"Good shot," I muttered, but Harper didn't seem to hear me over the rising wail of the city fire sirens.
When we reached the street, dozens of Inquisitors were already gathered as well as Sisters from the Order of the Flame. Water pumps clanged and roared while the fire sirens continued to scream. Above us, explosive bursts of fire gushed through the windows and roof of the building. The smoke that poured out reeked of burning meat and rose perfume.
Harper laid me in the arms of one of the Sisters and turned back toward the burning building. I caught his arm, gripping it with the same hard force with which I clung to consciousness.
"You can let go now, Belimai," Harper said softly. "You're safe."
I dug my claws into Harper's coat sleeve, pulling him closer.
"She's gone," I whispered to him.
"You don't understand. I need evidence—" Harper was cut off as one of the Sisters pulled him back from me. I let go before my nails cut his skin.
Another of the Sisters moved in beside me. She hardly glanced at my face. To her I was only an assortment of wounds. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of my slashed stomach.
"He's losing blood." She pressed her hand over the wound. "Get me morphine and needles." Two young girls in white brought what she asked for immediately.
I realized, as the Sister to the left of me began to fill a syringe with morphine, that Harper had gone.
"Harper..." My voice barely carried above the chaos around me.
Inquisitors shouted at people to stay clear. Others barked orders to subordinates. The wheels of the water hoses and pumps chugged like train engines, and above it all the sirens continued to wail.
In their white caps and robes, the Sisters of the Order of the Flame closed around me like a wall. One of them lit a small lime torch. I flinched from the sudden brightness. A novice gently cradled my head back so that I was staring up into the sky.
I felt the familiar sting of a needle piercing my arm. The circle of Sisters closed in over my stomach. I distantly felt their fingers moving across my skin. I could hear one of them giving rapid orders, but the words themselves eluded me.
The pain and chill of my body began to slip away. I stared up into the night. High in the sky I thought I made out a thin black silhouette. A star shimmered behind her, and for a moment she seemed to flicker against the darkness like a single firefly.
I wondered if Harper saw her, or if she was looking down at him. Either way, the sight was not meant for me. I closed my eyes and let it go.
Chapter Twelve
Stitches and Alcohol
The Sisters' threads were so thin and their stitches so tiny that it was hard to imagine how they alone had barred death from my body. The scars that remained after the stitches were removed were white and faint. The one that ran up my stomach was hardly visible. Only a dull ache lingered from my broken wrist. It seemed that my body longed to erase any traces of Scott-Beck's crimes.
The editors of the newspapers had done much the same. Their stories read like a tragedies. A man of deep compassion, Albert Scott-Beck, as well as his associate, Lewis Brown, and his secretary, Timothy Howard, had perished in a terrible fire. Scott-Beck left behind a grieving wife, two children, and many friends from all walks of life. Hundreds of Prodigals held a vigil in his memory, and many attended the services in his honor.
The world, the papers said, was a darker place for his loss.
I clipped out an article, scrawled the word LIES across it, and then added it to my most recent scrapbook. I should have been immune to the sinking feeling of futility by now, and yet I wasn't. I was half-sick thinking of Prodigals weeping for a man who had murdered their children and friends. Scott-Beck was on his way to being remembered as a hero to our kind.
I wondered what Harper thought of all this, then regretted it. I hadn't seen nor heard from Harper in nearly three weeks. He had gotten what he needed of me, though I doubted it had been to his satisfaction, and now he was gone. That was to be expected. I shook my head, disgusted with my own loneliness. I had never expected things to work out with Harper. There could be nothing between us once my job was done. That was simply the way the world was. Somehow, it still cut into me deeply.
The night outside was hot and thick with insects. My rooms seemed to resound with emptiness, despite the stacks of book and papers. They were only evidence of my solitude. In any case, I was out of ophorium and had been for a day. I had to go out sooner or later.
