These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel (9 page)

I did not remember that.

Shivering, I hurried away, splashing through foul puddles and dank recesses without hesitation. I rounded a corner chemist shop, found that the next street looked completely wrong, spun around
to retrace my steps, and crashed right into the two reeking men from the magic show. My muttered apologies and attempts to slip by failed as their wide, swaggering frames blocked my path. They
didn’t look to be the friendliest of guides.

“ ’Ere she is! ’Ello, poppet. Whereya runnin’ off to?” one voice scratched like sandpaper.

“ ’Ow much fer the both o’ us?” the other said.

I endeavored to turn around, but one shuffled in front of me. “Oy, take a look at those lips! Come on, darlin’, ’ow much?” he yelled.

My heart started to pound, furiously begging my legs to move. I made a dash, but the men were faster than drunkards rightfully should have been. One seized my arm and swung me back while the
other clutched my neck with his grimy fingers. I struggled to utter words, sounds, anything as I heard the metal clang of a dropped blade and scraping as one of them picked it up.

“Lucky us. No one’s ’ere,” a voice in my ear cackled to the other man. “Who needs a room?”

“No, no! Please—”

The taste of dirt hit me as a thick, fetid hand smothered my cry for help. Another hand pulled my neckline apart with a horrifying tear, and my final, frantic lunge away was stopped short by two
hairy arms pinning me to a strange, damp body. The edge of the knife pricked my burning throat as their whispered threats lingered in my ear. The suffocating stench of tobacco and ale filled my
lungs, violating all my senses.

I kicked. I kicked so hard, and it did nothing but hurry them along. Hands seized my feet, and a voice cursed at me as they carried me off the sidewalk and down an alley—an alley far too
dark to see what they would do next.

A
ND FAR TOO
dark for them to see me.

My hand flew up, clawing at the closest face, fingers digging into hair, flesh, eyes with every shred of fury I could summon from within. Thick wetness dribbled down my palm, and a loud, gruff
scream tore straight through my ears. The blade dropped away, and the holds on me loosened for a brief, startling second.

My feet kicked hard again, flailing and hitting and thrusting into what felt like a face, a stomach, a groin, and then they touched solid ground. I scrambled backward, bumping into a body and
shoving it away and spinning around in the dark, looking for the yellow glow of gaslight. Hearing grunts and footsteps behind me, I dashed toward the street, my skirts tangling, my slippers half
sliding off, my balance and breath leaving me. If I could just make it down the street, a constable would hear me. Someone. Anyone. And that was when a third silhouetted man arrived, standing
between me and my freedom.

I flew at him like a feral cat, aiming for the eyes, trying to do what worked before, refusing to be taken again. The collision sent him stumbling back a step, but as I attacked with all my
momentum to throw him off balance, that unmistakable sensation surged through my body, and I felt myself being whirled around and pushed into a pool of light. The world stopped spinning to settle
on Mr. Braddock’s eyes, glaring into mine as waves of energy passed between his hands to my arms, where he clutched me.

The scuffle of footsteps snapped his attention to the alley. He pivoted back and swung his fist at the man in front, catching him straight on his nose and sending him stumbling and slamming into
the other. But they didn’t fall. With a newfound rage, the two staggered forward.

“Lucky one that was,” one of them said, wiping his bloody face.

The other pointed his knife at Mr. Braddock and smirked.“We’ll be the lucky ones. I get his coat.”

“Long as I get the bitch first.”

And the one in front charged with his knife, thrusting at Mr. Braddock’s head to avoid bloodying the coat. Mr. Braddock gracefully sidestepped the lunge and grabbed the unbalanced
drunkard’s wrist. Impossibly fast and forceful, he contorted the wailing man’s arm and twisted him around. I heard the snap of bones. With a yell, the second attacker launched a hard,
clumsy kick at Mr. Braddock’s side but found his foot lodged in his friend’s stomach. Mr. Braddock’s human shield crumpled to the floor. As the second drunkard realized his
mistake, his eyes widened, and his crooked jaw would have dropped, had a skyward fist not collided with it first and sent him sailing backward onto the hard pavement.

