“Yes.” At least the landlady was honest.
“I’m not an expert on the English language, but I’m literate,” Ada said. She lay back against the couch’s stiff cushions, not caring that her ankles and much-mended stockings were visible, and began to read, trying to take her mind off her wound. She loved the British magazines, and they were so hard to come by in America. She liked what she read of Max’s Captain Reed series, the stories about the airship captain who traveled and gambled his way across the world.
“Does he know Doyle?” she asked Mrs. Boggs. “He lives in London, doesn’t he?”
“I wouldn’t know his acquaintances. Mr. Sterling is rarely here.”
“He wrote A Study in Scarlet. My brother got me Beeton’s Christmas Annual last year.”
That earned yet another disdainful look from the landlady. “I do not indulge in such frivolity, Miss Burgess.”
Footsteps sounded on the stairs leading to the flat, and Ada smiled. She sat up and shook her skirts over her legs, lest Mrs. Boggs insist on continuing to be scandalized, and set aside the magazine. Now she had another task besides vampire hunting before her: buy more magazines to take home. Her brothers would appreciate them, too. The door opened and Max stepped in, slightly out of breath. “You’re all right?” he asked by way of greeting.
Ada nodded and set aside the magazines. “I am, aside from the neck wound. You never told me you’re Maximilian Sterling, adventure author.”
“It didn’t occur to me when I was assaulted.” He withdrew a bag from his coat pocket and set it on the table in front of her.
“Will you be requiring my assistance, sir?” Mrs. Boggs asked.
Max shot a quizzical look at Ada. “No.” She replied for him.
“That will be all,” Max said firmly.
“If you require anything, please let me know,” Mrs. Boggs said, but the offer sounded hollow.
As soon as the door closed, Ada said, “She’s terribly pleasant, isn’t she?”
“Delightful. You didn’t have any problems while I was away?”
She shook her head. “Vampires can’t come into a home occupied by humans uninvited. You have some holy water?”
He opened the bag, revealing a nearly full milk bottle. “St. Pancras assured me that my two pound donation will go quite far.”
“So will all that holy water. But before you start, you wouldn’t happen to have a bottle of whiskey around here, would you? This” —she pointed to the bottle— “is going to hurt like hell, as you know.”
Max disappeared into the kitchen and she heard him poking through a cabinet before reappearing with a dusty bottle. “I don’t know how old this is,” he said, inspecting the label.
“The older, the better.”
“It’s Scottish and it’s potent.” He poured measures into two glasses and set them on the table. “Will that do?”
Ada didn’t wait for him to make a toast or whatever silly thing men did when they saw a woman drinking hard liquor. She splashed it back in one gulp and relished the harsh burn coursing down her throat. “All right,” she said. “Let’s get this over with.”
Max took a delicate sip from his glass and made a face. “I would’ve figured you were a whiskey man,” she said wryly as he uncorked the milk bottle. He splashed some of the holy water on the clean rags Mrs. Boggs left them.
“I like it well enough.” He held up the rag and Ada tilted her head to the side, removing her scarf from the wound.
She saw him blanch. “That bad?”
“It’s— Your skin is turning grey at the site.”
“Vampire bites will do that. Just hold that against my neck until I stop screaming.”
Max’s eyes widened, but he obliged.
Her vision swam and the burning pain was intense enough to make her breath catch, but Ada didn’t scream. She clenched her jaw shut against the searing pain and dug her nails into the couch cushions. She forced herself to breathe through her nose and finally managed to say, “Little more.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes, I’m fucking certain! It’s a vampire bite, Max. It has to be cleaned before I get an infection!”
Max did so, and this time the burning wasn’t as bad. “I’m not trying to be rude,” she said. “But it’s been a couple of hours since I was bitten and I really need to get back out there.” The pain was already starting to fade. She lifted the rag and felt the mark. It would probably leave a scar; she hadn’t had the holy water on it quickly enough.
