Record of Blood

by Sabrina Flynn

  Tears burned Riot’s eyes. He picked up his friend’s walking stick. The silver was coated in red, staining the delicate etchings. Clutching that stick, he holstered his revolver, and walked calmly to his room.

  Men sat around a table playing dominos. A shot rang out. Screams interrupted the game, and a volley of gunshots filled the room. Bodyguards sprang to their feet, reaching for guns, but death had already found them. Riot didn’t bother to keep count.

  The Undertaker’s Friend fired to kill, wielding two guns with equal precision in a cloud of smoke. A highbinder fired, and Riot jerked as he turned his left gun on the man, keeping his right on another. Two trigger fingers, and two more dead.

  Three more men charged into the room. He aimed for their heads, quick and proficient. A killer without mercy. One of his bullets only grazed a shoulder as the highbinder moved to the side. The tong member threw himself at the white man in highbinder’s clothes.

  A bullet knocked the hatchet man back, lodging in his mail shirt. The man kept coming. A blade slashed across Riot’s chin, but he didn’t feel it. He was cold with grief, but mostly rage. He pulled the trigger point blank into the man’s groin. The highbinder fell, and Riot walked on, calmly reloading.

  Police whistles filled the streets below. Women screamed, and Atticus Riot stepped into a room to confront Hip Yee’s leader—the man who peddled young flesh like sacks of rice. Riot raised his guns and fired two bullets into his head. The leader fell, and something hard pounded Riot’s back. Two bullets bit into the chainmail beneath his disguise.

  He whirled, as a third bullet pierced his mail coat and bit his shoulder. Riot staggered forward, dropping one of his revolvers. He squeezed off a shot at his attacker. Blood gushed from the man’s throat, and Riot blinked past the haze of blood and carnage. As a swarm of police descended on the building, he caught sight of a skewed wardrobe, and followed the sounds of fleeing people.

  The passage spit him out in a grocer’s. He bumped against a stack of crates, caught himself on a rice sack, and staggered out a back door. The alleyway was narrow and dark, the night sky swallowed by rookeries and clotheslines.

  A shadow moved, and Riot’s hand whipped up, but he caught himself. A beggar huddled in the alleyway—an old wrinkled man. Riot lowered his gun, and started towards the main street. But a shot rang out. It bit into his thigh, and his leg gave out. He spun, with revolver close to his side, but the shooter was quicker. Another gunshot rang in the alleyway. It hit him square in the chest. A boot flashed in front of his eyes. His gun rattled to the ground, and his mail shirt dug into his flesh with burning pain. He couldn’t draw breath.

  A young man stood over him. A scar, like a tear, dripped from his right eye. His would-be killer pointed a Colt at his face, and grinned from under his broad-brimmed hat. The boy’s eyes glittered with glee. Riot tried to move, but his limbs seemed far away.

  His life didn’t pass in front of his eyes; his only thought was one of relief. The boy started to squeeze the trigger, and at that moment a swift shadow came from the side. The gun barked, and Riot’s spectacles shattered.

  35

  Of Kings and Pawns

  Wednesday, March 6, 1900

  Her companion filled the night with a lifetime of pain, of horrors, and butchery that no man or woman should see. Isobel listened to his story in silence, with only one desire—to take this caring, noble-hearted man far away from this city, clear across the ocean to the other side of the world. But Atticus Riot had been there; had done just that. And he had come back.

  When Ravenwood’s house loomed from the fog, they crept in through the front door and went up the stairway, shutting themselves in the turret room. She waited in darkness while Riot fiddled with a gas lamp. Light chased back shadows, revealing a wall of bookshelves, a large fireplace and bed, and a neat row of hats on a wardrobe. She shuddered—not from the cold, but from his last memory.

  Riot placed his cap on a hook, shrugged out of his peacoat, and turned to the fireplace. He did not look at her.

  Another person might have offered sympathy, and reassurance that he had done everything he could have, or perhaps judgment. But Isobel was not that other person. Her mind was racing, sifting and rearranging facts.

  “Take the bath. Take your time,” he said without looking at her. His voice was hoarse from talking.

