“I’m here for assistance,” she said with precise deliberation.
The scowl grew. “If yer wantin’ me for your cove, you’ve got the wrong man. I’m no Nancy what will give up me round mouth for a poke!” He moved to go.
Daisy’s lips twitched, stuck between a laugh and a scream of frustration. “You are Billy Finger, are you not?”
Billy froze. Slowly he turned and looked her over with a calculating eye. “Haven’t heard that name in an age.”
Daisy forced her hand out and gave what she hoped was an amiable smile. “Call me Daisy. I’m Pan’s sister.”
His chuckle was slow, his brown eyes alight with mischief and fondness. Billy Finger, now called Burnt Bill on account of his scarred arms, a souvenir from tangling with Miranda, was known to hold great affection for her sister. By the looks of his smile, Miranda had not exaggerated. “Ah, Pan. I should have known. Is she getting along all right, then?”
“Perfectly well, and said to tell you hello.” A small lie, as Miranda had no idea what Daisy was planning, but Daisy wasn’t sorry for the way Billy beamed. “I do apologize for the confusion Mr… erm… Finger. I ought to have said at once, only your—ah, enthusiasm surprised me.”
“Enthusiasm, eh?” His thin brows waggled. “Can’t think of any man what would blame me.”
He leaned forward, setting off another wave of the scent she’d forevermore think of as “criminal male.”
“Now then, sweet sister of the lovely Pan, what mischief did you have in mind?”
Ian leaped from his coach in front of the ramshackle building that served as home for the club so charmingly named Hell. Well, that wasn’t precisely true. It was both Heaven and Hell. Heaven serving the upper floors of the house, and Hell being the domain of the lower.
Leaning drunkenly over the garbage-strewn West Street in one of London’s foulest neighborhoods, the dilapidated building gave no hint of the decadence hiding within. Indeed, a few young fellows out for a lark dithered on the curb, unsure if they’d found the right place.
Ian had no such hesitation. It wasn’t his first visit here, nor likely his last. A year ago, he’d stumbled out of these hallowed walls from a night of gambling to find Lady Miranda Archer in the act of setting the whole street afire with naught but the power of her mind. A shock, to say the least.
Tonight, however, had the singular distinction of being his first visit in which he wasn’t interested in procuring a willing partner or losing himself in drink and vice. The idea made his step light as he descended the dank stairwell to Hell.
He stopped before a gate of ornate wrought-iron, and the stake in his boot pressed upon his calf. It was a small comfort knowing that its strong point was capable of piercing flesh as hard as plaster.
Ian tugged the bellpull dangling before Hell’s gate. A moment later, the door opened. The form of a ridiculously tall man loomed in the shadowed hall, his black eyes shining in the flickering light of the candelabrum he held.
“Evening, Edmund.” It was all Ian need say.
The black eyes didn’t blink. Well, they never did. But Edmund stepped back to let Ian in.
In contrast to the outside, the inside was pure luxury. Crimson silk-lined walls were lit by crystal gas-fueled sconces. A rug lay underfoot, thick and deep red. Given the amount of foot traffic Hell received, the rug was likely changed out repeatedly. To lay such a rug here was a direct flaunt of the enormous wealth of the club. Ian’s feet trod over it soundlessly.
Male laughter and feminine squeals filled the air, mingling with the sweet smoke of cigars and heady incense imported from India. They walked past parlors as elegant as those in Mayfair, fitted with gilded chairs sturdy enough to hold two and deep satin-covered couches that could hold three or four. And everywhere, everywhere, naked flesh undulated.
They passed a long dining room with walls lacquered in blood red. Upon a matching dining table lay a lass, her legs spread, her sweet breasts pointing up to the ceiling. Jaded or not, Ian was a man, and the sight was hard to ignore. She’d been covered in fruit, some pushed into interesting places. She writhed as men feasted upon her.
Edmund led him along a familiar route, down another set of stairs that descended farther into the earth. Lamplight hit the fall of Edmund’s long hair, casting it bone white against his black frockcoat. Like a lass’s hair, Ian thought, resisting the urge to rake his own hair back. He still wasn’t accustomed to wearing it longer and decided that he’d draw the line at hair that fell to his middle back. But Edmund’s kind liked to flaunt their differences.