“You should rest,” Max said.
“I said I need to, not that I’m going to.” She wasn’t stupid enough to go out following this kind of attack. She needed sleep.
“You’re welcome to stay here,” he offered.
Despite the circumstances, Ada’s interest was piqued. Again. She’d been interested since she saw him boarding the airship with Lisette Babineaux. And even though she had that minor windfall burning a hole in her pocket since she’d staked the French vampire, she was still perilously short on funds. A free place to sleep was an unexpected perk.
Except… “In your bed?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Yes. Although I won’t be there.”
“Because you’re a gentleman?”
“No, because a vampire tried to tear out your throat. When we share a bed, I want you to have as much energy as possible. You’ll need it.”
Chapter Four
Max slept fitfully on his settee. It was too short for his legs, but he wasn’t about to complain. He woke up with the dawn, a crick in his neck and his knees stiff, but he walked off those discomforts before checking in on his guest.
Ada was wrapped up in the bedcovers, only the top of her head with its messy, russet-colored curls visible. She stirred a little and he left, closing the bedchamber door behind him. He couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed that she wasn’t awake; he liked having someone to talk to, and right now he needed to talk.
He had been avoiding the pile of newspapers Mrs. Boggs left for him, but with nothing to do until Ada woke up, he finally opened one broadsheet. His uncle’s murder was splashed across the pages, as the discovery of the drained body of one of London’s finest medical authorities was wont to encourage. Max felt his stomach turn over as he took in the details, all written in gleeful, gory detail. James Sterling was found bloodless, whiter than the paper the news was printed on, with puncture marks on his throat according to one of the morgue workers the reporter had spoken to. What kind of monster was stalking London’s streets?
Max set aside the paper and pressed his palms against his eyes. Tears welled up there and he brushed them away impatiently. He’d been an utter cad, stomping around Europe and writing his adventure stories, burning through the inheritance his late parents left him, and ignoring all letters and wires from home. He’d thought Silas Weston was exaggerating the strangeness of Uncle James’s death to lure him home to a country he’d never liked, all in an attempt to turn him into someone he wasn’t.
There had been no one to mourn James Sterling the man, just the eccentric doctor whose obsessive research into blood made him an oddity among London’s physicians. Max was embarrassed by the man in life, and for the first time he felt ashamed for that. James had put him through school, paid for his university education.
And what had Max done to repay him? I took off for parts unknown as soon as I reached my majority, with my parents’ money, to write silly stories.
And then he’d been eaten by a vampire. After what Max saw last night, of that there was no doubt. And the St. Pancras vicar who had given him the holy water hadn’t seemed terribly surprised by Max’s request; he’d even seemed used to being asked for it. He remembered the vicar’s words as he handed over the vial: “Even if the monsters stalking our streets aren’t of the supernatural, they are still monsters.”
Max picked up the broadsheets again, this time scanning through the print for something about other strange deaths. He found a few lines in two pape
rs that detailed drained bodies of vagrants, one in Whitechapel, the other in Wapping. The latter was found near where James’s body was discovered. All had puncture marks on their throats, but they were too small and precise to be made by human teeth according to a constable quoted in the paper. A madman was loose on London streets, the constable admitted, but he certainly wasn’t a vampire.
He had to pay a visit to James’s Mayfair home as soon as possible. Silas Weston must know something the papers hadn’t reported. The butler had been fiercely loyal to his employer since Max was a child. There had to be a clue somewhere in the house that the police overlooked or outright ignored.
Max quickly washed and dressed. Then he called Mrs. Boggs for some breakfast to be brought up. The sour-faced housekeeper presented him with a tray bearing a teapot and scones, nothing else. “I haven’t been to market yet,” she said by way of excusing the meager meal, but the pointed look she threw at the closed bedroom door told Max she disapproved of his overnight guest.
The door opened and Ada crept out, a hand over her yawning mouth, as soon as Mrs. Boggs left the flat. “She makes me look like one of those irritating morning people,” she said by way of greeting.
