Ember: A prequel to Firelight

by Kristen Callihan

  Come back to me, Archer.

  He wanted to more than he wanted his next breath. But how could he expect her to love the thing that he’d become?

  What woman would want a monster?

  Even so, he was unsettled and worried about her. He could not place exactly why, only that he felt as though she were in pain, that she needed him, too. Wishful thinking, and yet as his train steamed along on the path to New York, he penned a letter to his man in London. It had been too long since the last report, and Archer needed to know how his unwitting fiancée was faring.

  London, May 20, 1879

  They sat together on the small balcony fronting her house. It had once been the height of fashion to have a little Juliet balcony, back in the days when beautiful—or at least beautifully dressed—ladies and gentlemen would invite the world to see them and their antics. Nearly a century ago.

  Now, proper society preferred to hide behind heavy drapes and convey the perfect picture of familial harmony. As Miranda’s home was no longer anywhere near the fashionable set, her balcony had not been torn down in the name of improvement. She, for one, was glad of it.

  Billy reclined against the wall. His posture was stiff and uncomfortable, but he was healing well. Well enough to insist that he needed a breath of air.

  “I’m not one to gad about in bed. Unless,” he’d wagged his brows at her, “it’s for a bit of pump and strump.”

  That nauseating exchange aside, he actually made good company, as he didn’t try to fill the silence or look at her with pity.

  A warm breeze brushed over them when he finally spoke. “We should be partners.”

  Miranda stirred. “Partners?” Having cried on and off for two days, her throat was now tight, and the words came out in a croak.

  He caught her eye and laughed. “Smooth your ruffles, it ain’t like that with you.” His face twisted with what Miranda could only gather was extreme concentration. “For all my gammon, I don’t actually want… It’s funny, what with you looking like brass tacks an all, but I don’t get a stiffy when I’m next to you.”

  She snorted then, but sobered at his mildly insulted expression. “That’s all right. I don’t find you attractive in that way either.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “It’s like you’re my sister Nell or something.”

  “You have a sister?” Would she worry over him? Wonder where he’d gone?

  “Had.” He tossed a flake of plaster off the side, and they watched it bounce over a rubbish bin. “Died six years back.”

  Gently, she touched his elbow. “I’m sorry.”

  “S’all right.” They were silent for a moment. “Way I see it, you need a distraction and blunt.” He shrugged, then winced, before easing himself into a more comfortable position. “I need blunt and a partner who’s fearless like me.”

  He slid her a sidelong glance. “Besides, your lil’ secret packs more punch than both of George the Hammer’s arms put together. And every sensible body fears his hit.”

  She stiffened. “I won’t do that again. Ever.”

  “You will,” he said with utter conviction. “A cat cornered will use her claws. And why shouldn’t she, eh? You’ll find yourself thankful for that fire again one day, mark me.”

  Her cold fingers clenched. “No. You are wrong.” She would not become a monster. She would not give Martin the satisfaction.

  Billy made a noise of indifference. “Don’t know why you’re so fearful of a bloody useful talent.”

  “I’m not afraid,” she said with more conviction than she felt. “It’s simply a moot point as I won’t be using it.”

  “You’re giving up fanning then?” His expression was skeptical to say the least, and her insides writhed, the urge to avoid his gaze making her face heat.

  “No,” she said.

  “Didn’t think so.”

  He shifted to face her. “Found a better way do defend yourself, have you?”

  She simply glared.

  “Look it, fanning is for babes. If you’re going to go out, let me show you a different game. One where we can make more blunt, and you’re not hanging in the wind.”

  “I don’t know.” Absently, she stuck her hand into her pocket to feel the coin hiding there. His coin. She didn’t bring it out, lest it catch Billy’s eye. She still didn’t trust the crook farther than she could throw him. “I’m thinking of leaving London altogether.”

  “And go where?” Billy’s appalled tone implied that the entirety of the world was contained within the arms of the Thames and the river Lea.