Down below, the sex games continued, but the fiends participating here feasted on flesh in an altogether different manner. Here, fangs punctured smooth skin and blood ran freely. But as all participants were willing, Ian wouldn’t judge.
Lena was waiting for him when he entered. Diminutive and wraithlike, she sat curled up in a large black-leather wing chair by a crackling fire. Firelight caressed the curve of her paper-white cheek as she smiled, a catlike curl of red lips. As always, Ian was struck by the sight of her. The strange way she arranged her raven hair, the top parted and twisted into small rolls at the back of her head, the rest left to fall down her back. It called to mind drawings from the Far East. An image heightened by the lacquered sticks spearing her coiffure and the silver silk dressing gown that hugged her body. She was like a doll. A beautiful, deadly doll.
He heightened his senses as he came near, and the coppery scent of her enveloped him.
“Lena.” He bowed. “It has been too long.”
“Ian Ranulf.” The rich depth in her voice belied her size. “Still as handsome as the devil.” Obsidian eyes traveled over his form in a leisurely perusal. “Perhaps more so with that hair.”
He saw the interest in her and knew what it was to bed her: cold, exciting, too dangerous—hence the excitement. In the darker hours of his life, Ian had been fairly addicted to that sort of bed sport. Now, however, he gave her a benign smile. “And you, Lena, are incomparable as always.”
She laughed at that, showing a bit of sharp teeth. “Flatterer. Sit.” A white hand indicated the seat next to hers. She leaned in when he did, setting the carnelian beads in her hair sticks to clattering. “Come, let us drink, then we shall talk.”
Deftly, she poured a good measure of vodka into two cups—one silver, the other bone—and handed him the bone cup. A friendly gesture, as lycans, while tolerating silverware well enough, did not like to drink from silver cups.
She waited until he had a mouthful of cold, clean vodka to attack. “The rumors are true then.”
Ian took his time swallowing. There were rumors, and there were rumors. He no longer cared about the one but the other…“Given their very nature, I wouldn’t put much stock in rumors, Lena.”
Unfortunately, her mouth curled again. “Not those stories, darling. I could never believe that of you.” As she had had him in his prime, he could see why. He remained silent. “I have every confidence you will soon have need of my girls again.” A cold hand patted his. “It’s just a lull, I am sure.”
Little witch. He looked at her askance as she took another long drink of vodka. Aside from blood, vodka was the one substance that Lena’s kind could imbibe. Thus she drank a lot of it. The silver cup clinked as she set it down. “I refer to the human you brought home the other night, and you well know it. Ah, a scowl is it? Already, you are taken with her. It is written all over your handsome face.”
And there it was. He set his cup down. “I’ve vowed to protect her. I take my vows seriously.”
One ink-black brow lifted. “Oh? And what of your familial vow?”
He forced himself not to move, but deep inside his wolf growled in agreement. “I do not recall taking any vows that I have broken.”
“No, you turn from them before making the expected commitment.”
His fingers clutched the thick leather armrests. “What I do or do not do for my family is not why I am here.”
Lena shifted in
her seat, curling her slim legs under her rump. “Forgive me, dearest, but that is precisely why you are here.” Her cold, black eyes pinned him. “You seek this mad wolf, and yet you do not go to The Ranulf. You come to me. And we both know why.”
Ian forced his fingers to unclench. “I’d rather keep my head if that’s all right with you.” Should he approach the Ranulf court without express invitation, his would be rolling on the floor.
Lena hummed. “It is a lovely head. And a pity that you chose exile rather than to lead.”
Ian sat forward and let his eyes linger on her. Lena loved to be admired, and he was not above using her vanity. “But then I wouldn’t get to see you.” He lowered his voice to a rumble. “I’d much rather you provide me with what I need.”