“You slept well?”
She wore Max’s robe over whatever she’d worn to bed last night. Her shift, probably, an image he liked very much.
“As well as I could expect, given the gaping vampire bite in my neck. How’s yours, by the way?” She thunked heavily into the settee, a cup of tea in hand. She took a sip and made a face, but didn’t comment on it. Perhaps she preferred coffee.
“I think it’s going to be fine.” He hadn’t even thought about the bite since he woke up. He reached out and touched the wound, feeling smooth skin. “You arrived just in time.”
“I saved you and your pretty neck.” She cast him an appreciative look over the rim of her cup, sending a wave of heat through his body. Damn it, but she could be so distracting when he should be concentrating on what caused their bites and Uncle James’s death.
“What about yours?” he asked.
She still had a scarf loosely wrapped around her neck, and she unwound it and tilted her head to the side, baring her skin for his inspection. “How bad is it?”
It looked worse than his felt. It was vastly improved from last night, but the skin was still pink and raw, and now Max could see teeth impressions still healing on her skin. Tellingly, there were puncture marks too small and round to be made by human teeth, just like the rags wrote about his uncle’s body. As alluring as he found Ada to be, he couldn’t suppress a shudder.
Ada turned away, a petulant look crossing her face. “I guess it’s still bad.”
“No!” Max quickly protested. He gulped down a mouthful of weak tea. “It’s not that. I understand why the vampire wanted to bite you.”
Ada managed an eye roll at that. “He was angry and hungry?”
“It also looks edible. Believe me, if I found myself of the bloodsucking persuasion, yours is exactly the kind of neck I’d seek out.”
“Max, please. We’ve already saved each other’s bacon and we met about…” She checked the grandfather clock against the wall. “Maybe twelve hours ago?” She turned surprised eyes to him. “Good God, is it really a quarter past five?”
Max picked up the broadsheets and held them out to her. “It’s not you or the bite, Ada. It’s these.” She tentatively accepted them and scanned the headlines, eyes widening as she read through the columns detailing James’s gruesome murder.
Max refilled his teacup as Ada flipped through the papers. Finally, she set them aside. “Max, I’m so sorry,” she said softly.
Part of him didn’t want her sympathy, but he couldn’t help but feel grateful for it, that he wasn’t alone in this nightmare. He hoped she might know what to do next, because he sure as hell didn’t. “There’s no need for it.”
When he looked back at her, her eyes were oddly shiny. For the first time, it occurred to him that she very likely knew people who had been killed by vampires. “But it’s what you say when your friend’s uncle has been murdered, isn’t it? And I’d say we’re friends, even if we didn’t know each other yesterday afternoon.”
“Vampire attacks have that effect on people, don’t they?” Despite his wry words, Max couldn’t shake off the guilty feelings over not returning to England as soon as he received Silas Weston’s first letter.
“They do.” She looked away and wiped her eye. She took a final sip of tea before standing up. “I assume you want to visit your uncle’s house today?”
He nodded. “As quickly as possible. Will you accompany me?”
“Of course. I just have to get dressed.” She made for the bedroom, then paused. “Is there anywhere near here where I can send a cable?”
****
After quickly dressing in Max’s bedroom, Ada counted out her bounty: forty pounds in British sterling and thirty French francs. It was certainly enough to replenish her meager funds until she went home. She couldn’t remember the last time she had so much money.
She forced her curly hair into one of the respectable, uncomfortable buns Englishwomen were so fond of, wincing at the ache the pins left in her scalp. It was high time women should be allowed to wear their hair loose or at least comfortably in England. No one cared one whit what her hair looked like back in New York or even in Paris. But her clothing already spoke of a poor background, and she didn’t want to embarrass Max any further by not making at least a token effort to blend in while in England. She wiped off the stains from the fights at the hotel last night as best she could. At least her dress was dark blue, making the stains less obvious.
