Kat waited a moment, then stood and grabbed her book bag. “Thank you for your time, professor.”
He waved her off without glancing up.
Kat sighed and turned around and headed out the door, the questions she hadn’t asked rushing through her mind. Why had the Tower barred Dr. Latimer? What had he said or done that had warranted such severe treatment? And where was he now?”
She stepped into the hallway, where students were already mingling and preparing for their next classes. She headed toward the end of the hallway. One thing was for sure, instead of deterring her, Professor Flintlocke had only increased her curiosity about this Dr. Latimer.
8
Stephen sat in a booth in the farthest corner of the Brass Griffin, nursing a cup of bitter tea. The pub itself was long and narrow, with a dark wooden counter along one side and booths with deep blue cushions lining the other. Lamps hung above each booth, creating an intimate atmosphere in which business could be conducted over a pint.
Most of the booths were filled on this warm spring evening, and the low hum of voices echoed across the pub. Smoke hung in the air, turning the pub into a dark hazy den. Barney, the proprietor, stood behind the bar, serving drinks in small tin cups or mugs. A couple of men sat at the counter and talked with him, lifting their cups every now and then and downing the amber liquid.
Stephen turned his attention to the booths. From his spot here in the back corner of the bar, he could see the entire pub and its occupants.
In the nearest booth sat Antonio, head of the Greensborough faction, with a couple of his burly henchmen. Their heads were bent low over the table, their eyes darting around every few minutes.
They were planning something, Stephen could feel it, but criminals could not be arrested unless the deed was done, or there was evidence of the upcoming crime. He had neither. A pity, really. It would save everyone time and money if he could just take Antonio in now.
Antonio caught sight of Stephen and froze.
Stephen gave him a small salute and took another sip of his tea.
At least his presence kept the felons on their toes.
His gaze moved down the other booths. A couple of business men. Factory workers just coming off the second shift. And . . .
Bingo.
Victor walked in and glanced around the pub.
Stephen moved to the right so that he could not be spotted from the door.
The door shut behind Victor, and he took a seat in the booth closest to the pub entrance. His ghostly pale skin, black hair, and angular features made him look more like a vicar than a mob boss. And the high-necked black overcoat he wore only emphasized his peculiar looks. He mopped his forehead and looked around.
It appeared his informant was right. No sign of Victor’s usual bodyguards.
Stephen smiled. That would make his job even easier.
Barney left the counter and approached Victor’s booth. Barney was a smart man, and had been paid too much to let Victor know that he was here.
Stephen took another sip from his teacup and watched, careful to stay out of Victor’s line of sight He couldn’t hear what Victor said, but a minute later Barney brought him a glass of red wine.
Well, Victor certainly didn’t drink like a mob boss.
Stephen tugged at the bit of hair that grew below his lip, his gaze focused on his mark. Victor’s bounty would see him through this month. Good thing, too; Ms. O’Hearn had come knocking yesterday for his rent.
Well, there was no use waiting any longer. Victor would either come with him or run. Stephen pulled out each of his revolvers and checked the cartridges. A smart man would come quietly. But his bounties were rarely smart.
He closed the second revolver and holstered it. No need to spook Victor. Words first, then weapons.
Stephen stood and left the booth. Eyes followed him. He ignored them.
Victor looked up at his approach, and what little color he had in his face washed away, leaving him looking like a corpse.
“Victor Manson.”
Victor’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down and another bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face. “Stephen Grey.”
“So you know who I am.”
“Who in World City doesn’t? But that doesn’t explain why you’re standing here at my table. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
Stephen mentally rolled his eyes. They all said that. “That is for the judge to decide.”
A bit of color came back into Victor’s face, and his lips turned downward. “You don’t know what you’re getting into, bounty hunter.”
Stephen ignored Victor’s protest and drew out his handcuffs. “Victor, you are under arrest for crimes committed against the people of World City.”
Like wheels slowly turning, Victor studied him, his hands tightening on the edge of the table. “Like I said, Grey, this is not your business. And I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“I don’t think s—”
Victor tossed his wine in Stephen’s direction and tore out of the booth.
“Blazes!” Stephen wiped his face with the back of his sleeve and rushed out the door behind him, shoving the handcuffs into his duster as he ran. Why couldn’t his bounties ever come quietly?
Outside, he spotted Victor ducking into an alley and took off in pursuit, charging through puddles and splashing mud and water up across his trousers. Victor glanced back every few moments, his black overcoat flapping behind him. As they neared the Meandre, steam rising from the water mixed with the factory smoke, creating a fog between the buildings, and at times threatening to obscure Victor from view.
Oh, no you don’t. With a burst of speed, Stephen drew near his quarry. One, two, three—he pushed off one foot and leaped forward, tackling the man to the ground.
In spite of having taken the brunt of both their weights, Victor immediately twisted beneath him, thrashing like a sea serpent. “You can’t take me in! You don’t know what’s going on! You’re just a pawn of the city council!”
Stephen struggled to pin the other man’s flailing arms so he could retrieve his handcuffs. “Don’t fight me, Victor. It will go better for both of us if—”
Wham.
