Ember: A prequel to Firelight

by Kristen Callihan

  Percival snorted. “And who is to blame for that?”

  Me.

  “Who is to say that one of us won’t be next?”

  Archer managed not to roll his eyes. “I could kill you all right now without effort.”

  Percival jumped on that. “You see!” His thin hand quivered as he pointed at Archer. “He’ll be the death of us all.”

  Melodramatic fool. Archer was a monster, but not a killer. Not yet. Though he was tempted just then.

  He shifted on his feet. “I won’t be driven from my home.”

  “You’ll go,” Percival said. “One way or another.” They glared at each other.

  Leland sighed. “Archer isn’t the danger.” Leland’s blue eyes found Archer. “But evil does follow you.”

  Yes. He had to admit that much.

  “You were all begging to be in my shoes,” Archer said. “Begging to become what I am.” He held each of their gazes for a long moment. “And now you turn from me?”

  Merryweather shook his head. “We were fools. And so were you.”

  Archer swallowed hard. He would not let them see his pain. Not ever again.

  “Go from London. If only for a while.” Leland at the very least look sorry for his words. The others were circling him now, driving him back. Their worn faces loomed and stretched. They were right. He’d caused it all. Archer wanted to scream. But nothing came out of his dry mouth. The walls closed in on him. He held out a hand to stop their progress and slipped on some slick substance.

  Crimson oil. No, blood. Blood oozing down the walls. He fell to his knees.

  “Leave, Archer.”

  “Do not return. Your presence here puts us all in danger.”

  He curled in on himself, away from their knowing eyes. He could not bear it. He’d hurt too many. He’d only wanted… He could not remember. Blood ran down the walls, and pooled beneath his knees, soaking warm and sticky through his clothes. He could not breathe. “I cannot…”

  “Just look at what happened to Rossberry.”

  “Rossberry, now Marvel. Who next? Who will be destroyed by their association with you?”

  London, May 1, 1879

  “I have decided that I will not allow young Martin to call anymore.”

  Miranda’s easy stride stuttered for one pace.

  “Steady, Daughter. You’ll draw notice stumbling about like that.” Her father looked at her sidelong as he gracefully guided her around a newspaper boy shouting the day’s news at the top of his little lungs. “Remember, deep down we humans are canny beasts, what with being both the hunter and the prey. A change in pace alerts even the most distracted person.”

  She gritted her teeth. They were not pinching here. “Why should Martin not come to call, Father? He is my good friend, and yours as well.”

  “Be that as it may, you two are no longer children at play.” A breeze lifted the gray locks of hair hanging down from the base of his old top hat. “A young man gets to having ideas. Ideas he has no business entertaining.”

  She stopped short, damn the tide of pedestrians, and her father was compelled to halt as well. “Why do we continue to do this?” Her hand curled into the rough wool of his coat sleeve. “The stealing and scheming, Father?”

  “Hisst.” He tugged her in between two shop windows where they might have a modicum of privacy. “Watch your tongue.”

  “Who is to hear?” She waved an irritated hand at the throngs patently ignoring them before pinning him with her stare. “Why, Father? You have this new venture, and I…”

  She bit her lip. “Haven’t I proven myself loyal?” Her throat constricted, and she hated herself for always feeling the need to gain his forgiveness. “Will it ever be enough?”

  His eyes cut away from her for a moment, and it seemed he was silently cursing. The illusion ended as he wrenched her close. “It has naught to do with money. You need to stay sharp, aye? Circumstances change on a dime. One day you may be settled. Or one day you may need to use your every wit to survive. You brought us low, Miranda, you did. You took away the one recourse I had as a father to see you safe. And so I’ll protect you the only way I can.”

  “Why do you fear for my safety when it is you who insist that I risk it? Father, if I were to become someone’s wife, my situation would be settled. I’d—”

  He gave her a light shove, sending her away from him. “No more questions. And no more gadding about with Martin Evans. Go on with you now. Do as I taught you.” His face flushed angry and red. “Don’t come home empty-handed either.”

