Rooks and Romanticide (14 page)

But perhaps he was, because he was the leader of BLACK. Levi shifted, brushing a finger along a black key. He divulged, “A bridge of trust has been built between us—a
strong
bridge of trust. Which, I'll remind you, is an incredibly difficult task to undertake with the Earl Dietrich. It's taken this long to do so, anyway. But the longer that trust is nurtured, the easier it will be to take advantage of it.”

The Witch opened her mouth, and Levi narrowed his eyes. He didn't let her speak. He was tired of listening to her.

“And,” he said curtly, “I would know more than you at this point that he's a complex young man who requires much patience and vigilant exploration. I thought this was understood already. I thought that was why
I
was assigned to this little
plan F
of ours—because we all know I'm the only one of us who could manage such careful manipulation. God knows your temper and impulsiveness would have betrayed you right away, Witch. Listen, it's only a matter of time now until we can utilize this bridge of trust. It's just not the
right
time yet. I'm keeping wary, though, I promise. Are you satisfied?”

The Witch's mouth shut with a sharp
click
of the teeth and she frowned, less severely and more in honest consideration of this. Her fingertips drummed away, nails tapping. William shifted with a terse sigh behind her. Claude and the Blond One—Petyr—were fooling around near the salon, snickering and whispering like brothers avoiding bedtime.

“I don't understand you,” the Witch whispered over the big pianoforte, “and sometimes that scares me. You should thank Oberon every night for convincing me to trust you.”

Levi offered a thin smile, lashes lowering. He meant no real ill will as he murmured, “He crosses your mind enough, why don't you thank him for me?”

The Witch shot him a look that was supposed to be sour, but her carefully constructed mask was failing and the knot in her throat was obvious. She turned sharply on a heel, the butt of her gun showing above the pockets of her trousers. Ah, a woman in trousers. It was shocking in the best way. She hooked her fingers in William's sleeve, dragging him with her, and William sent Levi a glance that promised he'd talk to him further later.

Their footsteps bounced off the highest corners of the hall, voices hissing whispers as they met up with the other two. They all disappeared into the dark, dank salon, drifting away into other corners of the house, and Levi gawked at the keys on the pianoforte for a moment. Faded black, yellowed white, like the teeth of an old man, stained by too many fingers and years of sunlight pouring in through the vast multipaned windows around the room. What a sight tonight through those windows: the dark of night, the angry black shadows of trees in the fall, and the high, inescapable walls of the Ruslaniv estate.

Levi thought about BLACK. He thought about their lackadaisical missions, their capers—so safe and juvenile compared to those of the previous BLACK.

And he thought of his responsibility as the new leader—to them, as well as to his father and his name.
Plan F
, the Witch had called it.

Levi thought about the previous BLACK—his brother Quinton, Wolfe, Red, Vyncent, Oberon. Oberon had been the only one Levi had really liked back then. It was still scalded into Levi's memories, like staring at the sun too long, the way half of Oberon's arm had fallen on one side of the street as he'd reached for the Witch with the other. His blood had stained the same cobbles as Rosalie's. And Levi had been forced to pull the Witch away after Oberon's only hand finally dropped and the Dietrich “protective services”—done away with after the earl and his wife were murdered and the feud fell to uncultivated brutality—ran like the bunch of cowards they were.

Levi thought of the remaining heir of the Dietrichs and the way he looked when he spoke, regal and nostalgic, tragic and beautiful at the same time.
Cain.
Pale eyes, wispy layers of dark hair around a soft, perfect face, and the way he kissed, the way he smiled, the way he laughed. He was pretty like death, macabre and unconquerable, and all those unfailing truths of life thrown back in a man's face.

Levi thought about the young earl's revenge—the way his eyes flashed with hatred when he spoke of it, and when their wet mouths drew apart and breaths tumbled out after being held. With trembling fingers, he touched Levi's face. Cain was fever hot against Levi's chest, a silence between them in which Levi could feel his heartbeat.

The way the Earl had looked when he'd found his parents dead
—
the way he'd trudged along, dazed and stupid, to Wolfe and Quinton and Oberon with their open hands and wily smiles. They'd taken him to Kelvin's then, and Levi had crumpled down and gotten sick with guilt that sludgy afternoon above Lovers' Lane because he hadn't stopped them.

