The Clockwork Wolf (12 page)

A memory of the Wolfman tearing at my skirts came back to me. “You mean it raped them?”

“Aye.”

The horror of what her gels must have suffered—what I'd almost endured—made bile rise in my throat. “Oh, Rina. I'm sorry.”

“So you should be. I was thinking the same had been done to you.” She rested her hand on my brow for a moment. “Felicity's only been in the game two years, and she's still too terrified to make a peep, but Janice, she's been on the stroll since before you or me made our first wail. She told me everything.” Her expression darkened. “Janice couldn't see much, it being dark and her skirts in her face, but she said while he were at her she heard gears turning, and some kind of ticking. As if he were carrying a clock.”

Or had one inside his chest. “Did she notice anything else?”

“Janice had enough sense left to try to talk her way out of it. It never spoke or stopped once, not even when she grabbed a branch to cosh it in the head. Once it was done with her she tried to drag it back from Felicity, but she couldn't budge it. She said it weighed as much as three men.”

That also sounded right. “Did you bring the gels here?”

“To this house of prudes? Not on your life. I have a physick who comes round the Nest when he's needed; he's looking after them now.” She tucked my blanket round me. “So how long are the sisters keeping you from your next act of breathtaking idiocy?”

“The city should be safe for a few more days.” I heard footsteps out in the corridor and reached for her wig and hat, handing them to her. “Did Wrecker drive you here?”

“He did, and he's waiting outside for me.” She put on the rest of her disguise and grimaced. “Oh, and I ferreted out the name of that club your old ponce Bestly founded. It's called the White Lupine, and you're not to go anywhere near it.”

I frowned. “Why not?”

“Aside from the fact that it's a gentlemen's club and they wouldn't let you stand on the stoop,” she said, “it's cross the street from the park where that Wolfman got my gels.”

“A park.” I searched through my memory. “Not Rosings Park.”

“That's it.” She eyed me. “How did you know?”

•   •   •

Although I trusted Rina, I didn't confide to her that Lord Bestly had died after his transformation into a Wolfman. As fiercely protective as she was of her gels, and women in general, she'd want to know more than I could tell her. The fact that both Dez and Docket believed native magic was involved also troubled me.

Over time Torians and the tribes had learned to tolerate each other, and had come to many useful compromises in order to coexist, yet each side remained very suspicious of the other. If any rumor got out that the Wolfmen were the result of native magic I felt sure the city would turn on the shamans.

No Torian cared for the native mages and their strange blood rituals, but among their tribes the shamans were deeply respected and held in high esteem as holy men. If they were blamed for the Wolfmen, their people would be outraged. It was that sort of ignorance and
mutual hostility that had resulted in the horrid massacres of Rumsen settlers and the tribal villages seventy years ago, during the old native wars.

I still felt sick over what Rina had told me about the attacks, but when a new sister brought in my dinner I forced myself to eat. This was no time to languish weakly in a hospital bed; I had to heal and get out of here. After praising me for my efforts the sister went to change my bandages but decided against replacing them.

“Your wounds are all closed, Miss Kittredge. I can hardly make out some of them.” She helped me into a clean gown. “I'm sure Mr. Brecourt will be very pleased when he comes in the morning.”

She didn't sound uneasy, and when I glanced at her face I saw no fear or disapproval like the other nurse had demonstrated. “You don't think it's odd, my rapid healing?”

“Not at all. You're spirit-born.” She bundled up my old gown, saw my expression, and suppressed a chuckle. “You didn't think you were the only one, surely?”

“No, but I've never heard anyone talk openly about it.” Suddenly I realized why she knew. “You're the same.”

“Me, me brothers and sisters,
and
me mum.” She glanced at the door before she said, “It's a family matter, so we don't blurt it out to just anyone. You've likely found out already that most magic folk don't care for our kind. If they get wise to you, they can be very unpleasant.”

I thought of Gert. “Why do they hate us so much?”

