by Rose Lerner
She made no measured decision. Held no expectation. Considered no choices. Eyes closed, she gave herself up to whatever he would do.
His tongue entered her. He sucked the bright heat there. She was a hot coal glowing and glowing and then she burst into flame.
She gasped. Gasped and groaned. Sobbed out. With the secret and intimate flesh of her drawn gently apart and his tongue within her, the world ended in a long moment of cataclysm and pleasure.
She didn't want it to end. The touch within her stilled. Even then, pangs of sensation struck and struck again and each time she strangled out another sob.
Her cries became low moans. Gideon was beside her again. He held her close. His breath in her ear pumped thick and fast.
She felt quick movements as he unbuttoned his fall. He’d found some cloth. A handkerchief? He wrapped it around his cock and held himself and drove like a piston against her thigh. Five, six times. Then he thrust once more and he collapsed against her and she held him tight to her.
They stood panting, leaning against the counter, keeping one another upright, their cheeks side by side together and her hair loose over both of them.
Chapter 17
* * *
Aimée brushed tendrils of hair back from her face, feeling as if anyone who glanced at her would know what she’d been up to a short time before and how much she’d enjoyed it.
Gideon looked… relaxed. Happy. Pleased with himself. She felt that way herself. She didn't know how to tell him. She couldn’t even thank him. There were so many things she could not say because this was the most fleeting of relationships. One does not discuss one’s deepest feelings with a man who will sail away on the next tide to trade in Egypt or Persia.
So she was prosaic. “Even if I did bring you to Lazarus, face to face, what would you do with that? What would it accomplish?”
“Let’s try it and find out.” Gideon edged the shop’s door open a crack and looked out before he pushed through into the street. She had the feeling it was habit, this being careful what was on the other side of doors. The street was quiet.
Gideon stepped outside into the sun. “Your young killer is waiting for you.”
Hawker had joined two boys roughly his size. From their clothing they were shop boys lured from their legitimate errands to a game of cards. If those were Hawker’s cards, they were losing all the money they had on them. Hawker didn't know unmarked cards existed.
Boys that size could squat on the pavement playing cards for hours on end. Nobody would think much of it. Hawker blended invisibly into the city.
Gideon turned to offer a hand down the two steps of Plumley’s. “I have a conversation to finish with Lazarus. I have no intention of attacking with my bare fists. I’m not—”
A pistol shot exploded. She dropped flat. Another shot cracked before she hit the stones. That one was close. Beyond close. It was right here.
She looked up to see Gideon stuff a small gun into the outer pocket of his greatcoat.
Someone ran in the street, dodging between a horse and cart. Hawker. Everyone else had stopped to stare around. About thirty feet away a woman began screaming in a high-pitched voice.
Gideon was gone, running toward the corner.
She wasn’t hurt. Someone was. She pushed herself up and saw. Two long figures, men, lay sprawled on the ground. Blood, unmistakable in its violent red, spread in a pool around them. They weren’t moving.
She did not run toward a fight. Toward murder. There was too much chance of becoming the next victim. Wise men and women backed away from bloodshed.
By the time she got there, Gideon and Hawker were flopping dead men face up.
Sticks was on the left, bleeding. Fourteen. He was only fourteen. He still had a few breaths in him, but he wasn’t going to recover from the hole in his chest. Nothing to do but keep him company for a minute or two. She knelt beside him and took his hand.
“He shot at me.” Hawker sounded bewildered. “Walked around the corner, took a pistol out, and shot. Why?”
“Did he hit somebody else?” she asked. The boys Hawker had been cheating at cards were standing there with their mouths open.
“Chipped a piece out of the wall. Then Gideon pulled out a gun and killed him.” Hawker’s eyes went empty as he looked at the death wound of his friend. “Oh, Sticks. Why? Why’d you do it?”
She said to Gideon, “The other one’s Booth. Bent Thomas’s man.”
“This finishes Bent Thomas.” Hawker leaned over Booth. “My knife’s in this one. Look the other way, Aimée.”