  Miranda blinked at him, humiliation washing over her in hot waves. With all that she was, she wanted to defy him and walk away. Yet she could never forget finding him huddled on the floor in the family parlor when she’d followed the sound of crying one cold night. The last of their valuable possessions had been sold, and the house was an empty shell. Miranda had knelt beside him then, and he’d curled up against her as if he was the babe and she the parent.

  “I cannot lose this house, Miranda. It was the dream that pulled me out of the gutter. I cannot go back there.”

  Had she the ability to expire on the spot, she would have done so then. “It will be all right,” she’d said. Lies. No one would back him now. He was done for as a merchant.

  His frail hand had clutched her sleeve. “You have to help me, Daughter. You are the only one left. The loyalty of others has sunk to the level of platitudes on the lips of cowards.” He had looked at her then, speared her heart with his red-rimmed eyes. “But not you, Miranda Rose. You will stay and help me, won’t you?”

  Everyone else had left. She had stayed because it was her fault. Her voice cracked when she spoke. “Anything. I’ll do anything.”

  And she still would.

  Their fight continued to pluck at Miranda’s nerves an hour later as she strolled along at a decorous pace, her skirts swaying ever so slightly, her parasol—nicked from a distracted lady on this morning’s omnibus ride—up and open to the pale sunlight.

  Don’t come home empty-handed. Certainly not, Father.

  Her face burned, and yet she kept her walk steady as she turned onto a busier avenue. Here, people walked at a rushed pace: clerks on their way home, shoppers searching for bargains, and peddlers wanting to make a shilling. A group of urchins made a game of tossing rubbish at the boardman on the corner, taking advantage of the fact that he couldn’t fight back because of the heavy advertising boards he wore over his shoulders. Splatters of something dark and foul dotted the back board, turning, “Henry Kissmegast’s Emporium for the Distinguished Gentlemen” into, “He—y Kissme–as–s——Distinguished Gentlemen.” Miranda’s lips twitched; the little devils had quite the aim.

  She took the opportunity to lift a few pockets from the men who slowed to laugh at the sight. Later, she’d come back and give the poor boardman a bob as a bit of a reward for having to endure such daily torture.

  Despite the warmth in the air, she felt cold as she left the scene. Prickles of unease danced along her spine. Miranda steeled herself not to turn around. Instead, she wove deeper into the crowd, her pace increasing past decorum. But she could not shake the feeling of being watched, followed.

  A quick peek confirmed the sudden sidestep of a man, his form no more than one silhouette amongst many on the crowded sidewalk. She turned away.

  Sweat trickled down her neck to creep under her collar.

  Who was it? Instinct told her it was a stranger, someone who meant her harm. She’d been living this unsavory life long enough to acquire a hearty respect for her instincts.

  Faces became a blur, the cacophony of London near deafening when paired with the beating of her heart. He was herding her, moving ever closer. She ought to seek shelter, perhaps in a shop, but that wouldn’t stop him. Of that she was sure. Home was too far away. She’d have to fight. A heartbeat thumped at her neck as she fought back panic.

  Fingers clenched tight, Miranda made a sudden turn into a dark alleyway. Predictably, her stalker
followed, stepping into the space with the authority of one used to inciting fear, not being a victim of it. His mistake. He took a step closer, and his features came into view.

  She knew this man. Her mind raced to place him as he spoke.

  “When’d you catch on then?” he asked as he strolled toward her. His costume bordered on the ridiculous. Lemon and lime plaid trousers met with a raspberry waistcoat. A dark orange sack coat and green bowler completed the atrocity.

  “Three blocks back.” Miranda backed up, drawing him further into the alley, away from witnesses. She could do this. She could fight.

  A smile split his plain face, revealing a gap between his front teeth. That smile. A shiver lit over her. He was one of the young thugs who had accosted her in the alley behind her home months ago. A surprising bolt of excitement lit through her at the realization. Would the dark stranger who had come to her rescue then appear as well ? She quelled the thought. One coincidence would not bring on another.

