These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel (24 page)

“Sir?” he called out. “We’ve arrived.”

How foolish. No one would hand me out. “Oh yes, of course, thank you,” I yelled back, scrambling to climb out and resisting the urge to smack myself.

Crossing the street, I tried to imagine a bored man doing this every day of his life, but even a distance of fifteen paces presented obstacle after obstacle—climbing up curbs, giving way
to passersby on the busy sidewalk, ignoring the requests of a tenacious newspaper boy, dodging the swaying drunkard by the Spotted Dog entrance. I attempted a grunt to greet him, and it came out
sounding rather equine, but he did not seem to notice or care in the least.

Inside, a pervading stench of alcohol and smoke filled the air, but it was not nearly as revolting as I expected a public house to be. Everything was just a plain, unadorned brown: the stools,
the tables, the bar, the walls. Even the various paintings—portraits of famous London men or landmarks—had lost all their luster. No attempts had been made to dress up the establishment
in any way.

Cautiously, I glanced around, fearing every eye was upon me as I approached the bar without an inkling of what to do next. Some faces were lively in conversation, and others were lifelessly
sipping their drinks and smoking. There was no sign of Dr. Beck or Claude. Lord Ridgewood’s face was a mystery to me, and I knew not how to identify any other members of this secret society.
If only there was a butler to announce the arrival of every distinguished guest.

The clinking of glass diverted my attention. The bartender. I caught his eye and made my debut as Unremarkable Public-House Patron Number Eighteen with a couple of grumbled words. “Ale,
please.”

A dripping-wet glass slammed down in front of me. “Sir,” I added before he could run off. “Question, sir.”

“Whaddya want?” he grunted. His shirt soiled, he reeked of some sour scent that made me never want to breathe again. I maintained my distance.

“Would you happen to know a Lord Ridgewood? Or Dr. Calvin Beck? Do either of them frequent this place?”

“No sir, but if ya want an introduction to the Queen, I’m your man!” Cackling to himself, he left to serve another customer.

How amusing.

No choice but to wait patiently and watch the door, it seemed. The early afternoon did not attract much of a crowd, which left plenty of empty seats scattered around the room for me. But as I
searched for a table in a dark and solitary place, my eyes landed on a man who had fallen into that sorry state instead. “Oh, Rose!” he cried.

What in heaven’s name had brought Robert here?

Without realizing it, I had risen from my seat and snatched up my glass, ready to ask him. He rambled to an old man sitting next to him at the bar, who took long swigs of his beer and nodded
sympathetically. My feet brought me closer and closer, but restraint or sense prevailed and I continued onward without a word, taking a table along the wall. This was neither the time nor the place
to comfort Robert.

“This is a picture of my Rose,” he said, holding up a monstrosity he had drawn a couple of years ago.

“A . . . uh, fine-looking girl, sir,” his drinking partner replied.

“There’s something wrong, I know it,” he said, shaking his head. “I just wish I could see for myself that she was well!”

He drained the remains of his beer and was in the process of calling over the bartender for another when my view was entirely blocked.

“Yer sittin’ at our table,” a rough voice told me.

Peering down at me was a large, bearded man and his stout, short companion not far behind.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, leaping up from my seat.

“That ain’t our table,” the short one corrected. “Ours is outside.”

“My ’umblest apologies,” the bearded one said. “But seein’ as yer up, ’ow’d you like a drink wif us?”

I shook my head. “That’s quite all right—”

“We insist,” the short one said, giving me a false smile. “Any ’quaintance of Dr. Beck is a ’quaintance of ours.”

I picked up my glass, silently cursing to myself. The big one led the way to a wooden back door, and his companion prodded me from behind to follow. It scraped open to a secluded alleyway behind
the bar. Sickening smells and foreboding reddish stains assaulted my senses, and my heart went off thumping again. The two men seemed to be quite at home here. What was their connection to Dr.
Beck? And where did that short one acquire the long scar along his face?

The tall man rolled up his sleeves and took a swaggering step forward. The false politeness disappeared from his face. “Who are ya?” he growled.

“I—I’m sorry? Ah—uh, James . . . Brick?” I squeaked, backing against the wall.

“No ya ain’t—now tell us.” He scowled menacingly.

“An’ what’re ya ’ere for, girl?” the shorter one growled as he reached into his pocket. Another squeak loosed itself from my throat. How did they know?