  She opened her mouth to argue, and closed it with a click. It was an excellent suggestion—a bath would give her time to think. But she had one question, one pressing thought.

  “What did the hatchet man say to you tonight before he lost consciousness?” she asked.

  Riot was in the process of laying a fire, and now he grew very still. “He said, ‘We did not kill your partner. Please, I need your help.’” Riot looked up at her, and in the light of the room she could see the turmoil in his eyes.

  “Do you believe him?”

  “I don’t want to believe him, Bel.” Riot looked away, and busied himself with a matchbox. His hands trembled.

  On her way to the adjoining bath, she trailed her fingertips along the nape of his neck, letting her touch linger for a second more than necessary. A gesture of reassurance. But whether it was for him or for her, she did not know.

  Ensconced in white porcelain, Isobel turned the taps on hot, and glanced at her reflection in the mirror. She was a mess. Her lip was bruised and bloodied, her nose sore, and dried blood added a dash of color to her blouse. Sand was everywhere. She shed her clothes, and stepped into the steam. As she sank into the water, she very nearly whimpered. It was bliss.

  With thoughts racing, she scrubbed the grit from her skin, drained the tub and poured a fresh bath, and then laid her head back to think. A knock interrupted her speculations. As she opened her eyes, she realized the water had gone cold.

  Isobel cleared her throat. “Yes?”

  “I thought you might like a fresh change of clothing,” a muffled voice said from behind the door. “I was also beginning to worry you fell asleep, and drowned.”

  Isobel glanced at the bloody, sandy mess on the floor. “One moment,” she called. Muscles protesting, she pulled herself out of the tub and padded unsteadily across the tiles. Before cracking the door, she grabbed a towel.

  “And what would you have done if I hadn’t answered?”

  Riot kept his bespectacled eyes on her face. “Assumed you had drowned.”

  “Very nearly,” she admitted. “You think of everything, Riot.” She took the neatly folded pile of clothes from his hands, and closed the door.

  There were two sets of clothing in the pile—one fit to leave and the second fit for staying. Ever the gentleman, she thought. Isobel chose the latter pile, slipping into the nightshirt and wrapping a familiar robe around her. It was the same she’d worn the last two times she’d stayed the night. Borrowing his robe was becoming a habit, and even after being laundered it smelled of him.

  Clothed in warmth, Isobel walked into his room, and curled into Ravenwood’s throne-like chair. A glass of amber liquid waited for her on the table. Riot sat across, firelight dancing in the glass of his spectacles.

  As she sipped her brandy, she studied the man—the wing of white in his raven hair, the silver in his beard, and the deep brown eyes that were so very far away. He had washed while she bathed, and now wore a fresh, white shirt. His cuffs were rolled up, his collar undone.

  Those eyes turned on her, but his gaze was not intrusive. It was full of grief, and resignation. Whatever she had to say to him, he would accept.

  Facts first. “Are there any other gaps in your memory?” she asked.

  “The next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital. I felt… detached. Tim was there, but I didn’t know who he was. It took me three days to remember his name. He said he found me at a Chinese undertaker’s in Ragpicker’s Alley.”

  Isobel suppressed a wince by taking a sip of brandy. That alleyway was notoriously filthy.

  “I think he knew exactly what I did.” Riot frowned at the
fire. “He knew I kept a set of highbinder clothing for when subterfuge was required in the Quarter; instead, he told me that I had either been abducted by Ravenwood’s murderers, or I’d been ambushed on my way home from the Queen’s Room raid. The newspapers blamed the Suey Sings for the Hip Yee assassinations.”

  Isobel frowned, and glanced at the waiting chess board on the short table between their chairs. She leaned forward, and began arranging pieces, placing the black king dead center, straddling four interconnecting lines.

  “Beheading isn’t really their style, is it?” she asked, keeping her gaze fixed on the board. “It’s more John the Baptist than Celestial.”

  Riot let his head fall against the back rest. He removed his spectacles, and rubbed his eyes. “Criminals are beheaded in China every day. Traditionally the tongs used hatchets, but now they favor a Colt .45. There are, however, a few hatchet men who hold to tradition.”

