Warren swore under his breath and clicked off the lamp as he kicked out from under the blankets, snatching his robe from the back of the door and hurrying out of the room. They knew better than to bring someone on a night that Ben was home. He opened the hidden door to the cellar and rushed down the stairs, where he found the twins standing over a limp, hooded body.
“What is this?” he hissed. “Ben is right upstairs; what are you thinking?”
“Got into a bit of a row,” Owen said, scratching idly at his stubbled cheek. “This bird ‘ere got it in ‘er head we owed ‘er money for summat or other. Never seen ‘er before tonight. Followed us down the Heolstran road she did, blabberin’ on about this an’ that. Seemed like she would’ve followed us right on home, so we made it an easier trip on ‘er.” He shrugged. “Know it’s off-schedule, but we thought you might like ‘er.” Owen smiled at the blank look Warren gave him. “We can make sure the constable doesn’t stumble ‘is way down here.”
“You’re both fired,” Warren said with a small laugh, putting a hand to his forehead as he looked down at the figure on the floor. “I’m getting rid of your troubles for you now? Did you really not know her?”
“Hard to tell,” Simon said simply. “Shall we remove her?”
Warren paused. He had promised Lady Caldwell her automaton within the week, and Cam had finished the dainty machinery that very afternoon. She’d be delighted. “No,” he said finally. “I’ll take her.”
Simon gave him a small nod, and the twins made their way upstairs, the secret door sliding into place behind them.
Nothing was prepared, so Warren gathered his materials. He lit the candles and the incense, and he got on his hands and knees on the floor to carefully draw the same circle he had now drawn more times than he could remember. When he finished, he stood and dusted his hands of chalk as he turned to face the unconscious woman. He could see a bit of her black hair peeking from under the rough canvas hood as she lay still on his floor, dropped in an uncomfortable-looking position with her ragged dress slipping off of one shoulder.
He took the knife from its place on the worktable beside the empty husk, and he moved to stand beside her, reaching down to drag her closer to the circle by her arm. He paused as he felt a bit more resistance than he was accustomed to. He thought he heard her take a gasping breath. He pulled her to her knees, and she stayed. He could feel the gooseflesh of her arm under his palm, and he jerked his hand away as a soft sob sounded from underneath the hood.
“Please,” a soft voice whispered, choked by tears.
Warren hesitated. They had always been unconscious before, at least since Mrs. Burnham and the old man. He had taken too long drawing the circle.
“Please let me go,” the voice came again. “Whatever you want, you can have it,” she whimpered, her fingernails scraping lightly on the stone floor.
Warren didn’t answer. He never expected one of them to be awake. After a moment of tense silence, the woman’s hands slowly lifted from the floor, her fingers trembling as she reached up to the hood on her head.
“Are you still there?” she whispered, but Warren felt frozen to the spot, a cold pit in his stomach. As the woman’s hood slipped free, she gasped to see him standing beside her, dropping the hood onto the chalk of the circle. She was young—couldn’t have been more than twenty—and pretty, with pale skin and a light dusting of freckles on her nose and chest. She stared up at Warren with wide green eyes, her chin trembling as tears streamed down her face.
“Please, sir,” she said, “I don’t mean anyone no ‘arm.”
Warren almost called for the Travers, almost asked for Simon to knock her out again so that he might do his part in peace. He couldn’t do it with her staring him in the face. If nothing else, he risked her screaming and waking up Ben if he laid a hand on her.
“Please,” she said one last time, and Warren furrowed his brow at her, feeling a quiet cold calming his heart. She would wake up Ben. If he let her go, she would tell the police where she’d been. She could identify him and the Travers as well.
“No,” he said softly, and he reached out quickly to clasp his hand over her mouth, muffling her terrified cry. She struggled against him, and he almost lost his grip on her. She fought and scratched at his arms, but he held fast, pushing her down over the circle and spilling the blood from her throat in one smooth motion. He braced himself against the shockwave and turned his head away from the light, briefly lifting his arm to shield his eyes. When he opened them, he saw the Travers standing across the cellar, and he glanced down at the girl’s withered body and dropped his knife to the floor as the golem began to stir behind him.
“Heard a yell,” Owen said, “but I guess you had a handle on it eh?”
“Assign that golem a number,” Warren said with an empty coldness as he looked at Simon. The thought that they had seen him perform the ritual barely crossed his mind. If he trusted them to bring him the bodies in the first place, he could trust Simon with the practical knowledge. “And get rid of the body.”
Warren brushed by them and up the stairs, slipping by Ben’s sleeping form to wash his hands and face and pausing when he found a spot of blood on his robe. He shrugged it off and peeked in on Ben, who still slumbered soundly, and he stuffed the stained robe all the way to the back of the armoire. He carefully climbed back into the bed, and Ben only mumbled and curled up tightly around him.