“Jealousy, I expect,” the nurse said, her tone wry. “We're born magical, miss, and they're not. Folk in the mage trade, they have to be taught spells and how to work
the stones and such, but they've no power of their own to use. Can't stand it that they're limited when we're not.”

The thought of having magical power had done nothing but annoy me, but now I was intrigued. “How are we . . . so unlimited?”

“Why, because our magic is natural to us, like breathing is. Even when I was a baby, if someone who was in pain held me in their arms, the hurt went away. That's why I became a nurse.” She gave me a sympathetic look. “I tried to help you last night when you were brought in, but as soon as I touched you I knew it wouldn't work. I could feel my magic coming back to me, like it bounced off you.”

“It did.”

Her eyes widened, but before she could say any more the ward sister came in. “Sister James, you're needed in Miss Percher's room now.”

“Yes, Sister Bailey.” The younger nurse gave me a quick smile before she trotted out.

The ward nurse came to the foot of my bed and inspected me. “Your color is better, Miss Kittredge. I expect the visit by your dear grandmother”—she gave the last word deliberate emphasis—“lifted your spirits.”

“It did.” I squirmed a little. “And I do feel much improved, Sister.”

“So that nothing impairs this remarkable recovery, I am putting you on strict bed rest until you are released. That means, Miss Kittredge, that you are not to take a turn in the hallways, or ride the lift down to the morgue, or do anything besides remain in this bed.” She tapped the foot railing. “Is that clear?”

I sank back on the pillows and pulled my blankets up to my chin. “Completely, Sister.”

“Excellent. I bid you good night.” She turned down the bedside lamp and marched out.

“She's very good at that.” Light filtered through the shadows, forming itself into a brightly glowing version of my grandfather. “Comes from her past life as a general. Conquered most of Europe, as I recall.”

“Harry.” I threw a pillow at his head, which passed through him and thumped against the wall. “I've been summoning you since dawn. Where have you been?”

“Having tea with the queen. She sends her regards.” He took on solid form and settled into the wheeled chair, which he rolled round the bed. “I say, I do like this contraption. In my day one only got about in procession litters carried by slaves. Very bumpy.” He peered at me. “What?”

I'd have thrown another pillow but that would leave me with none to smother myself with. “Oh, nothing at all. Someone sent a bomb to my office, and then I was attacked in the street and nearly killed last night, but you needn't worry.”

His expression turned indignant. “And who do you think led that second beastie into the alley? Father Christmas?”

“
You
brought the second Wolfman after me. Of course you did.” I closed my eyes. “Harry, I am
mortal
. I can be
killed
. You do remember this?”

“I saw the first one going after you and lured the second there so they'd fight over you like the animals they are. Without a body, it was all I could do to save
you.” He sighed heavily. “Once they'd done each other in, I intended to materialize and comfort you—as much as I could in spirit form—but then the beaters came, and you fainted, and I thought I'd be more useful tracking those two dogs.”

“Those two dogs were dead,” I pointed out. “They didn't go anywhere.”

“When bodies die, spirits cross over,” he reminded me. “I went to the Netherside to find them and have a word, but they weren't there.”

“What does that mean?” I demanded. “They didn't have spirits?”

“They did, but they did not cross over to the Netherside,” he said. “Before they were meddled with, your Wolfmen were ordinary mortals. Your lot goes elsewhere, and no, I don't know where. I'm not mortal.”

“If magic turned them into Wolfmen, being near me should have broken the spell at once. It didn't. They had to be possessed. There's no other way they could have survived having the mech installed in their bodies. Or is there?”

Harry's brow furrowed. “They might have been killed first, meddled with, and then their bodies reanimated for a short time. Revenants are slow, mindless things, but the mech might have given them speed and purpose.”

I thought of the footman. “How long does it take to work that kind of magic?”

“I may have helped myself to a dying body or two, but I'll have you know that I've never killed a mortal.” He sniffed. “It's not sporting.”