“I—I was, um—I am looking for my sister, Rose, and—” I started to say.

The two exchanged the same curious glance. Smiles passed across both their faces, and they turned to me with synchronized bows.

“Ah! As we suspected.
Yer
the gal.”

“The one Braddock’s been tryin’ very, very ’ard to ’elp.”

“You aren’t with Dr. Beck?” I managed.

The two men whispered between each other.

“Course we can trust ’er,” the bearded one said encouragingly. “She dunnit sound like she’s lying.”

“Dunnit look like it, either,” the other finished.

“Settled, then.” The bearded one turned to me. “Muh name’s Arthur, this ’ere’s William, and we’re with yer friend Braddock. We provide ’im with
information on ’ccasion—call us merchants, yeah?”

William sniffed the alley air and wrinkled his nose. “Arthur, we best be back, this ain’t no place for a lady.”

“And in ’ere is?” Arthur asked, smirking as he pulled the door open for us.

William led the way back into the black void, and the faint outline of his body was the only thing keeping me from crashing into everything as my eyes adjusted.

“Who—how did you see through my disguise in here?”

“We’re talented,” William said over his shoulder.

“Quite talented,” came Arthur’s voice from behind.

William stopped at an open table and pulled back a chair for me, which must have looked like strange behavior to anyone sober enough to notice or care.

I sat down, trying to find the right words. “Are you? Do you have? I mean . . .”

Arthur nodded at me. “Yea, we’re special-like, just as you are. I could ’ear the strain—in yer voice. Ya shoulda let ’er change it.”

“Don’t matter,” William put in as he sat, “I could see the makeup and the alt’rations. Brushstrokes, yeah? Like you’s got a mask. Still, that Camille
bird’s gotten right good at it, took me ’most two seconds to see ya through it.”

“You are acquainted with Camille?” I asked.

“ ’Ow’d ya think we got these threatenin’ faces?” They smiled, teeth glinting in a sharklike way.

“Charged a fortune, though.”

Arthur gave a disappointed shake of the head. “Shouldn’ta paid extra for the scar, Willy.”

“Scar’s the most impor’nt part,” William said. He looked to me. “Terrifying, innit?”

“Quite,” I said, my pulse finally slowing. “Why did you change your faces?”

“Went into ’iding,” they spoke together.

“From?” The two exchanged rapid, hesitant glances before coming to a silent decision, turning back to me.

“The one yer lookin’ for. Experimented on me ears.”

“An’ me eyes.”

“We’d rather not dredge up those memories, love.”

“Unpleasant, see?”

“Where’d that lass get to?” Arthur asked, twisting around and searching the room.

“There she is,” William declared triumphantly, holding up three fingers for a barmaid across the room to see. “Drinks on Arthur ’gain.”

Arthur scoffed. “If she were talkin’, I’d’ve won,” he said, shaking his head.

“But ya din’t.”

They looked easy enough, but I could sense an undercurrent of pain that was strikingly similar to Mr. Braddock’s. Still, I had to keep on the difficult topic. “So why are you two
here?”

“Braddock asked us to keep our ears out for information about Beck,” Arthur whispered. “And this ’ere is the top place for ’earing about special-like
folk.”

“Why this place?”

Arthur shrugged. “Don’t know ’ow it started. Maybe’s more comfortable drinkin’ with your kind?”

“Everyone keeps it quiet, though. You gotta look extra close. See that barmaid?” William asked, nodding toward our server. “Beer comes out warm, but watch ’er
hands.”

The bartender poured our glasses as he had done mine earlier, but when the barmaid fetched them, she took an extra moment to wrap her hand around each base. Within seconds, each glass fogged up,
chilled to its core. After she delivered them to our table, I couldn’t help but scrape the frost in amazement.

“Of course,” I sighed. “Mr. Braddock doesn’t tell me about this place, either.”

“That there—wait.” William eyed me in a terribly uncomfortable way—it felt as if he were slowly peeling off layers of my skin. “He don’t know you’re
’ere?”

“He doesn’t tell me anything and then goes off searching without me,” I complained, my exasperation not particularly well disguised.

“ ’Haps he’s tryin’ ta protect you.”

“An’ we ain’t ’elping by keepin’ you ’ere. You should return ’ome. We’ll keep watch. Better suited for it anyways.” William spoke in the
soothing tone one uses with an irrational child. Of course, the effect on a rational adult was anything but soothing.

