“Greed, correct.” Aleximanus sipped from his steaming tea cup. “Not my favourite sin if you ask me. I find greed quite despicable. You can never trust greed. And you, Hazel? Do you believe what Tyon told you?”
“Well.” Hazel cleared her throat and adjusted her high-necked collar again. “It’s complicated.”
“Indeed.” He spread his arms on the back of the couch. “I bet you don’t believe a word Tyon told you.” A sad note rang in his words.
Hazel squirmed, her gaze darting around.
Tyon unsheathed his white dagger. “Mayhap I should stab you and show Hazel how fast you heal. She’ll believe me then.”
Aleximanus opened his dressing gown, offering his chest as target. “Go on.”
“For God’s sake, no!” Hazel ambled closer to Tyon, her cheeks now pale. “Please, don’t do it.” She muttered something about even Aleximanus being into this folly.
Tyon exhaled. It was unfair of him to have dragged her here, but she had to believe him. He couldn’t risk her running away from him and falling into more serious danger.
“I found the hallow.” Tyon flipped the blade casually, studying Aleximanus’s reaction. If he was involved with Rachel’s death and the contamination of the hallow, he wouldn’t resist the temptation to brag about having fooled his captain.
“Excellent.” Despite his careless tone, a muscle on Aleximanus’s neck contracted. “As soon as you finish with it, I’ll take it then.”
“What are you going to do with it?” Hazel asked in a whisper.
Aleximanus smiled, a charming, warm smile that showed his white teeth. “Tyon will use the hallow to find one of his knights, and I’ll use the hallow to find his knight’s nemesis. The ultimate anti-knight if you will. It’s part of the deal, a balanced fight between sin-breathers and sin-eaters.”
She huffed. “It’s not balanced at all if you can create sin-breathers when you want and Tyon can’t add new sin-eaters to his ranks.”
Tyon grinned. If she discussed this, it meant she was starting to believe him?
Aleximanus put a hand on his chest. “I didn’t make the rules, and it’s not my fault if breathing sins is what I do, just like Tyon eats them. The knights lost. The sin-breathers won. It is what it is.”
“But you don’t play by the rules.” Tyon closed his fingers around the hilt. “I can’t use the hallow.”
“For what reason?” Aleximanus lowered his cup and perked up.
“Because you contaminated it.” Tyon pointed the tip of the blade at a copy of The Herald on the low table where a picture of a smiling dark-haired woman took up the front page. Miss Rachel McCormack-Brighton dead, the title read. “One of your sin-breathers used the hallow to deliver evil.”
Aleximanus snatched the paper and skimmed the article, a frown creasing his brow. “It wasn’t me.”
“Don’t insult me,” Tyon hissed.
“I’m telling the truth. I didn’t even know what the hallow was. How could I have sent a sin-breather to contaminate it?” His voice rose, but remained steady.
Tyon lunged, clenched a fist around the lapels of Aleximanus’s dressing gown, and pressed the sharp edge of the blade to his neck. “I have had enough of your game. You wanted me to break the rules. Here I am, ready to spear your black heart and send you to meet your depraved maker.”
“Go on, Captain.” He didn’t smile though. “Do it. Do you think I care? I don’t have anything to lose.”
Hazel took a sharp intake of air, her hands clasped around her reticule.
Tyon pushed the blade farther. Somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to stab the bastard, and not because he’d need his knights to finish Aleximanus. “I don’t have anything to lose either, sin-breather.”
Aleximanus shot a glance at Hazel. “No, Captain. I think you do.” He pushed his head forwards, letting the blade graze his skin. “I didn’t send a sin-breather to kill Rachel. Do what you want with me, but that is the truth.”
The hem of Hazel’s skirts flashed in Tyon’s vision as she inched closer. “I think he’s speaking the truth.”
Yes, Tyon agreed, but it didn’t mean Aleximanus played fairly. He withdrew the dagger. A drop of blood staining it sank into the blade and disappeared. His white dagger was always thirsty for sin-breathers’ blood.
Hazel rose on her tiptoes, staring at the blade. “A fine trick.”
“Who was it then?” Tyon sheathed his dagger without arguing with Hazel that it wasn’t a trick, but sorcery.