Chapter Twenty
Over the next few days, Ben did his fair share of sulking around the house, and Warren watched him with concern. He knew he had pushed it with the blood magic as far as Ben’s approval was concerned, and the matter certainly hadn’t improved his opinion of the Travers. He’d heard Ben call Simon a name when he thought no one was listening—maleficum. A deprecatory name for a man who did blood magic. No doubt Ben had his suspicions as to where Warren had picked up the trick that had left Callaway in a near coma.
Ben was handling all of the change rather well, actually, Warren thought—moving into a new house, his lover associating with known criminals as well as becoming engaged. He supposed he couldn’t blame him for a bit of sulking. While Warren had been reaping the benefits of high society living, the only real change in Ben’s life had been his address. Even then, he still had to maintain his flat for secrecy’s sake. Warren had been neglecting him.
He pondered what he could do that Ben would approve of—a simple gift wouldn’t do. Ben wasn’t a very material person. He might refuse any gift he gave in any case. Ben was terrible at receiving gifts, even on his birthday—he once flat out demanded that Warren return a pocket watch meant for him, simply because he had seen it in a shop and knew the price. Warren could have bought him a thousand of those tin pocket watches now and barely noticed, but at the time, seven and six had been simply too much money to spend.
It needed to be something more substantial—something that would truly make him happy and make him forget the unpleasantness of the wedding.
Warren knocked on the door to the Travers’ room one afternoon while Ben was out, and he took a seat at the small desk in the corner when they received him. Owen lounged on his bed on his stomach, apparently sleeping off the previous night’s outing, and Simon sat with his back to the wall with a glass of water on one knee.
“Bad evening, gentlemen?” Warren chuckled. “Or a good one?”
“Never one without the other,” Simon mumbled into his glass while Owen let out a muffled grunt. “What can I do for you, Hayward?”
“I need to remove someone from the equation.”
“So do it,” Simon said. “You did fine with Callaway.”
“No. Not with magic; Ben can’t know that I’m responsible. He’d suspect me immediately if he thought there was blood magic involved.”
“Who is this person?”
“Well, I’m hoping that you’ll tell me, actually,” Warren said. “How well do you know the police station?” Simon snorted, and Warren held up a hand. “I mean do you know who Ben
works with? I’ve heard him mention Mulryan, and another...I think Bailey?”
“I ‘ate that bastard,” Owen mumbled through his pillow.
“We’re familiar with them,” Simon added.
“What about his superiors? Are there more witches?”
The Irishman paused. “The Sergeant isn’t—but he knows. I can’t think of his name. But the Detective Inspector, Abbott, he’s a witch for sure. He only comes out when there’s real trouble on the road. We’ve run into him a handful of times, and the men on the road always give him a wide berth.”
“A danger to the workin’ man,” Owen piped up as he settled deeper into the blankets.
Warren paused, lightly drumming his fingertips on his chin. “Do you think you could get to him?” he asked after a moment.
“Get to him?” Simon asked with a raised eyebrow, and Owen twisted and sat up to join in the stare.
“Do you think you could cause him to have an accident?”
Owen laughed. “What, the Detective Inspector? I’d like to give ‘im an accident all right.”
“With Abbott gone, there would be a vacancy for a witch to fill,” Simon murmured. “You’re hoping that the constable will be promoted.”
“Do you think that’s likely?”
The twins exchanged a brief glance, and Owen shrugged. “T’would probably be him, eh? Bailey’s too young, and some days I’m surprised Mulryan’s got ‘is boots on the right feet. Your constable’s the only one with any sense, pains me to say.”
“You’re asking us to kill the Detective Inspector that oversees the Heolstran road, Hayward,” Simon pointed out, and Warren shook his head.
“I don’t want you to kill him. Don’t do anything that’s going to draw too much attention. I just need him to retire. Without magic.”
“Tricky,” Owen mumbled, scratching at his stubbled chin. “Would mean the constable wouldn’t be out beatin’ the street, wouldn’t it? Better for us.”
“I’ll pay you a bonus, of course. Can you do it?”
The brothers seemed to consider together without the need for words, and then Simon shrugged. “We’ll find out, won’t we?”
“I suppose I can’t ask for more than that. If you can’t do it without it coming back to us, don’t do it at all.” Warren stood and left them to their recovery, making his way down to the workshop to oversee Cam’s construction of the newest golems.
Ben came to the house all in a flurry only three days later, laughing and catching Warren in a deep kiss as soon as he reached him. “You won’t believe it, love.”
