by Mary Weber
And then a bottle is flying across the room and hits someone near the pub counter. And the place explodes into chaos.
9
I swerve back to Lute, but he’s already yanked off his jacket to toss over my shoulders. He tugs it around me to hide my dress, then throws his arm over my head and presses me toward the door.
The sound of breaking bottles and angry fists hitting bone fills my ears as Lute shoves us through the doorway and out onto the jammed street, where he slips his arm from my shoulders and grabs my hand as I gasp. “What in Caldon’s name is wrong with them?”
“They’re angry. Everyone is. Look around, Rhen.”
“I know they’re angry! But they’re taking it out on each other instead of the people they’re mad at. They’re not even thinking.”
“Exactly.” His grey eyes flash as he pulls me from the midst of the throng of bodies to the other side of the street, then yanks us against a wall as a new flood of marchers goes running by. The moment they pass, he veers us into a side alley and releases my hand.
Keeping his vantage point to the pub, he gives a quick scan of me—from my fingers clenching his loaned coat, down to my dress hem that’s sweeping the stones at our feet. My hands are shaking, and I grip the jacket tighter in hopes he won’t notice. The next second he’s apparently concluded I’m fine because he tilts his head to the alley as his black hair slips over one cheekbone. “Let’s get you home before this whole place—”
“Oi! What’ve we got here? Fancy dress for a fancy lady, eh?”
A rough gentleman I don’t recognize looms toward us from the crowded street. Two men slip up behind the man, and the stench of alcohol and anger rush my senses as he jerks his thumb back at the pub. “Thought we wouldn’t see you sneaking out of Sow’s?”
Lute shifts his stance. “We’re not seeking trouble. She’s just headed home.”
“Is she now?” The man takes two steps forward while his eyes assess my body too slowly. “Heading back to her place in high society, from the looks of it. Maybe she can explain why her kind is having parties right now while we’re left with the bill.”
I feel Lute’s body ripple as he slides his hand beneath my elbow. “She had nothing to do with it. If you want to pick a fight, Booth, the pub’s all yours. Now if you’ll excuse us—the fog’s thick enough to draw in predators tonight. I suggest you be on the lookout.”
I glance up. The ocean mist has condensed so rich we can barely see six feet in front of us, but either the man’s new to town or is too drunk to care what a thick night mist means, because rather than react, he just peers at his companions. “You defending her association with those fancy folk, Lute?” A leer edges his lips. “Or maybe you’re just busy associatin’ with her in your own way?”
“I’m defending your right to keep your throat in one piece.” Lute’s voice is low. He nudges me to walk behind him, farther into the alley.
Except before I’ve moved a step he’s released me, and the heckler’s fist flies through the air in a drunken lunge. I twist and duck at the same moment Lute lifts his own fist to clock the man right in the chin. The assailant’s knuckles barely scrape my cheek before Lute pitches the man backward into his friends, who stumble apart and let the man hit the ground.
“What the?”
“Now you’ve done it, Wilkes.”
All three of them raise their faces to us, and my lungs lodge in my throat as my cheek throbs like the dickens. Ah, hulls.
Lute’s hand slides around my back and urges me to go, but it’s unneeded—I’m already running. He stays right behind me up the miasma-cloaked alley before we cut in on another side street, while the men pursue us with curses through the dark. Until the air gives a sudden crackle and a low clicking sound picks up, followed by the sulfuric scent from earlier that bleeds toward us through the fog.
Lute slows, then drops his hand from my back and flips around just as I reach out to shove us both into the nearest wall. He crowds in, facing me, and uses his back like a shield to hide us from the dull, glowing eye sockets we both know are accompanying that sound.
The clicking turns into the long, low moan of a ghoul’s telltale cry, and Lute’s body freezes with my own. The thing is searching for us. The light from some street oil lantern must’ve glinted off us and drawn it in.