  Her thumb ran over the bumps along the surface of the coin’s center moon. “I’ve an aunt in France. Or so I’m told.”

  “Living with frogs?” His nostrils flared. “You’re off your nut if you’d rather live with a bunch of fancy frog legs then sport with me.”

  Miranda bit off a smile. “Perhaps I am.”

  “Come on, luvy, think of all the ream swag we could pull.”

  He waggled those brows again, and she nearly laughed, which he saw, and pressed his advantage accordingly. “I suspect you like the thrill of danger. Just a bit, eh? Tell us the truth, now.” He risked his damaged arm to give her a light nudge.

  Did she? Miranda stared out at the smoky city stretched before her. A person could go missing in London’s dark corridors. Or a person could be found. Small flutters built up in her belly at the thought.

  On a whim, she pulled her coin out. “Heads I stay. Tails I go.”

  Before she could second-guess herself, she tossed it high. The coin reached its zenith and seemed to pause as if deciding her fate. It caught the fading light and glinted for just a moment, then shot down to meet her outstretched hand.

  They bent over her palm in unison.

  “A moon?” Billy’s thin lips twisted. “What’s that then? Heads? Or tails?”

  A laugh slowly took her as her fingers closed over the coin. “Heads. Definitely heads.”

  She took a deep breath, and despite the rush of coal dust and grime that filled her mouth at the action, she felt lighter, clearer. Hope bloomed warm and glowing, like an ember finally given air. “Partners then.”

  Chapter 8

  New York City, May 1881

  Isaac Mayer had worked for Archibald Wallace for precisely eight years. An eternity when it came to Wallace Steel. Mr. Wallace did not keep employees. He replaced them, either when they quit–mostly on account of failed nerves—or when he grew tired of their curiosity. Only his majordomo, Gilroy, stayed. Not that most people actually saw Gilroy. He was more a ghost in the vast machine that was Wallace Steel, taking care of Mr. Wallace’s needs and keeping the world out.

  As for Mr. Wallace, he was not a bad employer. Not in the least. Half of the time, he was abroad, traveling on business—or at least that was what he claimed. No, not a bad employer at all. But one was compelled to overlook his appearance. Mayer had perfected the practice.

  Look him in the eyes, that was the trick. Avoid the rest.

  Only the eyes. Those eyes were shrewd, true, but never cruel, at least not toward him. Mr. Wallace’s competitors were another matter.

  And what did Mayer care for looks or oddities such as Mr. Wallace and his infamous costume? Not many men were willing to hire a Jew. Not in New York. Not where these men of industry pretended they were long-lost English aristocracy while hiding the fact that most of them had risen from the gutter. It did not matter to them that Mayer understood numbers and banking as easily as his body understood the need for air. It did not matter that he could look at a company’s financial statements and know precisely where the weak points were and precisely how to fix them. They only saw an untrustworthy, greedy Jew.

  Every door in New York had been shut in his face. Until Mr. Wallace had found him and made Mayer his personal secretary and jack-of-all -trades. Because his talents mattered very much to Mr. Wallace. The rest, as Wallace would say, could go hang.

  Mayer had eventually been forced to admit to himself that Mr.
Wallace was entirely singular when it came to business and finance. So Mayer learned what he could. And together they all but conquered New York. Which was really quite amusing to Mayer, for they had done it all behind closed doors. The outside world rarely set eyes on Archibald Wallace, or Archer, as he had once heard Gilroy call him. And the man became myth, the strange English gentleman who had arrived in New York City as if born from the sea and created an empire out of thin air.

  Thus Mayer stood at the ready on this dreary New York morning, steeling himself to look upon his employer, for there was always that initial jolt of surprise upon looking at Mr. Wallace, and Mayer could not let it show.

  Mr. Wallace had been gone from New York for three years. And though he had kept detailed correspondence with Mayer in all that time, Mayer had no idea where his boss had gone or why.

  But he was here now. Mayer hoped that Wallace had summoned him today to tell him where he had been. Mayer did not, however, intend to hold his breath.