I trudged out and wandered the streets. The darkness hung around me, but it was not enough to allow me to forget myself. I wandered farther until I found a familiar staircase. I remembered the dog's head painted on the wall and descended down into the ale house. I knew I was hoping to see Harper there, but I didn't want to admit that, not even to myself.
When I didn't find him, I couldn't just turn around and leave. It would have brought my half-recognized motivation up into brazen acknowledgment. I bought a bottle of blue gin and sat down at one of the tables far in the back of the room. The gin tasted like paint thinner. I took a long drink straight from the bottle, just to catch myself up with the other men who swayed in their seats throughout the room.
Once the gin started to erode my senses, I began pouring my-self shots and tossing them back at a more refined rate. I remembered that my mother had drunk this way right after my father had been executed. At the time I hadn't understood it.
Now, I thought that she had been a fool to ever stop.
"Belimai?"
I was a third of the way through the bottle when I heard Harper's voice.
I turned too quickly and almost looked right past him.
He looked as tired as ever, but he wasn't wearing his uniform. Instead, he had on a collarless work shirt and dark gray pants. He looked thinner than I remembered, and more pale. The strangest thing about his appearance was that his hands were bare.
"I'd offer to buy you a drink, but you seem to be well ahead of me," Harper said when I just continued staring at his hands.
I drew back slightly and studied Harper without responding. I had no idea what he was doing dressed like this.
"Would you mind if I joined you?" he asked.
"You can do as you please," I said.
"Good enough." He took the chair across from me and poured himself a shot of my gin without asking.
"I didn't think you'd be up and about so soon," he said.
"Apparently I'm harder to kill than you'd think."
Harper frowned and took another shot of gin.
"I didn't think Scott-Beck would go after you." He rolled the empty shot glass between his fingers. "I'm sorry to have done that to you, Belimai."
"It was what you paid me for." I hated the way my skin pricked when he said my name in that quiet, rough tone. I hated the fact that just an offering of a few words could make me want to forgive him.
"So, how is Mr. Talbott taking all this?" I asked, just to get off the subject.
"He's pretty broken up."
"Did you tell him the truth?" I asked.
"It wasn't mine to tell," Harper said. "Do you know what I mean?"
"I think I do, yes." I poured myself a shot and filled Harper's glass also. "It was your stepfather's secret, then Joan's. It wasn't your right to tell it to anyone." I had felt the same way about Sariel. No matter how small of a secret I had been trusted with, I had not wanted to betray it.
But, of course, I had. Harper had not.
"So, where have you been these past few weeks?" I asked.
"In questioning." Harper shook his head. "My abbot wasn't terribly happy with my ignorance as to who shot Mr. Lewis Brown and Mr. Timothy Howard. Nor was he pleased with the fact that I didn't recall your name or description."
"They didn't put you under a prayer engine?"
"No," Harper said quickly. "God, no. If they had, I don't think I could have kept my mouth shut. It was bad enough standing around naked and answering questions for days on end."
"So, what did you
say?" I asked.
"I had a surprisingly poor memory of the entire matter." He smiled, but in a bitter way. "The abbot dropped the whole thing once I brought up Scott-Beck's access to Peter Roffcale while he was in custody." Harper took another shot of gin. "We finally reached the understanding that as long as I don't investigate Scott-Beck's life, the abbot won't pursue further questioning of his death."
"So, we all keep our secrets."
"For the time being." Harper ran his bare hand through his hair.
"Are these the clothes they gave you on your release?" I had thought they looked familiar.
"Indeed." Harper touched the front of his rough work shirt. "The very finest in custody-release apparel."
"So, you came straight to the bar?" I smirked.
"No." Harper glanced down as if he were slightly embarrassed. "I went to your apartments. But you weren't home, so I came here."
"Did you think I'd be here, or were you just hoping to drown your sorrow after missing me?"
"That's an interesting question," Harper responded, and then didn't answer it.
I smiled.
"So, why did you want to find me?" I asked.
Harper eyed the bottle of gin and my shot glass.
