing stone still at the foot of the dead woman’s bed. His head was bent as he stared down at an object in his hand. But it was his expression that worried Daisy, for he looked as if he’d seen a ghost. Given where they were at present, the idea lifted the hairs along her arms.

“What is it?” she whispered, drawing near.

At the sound of her voice, Northrup twitched and broke from his apparent stupor. “Nothing.” He pocketed the object, something small and gold, and his troubled gaze met hers. “Nothing we need discuss in here.”

Northrup touched her elbow. “I have it.” Indeed, he held a small ledger in his free hand.

She did not resist when he led her directly out. He moved with quick, jerking steps. No words were spoken as they walked out of the alley and down another street. When they’d gone several blocks and the air was fresher, he let go of her, and they stopped.

Shaking, she reached into her reticule and pulled out a small flask. “God, that was a vile business,” she muttered before taking a deep drink.

Northrup eyed the flask with humor as she handed it to him, but he pulled a long swallow as well. His eyes widened as he did, undoubtedly shocked at the burn of good scotch whiskey going down his throat instead of the expected ladylike lemonade or watered wine.

Daisy lifted a shoulder. “A bit of liquid courage never hurts when one seeks to employ a known thief and raid the home of a possible murderer.”

Northrup’s eyes danced but his expression remained somber. “Indeed not.” His silk- and-gravel voice was raw. “Perhaps you’d favor a touch more just now?”

“Perhaps a touch,” she agreed and took a sip. The peaty-sweet spirit burned away the foul taste death had left and eased the tightness in her limbs. Even so, she feared nothing would ever erase the memory of what she’d seen.

Daisy wrapped her arms about herself and shivered. Northrup noticed the action and slid out of his coat and wrapped it about her shoulders. Grateful, she sank into its heavy warmth. “What was it that you found back there?”

His expression was at once thoughtful yet disturbed as he slowly pulled out a moonstone stickpin. The little carved unicorn seemed to glow with an inner light as he passed it to her. It was a lovely piece, and she said as much.

“Where did you find it?” Daisy asked as she handed it back.

Oddly, he didn’t look at it but quickly pocketed the pin. “On the woman’s bodice.”

“It is familiar to you though, isn’t it?” She could see that much.

His nod was perfunctory. “I had one much like this, long ago.” His dark brows drew tight.

“Is it yours?” The very idea unsettled Daisy. Why would Northrup’s stickpin be with a dead woman?

“No.” He sounded very sure and yet the look of confusion remained. “Mine was lost to time.” His expression closed down, resolute and final. “But it is… curious. I need to think on it.” He seemed to shake himself into alertness. “As to the ledger, let’s have a look then.”

He balanced the book on his hand and opened it.

“Look for entries made after March fourteenth,” she said, happy to have a problem she could help solve. “That was when Mr. Abernathy, the manager at Florin, sold my formula to him.”

A half smile pulled at Northrup’s mouth as he thumbed
through the pages. “And here I thought you were merely purchasing cosmetics at Florin.”

Daisy started. “You were following me?”

“Of course.” He flashed her an evil grin. “It was quite gratifying to see you searching for me.”

She pursed her lips. “Pest.” His grin widened, and Daisy eyed him with suspicion. “Have you been following me all along this night?”

“No. Talent, my valet, has been keeping watch since teatime.”

She ought to have known. “Another lycan, is he?”

Northrup shook his head as he searched the book. “No. Before you go off asking, I’m not at liberty to say what he is, only that he’ll keep you safe when I cannot.” His eyes flashed as he glanced at her. “And you’ll never see him following, so don’t bother looking for him.”

Daisy muttered under her breath and leaned over his arm to read along as the blunt tip of his finger traced down the entries.

“A few sales for men’s cologne, one for some liniment,” he said. “Then… Here. Marked two days before the first murder occurred.”

Daisy moved closer, and Northrup’s warm breath stirred the curls that tickled her temple. She fought to ignore the way the sensation made her want to lift her head and nuzzle into him. “M. Randal, Number 2 Glower Street. One bottle Daisy.” Her blood heated. “The blasted man even called the perfume by my name.”

Northrup couldn’t quite hide the laughter in his voice. “It is rather catchy. Is that what you called the scent?”

“I called it mine,” she snapped, knowing she sounded defensive. “But yes, I put my name on the top of the formula.” A stupid bit of whimsy that irritated her now. She
pushed the feeling away. “But Daisy was never meant for public sale. It was my personal scent.”

The corners of his vivid eyes crinkled. “A nose,” he said softly. “You mentioned before that you had a perfume supplier, but I wasn’t minding. You create perfumes then?”

Daisy kept her gaze upon the ledger, wanting to have done with the conversation, but his attention did not deviate and she was forced to answer. “For Florin.”

Northrup’s eyes widened, but she ignored him. “I knew Craigmore intended to leave me with nothing. It was either plan or starve. I was not about to let that man have the last word.”

His raspy voice was a current of warm air against her cheek. “Well done, lass.”

Her cheeks were overwarm as she tapped a nail upon the ledger entry. “M. Randal. Do you suppose that is a man or a woman?”

Northrup stirred. “I cannot see a lady coming to a place like this for perfume. A gentleman either. But it is more likely than a woman doing so.”

“Agreed,” said Daisy. “Well, if it was a man who purchased it—”

“Then perhaps it was a gift.” Northrup turned his head to look down at her, his warm eyes and firm mouth scattering her thoughts.

“Seems logical.” She cleared her throat and stepped away from Northrup and his unnerving presence.

“Northrup, you said the werewolf killed the man. But what of the woman? How did she die, do you suppose?” A flash of bones, blood, and flesh filled her mind’s eye, and she swallowed.

“There were no slashes or bites. I think—” Northrup
paused, biting his lips closed for a moment as if he were fighting against the memory of the corpse, and then he took a breath. “She expired from disease. There were tumors, her skin covered in papules. All the signs of tertiary syphilis.” His expression went grim. “She carried the same scent of sickness as the
were
does.”

“A lover’s disease.” It hurt Daisy’s heart to think of what had become of the poor woman. And the man. Was he her lover? What of the werewolf? “Whoever bought this perfume must be warned.”

He snapped the book shut and offered up his arm. “Glower Street isn’t far off. Shall we?”

I
t was Friday evening; thus finding a hack proved difficult. Daisy had long since sent her own carriage home, and Northrup appeared to have tracked her down on foot. Thus, they were forced to walk to Mr. Randal’s residence.

Daisy glanced at the man at her side. His casual bowler tilted at a rakish angle and his stride confident yet carefree as though he owned the very earth beneath his feet, Northrup caught the eye of every female, and some males, as they passed. A charming fiend.

Night painted the landscape in colors of blue and charcoal. A chill touched the air, making their breath visible. His warmth beside her was a welcome thing. Daisy wrapped her fingers more securely around his forearm.

“What is that clinking sound?” Northrup shot a suspicious glance in the direction of her skirts.

“Some essential oils I took from the perfumer’s shack.” She pulled out the bottle of verbena for him to see.

His nostrils flared slightly as though already scenting
it. “Why on earth would you take something out of that hellhole?”

Daisy laughed. “And let them go to waste when they are perfectly usable? You must be mad.”

“I should think you have wealth enough to buy your own oils should you so wish,” he said, looking bemused.

“Posh. Waste not, want not. Besides, Poppy loves verbena. I’m going to make a perfume for her with it.” She uncorked the verbena to take a whiff. The sharp lemony scent would chase away the lingering taint of death that clung to her.