“You don’t need to—” she began. Gideon blocked her view while Hawker pulled the knife out of Booth’s throat so she didn't see it. She heard the sound though.
A pistol had fallen to the ground beside Sticks. Hawker’s boot brushed the barrel.
“He never was much of a shot.” Hawker, who was never awkward, was awkward getting his arms out of his overcoat and pulling it off. He took out knives and slipped them into his jacket. “He used to say he wanted my job. Wanted to be Hand, but Lazarus chose me. I guess that’s what Bent Thomas offered him.”
She was holding a dead man’s hand now. She let it go and stood up.
“Two of the Brotherhood, trying to kill me,” Hawker said. “This stinks.”
“Not just you. They’ll be after some others.” She put fingers in the sides of her mouth and gave an earsplitting whistle. She pulled the sound up and down so that it talked. Street rats would be nearby if Hawker was watching Gideon, to help in following, to practice their trade and learn from a master. The whistle would bring them.
They’d been waiting just out of sight, four of them. She said, “Goodman, the Bishop, Benedict Miles, Thin Mary. Where are they right now?”
“Goodman’s at the ken, sleeping off the drink,” Polly said. “The Bishop’s with his woman.”
“The others?”
In a brief conclave they agreed Benedict Miles was probably strolling along Jermyn Street, shopping, which was to say stealing from shops. None of them had any idea where Thin Mary might be.
A coach that had been standing down the street rolled forward and stopped. Gideon took her arm, hard. “Somebody’s killing Lazarus’s supporters. Will they come after you?”
“Not me. Nobody wants to hurt me. They were after Hawker.”
Gideon jerked the door of the coach open. A slim, dark-haired, dark-skinned man sat inside with a pair of guns crossed on his knees. It was Gideon’s friend from the East. He said, “Inside,” and Gideon lifted her to the seat and climbed in after her and pounded on the roof of the carriage.
They lurched forward.
On the street outside, Hawker laid his overcoat across Sticks’s face. He stayed one instant, looking down. Then he ran. He grabbed the swinging door as the carriage passed, hauled himself in, and fell into the seat.
Gideon pulled the door closed. “Bent Thomas is evening the odds before he attacks Lazarus.”
“Or he’s killed Lazarus and he’s wiping out old enemies,” she said. “He’s an evil man, Bent Thomas.” She swallowed. “The boy, Sticks, was fourteen.”
She became aware of the tears on her cheeks when Gideon wiped them away. He put his arms around her and she cried quietly against his chest while the carriage raced through the streets, taking corners fast, skidding precariously.
Hawker stared straight ahead, cold and deadly. Distant as stars in winter.
Chapter 18
* * *
The guards at the front door had been talking about dog fighting, not bloody disaster tearing through the Brotherhood, so she knew challenge hadn’t been issued.
She walked in to find Lazarus playing cards with the Bishop. Both men snapped their attention to Hawker and looked him over, head to foot. It would be no news, then, that Bent Thomas had sent murderers out. They knew.
When she was close enough she said, “I’m glad to see you in one piece, Bishop.”
“A near thing, my dear.” He played a card
. “Mr. Avery attempted to kill me. He is dead. Abiit nemine salutato. He bid no one farewell.”
She said, “Booth and Sticks showed up. They’re both dead.”
Lazarus glanced past her to Hawker, who’d stopped on the threshold. “Did Hawker kill Sticks?”
“Gideon did it.”
“I must remember to thank him.” Lazarus looked down at his cards, chose one, and laid it on the table. “Who else do we need to warn? Tom Goodman is drunk upstairs. Benedict’s in the parlor, taking his gun apart. They won’t find Thin Mary. That’s the main ones.”
“We may have been lucky,” she said.
On the other side of the room, Bent Thomas sat among his cronies, looking sly and clever as ever, pleased with himself, utterly confident. But there were holes in his assembly of supporters and some of the men looked uneasy.
Gideon had come up behind her and put a hand on her shoulder in a friendly fashion. Or not merely friendly. That simply, he claimed her in front of Lazarus and everybody in the padding ken who had eyes to see.