"I was thinking that I might want to get drunk with you again," he said at last.
There was a moment, as I thought briefly of all that Sariel and I had done to each other, when I could have said no, and that would have been the end of it. But I had grown tired of having only the darkness to keep me company through the night. The gin bottle was still half-full.
I filled Harper's glass and then my own.
BOOK TWO
Chapter One
Rain
The sky was black and pissing rain. On every street, gutters backed up and overflowed. Water gushed over the flagstone walkways and transformed the packed dirt roads into thick rivers of mud.
The gas streetlamp across from Harper spit as rainwater poured in through its cracked housing, flooding the flame. With a loud snap, the safety valve shut the gas line off. The lamp went dark, and the rain continued to pour into the dim, autumn twilight.
Harper hunched under the eaves of the Chapel carriage house. He and three other men had relinquished their seats indoors for a chance to smoke and to escape a cluster of loud schoolgirls who had taken shelter inside. Water soaked into Harper's left sock through a crack in the heel of his boot. The animal odor of wet wool emanated from his black Inquisition coat. Harper pulled his cap a little lower.
He didn't like waiting, particularly not for a carriage that he had no real desire to take. It wasn't pleasure so much as habit and obligation that drew him back to his family estate once every year. The Foster Estate was his only connection to his natural father. It should have meant something to him. Instead, he found himself searching for reasons not to go.
The decision to stay in the capital would have been easy if Belimai had asked him not to go, but he hadn't.
Harper took another drag of his cigarette. It was the last one he had on him. The rest were packed away in his luggage. He closed his eyes and savored the warm smoke.
Beside him, Acolyte Stewarts dragged at his own cigarette and attempted to draw Harper into a conversation. Stewarts smiled a little too hard every time Harper paid him much attention. It made Harper uncomfortable and added to his desire to abandon the carriage house. Stewarts was only a year or so from becoming quite handsome, and his worshipful exuberance could easily mislead a susceptible man. Harper had no desire to be that man.
"Our first day of vacation, and it's raining like the Great Flood. I'll have to spend the entire time trapped indoors with my wretched Aunt Lucy." Stewarts wiped hopelessly at the water cascading off the brim of his cap and down his nose.
Harper suspected that Stewarts was only moments from asking if he could accompany Harper to his estate house. Stewarts had been flirting with the subject for the last few days. Harper had avoided extending any invitation thus far, but Stewarts possessed a relentless optimism.
The soothing rhythm of falling rain filled the silence between them. Distantly, Harper heard something like the shriek of a bird. He caught it again, but Stewarts' voice broke into his concentration.
"Do you know what I think?" Stewarts asked, and then went on despite Harper's silence. "I think that it would be thrilling to get outside the capital for a vacation. Perhaps go hunting or riding with another fellow. You know, just men."
Harper took advantage of the strange noise to ignore Stewarts. He cocked his head slightly and concentrated on picking it out from the rain again. The violent spattering of rain against the stone walkways and brick houses made a sound like miles of sizzling bacon. Harper leaned out from the cover of the carriage house. He was sure he heard a distant voice calling.
"Abbot Greeley said that you have an estate house north of St. Bennet's Park. That must be nice." Stewarts waited for Harper's response. Then after a moment, he seemed to notice that Harper's attention lay elsewhere. Stewarts surveyed the dim street. The pouring rain covered the normal noises of the street with a fast, crackling patter. Then, suddenly, a high-pitched cry rose out from the noise of the storm.
"A girl probably fell in the mud," Stewarts decided.
"I'd better go see," Harper said.
He stepped out from the cover of the carriage house and started up the street.
"Captain!" Stewarts called after him. "Should I come with you?"
"No. Enjoy your vacation. If I miss the carriage, send my luggage ahead!" Harper shouted back.
He didn't look back to see Stewarts' expression of disappointment. Stewarts, the annoyance of the weather, and even Belimai's indifference to his departure no longer troubled Harper. He poured his concentration into finding the woman.