Aleximanus rubbed his neck. “Are you joking? There are plenty of evil humans around. They do all kinds of evil deeds without my encouragement.”
“It can’t be a coincidence,” Tyon roared. His power thundered within him, a low hum that sounded like the pounding of war drums. “I find the first hallow, and someone contaminates it. You must know something.”
“I don’t know a bloody thing.” He lobbed the newspaper on the couch. “I can ask around though and see if one of my sin-breathers knows something.”
“You’ll do that.” Tyon marched towards the door, Hazel tailing him.
“And Captain,” Aleximanus called.
He paused, half turning towards the sin-breather. “What?”
“You can’t protect her.” The serious tone in Aleximanus’s voice sent a tremor through Tyon’s body. It wasn’t the usual, spiteful warning the sin-breather tossed to provoke him. Again that sadness crept in Aleximanus’s words as if he were genuinely sorry.
Tyon gritted his teeth. “We’ll see.”
Chapter 11
MISS VERNA’S WHITE townhouse was squeezed between two larger buildings that flanked it as if to protect it. Hazel pulled up the tulle of her hat while Tyon knocked on the door. It was easier to focus on the glossy black paint of the door, or the trimmed bushes at the sides of the porch than think about Tyon’s white blade, drops of blood disappearing, and Aleximanus’s serious tone.
It’s not real, she repeated in her mind.
No. Tyon and Aleximanus’s belief was real enough, so was the danger. But curses, spells, and sorcery? She was a scientist who worked on measurable, dependable facts not magic and legends. Father had gone mad following myths and fairy tales. She wouldn’t end up like him.
“You’re pale,” Tyon whispered.
“I’m fine.” She plucked out her gloves then donned them again. Not real. Not real.
The door inched inwards, and a maid bobbed a curtsy, her stare on the floor. “Sir, madam, what can I do for you?”
“We’d like to see Miss Verna,” Tyon replied, towering over the petite girl.
“Miss Verna isn’t well. I’m afraid she can’t receive anyone. She has . . .” The maid’s gaze became unfocused as Tyon stared at her. Her shoulders slumped, and the hand on the door slipped to her side.
Hazel frowned. The same slouching and slackening had happened to the master of ceremony in Lord McCormack-Brighton’s mansion and Sir Morris. Tyon peered into someone’s eyes, and the person grew sleepy. It wasn’t a proof he possessed uncanny powers though. She’d seen a similar stunt performed by tricksters at festivals and carnivals. Just parlour tricks.
Yet, doubt worked its way through her, a tiny, sneaking doubt that tugged at the back of her neck. She scratched her palm again.
A secret that only moonlight can reveal. The Monk’s words echoed in her ears as if he were standing right next to her. She shook her head to shed the nervous, tingling feeling on her skin.
The maid took another dip, her white crest slithering to one side. “Please, follow me to the sitting room. I’ll inform Miss Verna you’re here.”
Hazel shot a glare at Tyon who stared back as if saying, ‘I told you I’m a wizard.’
They stepped into a corridor wide enough for both of them to walk side by side. Paintings of women sitting on beaches or sprawling in meadows lined the walls. Bright colours filled the canvases in an explosion of summer so vivid she could almost smell the buttercups’ scent. They brightened the room, and the w
omen’s smiles were contagious.
Hazel paused in front of the portrait of a dark-haired woman. “Beautiful paintings.”
“My mistress made them,” the maid said with a proud note. “I’ll call Miss Verna, please sit.” She opened the sitting room door and clucked upstairs.
“How do you do that?” Hazel asked, once the maid disappeared.
“Do what?” He studied the portrait of another pretty dark-haired woman.
“Do you convince people to do your bidding by simply staring at them?”
“More or less. I eat their sins, or part of them. As a result, their souls become cleaner, more prone to cooperation, and I send a strong suggestion.” He shrugged as if he weren’t talking about sorcery. “Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.”
“Of course.” She touched her palm again. It tingled, but it might be her fault since she’d never stopped scratching it since this morning. “You’re a wizard. It makes sense.”
