Wicked City (22 page)

“Everything, once they confronted him with the evidence. He says he used tainted blood to lace the deadly bottles. He's quite the fanatic.”

“Shocking, with Archibald Madison as his mentor.”

Mrs. Brandon smiled thinly. “Indeed. But he was used, Amir. By someone else, someone with an agenda that could benefit from this past week's headlines. A week, might I remind you, that comes right before the final vote.”

“Are you really suggesting that Zephyr or someone of her sympathies could have deliberately used Faust to kill at least twelve innocent vampires as a
political
maneuver?”

But Mrs. Brandon shook her head with reassuring vehemence. “Of course not, Amir! Why do you think I've come tonight? I simply can't believe Miss Hollis capable of such a calculation. But I'm afraid the police won't be as perceptive. I'm afraid that with such pressure to find a culprit, they might focus on Miss Hollis without adequate investigation. So I realized I must tell you what is happening in confidence, so you can inform Miss Hollis. Forewarned is forearmed.”

“Do you have any copies of the letters?” Amir asked.

Mrs. Brandon opened her clutch purse and pulled out a square of paper, folded multiple times. “I was able to copy out one of them. I'm sorry I can't show you more. They date back to February.”

Amir took the folded sheet and read it for a long, silent minute. “I see,” he said. “I understand your concern, now. Do you mind if I give this to Zephyr?”

Mrs. Brandon closed her purse with a satisfied snap. “Of course, Amir. And please tell her I will do all I can to encourage the police to look at other possibilities. At the least, I can assure her that Jimmy would never let this go to the press with anything but a solid case. Her name won't be sullied.”

“I'm grateful to you for telling me,” Amir said. He folded the letter and set it on a coffee table. I longed to dash in and retrieve it, but I had the feeling that my reputation could use the forbearance.

“Aside from encouraging him to do the deed,” Amir said, “did the letterwriter provide any material support? A weapon?”

Mrs. Brandon frowned. “They found a bag of blood in his room, along with the letters. The writer sent it, apparently.”

“Poisoned blood? So she provided the murder weapon,” Amir said, and his frown was a little too deep, his worry a little too obvious, for a man who believed in my innocence. He was afraid I
had
written Madison's assistant those letters to further my political cause! I seethed, but of course I had to keep my rage to myself. Of all the unmitigated gall—to have brought the plague of Faust to this city and then to believe
me
capable of murdering for it. I felt quite glad that I hadn't kissed him. He didn't deserve it.

“The blood came from a Blood Bank,” Mrs. Brandon said. She paused as though she had said something shocking.

“Isn't that where blood generally comes from?”

“No, you don't understand. The blood was tainted—not from a poison, as the police originally suspected. And certainly not from Faust. The blood
itself
. Someone with tainted blood gave it to a Bank with no trouble. If this gets out, who knows what could happen? Vampires who don't trust Blood Banks…”

“Might turn to other sources,” Amir finished.

*   *   *

Mrs. Brandon had hardly shut the door behind her before I toddled to the living room, snatched up the letter, and collapsed none-too-steadily into the nearest chair.

“I'm sorry—” Amir began, but I shook my head.

“Quiet,” I said. “I'm reading.”

He waited. I squinted. “Does it generally take you this long?” he said.

“You are an ass.”

“I can read it aloud if you'd like.”

I closed my eyes and leaned back in the chair—not as comfortable as I would have wished, given how much money seemed to have been wasted on its appearance. To be honest, I had forgotten the way blows to the head tended to hamper one's vision.

I scowled and squinted at him. He was kneeling in front of me, with a look of far greater concern than I had expected from his voice.

“Oh, read the blasted thing,” I said.

Amir responded graciously to my gracelessness.