  The man tilted his head to regard her. “I know you.” He touched one long finger to his jutting chin. “Don’t tell me, it’s rattling around in me brain box… “Did we…” Feathery brows waggled.

  “Good God, no,” Miranda snapped, which had him scowling.

  “Well you don’t have to be so vigorous about it, eh?”

  At that Miranda gave a little laugh, though she feared she might be ill. “I don’t see how politeness factors into the equation when you are stalking me in an alleyway with the intent to do no good.”

  The wide space between his brows wrinkled for a moment before clearing. “True.”

  “Why are you following me, anyway?” She’d have that much out of him before she made him regret this day. Even now, her veins throbbed with repressed need as her power woke up within her.

  He ran a tongue over his teeth. “Been watchin’ you pinch pockets.” Hooking one finger in his straps as though he had nothing to fear from her, he stood straighter. “Good work for a bour.”

  “You do better, do you?” she hedged. Perhaps she could scare him off with her knife before things got out of hand. Then she promptly cursed herself as she remembered it lay deep within the caverns of her purse. Stupid. So bloody stupid.

  “I’ve got no need to go dipping. The sport’s for chavys and twists anyhow. Not that you ain’t a fine wirer. That last bit of pocket fanning was a work o’ art.”

  “I suppose here is where I say thank you?” Her tone was snide but she was shamed to admit that a certain pride swelled at his praise of her pick pocketing abilities. If one must endeavor to do a thing, one ought to do it well.

  He gave a slight shake to his head as if to pull himself back on track. “I know we’ve crossed tracks before.” He snapped his fingers. “An alley! Right? Like this, only in the dark.” He stepped forward, the light of the recalled memory in his eyes. “Some punisher stepped out an’ ran us off.” His eyes narrowed. “Not around now though, is he?”

  The air about them thickened with intent. Miranda should fear, and yet there was nothing left inside her now but rage and frustration.

  “No,” she said. “I never saw him again.” Only then did she feel the pinch of regret, and longing. For one wild moment, she considered playing the victim in the hopes that her dark stranger would appear again, like some mythical guardian angel.

  The man before her cracked his rather large knuckles. “Well then, what says you and me get ourselves reacquainted.”

  A laugh escaped her. It was the wrong thing to do, for it let loose other emotions.

  Guilt, regret. Do not do this. Run away. Warn him. Self-disgust soured her mouth. She swallowed it down in the face of his obvious pleasure at the thought of hurting her.

  “You are a fine piece,” she said to him. “You think it so easy? To take whatever you want and damn the consequences?”

  His smile curled. It was an ugly thing, that smile. He was almost within touching distance. “ ‘Tis the way of the world, kitten.” Like a snake, he uncoiled, grabbing her by the elbow and yanking her close. The thick tang of unwashed male and street living filled her nostrils. “Come now,” he murmured, “be a good pussy, eh?”

  Her stomach rolled but a sudden surge of defiance hit her. She was the monster here, not her stalker. Heat, need, and power surged within her. The fire wanted out. “I’ll give you one warning. I’m not like other girls. I will hurt you. Badly.”

  He chuckled. “Promise?”

  Before she could think, he slammed her against the wall, his forearm pressing into her throat, cutting off her air.

  Shock and pain rendered her immobile. Her mouth worked open and shut, trying to scream, searching for breath. Her gaze caught the tattered remnants of a poster advertisement for bath salts as he went for her skirts, jerking them up with eager fingers. Shame pulled at her insides.

  She ought to have run, this was her fault.

  His damp breath panted over her neck. Another hard tug at her petticoat brought her hips against his, and his intentions. All at once, a sense of herself flooded back to the fore, and with it, her rage. Miranda clutched his coat sleeve.

  A pinch of something like pain but tinged with pleasure rippled down her fingers. Instantly, fire caught hold of the greasy wool of his sleeve. It licked up his coat with a hiss. He jumped back with a screech, the frantic movement only making the flames grow. They liked to dance. It gave them power.

  Pain seared her throat from where he’d pinned her. “I did warn you.” It worried her how flat her voice was, and something deep within her heart froze and turned black and pitiless.