Victor’s fist caught him in the face.
Stars burst across Stephen’s vision. He fell back, his nose throbbing. Something wet dripped into his mustache.
Victor shoved him away and struggled back to his feet.
Stephen blinked and shook his head. By the time he was up, Victor was halfway down the block.
Letting his breath out in an exasperated hiss, Stephen planted his feet and, with one motion, drew his gun. He swung his arm up and took a heartbeat to aim. Right there, behind Victor’s knee.
He pulled the trigger.
A crack echoed between the buildings.
At the end of the block, Victor bounced off the side of a wall and fell to the ground, clutching his leg, his screams punctuated by a flurry of foul descriptions.
Stephen holstered his gun and picked up the handcuffs. He started down the street, his face grim. Just once he would like to not have to shoot a man.
“You don’t know what you’re doing, Grey!” Victor glared at him. “You’re after the wrong people.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“They put that bounty out on me because I know what they’re doing.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“The Tower. But I told them I wasn’t a grave robber. I have standards.”
Grave robber? Stephen reached down and pulled Victor’s hands behind his back, eliciting another string of colorful words. “Shut your mouth, Victor, or I’ll find something to shut it with.” He slapped the cuffs across Victor’s wrists and hauled him to his feet.
Victor looked back, his eyes wide. “Listen, Grey, I’ll give you anyth
ing you want. Just don’t take me in. They’re monsters up there in the Tower. The things they’re doing to people, it ain’t righ—”
Stephen stuffed his handkerchief into Victor’s mouth and tied it behind his head. “I told you to shut up.”
Victor’s eyes went even wider and sweated dripped from the end of his nose. He mumbled something unintelligible and shook his head.
Stephen paused. Victor was scared, really scared. His bounties usually cursed him and grew violent, but Victor was terrified, not of him, but of something else.
Could the man be right?
As if drawn to it, Stephen looked over his shoulder. High above the rundown flats and smoky pubs of World City stood the Tower.
Was it possible Victor knew something? Was something going on at the Tower? It had been more than a year since the rumors on the street about the reapers had dried up. Was it possible they were back? And somehow connected to the Tower?
Or—he scowled and turned back—maybe Victor was just saying that to get out of his arrest. After all, in the months he’d spent searching for Mr. Hensley and the others, Stephen had never found anything. Why would it be happening again now?
He grabbed Victor by the arm. “Let’s go.”
Victor mumbled some more and motioned down.
Oh yeah. He’d shot Victor’s leg.
Stephen sighed. This was going to be a long walk.
“You know Stephen, I don’t understand why you insist on bringing your bounties in alive.” Roy jerked his head toward Victor, who sat still in the corner. “This one is going to die anyway.”
“I won’t be their executioner,” Stephen said coldly.
Roy looked at him with a wicked twist to his lips. “Is it because you still believe in God?”
He shrugged. It was the same with Roy every time he dropped a fugitive off at the precinct. The man had a grudge against religion and baited him at every turn. What Roy didn’t know is he had walked away from God a long time ago, on that day he had found Vanessa in Harrison’s bed.
“Doesn’t matter now.” Stephen crossed his arms. “If there is one thing I’ve learned, it’s that a man lives only once.”
“Are you sure about that?”
Stephen cocked one eyebrow. “Yes. Ever seen a man come back to life?”
“Well . . .” Roy turned his gaze toward the window at the side of his desk. “There’s word on the street that someone high up, someone in the Tower, is trying to do just that.”
Victor straightened, his eyes so wide Stephen could see the whites. He glanced back at Roy. “Trying to do what?”
Roy leaned across his desk. “Trying to bring the dead back to life.”
He snorted. “Ha! Now give me my money.”
“No, seriously.” Roy waved his hands. “My sources are good, and they’re saying some of the Tower scientists are experimenting on dead bodies.”
“There’s no way. The council would never allow that.” At least not publicly. Stephen held out his hand. “My bounty, Roy.”
Roy rose from his chair and headed toward the safe on the right. “I know you’ve heard the rumors. Graves dug up, bodies stolen.”
He glanced at Victor but didn’t answer, just held out his hand. Maybe it was time he reopened his investigation into the reapers and missing people. And maybe extend his search to include corpses.
Roy turned the small knob once to the right, once to the left, then once to the right again. A soft click echoed from the safe. “Who knows”—he reached into the safe—“Maybe Victor here will become one of their test subjects.”
Stephen frowned and looked back. Victor might be a criminal who deserved the full weight of the law, but the thought of some mad scientist using Victor’s body after he was dead didn’t sit well with him.
Roy turned around and handed him a fistful of bills. “Here you go.”
Stephen closed his hand around the money and shoved the wad into his coat pocket.
“Good doing business with you, Stephen.”
He snorted. “Same to you, Roy. Let me know when you have another warrant.” He turned and headed toward the door.
“If you ever want to come back to the force, just let me know. I know Captain Algar would love to have you back.”
Stephen grunted in reply and left the precinct.