I shut my eyelids to make us harder to find and begin to count my heartbeats to keep my nerves focused. Except the salt-breeze infusing Lute’s heated skin and hair fills my head and lungs, and pretty soon the scent is making my head spin. Because I’m suddenly aware of his heartbeat picking up beneath chest muscles that’ve been honed from years at sea.
My own heartpulse quickens to match his until I can’t distinguish between them. Just like his soft breath that’s so close it’s tangling with my inhale.
I open my eyes and peek up.
His gaze is locked onto mine.
I stall. The flicker in his expression isn’t scared—it’s conflicted. He looks as if a weather system he wasn’t prepared for just appeared, and he’s trying to decide how thunderous it’ll get before handling it.
I open my mouth and his gaze drops to my lips, then promptly retreats to my eyes. Where it stays.
Until the look expands into something more. Something bewildered and rattled and captivated.
The three men’s voices heighten and I jerk as the ghoul’s moan suddenly alters. The ruffians must hear it because they erupt in shouts and their footsteps pick up pace, but this time heading away from us.
Neither Lute nor I move as we listen to the grotesque moaning just before the sound stutters and veers in the direction of the men’s boots hitting the stone cobbles. The sick sulfuric smell dissipates as quickly as it came. Lute’s arms relax against mine, and the next second he drops them and steps away so quick it’s like I’ve scalded him.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod and try to catch my breath that for some reason has thinned. “My cheek’ll bruise, nothing more.”
Lute makes a choice comment about having a “chat” with Booth tomorrow, then, as if remembering the company he’s in, closes his mouth and scrutinizes me. He rubs a hand through his hair. “You sure?”
I shrug and start to assure him that yes, I’m perfectly fine, but his unsettling gaze fastens so tight onto mine it occurs to me he’s not just asking about the run-in with those men. He’s asking if in the midst of everything surrounding tonight, I’m honestly all right.
My mind darts to the pub, the drunks, the ghoul. Then to my aunt’s house—with Germaine and Vincent. My throat tightens. A flicker of nausea emerges with the uncomfortable realization that, for whatever reason, I’ve felt safer down here in the midst of a riotous pub and sinister alleys than I did up there. I’ve felt safer being with him.
I swallow and I don’t know how to answer him because all I can think of is how foreign but also pleasant that feels. So I just say, “I’m fine. Are you?” Without waiting for a reply, I add, “You know ghouls don’t actually eat people. They just cut open their chest cavities in search of souls.”
His brow goes up and he stares at me with an unreadable expression. Suddenly his dimpled mouth twitches into a puckered smile. “I . . . did not know that.”
And because I’m not finished making a fool of myself yet, I nod. “They’re looking for a home.”
He clears his throat and keeps eyeing me, but thankfully his expression recedes before I can wax more on the nightlife of ghouls or say anything about how anatomically perfect his lips look right now. He stops rubbing the back of his head and turns, and when he pulls his hand away there’s blood on his fingers.
I frown. “Lute—”
He glances at it and shakes his head. “It happened a few days ago—from a hook on the boat. Must’ve got bumped at the pub and reopened. I’ll be fine. Let’s just get you home.”
“I can get myself there. You go take care of that and your family.” I point at the blood on his palm.
“My famil
y’s fine, but your da would never forgive me for letting you walk home alone in this.” He indicates the fog.
My da.
He’s walking me home for my parents’ sakes.
That realization shouldn’t prick, but it does. I should appreciate his thoughtfulness, but instead a mad desire flashes through me. I can’t help wishing he was walking me home for his own enjoyment. For whatever it was I saw on his face back there against the wall, when he stood closer than any man has stood with me and offered up his breath and space and protective body without requiring anything in return. My neck grows warm and I shove away the strange desire that brings. You’re just tired, Rhen. Get a move on.
Before he can see the blush on my face, I pivot toward home—but the side of my shoe brushes against something firm beneath the mist swirling around my knees. I glance down and an uncouth word tumbles from my lips.
Lute follows my reaction to the ground where a body is splayed out beside me, barely visible through the fog.