  “Sir,” he said when Mr. Wallace simply sat staring out the windows to watch the rain turn Broadway into a study of slick blacks and grays, an undulating snake of cabs and umbrellas as the populace went about their business.

  Wallace’s large form was like stone, the only movement came from the stiletto knife he twirled in his hand. It was an elegant weapon of polished steel with a black enamel hilt.

  Wallace constantly had it in hand, whirling it over his fingers, around his wrist, in complicated movements so quick the knife became a flash of sliver. It clearly relaxed the man, and his play was so effortless and artful he probably could do so in his sleep.

  “The contracts on the desk, Mayer.” Wallace’s deep voice almost made Mayer jump. “Look them over and see if they are to your liking.”

  Frowning in confusion, Mayer bent to study the contracts in question, and his breath left him in a sharp exhalation as the words began to make sense. His hands shook as he looked up. “You are making me a partner?”

  “Equal partner and official new president of Wallace Steel. I have not paid proper attention to the company. You shall do better.” Mr. Wallace made a sound of amusement.

  The knife in his hand came to a sudden stop, and he set it gently on his desk as he turned to look at him. “Do not tell me you are going to object, Mayer.”

  No, he wouldn’t do that; he wasn’t a fool. Excitement, shock, and anticipation surged like a flame through him, making him want to shout, or run out of the room. He could not decide.

  “Change is never easy,” Wallace said, as if reading his mind. “There is always the risk of failure.”

  “If it please God, then so shall it be.” Mayer shut his mouth, cursing himself for speaking of religion in the presence of his employer. But Wallace simply studied him

  thoughtfully.

  “By all means,” Wallace said in a soft voice, “let us put the question to God.”

  It wasn’t quite what Mayer had meant, but he watched without comment as Wallace stared down at the knife upon the desk as if it held untold answers. Wallace paused for a moment and then with precise deliberation spun the knife. Black enamel and silver steel whirled round as both men watched. Finally, it eased to a stop. Though Wallace wore a mask, Mayer could have sworn the man scowled, but then Wallace suddenly laughed, a short, resigned sound. Shocking, as Wallace never laughed.

  “Ah well, risk we shall.”

  It was then that Mayer’s eyes lit on the word the knifepoint hovered over—London. One word from a letter that he hadn’t noticed until then. Without being obvious, he could only make out a few words of the letter below, but those words nearly leapt off the page.

  London, April 1, 1881

  My Lord Archer, Ellis has squandered the money you have sent him. He hired out a ship and the vessel sank in a storm.

  The scoundrel has forced Miss Ellis out to partake in petty thefts. We watch over her, of course, but the danger of her getting caught grows. My lord, I fear—

  Wallace’s hand fell over the letter as he leaned in to study Mayer, those keen eyes seeing all. He did not appear angry, but reflective, or restless perhaps. Mayer could only stare. Wallace, an English Lord? Well, he certainly had the arrogance.

  “I am leaving New York, Mayer,” Wallace said. “Permanently, it would seem. When you have established yourself, you shall buy me out.”

  Wallace had only just returned, and already he was… The full implication of what Wallace just said hit Mayer, and he almost swayed. He’d be the head of Wallace Steel. He, a Lower East Side schnorrer, the head of an empire.

  Wallace—or was it Lord Archer?—saw Mayer’s shocked expression and leaned in, his eyes flashing in good humor. “Be forewarned, Mayer, I intend to ask for an

  exorbitant buy-out price so as not to offend your sense of honor.”

  Mayer had to force himself not to grin like a schmo.

  “Very fair of you, sir.”

  Wallace snorted and turned away again, taking the knife with him. “Start making the arrangements, Mayer,” he murmured as he took up twirling the knife once more. “I’m leaving for London on tomorrow’s steamer.”

  And thus New York would be rid of the dreaded Archibald Wallace.