I felt impatient. “Very well. How long would it take
an Aramanthan who doesn't have your scruples to work the revenant spell?”

“The body has to be cured or it turns rotten and starts to fall apart, and then there's gathering everything for the ritual and finding the place for the altar . . .” He trailed off as he counted out something on his fingers. “It could be done in three months. Two, if they hurried and didn't care what the body looked like.”

“Then they're not revenants,” I said. “I saw one of the Wolfmen earlier that morning, and he wasn't dead or meddled with yet.”

“It was not a revenant spell.”

The deep voice made me jump and Harry scowl. “Dredmore.” I looked over and spotted him standing by the window. “How did you get in here?”

“I climbed.” He shut the window and regarded Harry. “Hello, Ehrich. How good of you to keep watch over Charmian. Perhaps if you'd done so yesterday, she wouldn't be here.”

Harry glowered. “As it happens I
was
looking after her last night, unlike some evil conniving bastards who don't give a jot about anyone but themselves and amassing power they can't control and tossing it about to destroy the world.”

Dredmore inclined his head. “I must bow to your authority on such matters.”

“Charm, I lied,” Harry said flatly. “I am going to kill a mortal. Be a love and close your eyes for a minute.”

“This perpetual squabbling between you two is becoming exceptionally tedious.” That got their attention. “Harry, we have to know who is responsible for
creating these Wolfmen, and the night isn't getting any longer. You should go and see what you can find out about the mage behind these beasts before dawn sends you back to the Netherside.”

“I can't leave you alone with him,” my grandfather protested. “Think of your reputation, my gel.”

“I haven't got one. Now go on.” Once he dematerialized I turned to Dredmore. “Do you think it wise to continue baiting my grandfather the way you do? He is Merlin, remember. Greatest mage in the history of the world?”

“He
was
Merlin,” Dredmore corrected. “Now he's mostly a blustering old fool interested only in creating chaos and dropping you in the middle of it.”

I threw up my hands. “For pity's sake, Lucien, he's my grandfather, and the only family I have left in the world.”

He came to the bed and loomed over me. “He's Aramanthan, Charmian, and more dangerous than you can imagine.”

“What a coincidence, he says the exact same thing about you.” All this drama was making me tired again. “Oh, do sit down. I'm getting a crick in my neck.”

“Are you.” He lifted me into his arms, blankets and all, and carried me over to the chair to sit with me on his lap. “Better?”

It was, not that I'd admit it. “I'm supposed to stay in the damn bed.”

“I can have you moved to Morehaven tomorrow,” he murmured as he adjusted my blanket. “My personal physick can supervise your recovery, and you'll be protected there.”

“From everyone but you.” I rested my cheek against his shoulder. “Did you call on Lady Bestly today?”

“I did. Some sooty little wench came to the door and said Eugenia was too ill to receive.” He threaded his fingers through mine. “The ton has already begun questioning her reasons for delaying Bestly's mourning. It is only a matter of time before the truth comes out.”

Another reason I was glad to be a commoner; the nobs always turned death into the social event of the season. “What is the protocol for a lady widow to mourn a husband who turned into a mad hairy killer just before he dropped dead?”

“Eugenia will be pitied by some, certainly, but the Hill must preserve its purity and dignity.” His tone hardened. “In the eyes of the ton she will cease to exist. The invitations will stop immediately, and no one will ever call on her again. In public she will be given the cut direct.”

Rina had endured much worse than that, and she'd survived. “That's not so bad.”

“If it were only that, perhaps she could retire from society and live a quiet life,” Dredmore agreed. “Bestly's actions will irrevocably taint her, however, and the ton has many ways of evicting those they considered undesirable from their proximity. She will be unable to replace her servants, and tradesmen will be directed to refuse her household orders. She will begin to receive anonymous suggestions that she leave Rumsen, polite at first, and then they will grow more direct. There will be no suitors to ask for her hand, of course, so in three months' time her husband's estate will revert to the Crown.”