He did it deliberately, she thought. It was a small shield he offered in the face of disaster to come. Rumors about Captain Gideon Gage had run round and round. In any fighting, the minor thieves and bully boys would think twice about hurting a woman under that protection.
Lazarus glanced at her. “If I’m challenged, you get over there, behind that.” He pointed to the old, dark-wood sideboard. “Curl up in a ball and tuck your head in. Leave everybody else to get out as best they can.”
“Roll up in a corner and hide.” Gideon snarled at Lazarus. “That’s the best you can come up with?”
“Nobody wants to hurt her. Nobody. That’s just in case somebody gets excited and forgets she’s valuable. We don’t do this every week.”
“If that man is the problem“—Gideon narrowed his eyes on Bent Thomas—“I can walk over and solve it.”
“Not here. It doesn’t work that way,” Lazarus said drily.
“And he’s mine.” Hawker had come up behind them, walking with the deliberate steps of an executioner coming to the block.
“It doesn’t work like that either, Hawk.” More dry words from Lazarus.
“I’m a full member of the Brotherhood. I’ve made my kill. I have the right of challenge.”
“You can’t challenge Bent Thomas,” Lazarus said. “I wouldn’t want to fight him even if I didn't have a hole in my side.”
“It’s my right.”
“Be quiet. Let me think.” Then Lazarus said, “You have a plan, Hawk?”
“Yes.”
“You’re likely to get killed doing this. Bent Thomas isn’t going to fight you with knives.”
“I’m counting on it,” Hawker said.
She felt Gideon behind her, just touching her, his body warm. His strength implacable.
Lazarus said, “We will proceed. Bishop, that corner table, behind Bent Thomas’s cronies. Gideon, Aimée, I ask that you join me in watching the spectators. If anyone draws a gun or lifts a knife, kill them. No one interferes with this fight. You agree?”
Gideon was solid as stone behind her. He nodded once, abruptly. “You’re going to let this happen? Hawker’s a boy. You expect him to go up against that slab of meat over there?”
“I not only expect him to fight. I expect him to win. Hawker—”
Hawker didn't turn his eyes from Bent Thomas. “Sir.”
“I’m sorry about Sticks. Sorry he was corrupted before he died. Whatever happens I will escort Bent Thomas out of the world for that.”
Hawker smiled. He looked like a rather beautiful dark angel. One carved on a tombstone. “Thank you, sir.”
“Go, then.”
Hawker, unhurried, went to challenge Bent Thomas.
Chapter 19
* * *
If there’d been a line of trumpets and drums marching behind him, Hawker couldn’t have caught the interest of the Brotherhood more thoroughly than he did with his soft-footed approach.
Everyone stopped talking. In the absolute silence she could hear, “I challenge you,” from Hawker. A pause. Then Hawker went on, “for conspiring the death of John Stickley. For being a coward. For being a lying, slime-covered pustule. And for annoying the hell out of me.”
She didn't see Hawker’s hand move, but a knife twanged in the wood of the table, stabbed down in front of Bent Thomas. The Brotherhood had customs.
Nervous laughter broke out around the room. Some people slipped out to call their friends in.
“I accept.” Bent Thomas stood. He was a head and a half taller than Hawker and twice as wide.
She was so afraid it was difficult to breathe. So chilled in her belly she wanted to wrap herself into a ball of pain and sickness. Bent Thomas was not merely stupid muscle. He was a skilled fighter. A dirty, perverse, evil fighter.
He strode toward Lazarus, already triumphant, already imagining his victory. Men and women backed out of his path. Hawker, trailing quietly in his wake, sober and contained, was wholly overshadowed.
“I didn't think you were coward enough to send a boy to die in your place.” Bent Thomas stood before Lazarus, his legs astride, grinning and contemptuous. She had an excellent view of that smug expression. Lazarus had signaled her to stay in place.
The rustle of whispers rose around the room. Men began placing bets.
“I’ll dispose of him quickly.” Bent Thomas laughed. “There’s always another boy, isn’t there? How shall I kill this one?”
“It’s your choice of weapons. Pistols at twenty paces?” Lazarus was placid as if they discussed the value of garnet earrings or what public house served the best ale. “But you might die that way. Men have. Knives?”