9
Kat studied herself in the mirror, turning her head this way and that to admire the cameo brooch at her throat, a gift from Ms. Stuart for graduation day. Her reflection looked older now—more sophisticated, more elegant than the girl who had set the cobblestones on fire two years ago. In spite of the occasion, she had pulled her lush dark hair into a simple, functional bun, and she wore a modest blouse tucked neatly into her long skirt.
Her eyes came back to the brooch.
Graduation.
She smiled and sighed. She was finally done.
“Some of us need to use the mirror, you know!”
Kat laughed, pulled out of her reverie. “All right, all right.” She glanced at Marianne’s reflection and gave a little bow. “I’m done. It’s all yours.”
Marianne folded her arms and shot a critical look at Kat’s hair. “If I had hair like yours, I wouldn’t hide it in that drab little bun.”
When Kat just laughed again, she pouted. “You don’t know what you have, and I’m wildly jealous.”
Kat stood and pulled the bench out for her friend. “Yes, I know. You’ve been saying that for as long as I’ve known you. You know, with your knowledge of chemistry, maybe you’ll find a way to dye hair.”
Marianne rolled her eyes and sat down. “With my luck, I’d probably turn my hair green.” She stuck her tongue out at the mirror.
Kat stepped back and rubbed her chin. “You know, it might be an improvement.”
Marianne brandished a hairbrush at her, and Kat hurried out of the room, laughing. She flopped down on the couch in the sitting room and grabbed a cushion to hug to her chest. She needed that. Laughing was good for the body.
At that thought, the smile on her lips faded. How many times had she sat here, in the dorm, hoping to hear from her father? He never came for a visit, and he never wrote. She sat up on the settee and placed the cushions back in the corners. Even the mere thought of Father made her cringe inside and want to straighten everything in sight.
Two years, and not once had she seen him except in passing. And even then, they were brief, cordial meetings, his coolness a stark contrast to Ms. Stuart’s cheerful Sunday visits.
Kat watched the fire burn in the nearby fireplace, frustration with herself welling in place of the former laughter. She was a fool to hope. He wouldn’t show up today, not to see what she had accomplished, at any rate.
She smoothed her skirt, her fingers cold. What would she have done without Ms. Stuart? At least she could count on someone coming to watch her graduate today.
She looked up as Marianne emerged from their shared bedroom.
“Well, it’s the best I could do.”
Marianne wore a form-fitting green gown, not too extravagant, but certainly elegant. Her carrot-colored hair was twisted up in the latest fashion, with a curl falling on either side of her face.
Kat shook her head. “Marianne, I don’t know why you don’t think you’re pretty. You look wonderful in that gown.”
“You really think so?” Marianne looked down and brushed the skirt with her gloved hand. “Father had it made for today. I wasn’t sure about the color.”
“Green is perfect on you.” Inside, Kat’s stomach burned. What she wouldn’t give to have a doting father like Marianne’s. She glanced down at her own simple clothing. Father didn’t believe in excessiveness. At least she had the brooch. She fingered the oval trinket.
“I’m sorry.” Marianne came and sat on the couch beside her. “I shouldn’t have mentioned . .
.” She sighed and took Kat’s hand. “I’m sorry, Kathryn. But if it’s any consolation, you are the most beautiful woman I know. Both inside and out. Someday your father will see that.” She gave Kat’s hand a squeeze then dropped it. “Me, on the other hand, I’m just shallow.” She let out a throaty laugh.
Kat wiped her eyes, surprised to find she had been crying. “It’s all right. Ms. Stuart is coming this afternoon. She’s almost like a mother to me.”
“But it’s not the same.”
Kat took in a deep breath and looked out the window. “No, it’s not.”
The auditorium filled slowly as hundreds of people filed in, each one taking a seat in the plush red velvet chairs that lined the rows. A chandelier hung high above the orchestra seats, casting warm light on the crowd below. The more affluent patrons of the Tower sat in the boxes that lined either side of the auditorium, with their servants in attendance behind them.
Gaslights encased in glass and iron lined the front of the stage, the newest in lighting technology. The air hummed with low voices and the occasional squeal of a folding seat.
Kat sat onstage in the chair farthest to the right, facing the crowd. Her stomach did flip-flops and her hands grew moist. She straightened up and placed them on her lap, her chin high. A photographer stood in front of the students, a couple of feet from the stage lights, his head hidden behind a dark cloth, his hand adjusting one of the knobs.
Behind him, a broad woman made her way along the front row, her dress suit a dark blue with a matching floppy hat with a white feather on top. Her gray hair was tucked in a bun beneath the hat, each hair perfectly in place. She reached a seat almost across from Kat and sat down. Gray eyes peered up from beneath the hat and a hint of a smile graced her face.
Kat fingered the brooch at her neck and smiled back. She could always count on Ms. Stuart.
The photographer’s fingers came up and Kat dropped her hand.
One finger. Two fingers. Three fingers.
There was a poof and a curl of smoke rose from the tripod. The photographer came out from beneath the cloth. He was an older gentleman, with a large mustache, thick eyebrows, and dark disheveled hair. “Very good, ladies and gentlemen. One more, and remember, don’t move.”
Tainted (The Soul Chronicles Book 1) Page 6