  London, June 2, 1881

  The cry of a gull greeted Archer as he headed down the lonely gangplank and onto the docks. He’d paid extra to leave the ship at the thinnest hour of night, when the fog settled down in a green-hued blanket that covered the cold, dank city, and no one would see him arrive. Nothing human stirred, the hour late enough that even the cutthroats were now tucked into their shallow beds.

  His boot heels scuffed against the damp dock boards as he stopped and took in his first breath of London. It burned, as always, going down, that thick soup of coal, brine, fish, and rot. Yet it felt good, familiar. Anticipation and nervousness plucked at his gut and made it tighten. She was here. And yet so were they, the men who had sent him away. There would be a reckoning, of that he was certain.

  There would also be a new beginning. Because he was going to claim her.

  Another surge of excitement hit him and he almost touched his belly to settle it. But he remained still. Patience was needed. He had a household to set up, and plans to make before he could face her.

  He glanced out over the lumps and shadows of ship wenches and parked wagons, as the ships behind him creaked and groaned against their anchors. Yes, it all felt so familiar, so right. London was his home, and he was here to stay.

  The hour died, and in the distance came the steady, clear bong of Big Ben announcing the birth of a new hour.

  I love you, Benjamin Archer. More than my life.

  He was not foolish enough to believe dreams would bleed into reality, but in that moment, he hoped with all of his being that he might have a chance to win her love.

  “Sweet dreams, Miranda,” he whispered in the darkness, “I shall see you soon.”

  About the Author

  Kristen Callihan is a child of the eighties, which means she’s worn neon skirts, black-lace gloves, and combat boots (although never all at once) and can quote John

  Hughes movies with the best of them. A lifelong daydreamer, she finally realized that the characters in her head needed a proper home and thus hit the keyboard. She believes that falling in love is one of the headiest experiences a person can have, so naturally she writes romance. Her love of superheroes, action movies, and history led her to write historical paranormals. She lives in the Washington, D.C., area and, when not writing, looks after two children, one husband, and a dog—the fish can fend for themselves.

  Once the flames are ignited,

  they will burn for eternity.

  Firelight.

  Available Now

  Miranda put the unpleasantness of murder out of her mind.

  She would enjoy herself with Archer, if not for her sake, then for his. And surprisingly, they did enjoy the day. The museum was enormous, its collection of wonders vast.

  When the hour grew late
and most patrons made for home, Archer slipped an obscene amount of money to the guard to allow them to stroll the upper floors uninterrupted.

  Miranda was glad for it. A day spent in public with her husband made her painfully aware of how life was for him.

  Her heart filled with tenderness when she realized what this day out cost him.

  They stopped to study Greek sculptures in one of the upper galleries, and she turned to him, intent upon offering her gratitude.

  “Why haven’t you left me?” Archer interrupted, scattering her thoughts.

  “What do you mean?” But she knew. Her throat went dry and sore. How could she tell him, when she hadn’t truly admitted it to herself?

  They stood alone in a small alcove facing an ancient frieze. He gestured toward the stairs where the sound of patrons leaving the museum drifted up. “All of them think I am a killer.”

  He ran a finger along the balustrade at his side, watching the movement. “Morbid fascination compels society to tolerate me. But you…” Archer lifted his head, yet

  would not turn to face her. “Why haven’t you left? Why do you defend me? I… I cannot account for it.”

  “You cannot account for a person coming to your defense when it is needed?”

  “No. Never.”

  His quiet conviction made her ache.

  “I told you, Archer, I will not condemn you based on your appearance alone.”

  His stillness seemed to affect the air around him, turning their world quiet. “Come now, Miranda. You heard all that Inspector Lane had to say.”

  Caught, Miranda’s breath left in a sharp puff, but he went on.

  “Sir Percival called my name moments before he was murdered. Another servant saw someone dressed like me leaving the grounds. All very damning. Why did you not leave then?”

  Miranda’s heart pounded loudly in her ears. “How did you know I was there?”

  He made a soft sound, perhaps a laugh, and fell silent.

  So then, he would not answer unless she answered first. So be it. She would say it. “It was you. That night. You are the man who saved me in the alleyway.”