“No. I’m not a wizard. The Monk and the Hierophant are sorcerers. I’m simply a man who has received a gift, borrowed some of the Monk’s energy. It’s different.”
Hellfire. She stifled the urge to roll her eyes.
A hint of sadness flickered across his face. She expected him to rebuke or say he was telling the truth, but he simply released a long exhalation.
Quick footsteps padded in the corridor. Miss Verna strode into the room in a flutter of black silk, black hair, and white face. She skidded to a halt, her gaze darting between Hazel and Tyon. “You aren’t police officers.” Her stance wilted. “I thought the police had come with news.”
Tyon opened his mouth, but Hazel spoke up before he could scare Verna with his menacing tone. “We’re private detectives.”
He arched a brow at her.
“We’re investigating Miss Rachel’s death,” she continued.
At the mention of Rachel, Verna shivered and pressed two fingers on her temples. “Oh dear.”
“Would you help us by answering a few questions?” Tyon asked.
Verna squeezed her lips together as if to swallow a sob. “Of course. I’ll do anything to help apprehend the culprit. Please, take a seat.”
Tyon waited for Hazel and Verna to be seated before taking a chair.
“I reckon Miss Rachel was your friend.” Hazel offered a smile. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” She brushed a dark lock from her ashen face. “Rachel and I grew up together. We studied with the same tutors, spent holidays together, attended the same parties. We were practically sisters.” A choking moan tore from her mouth, but she clamped a hand over it. “Sorry. Her death was a shock.” Another sob escaped from her.
“It’s all right.” Hazel reached out and patted her hand. “We know Rachel had a few admirers.”
She blew her nose in a handkerchief, in a delicate, ladylike way Hazel’s mother would’ve approved of. “Many gentlemen approached her, especially in the past two years.”
“Why the past two years?” Tyon asked, his usual, menacing note ringing in his voice.
Hazel gave him the slightest headshake. Scaring Verna wouldn’t move the investigation forwards.
He relaxed his posture and replied with a short nod.
Verna wiped her eyes. “We joined a club in Covent Garden, The Sepulchre.” She half snorted, half laughed. “Don’t be fooled by the name. I know it sounds dark, but it’s actually a book club, named after Charlotte Shelley’s novel. Many gentlemen attend the meetings, and Rachel attracted a lot of attention, most of the times unwanted.”
“What about Sir Morris and Reginald?” Hazel asked.
“Oh, those two beard-splitters.” Verna twisted the handkerchief in her hands. “I told Rachel to not encourage them. She didn’t listen. Morris is a member of The Sepulchre as well, followed Rachel like a sick puppy. He had fits of anger during which he seemed unable to control himself. I was often worried he might strike Rachel.”
It was true. Hazel had witnessed a few of Morris’s scenes.
“Not to mention he chased every skirt. Every breathing woman was prey.” She dug her fingers into the tissue. “Reginald was obsessed with Rachel. He cried one moment, begging her to not leave him, and laughed the next, planning their lives together. Hysterical, to say the least. When Rachel dumped him, he became panic-stricken, shaking like a baby in the cold.”
“The night Rachel died.” Hazel paused to give Verna the time to compose herself. “Sir Morris and Reginald both visited Rachel in the afternoon before the party. Were you present?”
She nodded.
“What did they talk about?”
Verna waved a dismissive hand. “Usual poppycock. They wanted her to choose one of them, but what they didn’t understand was Rachel didn’t love any of them. She told them as much, but they didn’t believe her. After that, they left, promising to see her later in the evening.” A tear trickled down her cheek, and she bit her quivering bottom lip hard. “I should’ve stayed with her all evening. She’d be alive now.”
Tyon propped his chin on his closed fist, gaze narrowing on Verna. “Where did you go instead?”
“I had an invitation for a novel reading at The Sepulchre. Rachel was supposed to come. She wasn’t interested in her father’s display of his Egyptian relics, but she felt sick and stayed home.”
“Did she feel sick suddenly?” Hazel asked.
Verna tapped the armchair’s armrest. “Actually, yes. Right after Sir Morris left, she complained about a stomach ache and retired to her bedroom. After that, the symptoms worsened pretty quickly. We thought it was because of the mushroom soup she ate for luncheon.”