That should have ended it, but the first attacker clambered back into the fray, broken arm held in tightly, and tackled Mr. Braddock from behind before I could shout a word of warning. Surprised
but still upright, Mr. Braddock hurriedly spun around, attempting to dislodge the desperate attacker, who was futilely trying to drag him to the ground. After a few punches from Mr. Braddock, the
drunkard’s tight hold with his good hand finally loosened, and he collapsed to the ground between us, while Mr. Braddock stood over him watching, his brow furrowed.

I could do nothing but gape at the sight. My knees buckled, and I sat down hard on the street, my skirts fanning out along the dirty pavement. My thoughts would not stop. They seemed to weigh
down on me, every single awful thing that had almost happened. I did my best to push them away, to think on what really had happened. My heavy breath, held for entirely too long, escaped in a loud
gasp and turned Mr. Braddock’s attention to me.

“Are you hurt?” he asked quietly, slipping a pair of kid gloves over his blood-speckled hands.

I wasn’t. I wasn’t hurt.

Somehow, I managed to stand, and he scanned me for injuries until his eyes reached my torn neckline and his blinking grew excessive. He stared at the ground as I groaned, my hands flying up
reflexively, doing little to cover the damage. Looking pointedly away from my bare skin, he slipped off his jacket and handed it to me without a word. The wool itched, and the sleeves awkwardly
hung too long past my arms, but it sufficed. Something earthy and spicily familiar drifted from the fabric. Much better than the stink of smoke and alcohol, at least. I stopped myself before I took
another long inhalation, realizing what I was doing.

“Miss Wyndham,
are you all right
?” His words came condescendingly slow and overly enunciated, as if he thought I no longer understood English.

I blinked. Anger, fear, astonishment, helplessness—a maelstrom of emotions still coursed through me. I grasped at one of the many questions flashing through my head. “How did you
find me?”

“I was on my way to call on you at the Kents’ when I saw you leave the Egyptian, clearly lost and frightened.”

“I was chilled,” I snapped. Strange, my hands continued to shake, no matter how I told them not to. “And so you followed me but decided to wait until my life was in danger, so
you could jump in heroically, yes? No normal ‘Hello, Miss Wyndham, perhaps I might escort you home?’ A marvelous plan, Mr. Braddock. You’re quite ‘mad, bad, and dangerous to
know,’ congratulations.”

Mr. Braddock prowled around me in half circles as if a trap lay hidden in the space between us. Then he stopped and gestured down the street. “Fine. Perhaps I might escort you home now. If
you can stop the rudely unsubtle Lord Byron comments.”

“As long as you don’t walk with his limp.”

“Do you do this to every man who helps you?”

“I—well—do
you
behave like this for every woman
you
help?” was my intelligent reply.

“No, you alone seem to inspire it,” he said, leading the way. “I thought you might still be in shock, but this sounds like your usual incivility.”

“Well, I thought I was abundantly clear in our last conversation that it would be our
last
conversation. But here you are.”

He opened his mouth but stopped after an angry “You,” clenching furiously at air, arms stuck at his sides. He looked like he was mentally counting to ten. I think I even heard a soft
“Nine.”

“I apologize for the other morning,” he finally said, guiding us around a corner. “You caught me by surprise, and I went about everything the wrong way. It was not my intention
to cause the distress I did.”

The apology caught me off guard. It took me a few moments to break the habit of thinking up retorts. “And, and I . . . well, thank you, for coming to my aid. I was—I was overwhelmed
. . . and not quite expecting you here. Why did you follow me?”

Broken shadows crept across his profile, bending around his Greek nose. “To tell you what I was trying to say when you ran off before. I should have been clearer, but . . . I thought you
were already aware. Have you been able to accept it yet?”