Aside from running the popular club, Lena was a ranking captain in The Society for the Suppression of Supernaturals, commonly referred to as the SOS. It was her duty to keep informed of all supernatural beings and their activities. More so, she was responsible for keeping their deeds from the human world. The SOS was the last defense, and he needed them.
Lena ran her tongue along the tip of her tiny fang. “I am listening.”
“I suspect the SOS has an idea as to who and where the werewolf is,” he said. “I am asking for Mother’s help.”
There it was. A plea. Mother, the enigmatic head of the SOS, had never been seen. No one but Lena knew who or what she was. And no one was granted Mother’s, and hence the SOS’s, permission without first going through Lena. A little fact that gave Lena a rather extraordinary sense of superiority.
One she reveled in now by smirking at him. “And here I thought the putting down of turned lycans was The Ranulf’s duty. The question of the night is, why does Ian Ranulf come here, searching for the outlaw, and yet The Ranulf sits on his throne and does nothing?”
A series of small pops sounded, and Ian realized his claws had sunk into the leather. Lena’s eyes gleamed with victory. “I suspect you know the answer as well as I do.”
Ian’s wame pitched. He swallowed hard, the vodka running like vitriol through his veins. Damn it, but she was right. Conall had not hunted the were down. Which was not only against the clan’s honor but a direct violation of their arrangement with the SOS.
She tilted her head toward the door, and her beads clacked again. “You act the ostrich, sticking your head in the sand while the world about you falls apart. Do you know how many lycans have come to me in the past months seeking asylum?”
His jaw tightened. “I suspect you will tell me.”
“Do not be churlish, Ian Ranulf. They come and tell me tales. Of Conall using corrupt humans to fund his empire.”
Despite his irritation, Ian’s eyes shot to hers.
She poured herself another drink and downed it in one graceful swallow. “They come because The Ranulf believes they exist to serve him.”
“They do.” But he knew what she’d meant, and it made his insides twist. No lycan would leave the court of a proper alpha. Bloody hell. He could not go back to that life. He wanted to forget. Ah, but the wee bitch knew it, and still she wouldn’t let him breathe.
“I am not a nanny,” she said. “I send them to America and Canada when I can, but this business tires me.”
“Send them to me,” he said. “I will situate them.”
“Very well, they are your problem now. And you are being duplicitous,” she added. “What is worse, you have ignored your wolf, ignored who you are, for so long your power has atrophied. No wonder you cannot bed a woman.”
Ian shot forward, slamming his forearms on his thighs. “Enough. Will you help me or no?”
She didn’t flinch. “No.”
“Right.” He stood to go but her sharp voice stopped him.
“You are alpha, and you know it. It is time you took what is yours.”
Ian stared down at her. “Conall is the alpha. I will not challenge him, if that is what you are after.”
She stood as well, a rustling of silk and limbs. Her chin barely reached his collarbone, but she held power enough to match him, perhaps break him should they face off on the night of a waxing moon. Hell, she was right, he had ignored his wolf for too long, and it had made him weak.
“You cannot even call him The Ranulf,” she snapped. “He wants to expose our world to the humans, and yet you run from the truth with your tail between your legs.”
Ian turned away. God, he hated politics. He didn’t want to be a lycan, nor a wolf. He only wanted to be a man and live a normal life. “Conall—The Ranulf—knows his duty. He might be lax, but he’d never expose us.”
Lena’s eyes were black steel. “Bullshite, as your kind would say. If you really believed that, you would not be here with your hat in hand. Because The Ranulf would have already eradicated the threat.”
“Then help me find the were,” he said. “Tell me what you know, Lena.”
“I have given you my answer. I will not pester Mother with a problem that you can easily solve.”
For a moment, he couldn’t see. The red haze had him. With effort, he gulped down a lungful of air. “Do not make war with me, Lena.” His mouth felt thick with extended fangs. “For the memory of what we once had together, do not.”
Sadness flitted over her face but it was shut down by a wall of cold determination. “Then do what is right, Ian Ranulf. Take control of your clan.”
With a vicious curse, he swept the drinks table aside, sending cups scattering and vodka splashing into the fire. It flared high as he shouted. “Bloody hell, woman! Do you no’ understand? I cannot go back to that life. I lost everything that was dear to me when I was that man. I’ll no’ do it again.”