“He’s good with knives. We wrestle. I’ll wring his skinny neck.” He shouted it out at the crowd. “Put your bets on how long he lasts.”
“Is this a free brawl or are there rules?” Lazarus sounded mildly curious. “All weapons allowed? Chairs? Crowbars? Feather pillows?”
“Any weapon except knives.”
Lazarus said, “When and where?”
“Here. In this room. Now.”
The words were barely out of his mouth before men started shoving benches, tables, and chairs out of the way. The old woman who worked in the kitchen grabbed up the cut-glass decanter and glasses from the sideboard and fled with them. The stolen goods on the long table were moved to safety. Even Lazarus’s great chair by the hearth was pushed back against the wall.
Hawker stood before her, busy and sober-eyed. He took off his jacket and laid it across her hands. It was heavy and got heavier as he slipped more sharp weapons off and tossed them there.
She wanted him to laugh. He’d never headed out to do something dangerous when he wasn’t laughing.
Hawker’s waistcoat joined the pile. He pulled his shirt over his head and stood pale and skinny and half naked. She’d never seen him look younger.
Except for his eyes. They were a thousand years old.
Bent Thomas circled them, sneering. “Is this a skinned rabbit I see before me? Shall I cook you for dinner?”
Laughter leaped from Bent Thomas’s friends. It didn't spread. Bent Thomas was feared, but Hawker was well liked. The disparity in strength and size was too obvious. Nobody but some of Thomas’s friends found the likely outcome of this fight amusing.
Thomas said, “You don’t need to be naked for me to break your neck.”
Hawker backed away a dozen feet and stood, hands at his sides. Without a knife Hawker’s hands looked very empty. He waited.
“Hell. Have it your way.” Bent Thomas grinned and stripped off his own jacket and waistcoat and threw them on the floor. He strolled over to stand opposite Hawker. “Let’s get this over with.”
Lazarus came to the space between them stiffly, as if unwilling. Nobody would find that odd.
Fighting would start soon. She dropped Hawker’s clothes in Lazarus’s chair. Gideon had picked a good spot for them where they’d have a view of all the
spectators. They’d see any hand that drew a pistol.
Gideon said, “I’ll watch right. You take left. Selim—see him over there?—he’ll keep an eye on the people behind us.”
In her pocket, under her skirt, she put her finger on the trigger of her gun. She couldn’t save Hawker. Couldn’t stop this fight. She could only assure that nobody in the crowd would shoot him, or Lazarus, or anyone else.
Lazarus raised his voice and his right hand. “By the rules of our ancient and honorable order, Hawker has challenged Bent Thomas Crowley in the matter of the death of John Stickley of our Brotherhood. Any weapon is legal except knives. The fight is to the death. Do we agree?”
The room roared.
“So be it.” Lazarus chopped his hand down and stepped out of the way.
And it began. Was this even a fight? She watched the Brotherhood, not Hawker and Bent Thomas, but outraged yells echoed against the ceiling. “Fight him!” “Coward!” “What is this?” From the corner of her eye she saw Hawker running, rolling on the floor, dodging, circling the marble pillars of the ballroom, grabbing a small chair and tossing it. Anything but falling into the groping hands of Bent Thomas.
Back and forth across the room. Bent Thomas, massive and muscular, couldn’t catch up. Couldn’t grab Hawker. Almost, he did, but his hands slipped off bare skin. He roared. Shouted obscenities. Every man and every woman in the room did the same, cheering and howling and dodging out of the way of Hawker’s mad scramble.
But this, all this, everything Hawker did, only delayed the inevitable. Slowly Bent Thomas forced Hawker back and back. Back to the carpet, blood-red against the floor. Back, though Hawker tried to dodge, against the hearth and the leaping hungry fire. Back, away from that fire before Hawker could grab a handful of burning coals to fling. Back to the wall at the edge of the marble mantelpiece.
Hawker’s arms flung outward, upward, hitting the mantel, wheeling madly. In some desperate grab at Bent Thomas? In surrender?