But it can be something else, Hazel completed. “Do you have Reginald’s address?”
“I do.” She opened a drawer of the French bureau plat and scribbled something. “Here.”
Hazel accepted the paper. Primrose Place, a Maida Vale address. Reginald was no commoner. “Thank you.”
Tyon stood up and bowed his head. “Thank you for your cooperation.”
“I hope you catch him.” Verna’s black eyes glinted.
“So do I,” he replied.
Once in the carriage, Hazel toyed with the piece of paper. Two men, both unstable, a sudden illness. These things couldn’t be a coincidence. Tyon was his usual brooding self, brows drawn together, and lips set into a grim line.
She folded the paper. “What do you think of Miss Verna?”
“She has quite a few sins, but I’ve seen worse.”
Hazel threw her gaze upwards. “Do you think she spoke the truth?”
“I think she has her secrets and that we should pay a visit to the morgue.”
“The morgue?” She bolted upright. “What for?”
“It’s strange that Rachel felt suddenly sick after the visits of her two suitors.”
“Poison. I was thinking the same. Someone poisoned her, not seriously enough to kill her, but to force her to stay in bed.”
He nodded. “The killer had plenty of time to sneak into her room unnoticed.”
A chill shuddered through her. If it was true, Rachel’s murderer had planned her death carefully. It hadn’t been a sudden act of anger. Not that it made much difference. Both options were awful, but a planned murder meant they were dealing with a canny, cold-hearted killer.
Tyon tapped the cab’s wall. “To the morgue on Regency Street,” he shouted to the driver.
The cab took a sharp turn and somersaulted. The horses’ hooves thumped on the cobbled road. Hazel’s stomach tipped to the side, and not because of the bumpy ride. The morgue. She’d never been in a morgue. The only dead body she’d seen was her mother and a couple of mummies.
Tyon shifted, so he sat right in front of her. “What’s the matter?”
“How is it that you can read me so well?” Perhaps he did have an uncanny gift.
“It’s the easiest thing for me. The most natural. The way you narrow your eyes, or set your lips when you’re upset tell me everything. Wh
at is troubling you?” He touched her hand, a gentle stroke right over her knuckles. Most likely, it was all the comfort he could offer, but a warm fuzzy feeling spread in her abdomen.
“I was thinking about my mother.” She ran a hand over her reticule where she usually kept her mother’s brooch. Now it was in her half-destroyed apartment. Pain, still sharp, speared through her. “I didn’t have the time to say goodbye, didn’t think she’d die so quickly. Perhaps it was the illness, or she didn’t want to fight.” And a side of her was angry with her mother for the lack of fight.
He reached out and caressed her cheek with his thumb, wiping a tear she hadn’t been aware she had shed. “The bond with her isn’t gone though. Wherever she is now, she still loves you, and you still love her.”
His words reverberated in her soul, soothing the ache. “Thank you.” Hazel trapped his hand in hers, pretending to not see his eyes widening in surprise.
He radiated safety and care, and she needed both. The skin was rough and hard, but the touch soft and kind. He didn’t withdraw his hand despite the fact that the muscles stiffened, and his chest swelled. The simple contact burst deep desire within her abdomen. She brought his hand up and brushed her lips over his callouses palm before placing it on her cheek.
The sapphire of his irises darkened, and a tremor shivered through him. Another spark of lust ignited and sharpened her senses, her skin growing more sensitive. His thumb stroked her bottom lip tentatively, and she couldn’t resist. Staring at his handsome face, she slipped his thumb inside her mouth and sucked gently, tasting the saltiness of his hard skin.
He stilled like a hunted animal trapped in a corner. When she twirled her tongue over the tip, harsh lines creased his forehead. She slowed, her desire cooling.
“Don’t.” Tyon snapped back his hand, the carriage rocking harder than ever.
The spell broke, and she put her hands on her lap. Guilt and confusion made her fiddle. He wasn’t interested, but most importantly he was deranged. She shouldn’t provoke him, but she’d lie if she said she wasn’t attracted to him.
Tyon closed a hand on his thigh and gritted his teeth. God, it had to be his damn cilice.
The Pact of the White Blade Knights Page 12