A dead body.
What the? I reach down.
“Rhen, wait.” Lute grabs my sleeve and points to the man’s eyes, which are wide open, staring up at us.
I already know the man’s deceased. I also know he’s possibly contagious from illness. I just wish I had my gloves. Squatting low enough to see the corpse better, I carefully place my right hand on his leg to feel his muscles. They’re cool. Then, as I peer over the rest of his body, a blossom of unease unfurls in my stomach.
He’s not just dead—he’s freshly dead. And like the tree oil guy in the undertaker’s and the people Sam and Will described, the man’s lips are speckled with a couple of blood clots.
“He used to come to the wharf to beg fish,” Lute says. “I haven’t seen him in a few weeks.” Lute surveys the ground, then points out drag marks leading from the body to somewhere beyond the fog. “Question is—which of tonight’s rioters did it?”
“None of them.” I force down the lump in my throat. “I think sickness took him.” I rise and step away from the body. “And I think someone set him here because they didn’t know what else to do.”
Lute looks at me. I don’t tell him I know this because of the blood around the mouth, or the way the body’s muscles felt atrophied beneath my touch—and he doesn’t ask. He just nods. “I’ll carry him to your da’s lab for you.”
“Not without gloves.” I look at the fog and then at the Upper hilltop ahead where the party lights from the estates shine faint. “And by the time we get back, something else will have taken him.”
As if in confirmation, the smell of sulfur trickles through the gloom.
I purse my lips and peer at Lute, and his eyes communicate the same thing—we need to go. But instead he says, “Hold on,” and disappears for thirty seconds into the fog in the direction we just walked from. When he returns he’s carrying a dirty, half-shredded blanket he gently lays over the dead man’s chest and face. “Saw it snagged on a post back there. Probably one of the rioter’s, but still—” He straightens and without looking at me says, “Everyone should be allowed a bit of dignity. I’ll let the constable know about him on my way back.”
I blink and stare at him—at this person who isn’t scared to be around death and dead bodies and ghouls. And who doesn’t flinch even at honoring the dead.
I wait for him to look up and nod that he’s ready, and then, without a word, I turn and we continue up the alley toward my house.
His strides are twice as long as mine and soon we’re far away from the body, and I’m hurrying my pace to match the boy with tempestuous grey eyes and a gradually preoccupied tension. Even as I can still hear the crowds below chanting protests and declaring every pox in existence upon the parliament members and their families.
The alley turns into a lane and a few people jog by, but their lantern-lit faces are filled with just as much fear as rage. “Do you think they’ll go after the parliament men in the Upper district?” I ask.
Lute glances over, then shakes his head. “They’ll likely destroy a few of the port businesses and then go to bed. Especially when they realize the predators are out. They’re only doing it because they feel trapped and need to be heard, but they won’t go so far as to ruin the equinox festival. They’ll wait until it’s over to show any real resistance—although parliament would’ve been wise to delay the ruling until after, just in case.”
“And what about you? What are you going to do about it?”
“The restrictions?” His mouth flinches as he keeps his attention on the cobblestone street ahead. “From the paper I saw, it’s pretty severe. I don’t know that anyone can provide for their families on what they’re allowing.”
He won’t be able to provide for his family? I stare at him. “Are your mum and brother okay?”
His eyes indicate surprise. “They don’t know about it yet,” he says softly, and keeps walking.
“The truth is,” he adds after a moment, “Ben’s taken a few steps back after a bad ankle sprain last month. Most sleeved clothing’s been bothering his skin, which means he and Mum are stuck at home much of the time.”
I wince for him. For all three of them. His brother was born with a mind that works different than most—he’s like a five-year-old in a fourteen-year-old body. But it means he has a lot of sensitivities that require their mum’s full-time care.
“I’ll ask my da to come around and check on him.”
Lute’s reply is so gentle it barely registers before it dissolves into the night. “Thanks.”