“Accept what?”

“Your gift. The powerful healing ability.”

“You are confused. That would be Rose. She studies for hours every day—”

“As knowledgeable as your sister may be about medicine, her success comes from the extraordinary power she was born with. When we first met, I had assumed it was her power alone and that
she understood it. But until our meeting yesterday, I had not considered the possibility that
both
of you had the power and both of you were completely unaware of it.”

He took a deep breath, pulling in my gaze with his own. “It is your touch that heals people, Miss Wyndham.”

“Ha! Half of Bramhurst insists that Rose has some miraculous gift of God, no matter how much I try to explain that it’s science, but I must admit, it’s amusing you would fall
for such an idea, too.”

“What I’m telling you
is
science. There is a process called saltation that some scientists argue is a more precise theory of evolution. It finds that speciation occurs when
select members of a particular species undergo sudden drastic changes in their development that suit them better for survival. This jump randomly occurs from one generation to another, and the new,
advanced species are the ones to live on, while their predecessors gradually go extinct. That is how you and your sister acquired such rare gifts of healing. You are part of that jump. As am I. I
have my own power. . . . I have lived with it for three years now—”

“Mr. Braddock,” I interrupted, finally prodded into speaking. “I told you to stop this dark act. I’ll admit, this is far more inventive than those moody men who knock
over trays of appetizers to attract attention or loudly mumble bits of their poetry, but do you really think I haven’t the faintest idea of how evolution works and that I’m willing to
believe myself in some fantastic gothic novel?”

“No, of course not—”

“Good. Then thank you very much for your assistance, and please, let me go home in peace.”

He stepped in front of me, crowding me back in an alley. “I cannot let you do that. I know this is unbelievable—it took me time to come to terms with it, as well—but do
not
simply ignore me.”

His intensity and vehemence sent a chill down my spine, and my amusement vanished entirely. He really believed this. Was he completely unaware of what he was doing? If this was not an act, how
crazy did that make him?

“You’ve told me your amusing story, now let’s—”

“It’s not a story.”

“It is, unless you have any shred of evidence.” I tried to move past him, but a tight grip on my hand twisted me back around. I drew in a sharp breath as a searing essence surged
through my arm, prickling my veins from where his hand met mine, until a second later, his hand and the feeling were gone.

“Was that evidence enough?” he asked, voice hard as stone.

“You . . . did that?” I gasped, almost unable to speak.

“Did you think it was the flutterings of your heart?” He sneered, but I could see his lips tighten as he tried to control his own reaction. He resumed our course down the street.

I followed, maintaining my distance. “I think it’s another magic trick. A hidden device.”

“There’s no trick. I told you, I have a power—”

“The power of vexation?”

Stepping up another crumbling curb, he rubbed his neck and his jaw tightened. (I was surprised it could tighten any further.) “Believe what you wish. But either way, I need your help. I
have a very sick friend—”

“No,” I replied with a sinking sensation. “Not another incurable condition.”

“Why? Is that what the large man at the ball told your sister?”

“It was. And you want me to cure this friend, I’m sure, but I cannot do that,” I said.

“Perhaps your sister, then?”

“She is unavailable.”

“I can help you find her,” he added with a steady sidelong glance.

Bloody hell. “Why would she possibly need finding? She is staying with my aunt and uncle.” I attempted a carefree laugh. Judging by his startled look, it came out more as a
madwoman’s cackle.

“I see, yes, of course she’s safe with them,” he replied smugly. “Which is why her fiercely protective older sister came to me like a Fury yesterday, demanding to know
what I had done after I showed an interest in Miss Rosamund at the ball. It also explains why the helpful attendant at the train station witnessed Miss Rosamund traveling to London with a
distinctive man, and, oh yes, this older sister following with a ‘Mr. Kent’ by the day’s end. You might guard yourself better if you wish to keep this a secret. If I could unravel
this so easily, anyone else may be able to, as well.”