He hadn't stopped them!

Levi's mouth tightened, but he wouldn't surrender to the scowl. He slammed the cover down over the keyboard, a
bang
, which echoed in the nooks and crannies of the gilded hall as he shoved away from the pianoforte and stormed swiftly off, away from the silence, as if he might really flee his thoughts.

Finn, and Rosalie, and Cain Dietrich.

Ah, this had become something far more complicated than he'd ever expected. What would BLACK do if they knew how tangled this had all become? What would they say?

They couldn't know. They couldn't find out.

He was not in this for BLACK anymore.

He was in this for himself. And he was determined to keep it that way.

 

 

“W
E
'
RE
SORRY
for the interruption, my lord.”

“Don't be. It was a stifling luncheon. Look, we have a few minutes. We were to have a meeting after I was through with Miss Emily, anyway. Regale me now as we move.”

“Yes, right, we believe the ensemble calls itself ‘BLACK.'”

“BLACK. Like the color?”

Footsteps were quick, an urgent clip through puddles, across uneven flagstone, following the shortcuts through jumbled, grimy alleys and between buildings to avoid the mayhem on the main streets—the panic, the plebeians.

There'd been a gunfight.

“Yes. And, listen to this. It's a gang organized by the Ruslaniv house itself, not mere civilians! The group has been relatively inactive and elusive, most likely because they've changed members since then, but the reasons for this are unknown and the former members have been banished from New London, that we're aware of.”

The grip of Aunt Ophelia's pistol matched the vibrant scarlet of her blouse. She followed Cain, and around them were the Dietrich protective services, like obedient hunting hounds—Mr. Collins, Percy, Hazel, and the Persians, whispering in that smooth exotic cadence of theirs. The newest recruit, a rough retired hit man named Dominic, tailed Cain's father's favorite watchdogs—whom Cain had inherited with the house and the legacy—Rodney and Graham.

Down by Dmitri's Pavilion, a rather brutal gunfight had shattered the eventless afternoon, erupting at a rally against the House of Lords. The House of Lords was political if only by the honor the Queen had bestowed upon them with such a title: that handful of the oldest and wealthiest noble families in New London, who kept in place the system of class the working men despised. Two Lords of the House were tangled in the bloodiest feud between noble names since the High War of the Roses centuries ago—and they were the Dietrichs and Ruslanivs.

The Dietrich party moved in like a pack of wolves. The closer they got to the scene, the louder the commotion on the street became.

Rodney shook his head, eyes narrowed. “The names of these former gang members can be traced to St. Mikael's, and if what you suspect is true, then—”

“
Fuck
!” Cain hissed, and the meeting on the go drew to a temporary close as they emerged onto Dmitri's Pavilion.

What a shoddy thoroughfare the brawl had taken place in. Cain's men circled tighter around him until he had to elbow them aside to survey the carnage. The sunlight was hot and bright on his eyes. Officers and volunteers held the hysterical throngs back, and the air was a cacophony of wails and shouts—demands for answers, demands for peace, threats and promises and shrieks alike.

The bodies still lay on the street, blood drying on the cobbles, and the scent of death and hysteria bloomed in the air.

Where was Levi?

The Rue wasn't far from Dmitri's Pavilion. Surely Levi, the Dietrich street spy, would catch wind of the news as it spread like wildfire through the city and appear on the scene. Surely he'd be worried. Surely he would understand the sense of crisis and show up, like a thief in the night, like the shadow in the crowd that he was, ready for any and all of Cain's commands—

Her Majesty's right-hand man stood with his blades and guns obvious on his sides. The Ruslaniv responders crowded around him as they spoke. Cain scoffed. He couldn't quell the rage that smoldered in him at so much as having to be in the same proximity as those dogs.

Emily had looked at him with such fear in her eyes when Security had barged in to luncheon and announced there'd been another big fight. Cain hadn't wanted to appear for it, but they'd insisted.

“Dietrichs and Ruslanivs have been killed,” Graham and Uncle Bradley had urged. “It was a pointless slaughter of almost military caliber. Lord Dietrich, you
must
make an appearance. The Queen's agent is there and requests all Lords of the House.”