When we reach the house, he doesn’t come up the broken stone walk. Just stops and waits with his hands tucked in his pockets and his disconcerting gaze on everything but my face as I stand seven inches away in the mist so milky that the noises and lights and everything outside of us falls away. And for a moment the world is made up of only him and me, and our breath and pregnant silence. He keeps his hands in his pockets and his interest on his shoes, as if they’ve suddenly become very absorbing.
I slide off his jacket and offer it back. He takes it without a word. Then nods. “Good night, Miss Tellur.” And turns back to the road for the long walk home.
“Lute.”
He stops six feet from me. Glances back with those ocean-deep eyes. And calmly waits while I sort through my words.
And suddenly I’m aware I’m standing here in a torn dress and shaky skin in front of a fisher boy who is nothing like Vincent or Germaine or any of them, and everything like the sea, with his wild disheveled hair and torrid grey gaze in a not-wholly-unattractive face. “You’ll be okay tonight—in the mist?”
He gives a slight smile. “Always.”
I swallow. “In that case, I know you’ll figure it out. The fishing thing, I mean. But thanks. For helping me tonight.”
He opens his mouth as if to say something more. Maybe to communicate the thing from earlier that’s suddenly reemerged in his expression. It elicits an odd hunger in me—one that seems to be growing around him today.
Instead, he simply tips his head and turns again to leave, but the sound of horse hooves and carriage wheels interrupts his departure. A coach is pulling onto my street, rumbling loud over the rocks and pebbles and potholes. Two horses emerge into view, followed by a beautiful black carriage. I frown. It’s not Seleni’s, but what other Upper would come down here tonight?
“Whoa,” the driver calls to the mounts, and the coach pulls up right in front of me as Lute returns to stand behind me, and then a curtain slides back from the window.
Mr. King’s face is staring at us. Vincent is just behind him. I catch the surprise and flash of irritation in Vincent’s eyes at the same time I sense Lute’s body go rigid. My gut drops. I wrap my arms around my chest and give a breathless, “Good evening, Mr. King.”
“Miss Tellur,” Vincent’s father says. His expression is stiff as he assesses the scene. What he thinks of it, I can easily imagine. “My son was concerned with your swift exit this evening and desired to ensure you arrived h
ome safely.” His eyes flit to Lute. “It would appear you have.”
I lick my lips. “There’s been some disturbance tonight in the Port,” I say, as if adding some reasonable explanation will calm the suspicion clouding both his tone and Vincent’s face. “Mr. Wilkes lent me his assistance against a group of ruffians.”
“I see.” He sniffs in a way that suggests he’s gauging if I’m lying. “Vincent said you’d left early to continue your studies regarding your mother’s disease. I know he believes in the work you’re helping your father do, and I simply hope his progressive stance does not turn regrettable. Now, it’s a cold night, and seeing as there are a good many uncouth characters about . . .” He narrows his tone, and though he doesn’t look at Lute, he might as well be. “I suggest you head inside, young lady.”
“Father, I think it wise to—”
Vincent’s father shakes his head to silence his son’s opinion, then taps the coach and lets the curtain fall.
As soon as they rumble off, I spin to Lute. “Lute, I—”
“Mr. King is right, Miss Tellur. You shouldn’t do anything that you or your friend there will regret.”
I blink. His tone and demeanor have completely altered to an aloofness that borders on frigid. I glance around, then back at him. What just happened?
Before I can explain that Vincent’s not exactly my friend—and not that kind of friend—and, for that matter, I don’t even know what kind of regrets they’re all speaking of—old Mrs. Mench’s light flicks on and her head peeks out her window.
Lute turns on his heel. “Good night, Rhen.” And strides off into the murky dark.
10
I unlock the door and dart inside so as not to wake my sleeping parents within, or incite more of Mrs. Mench’s attention without. My head is a blur over whatever just happened out there. Lute’s discomfort with Mr. King was warranted—he’s one of the politicians who signed the fishing restrictions. But Lute’s altered behavior and comment as if he were—what? Lumping me in with them?