“No. I need to find my sister, and all this ‘protection’ does is slow the search!” I said, the table rattling as my fist banged down.

A couple of sleeping drunkards at the tables around us jerked their heads up, bewildered. Neither Arthur nor William flinched at my outburst, though. Arthur just gave me a look of pity, which
felt rather insulting, considering our pathetic surroundings. “He’s got ’is own reasons.”

“What on earth is his hold over you? Did he threaten you? Beat you up? You know, I could help if he injured you—”

“Dearie, we owe ’im our lives.”

I gaped at them, certain I was mishearing. Perhaps they owed him their wives? Knives? “I’m sorry, what exactly do you mean?”

“He’s the reason we ain’t dead. Freed us from Dr. Beck,” Arthur said. William nodded along enthusiastically.

“I see . . . and this was when he was not testing his power on innocent subjects?” I was rather viciously pleased to see their abashed reactions.

“It’s true—’e did that,” William said ruefully.

“Yeah but ’e dinnit wanta, did ’e?” Arthur turned back to me, earnest. “Tore ’im right up that ’e couldn’t control his power, but he didn’t
hav’a choice—he was locked up. Dr. Beck’ll do anything for his research. It starts out real friendly-like, but then one day ’e locked us up, and ’e would’a cut
us open if Braddock hadn’t helped us ’scape.”

“And if Mr. Braddock hadn’t let Dr. Beck go,” I said, “you or my sister wouldn’t have been locked up in the first place.”

They both frowned and exhaled. “That’s a messy business, dearie,” Arthur said. “You’re right ’bout your sister, but Beck ’ad us in another
laboratory.”

“If Braddock had killed ’em instead of followed ’em, we’d’a never been found.”

I stared into my cloudy glass, watching the whirling liquid settle into stillness. So Mr. Braddock had told me the truth. He really hadn’t had a choice. And he’d saved Arthur’s
and William’s lives. But the two images—of Mr. Braddock killing an innocent and showing mercy to Dr. Beck—proved impossible to banish with Rose still out there.

The duo seemed to silently communicate again with glances before Arthur cleared his throat, speaking low. “Even if ’e don’t tell ya everything, you can trust ’im to
’ave a good reason for it.”

“Did he tell you Dr. Beck has an unknown power of his own?” I took a heavy gulp of the ale.

When I set down the glass, I was faced with identical expressions of confusion. “Dr. Beck’s special-like?”

“We only learned of it yesterday. We’re quite sure he has a power—we just don’t know what it may be.”

Nauseated, William pushed aside his drink, while Arthur drained half the glass, foam collecting on his beard. Neither reaction was entirely reassuring.

“Then I gather you don’t have ideas of what it might be?” I asked. “Did you ever see anything out of the ordinary with him? Anything at all?”

Arthur closed his eyes a little and touched his ears, wincing in pain at my strained tone. “Dinnit think ’e could get scarier, didja, Willy? But that ’bout makes me wanna run
ta ’nother country,” he said miserably.

“Sorry, can’t say I noticed anything,” William put in. “Cunning bastard iffin you’ll pardon me for sayin’ so. Always planned well. Never let it slip. He musta
known ’ow to hide the power. Nuthin’ ever seemed strangelike.” He nodded in his short-necked way.

I took a final sip of the beer. The bitter taste was a bit more tolerable this time, but it was nothing I’d miss. “And do you still mean to keep watch here for Mr. Braddock? You
still trust him?”

They both nodded, without the need to look at each other for agreement. Very well. Staunch supporters of the cause.

“Then I will thank you for your help and take my leave. You two are infinitely more suitable for the task, and I’ve distracted you long enough.” I pulled out a scrap of paper
and wrote down the Kents’ address. “If you discover anything at all, please include me. You can imagine how difficult it is knowing the danger my sister is in and not being able to
help.”

They stood up with me and Arthur took the address. “We do. And I s’pose that fella there knows a bit about it, too,” he said, nodding toward Robert, who by now had buried his
face into the crook of his elbow to weep.

“He is a dear friend of mine. Would you make sure he does nothing stupid?”

“If you’ll do us a favor in turn.”

William gave me an earnest look. “You try ta forgive Braddock. He means ya well.”

I pushed in my chair and nodded a clumsy, hesitant good-bye to them. The sticky floor brought me through the smoky haze and out the front door, where I found a sudden, blinding reminder that it
was still the middle of the day.