  The thug didn’t answer; he was too busy trying to beat out the fire spreading over his coat and biting at his hair.

  Miranda turned and started down the alley.

  Only to hear him scream. That scream. It was nails tearing into her soul. She stumbled, turning back to him. Her palm scraped against the rough wooden wall of the sagging building. He was hopping around, the fire spreading and turning him into a torch. Agony twisted his countenance as his skin split and blistered. The scent of charred wool and roasting flesh made her gag.

  Good God, what had she done?

  She leapt upon him, heedless of the flames, and tumbled him down. They fell in a heap before she rolled them, stamping out flames. He howled, his face a pale, sweaty mask.

  “Be still,” she cried. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” Tears blurred her vision. She was a monster. She’d done this.

  He was sobbing now, childish and diminished as he curled in on himself in pain. Miranda’s hands shook as she helped him up. “Come with me. I’ll see you safe.”

  “Get away from me.” Spittle flew from between his clenched teeth as he ground out the words. “Bloody, fuckin’ witch.”

  Oh, she was that and more. She took a deep breath as she slid an arm around his waist. He was too weak to stop her.

  He took a step, then stopped with an unholy moan. The fire had eaten most of his coat and shirt. Raw, red flesh oozed and cracked along his arm and upper torso.

  She shook seeing it. “Come. Come.” She could not say anything else.

  Somehow she got them to the main street. People gave them a wide berth. No one would help them. No one ever did.

  He swayed, helpless groans and whimpers escaping his locked jaw. He would not last long.

  Desperately, she hailed a hack. The jarvey took one look at them, and his weathered face pinched. “Oh, no, I don’t want no part of this.” He made to drive off, and Miranda grabbed hold of his horse’s harness. It wouldn’t do much; most likely the driver would roll over her without a thought, but it startled him enough for her to get a word in.

  “I’ve got money!”

  “Don’t care if I’m ending up with a dead man in me cab.”

  “I’ll pay you a sovereign.” Jostling her load, she dug into her pocket and pulled one out. Precious coin, but well worth it. “Four blocks for one sovereign.”

  The driver’s eyes narrowed. “Done. But you’re getti
ng him in on your own.”

  “For a sovereign, you’ll be helping me and still have made a deal,” she retorted. Already the thug had passed out, and his dead weight was making her topple.

  The man’s eyes shifted to the coin, then back to her. With a muttered curse and pursed lips, the jarvey helped her get him into the cab, and they were off. Her victim moaned with the jostle of the coach but didn’t wake. Awkwardly, she patted his shoulder as her heart thundered within her breast.

  What had she become?

  “Don’t worry,” she muttered, not believing a word she said. “I’ll get you well.”

  Chapter 5

  London, May 1, 1879

  It had been hell. Miranda clattered down the back stairs of her house. The muscles along her torso trembled so hard they hurt. Her fingers were ice cold as they slid along the handrail.

  Her guest had screamed. There was something about hearing a man scream in pain that unnerved her to the bone.

  The agony in it was enough to finish shredding what was left of her soul. What had she done? She could only thank the heavens that Father hadn’t been at home. He would have taken his own pound of flesh had he discovered her guest.

  Pray God none of the neighbors had heard the man’s shouts of pain. She did not know what she’d say should a constable arrive.

  Going to hospital had been out of the question; one was more likely to die from picking up an infection there than one was to be healed. Besides, Miranda knew how to heal burns.

  It had been a trial though, cutting the thug’s clothes away while he writhed as skin pulled away with his clothing, getting him calm so that she might attend to his roasted flesh.

  A sob broke from her mouth as she rushed into the kitchen. He needed more laudanum. She needed more milk to soak the linen strips that she’d gingerly placed upon him.

  Heedless, she was reaching for her reticule when a pair of arms wrapped themselves around her waist.

  Miranda squeaked, but her body recognized Martin in an instant. He pulled her back against his hard chest before turning her round. His lips met hers in a hungry kiss. She did not deny him. Nothing could be more welcome at that moment. She needed to be held just now, more than she needed to breathe.