Lena took a step closer, crowding him with the scent of copper and the cold of her body. “If you lost everything, then there is nothing left to lose, no?”
He scowled, but Lena laughed, a deep throaty sound that made his fists clench.
“If we don’t act, more will die. We do not harm the innocent, Lena.”
“You do not harm them. I am not so particular.”
A growl rumbled in his throat, his claws burning to break free. “Find someone else to play the pawn. The only thing that you’ll accomplish by coming after me is getting bitten.”
She glared back, ice in her gaze and teeth glinting in the firelight. “I like the bite, Ian, you know that.”
Their stalemate was broken with the entrance of Edmund, looking harried and followed by an overlarge black crow. The crow circled once, cawing frantically, before settling on Ian’s shoulder.
His blood ran cold at the sound and what it meant. Damn it all to bloody hell. He was already running from the room as Lena’s laugh cut through his wild thoughts. “I see your human needs you already. Pray, Ian, do not forget her while you think on what I’ve said.”
Chapter Nine
And here Daisy thought Billy stank. The streets were worse. Daisy burrowed deeper into the scarf around her neck and inhaled. Alas, even her perfume could not completely dampen the stench. Rotting water, rotting food, rotting bodies. It was a potpourri of rot, as if the city were slowly dying from the inside out. Perhaps it was. Old Nichol, Billy called this place. The people here appeared forlorn, the light in their eyes dimmed by a hard life, worn out by hunger and pain.
They walked slowly, yet with purpose. Billy had warned her not to meet anyone’s eye but to move as though she owned the world. She could do that. But inside, her heart pounded. Her escort kept one ropey arm slung about her shoulders, his large hand dangling irritatingly close to her breast. They were to look like a couple off in search of fun. Every so often, he’d lean in and whisper something naughty in her ear, and she’d laugh accordingly.
Thankfully, the warmer weather had burned off much of the fog, leaving only a muddy layer to hover a foot or so off the ground. People walked as if without feet, phantoms that seemed to float along the ether. The street was narrow here, sad little houses sagging against crumbling buildings that had once been gr
and homes. And leaning against them, the men and women who lived in this hovel.
Beneath lowered lids, Daisy watched these people as she passed, saw the gap-toothed smiles of strutting men who wanted to be cock of the walk and the hunched, thin shoulders of women scuttling by. A few brazen women loitered about on corners, their bosoms all but hanging out like Monday washing.
Not, Daisy rectified, that she was in a position to throw stones. Daisy glanced down at her own rather abundant display of flesh spilling from the top of her low-cut bodice. She’d dressed the part, donning an old evening gown of brilliant green satin. While perfectly respectable in a ballroom, out here, with her hair loosely knotted and naught but a thin scarf for covering, she might as well be another moll hanging on the arm of her man.
“I’m goin’ in first,” Billy said at her ear. “He’s not particularly keen on visitors, right? So’s let me do the talkin’.” The arm about her gave an unnecessary squeeze. “You just stand back lookin’ lovely an’ agreeable.”
She gave his ribs a jab with her elbow, and he grunted. “You get me in, and I’ll talk,” she countered. If this so-called perfumer was purchasing stolen formulas, she doubted he’d be inclined to confess. He might, however, hold a passion for perfume and find himself unable to refrain from discussing the art of developing a scent. She was banking on that small hope. “Just remember who is paying whom.”
Billy looked at her sidelong. “I’d rather you’d pay for a bit of hide the pickle,” he muttered.
Daisy snorted lightly. “I bet you do. Just keep that pickle of yours in its jar and your mind alert.”
Billy muttered a bit more about iron-hearted buors—which she presumed meant women—and pains in his arse, but he led her down a dark alleyway where the general smell grew to a nearly overwhelming stench, so rank that even he couldn’t help but comment upon it.
“Sweet aunt fanny,” he said, pulling out a ratty, scarlet satin neckcloth from his pocket to press against his nose. “Smells fouler than a dock whore’s twat down here.”
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