Infuriated as he was that whatever fight had gone down had been savage enough to summon Her Majesty's agent and forced him to be face-to-face with Ruslaniv nobility, Cain managed to sustain a shred of civility as, followed by his men, he made his way forth to speak to the Queen's officer. He stepped over bodies, avoiding dark splashes of blood and ignoring the general roar of the public. The sun was blinding in the pale sky. The air was brisk and refreshing until one gave it a sniff. It was a typical December day, and Her Majesty's public agent, in the midst of the Ruslaniv responders, caught sight of Cain and curled into a disparaging smile.

“Oh, the Dietrichs have decided to join us!” he cried, clapping his hands together. Cain's scowl pinched tighter in distaste.

“Sir Graye,” he returned the condemnation-coated greeting. “It's a pleasure. My apologies for being late. I was at luncheon with a lady.”

He could feel glances thrown from the Ruslaniv family, but he refused to acknowledge them beyond the mutual struggle to remain well mannered in front of the Queen's envoy. He pushed through his men and circled around Sir Graye, measuring the bloodshed.

Three young men, slicked-back hair and jackets lined with red braid—a Ruslaniv gang. Two others, in navy blue with silver buttons—Dietrich citizens. Quite a few uninvolved citizens lay scattered about, and one authority caught in the crossfire, dead hands limp on the street. There was a little girl, brilliant red staining her dress. Her soiled doll lay a few feet from her motionless fingertips, and Cain swallowed a sickened thought of gratitude that she had fallen facedown, because, imagine, her eyes probably weren't even closed.

“This is disgraceful!” someone spat from their place inside the noble crowd. Cain glanced up with a vicious scowl, searching out and finding the eyes of Lord Ruslaniv before just panning the lot of them and hoping to frighten the one who'd complained. The four other Lords of the House and all their defensive men—Ruslanivs, Desrosiers, Gotthards, Arnaudets. In his periphery, the Dietrich protective services lingered attentively, observing the grisly scene.

“Do we know who opened fire?” Cain hissed. “Ruslaniv, or Dietrich?”

“It was a Dietrich gang,” Sir Graye declared with a judgmental sniff, adjusting the lapels of his white suit. “What we've gathered is that it was a dispute within the rally, which turned to gunfire, and innocent civilians were caught between. When more officials arrived, the gangs had already dispersed. The injured have been collected and taken for medical care. What remains now is just the consequence of such ill morality.”

Sir Graye paused briefly, and it was tacit between them all, between any who had eyes to see, that it was only the dead who remained, littered so carelessly on the street.

“So,” Sir Graye sighed, “noble families, what do you suggest we do about this, here?”

“What do you mean, what do we do about this?” Lord Ruslaniv sputtered. “What are we supposed to do,
patrol the streets for you
? That's what officers are for!”

“Agreed,” Cain said over the roar of the public. He met Lord Ruslaniv's eyes for a moment of brief, arbitrary understanding. “He has a point, Sir Graye. What the hell can we do? We can't control the gangs.”

“Lead by example,” Sir Graye announced with an offhanded shrug. He had always been far too complacent, too high above society to fully care. Cain despised it. It was the reason he always hated inviting Her Majesty to certain balls; Graye was always with her, and always sneering.

“We
already
lead by example!” Lord Ruslaniv cried in positive outrage. Some of the surrounding civilians uttered murmurs of alarm and shouts of disagreement.

“Sign another peace treaty, for Christ's sake,” the Viscount Arnaudet spat, mousy mustachio twitching over a scowl of contempt.

“Just arrest any man not of high birth who keeps a weapon!” Lord Desrosiers shook his head as if exasperated. “I've petitioned for this before. We shouldn't put weapons in people's hands unless they have some warrant of sorts.”

It was like an argument between brothers, and Cain was the spoiled rotten baby while Lord Ruslaniv was the exhausted first in line. All the others were the fired-up boys in between with nothing to lose and nothing to prove, and Sir Graye was the tutor who had to talk them all down or throw them in time-out. It was always like this, grumpy old men in fine suits and house jewels shuffling around, secretly envying the only House Lord under twenty-five, while that young House Lord disdained them all.