Mud and filthy water splashed up around his calves and sucked at his boots as he rushed through the open street and crossed to the cobblestone walkway. He only paused to listen, and then he raced on. He could hear the woman's voice clearly now.
"Please, someone help! He's going to kill her! God, please!" Her voice broke with a sob. A loud burst of thunder swallowed her further cries.
Harper sprinted after the sound of the woman's voice. He searched the lines of stately houses, iron-worked gates, and flowering hedges for any sight of her. The walkways were empty. Rain and darkness had driven most people indoors.
Harper noticed a motion, a dim white form almost buried in the mud of the street. She pulled herself up to her feet and stumbled forward.
"Please, help." Her voice broke in ragged exhaustion.
Harper reached her in a moment.
"Thank God," she moaned as she saw his Inquisitor's coat and emblems.
She staggered to him. For a moment, Harper simply supported her frail body. Her white serving dress sagged with rain and mud. The filthy hem of her petticoat tangled around her legs. Harper felt tremors of exhaustion shudder through her legs as she leaned against him.
"Are you all right?" Harper asked.
"It's Miss Leticia. You have to help her." The old woman collapsed against Harper. He lifted her easily and carried her to shelter. He lowered her to a decorative bench beneath an iron gateway. The surrounding boxwood hedge offered them a little cover from the rain.
"Please," she whispered to him, "help Miss Leticia."
"Where is she?" Harper knew better than to question the old woman further.
"The Rose House. 834." The old woman closed her eyes as tears began to flood down her creased cheeks. "He's going to kill her this time. I know he is."
"834. North or South Chapel?" Harper asked quickly.
"North," she whispered. "Please hurry."
"I will." Harper took off running. After two blocks, Chapel Street forked into north and south branches. Harper sprinted up the north branch. The houses grew steadily more opulent, and the gates more formidable. He ran another four blocks before reaching the addresses in the 800s.
Harper didn't know how long the old woman
had been staggering down the street calling for help. He silently prayed that it had been a matter of minutes rather than hours. Harper ran with all his strength, knowing that no matter how quickly he went, time was not on his side. Wounds were inflicted in moments; lives could be taken in a matter of seconds.
When Harper reached the elegant marble gate of 834, he expected that he might have to climb it. To his surprise, he found it unlocked. It seemed wrong that the gate should be left open, but he did not stop to think about it. He sprinted past the line of curling willows, took the stone stairs to the house two at a time, and at last stopped in front of the entry doors. Light radiated from the windows on the first floor, but only two windows on the second floor were illuminated. Harper slammed the polished brass knocker against the wood with a resounding blow.
A well-dressed servant opened the door immediately. He looked pale and deeply unhappy. He glanced at the silver Inquisition emblems on Harper's collar and quickly stepped aside to allow Harper in.
"Thank you for coming so quickly, Captain," he murmured.
"Should I take you up to Miss Let...to the body?" The man looked horrified at the words that had come out of his mouth.
"I can show myself up." Harper felt a change in himself the moment he knew the woman was dead. The pounding blood in his veins and his racing heart all suddenly went flat. The moment when he might have arrived in time to save the woman had passed. His passion and hope cut off like the gas in the safety valve of a streetlamp.
"Which room is she in?" Harper asked.
"I don't know. I haven't been up. They...She...I don't know, sir." The doorman flushed, clearly unsure of how to treat Harper, or how to even address the body upstairs. No rules of etiquette dictated polite behavior in the wake of a murder. The doorman foundered into a series of apologies. Harper was accustomed to such awkwardness and carried on.
"That's fine," Harper said. "I'll find it."
A staircase dominated the entryway. It rose in a majestic curve of marble and highly polished brass. Harper strode up the steps. He was used to having full run of other people's homes during the first paralyzed hours after a crime. He took in the house as he went up. The floor was laid out in a checkerboard of white and rose marble. Light gleamed from crystal chandeliers and glinted across the gilded scrolls that decorated the wallpaper.
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