“From letter May 30th, 1927. ‘It's low season at the Blood Banks, Brad. Those who can give in the summer, but not all of their blood can nourish. Some hurts. Some kills. Did you know that? Faust kills, too. It kills humans and makes vampires mad, just as Madison says. But what if you could get rid of them all? What if you could kill them with the blood they need, through the drink they crave? This blood will kill the scourge, which is your mentor's greatest desire. And if you poison the drink, even the mayor won't be able to push through Faust's legalization. I don't want Faust on the streets, Brad. Madison doesn't. I don't think you do, either. Will you take up the mantle? Will you mete out justice? I used to defend my fellow humans, like you and Madison. I was raised to do so by my father, but my path has changed. I can do more good in disguise. This blood is a weapon, but a woman cannot wield it. Only you.'”

Amir's face was damningly blank. He put down the note. I stared at it. The room seemed to tremble. I realized it was me.

“Christ,” I said. “Bloody Christ.”

“Zephyr,” Amir said, very carefully, “if you perhaps did something ill-advised, in the heat of entirely justified anger at Faust or … or myself and the responsibility I bear for it, I…”

His eyes implored me—to do what, I wasn't sure. Though he clearly tried to hold himself in check, emotion gripped him so strongly that a slight haze of smoke drifted over his shoulders.

I wasn't inclined to sympathy.

“You
what,
Amir?” I asked.

He took a deep breath. “I will do anything in my power to help you,” he said.

I laughed. “You get your wish at last!”

“You think that's what matters to me? You wouldn't want your wish anywhere near this. You've waited too long to make it, Zephyr. I couldn't possibly control the outcome. I have other, more mundane, skills. I'm inviting you to use them.”

I was surprised by his answer, but too angry to let it show. How could he believe me capable of such ugliness? “To spare me the consequences of inciting murder for political gain? What will you do, haunt all of City Hall? Such lengths for a murderous hypocrite.”

Amir winced. “If so, only because she was desperate.”

“You mean you aren't sure?”

“I'll help you either way. I owe you that much, after what I've done.”

I suppose it should have reassured me that Amir felt such guilt for bringing Faust to the city, but it only fueled my anger. But infuriating or not, I needed his help. Confused as I was, I knew I hadn't written that letter. Which meant only one thing.

“Someone is trying to frame me for the murders,” I said.

“Someone would have to hate you very much. They would have planned it very far in advance. Mrs. Brandon said the letters dated from February.”

“A month after the affair with Rinaldo,” I said.

“And Faust,” he said.

Amir and I looked at each other. We didn't have to say it out loud: if they knew what had happened in January, too many people to count might hate me just enough.

*   *   *

I had every intention of going back to the boardinghouse that night for news of Aileen, but my exhaustion betrayed me. No sooner had I realized the truly frightening number of people who might wish me ill than I was taking such cheery thoughts into my dreams. I roused to warmth and a gentle bobbing sensation—Amir had plucked me from my uncomfortable slouch on the brocade chair.

“How undignified,” I murmured into his chest. Something beat inside, but it didn't sound like the other hearts of my acquaintance. In addition to pounding, it produced the occasional hiss and rattle, like a cranky steam engine. In my somnambulant state, I somehow found this comforting.

Amir lay me on the bed. The sheets felt as marvelous as I remembered, but I forced myself to sit up.

“But I have to get back,” I said.

“Whatever it is can wait till morning.”

I squinted at him. “Are you trapping me in your bower?”

“I wouldn't dream of it. But your brother made me promise to keep an eye on you tonight, so your toddling back to that puritan boarding-house would pose certain logistical constraints.”

I yawned. “Mrs. Brodsky could use the excitement,” I said, and fell asleep again with his laughter in my ears.

When I awoke, sun streamed through a crack in the heavy red curtains. Amir was gone. I indulged a moment of pure disappointment—all the more ridiculous for having no plausible basis—and then took deep, calming breaths. A murderer had been caught last night, but unfortunately the person who had goaded him to do it seemed to want my head on a stick. I wouldn't give it to them without a fight.

I was in my slip—a fact which seemed to not have registered last night, indication enough that I had been in no fit state to go anywhere. Amir had draped my clothes neatly over the chair of the vanity. I dressed and checked myself in the mirror.