  The black king was meant to be Ravenwood, but she decided it was the wrong place for him. Isobel nudged the black king off to the side, and replaced it with an ivory king—a symbol she used for her blackmailing husband.

  “God dammit,” she cursed.

  Riot’s hand dropped in surprise. “What?”

  “Is Kingston my ex-husband, my widower, or still my husband?” What was she supposed to call the scoundrel?

  He cocked his head at her. As always, Riot kept up with her course change, never questioning why. “Is blackmail really an acceptable marriage proposal?”

  “Law is blind.”

  “By law you’re dead,” he reminded her.

  “That could change in a flash.”

  “It could, and might,” he admitted.

  “What’s your dead partner saying now?”

  “That I’m dense.”

  She snorted. “Tell him to go to hell.”

  “I’m fairly sure he’s somewhere between.”

  Isobel glared at the ivory king; it wasn’t even on a proper square.

  “Who is that?” Riot asked.

  “I don’t know, but I’ve used the piece for Alex before.” She glanced at him, and blushed. “In my mind, it seemed to fit. He’s a manipulating, conniving bastard, and something doesn’t add up about what you told me.”

  “It used to add up.”

  “But you’re not sure anymore?”

  “I don’t think I’ve had the courage to look at it close enough.”

  She clucked her tongue. “You don’t lack courage, Riot. I figure the body protects the mind as same as it does any other part. When someone twists an ankle, they limp to protect the injured limb. And even after it’s healed, one tends to keep on limping.”

  “So I’m limping?”

  “Yes, because you were in pain, and now you’re finally testing that foot out.” She frowned at the black king, and decided it wasn’t the proper piece for Zephaniah Ravenwood. Not knowing precisely why, she replaced it, assigning him the role of black bishop. Satisfied, she set the king beside its ivory twin in the center. “The question I keep asking myself, is why did the tongs wait until after the Quarantine Scandal was well under way? Cook had already testified, the whistle was already blown. Why kill Ravenwood after the scandal was exposed?”

  “Revenge?”

  “That’s not really the tongs’ modus operandi, is it? From what I’ve heard, they tend to lean towards manipulating the law and bribing attorneys when it comes to whites.”

  Riot inclined his head. “True, but chun hungs have been collected on whites. Regardless, I wasn’t planning on stopping with that trial.”

  “No, I imagine you weren’t.” She looked at the man who was everything opposite of cowardly. “But if the goal was to halt your investigation, why didn’t they target you?”

  “I should have been the first through that door, Bel.”

  “Maybe so, but you’re not really a sledge man, are you?”

  Riot scratched his beard in thought. “I’m not,” he conceded. “But why on earth would they kill Ravenwood, and leave me alive?”

  It was a good question. The Queen’s Room was clearly a trap, designed to keep Riot out of the way. “Maybe they thought Ravenwood was the head?” She winced at the word, and cleared her throat. “The erm… spearhead.”

  Riot shook his own head. “Ravenwood always left me to deal with the courts. And I was the one who’d threatened the Hip Yee tong.”

  Isobel considered his words. He had a point. Anyone could see that Riot was the trigger man of the partnership. He carried himself with all the calm grace of a sun-bathing tiger. Poke that animal, and it would strike. She had known that the moment she met him. And she had marveled at it. The confidence of the man was magnetizing.

  “How many people knew about your stunt in the restaurant?” she asked.

  “Word travels fast in the Quarter.”

  “So it’s safe to say most everyone.” Her mind spun, and pieces began to form a pattern. She placed an ivory knight beside the black bishop—the unknown assassin who’d slaughtered Ravenwood. “How many people knew you were a gunfighter?”

  Riot paused. “What are you hinting at, Bel?”

  She hesitated, not liking the answer at all. But she was never one to back down, no matter how difficult something might get. In answer, she carefully picked up a black pawn, and placed it between the ivory king and the black one. That piece was Riot.