She checked her reflection in the looking glass, sighed at the sight of the healing bite mark, and tugged her collar as high as she could in a vain effort to conceal it. Finally, she wrapped a scarf around her neck. It was far too matronly for Ada’s tastes, but it would have to do.
She stuck a scone in her mouth when she and Max left the flat, where they met a disapproving Mrs. Boggs at the foot of the stairs. Damn it. Of all the times she could run into the sour woman again, of course it would be the night after she stumbled into Max’s flat, bleeding and dishevelled, and chewing on a dry scone, to boot.
Well, you’re not staying here permanently, thank God. After today you won’t be seeing much of her.
She swallowed her bite of scone and wrapped the rest in a dingy but clean handkerchief she pulled from her pocket. “Good morning,” she said brightly. “Thank you for the tea.”
Mrs. Boggs regarded her coolly. For a few seconds, Ada thought she might ignore her completely, but the landlady’s manners wouldn’t let her. “Thank you,” she replied stiffly. To Max, she said, “You are aware, Mr. Sterling, that your agreement with me states you are the only person who may live in those rooms?”
“I’m well aware of that, Mrs. Boggs, but I thank you for the reminder.” Without waiting for a reply, Max opened the door, ushering Ada through.
“I apologize for that,” he said as soon as they were in the street.
“No need for it.”
“I’ve had other companions spend the night with me before, and she’s never…” He must have realized what he was saying, but Ada brushed it off.
“I don’t care about your mistresses, Max,” she said.
“They weren’t all mistresses…”
“You don’t owe me an explanation. I’m a crude American, and even I think that was unspeakably rude.” He walked briskly, and she was able to keep up. Thank God she could get away with wearing low-heeled boots and still be sort of fashionable.
Max stopped abruptly, earning irritated looks from passersby. “I don’t think you’re crude,” he said, his voice unusually serious.
“Max, it doesn’t hurt my feelings. I know there’s a big cultural difference between us, and…”
He cut her off. “I like that you’re outspoken and bold. Very much so. They’re traits women aren’t often encouraged to develop.”
He straightened. “I’ve also been unspeakably rude to you, as well.” He held out his arm.
“That isn’t necessary.” It was a token protest, but Ada still linked her hand through his.
“It is. I’m pleased to be seen with you, and I am more than happy to escort you to a telegraph office before we make our way to Uncle James’s home.”
The telegraph office turned out to be located just a few streets from Max’s flat, and it was newly opened and surprisingly busy for such an early hour. The office was larger than Ada expected, with six people just to send cables, and a booth that sold dirigible tickets. A hand-painted sign by the ticket booth proclaimed reduced prices on round trip fares anywhere in Britain. Against one wall a floor-to-ceiling shelf rested, bearing souvenirs and books for sale.
Ada picked up a telegram slip and quickly filled it out, noting the outrageous per-letter price list posted on the wall as she did so. Her pencil hovered over the slip, unsure. Should she stick to the Searchers’ preferred code names, thereby possibly drawing attention to herself, or spend the extra money and use full words?
She didn’t know this country, and she didn’t know how a cable that was obviously in code would be received at a proper London telegraph office. No one in New York would care what her cables said, only that she paid for them, but she couldn’t be so sure here. Finally, she quickly scribbled her message and hoped no one cared about it or asked any questions, leaving Max’s uncle’s Mayfair address for the Searchers to use to contact her.
She took a spot in the shortest line, and in less time than she expected, faced the clerk. She pushed her cable message across the desk separating them, and he eyed it warily, his eyes flicking back and forth over the few words written there. Nervousness lodged in the pit of her stomach, a hard ball that she was unaccustomed to.
“Miss, you’ve misspelled ‘they’re,’” he finally said.
That was what made him look so concerned? That she was a poor speller? Ada nearly laughed with relief. “Excuse me?”
Blood Ties Page 4