“Goodness,” I said, fingering the purpling bruise on the right side of my head. That certainly justified this morning's headache, though thankfully sleep had taken care of the wooziness and nausea. It looked a fright, however. Not as though I ever looked precisely smashing, but this seemed a little much even for my usual state of disarray. I pulled my hat down very low, and then carefully arranged the curls that stuck out. Not perfect, but at least I was unlikely to be pointed at on the street.

Suitably attired, I opened the bedroom door.

“Amir?” I called. I looked in all the rooms—one bathroom, another bedroom, and the foyer and kitchen. He was absent from them all. Only after my second time through did I discover the note he'd left for me on the parlor table.

Zephyr,

I am pursuing a lead, but will find you in the evening. I believe I promised you a trip to the morgue? In the meantime, I hope to present you with something useful when next we meet.

I hold my tongue lest I make it known.

Amir

(Sorry,
habibti,
that last is Nuwas, another part of that poem you knew)

I held the note far longer than necessary. I stared at it as though into a well, or the stars on a clear Montana night. I didn't understand why, only that I was furious. For his leaving when I had woken up with the thought of him. Furious for his poetry, for his contrition, for his surprising conscientiousness in the face of what I realized was extreme provocation. If Kardal would say what he had to
me,
I could only imagine the family dinners in Shadukiam. Amir had probably gone off to do something else to help me, but instead of being grateful I could only process my fury at his presumption.

Typical Amir, of course. Half the disastrous mess of this January could have been averted if he had managed to overcome his pig-headedness and tell me the truth of his dealings with Rinaldo. But apparently princes of the djinni weren't taught to admit bad judgment or confusion. It never occurred to him to
talk
to me about his problems. He much preferred to bumble ahead on his own, and use me to get out of the sticky aftermath.

“Damn you, Amir!” I said, with much satisfaction.

I nearly tore the note, but my hands froze.

I hold my tongue lest I make it known.

I didn't know what it meant, but my breath caught just the same.

I would see him this evening. I could yell at him then. In the meantime, I had more than enough to do without worrying about him. I tucked the note into my pocket before I left.

*   *   *

It was just as well that I'd slept on Amir's silk sheets, because Lily had spent the night on mine. She and Aileen were both awake by the time I made it back, and if I was surprised to see Lily looking more or less at home on the worn chintz of Mrs. Brodsky's living room, I didn't say so. I owed her for taking care of Aileen after the séance—Lily possessed greater depths than she preferred to let on.

Aileen noticed me first, standing awkwardly in the entrance to the parlor. “Why, hullo. We were wondering when you'd return. Is that frankincense I smell?”

I grimaced. “Purely innocent frankincense.”

Lily looked between the two of us, confused. “Is that some new slang?”

Aileen leaned back in the armchair. “Yes,” she said gravely, “for handsome djinni who are angling for a certain suffragette's bloomers.”

Lily was aghast. “You wear
bloomers
!”

“I do not! Well, not unless I'm too busy to do the laundry—”

“Zephyr has perfectly respectable undergarments, Lily,” Aileen said, patting her hand.

“So did you make it with your djinni?” Lily asked.

I blushed and made a fuss sitting down on the ottoman across from them. “I
told
you,” I said. “I've been chaste as a preacher's daughter.”

Lily arched her brows. “Pity,” she said.

“When did you wake up?” I asked Aileen. “Are you all right?”

Aileen smiled thinly. “As I ever am,” she said. “I woke up as soon as that doctor started prodding me. I hadn't really been asleep, besides. Just in too deep. It took me a while to crawl back out.”

“Crawl out?” I said.

Lily sighed. “I don't understand either. However, as I'm not a famous medium, I have taken her word for it. She seems okay.”

“I
am
okay,” Aileen said. “And in the room, in case you didn't notice.”

“I'm so glad!” I said. “I was worried, of course, but with so much happening at once…” I leaned forward and embraced her. She returned the gesture, then froze.