  He abruptly surged to his feet, and gripped the mantel. His knuckles were white, and the skin above his beard was taut. Isobel stood, and moved to his side.

  “I’m not sure, Riot,” she said softly. “But if the hatchet man in your carriage house is telling the truth, the possibility that another tong used you to bring down a rival is there.”

  He didn’t move. And her heart twisted. She hated what she was suggesting—that an unknown person (or persons) had manipulated Riot to kill.

  Isobel placed a hand on his arm. “As far as I’m concerned anyone who deals in flesh sold their right to live long ago.”

  “A vigilante is a hair’s breadth away from a murderer.”

  “Maybe so, but unless you’re planning on putting a bullet in our injured prisoner, you’re not there yet.”

  He placed a hand over hers, and squeezed it gently. “I wouldn’t dream of it; he may have answers.”

  “That’s the spirit,” she whispered, searching his eyes. “I hope he lives. I’d like to find out why Jin is protecting him. I doubt he’s her brother. Do you think he was out there on the dunes hoping to abduct her? Maybe he’s tricked her into thinking he was there to help?”

  “Stealing slave girls is common enough between tongs. Most tong wars are started over an abducted slave girl.”

  “Is Doctor Wise as skilled as he sounds?”

  “He is,” Riot said without hesitation. “He saved my life.”

  “How will he feel about treating our prisoner?”

  “Doctor Wise, or You On Chung, runs a free clinic on the edge of the Quarter. He has a long history of defying the tongs and fighting for Chinese rights in the courts. He won’t be bullied by the tongs, but he’ll treat a tong man without prejudice.”

  “Good.” Her gaze drifted to the chessboard, to that ivory king gloating in the center. “If you were handling legal matters and going on raids, what was Ravenwood doing?”

  Riot cocked his head. “Working on other cases, or research, I imagine.”

  “But you don’t know for sure?”

  “No,” he admitted.

  “What was the other possibility he mentioned?”

  Riot opened his mouth, then shut it with a click.

  “I don’t suppose you could ask him?”

  He grimaced. The voice in his head was conveniently silent. “I don’t think it works like that. He’s an unhelpful ghost.”

  “He’s a conjuring of your own psyche—your unconscious mind doesn’t have the answers, so neither does he.”

  “Have you been reading Freud?”

  “I have, actually.” Her lips
quirked in a smile. “Studies in Hysteria. If deeply repressed conflicts can cause physical symptoms, why can’t they conjure phantoms?”

  “So in a word—insanity?”

  “Aren’t we all just a little bit off?”

  “You’re trying to make me feel better.”

  “It’s not working?”

  “The fact that you’re still here means more than you can imagine.”

  She looked long and deep into his eyes. Without fear, without distrust, as unhurried and calm as a windless ocean. “We’ll find answers, Riot,” she said softly. “One way or another.”

  For the next hour, they sat in the two chairs by the fire and talked. Riot gently interrogated her about her captivity. She left out nothing. And Riot obliged when she asked after his other cases, Artells and Sarah Byrne, filling in the gaps that Lotario had left out in his narrative. Somewhere in that time, her lids grew heavy, and when the clock chimed four, Riot stirred from his chair.

  “Bel,” he said, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Take the bed.”

  She yawned. “I’ll head to my room.”

  “It’s taken.”

  “Oh.” As tired as she was, that thought was hard to comprehend. So without argument she shuffled towards the bed, shed her robe, and burrowed under the covers. A thought swam to the surface of her muddled brain. “I was promised arms,” she said distantly.

  Shortly, in the daze of exhaustion, she heard the rustle of clothes, and felt the bed sag. Isobel reached across the space, and took his hand. He lay on his back, on top of the covers with his own blanket.

  “I’m sorry I got you into this,” she murmured.

  “I was involved long before you. The past never stays quiet for long.”

  Isobel thought of her own past, and shivered. Feeling adrift in a sea of feathers, she edged closer, resting her forehead against his shoulder and her knees against his thigh. Riot held himself very still, but after a few moments, she felt him relax. He shifted slightly, and slid an arm under her head, drawing her close. She melted into that welcome pillow.