“What won’t I believe?” Warren asked with a smile once Ben actually released him.
“Inspector Abbott,” he began, and then he cleared his throat and put on an appropriately somber face. “Inspector Abbot had to step down from his post.”
“Why would he do that?”
“It only happened last night. Apparently ‘e stepped out into the street after a late supper and got run over by an autocar. He’s fine, he’s fine,” Ben said quickly in response to Warren’s look of concern. “Well—not too fine, since he ‘ad to step down on account of ‘is legs not workin’ anymore. But ‘e’s alive, is what I mean. The Captain said ‘e expects ‘im to come out the other side all right. But we can’t not ‘ave an Inspector, can we?” Ben was practically bursting at the seams to tell his news—Warren hadn’t seen a smile like that in his lover’s face in some time.
“No, I suppose not,” Warren said with mock ignorance. “What will they do about it, then?”
“Well—” Ben paused for dramatic effect and then cleared his throat and put his shoulders back as he stood up straighter. “There’s a new Detective Inspector in charge the the Heolstran road.”
“You?” Ben nodded, and Warren smiled and leaned up to kiss him again. “That’s wonderful.”
“Oh, Farnham was furious,” Ben laughed, pacing the room with restless excitement. “He’s the Sergeant, you know. By rights it should have been ‘im. But ‘e’s no witch, and the Captain told me in private that ‘e didn’t want someone in charge who didn’t know anythin’ about magic. So it’s me.”
“Does this mean you don’t have to wear your uniform anymore?”
Ben paused. “I suppose it does. Hell, what am I goin’ to wear? I ‘aven’t got anythin’ other than me uniform what doesn’t ‘ave ‘oles in it.”
“You don’t have to worry about that. Come along. We’ll get you sorted.” Warren tugged him down for one last kiss and then led him to the front door, calling for Cam on his way. The golem drove them to the tailor Warren knew on Savile Row, Ben complaining the entire ride about not spending any money on him.
“You need clothes, Ben,” Warren sighed. “Don’t think of it as a gift. Think of it as a household expense. Everything that I have is yours, you know that.”
Ben turned to face Warren on the carriage seat, reaching up to run his fingers tenderly through his lover’s copper hair. “Maybe now I can keep up with you,” he murmured, and he leaned in to kiss him behind the safety of the darkly tinted windows. “Despite everything, you’ve really made a name for yourself. You’ve worked ‘ard, and I can’t say that I’ve agreed with all of your decisions, but you’ve accomplished so much.” He leaned his forehead against Warren’s with a small smile, the other man’s hand curling around his wrist affectionately. “I try not to be grateful for unfortunate things happening to other people, but Sir Ed endin’ up the way ‘e did was probably the best thing that could’ve ‘appened to you.”
“Second best,” Warren admitted, knowing that the syrupy affection would make the constable—the inspector—smile.
“I didn’t want to get left be’ind. But look at me,” Ben said, releasing Warren with a chuckle, “almost respectable.”
“Almost.” Warren smiled at him as the autocar rocked to a stop.
The tailor almost turned up his nose when he saw Ben’s scuffed and worn prosthetic arm, but he spotted Warren’s warning glare first and went about his conciliatory business. Warren waited patiently while the tailor made his recommendations, first taking Ben’s measurements and marking various templates with chalk, then dressing him in one of the ready suits available. Ben insisted that his new wardrobe not be especially grand—he said it wouldn’t do for his subordinates or his charges to see him in expensive finery. They wouldn’t take him seriously, he said.
The tailor dressed him in dark tones—browns, greys, blues—with simply-cut waistcoats and jackets without tails. He made orders for more suits and told Warren they could be picked up in a few weeks, but Ben left the tailor’s shop in slim, dark brown trousers and a hunter green waistcoat. The overcoat he chose had a tall collar and was long enough to brush the backs of his calves. Warren supposed he could get used to Ben not wearing the uniform if this is what he was going to dress like instead. His brass right hand showing out from underneath the sleeve of his dark jacket seemed more mysterious and distinctive than just dingy and scraped.
“A picture of professionalism and intimidation,” Warren complimented him as they left, and Ben even seemed to enjoy his new attire, though he tugged self-consciously on his waistcoat on his way back to the autocar. Warren managed to wait until Cam had shut the carriage door behind them before telling Ben how much he looked forward to undressing him, which earned him a soft smile and a long kiss.
“I’ll ‘ave to find someone to take my place, of course,” Ben pondered out loud. “‘Ave to try to find out if there’s anyone else with any magic in ‘em what could ‘andle the Heolstran road.”
“I thought there were very few witches who were police?”
“As far as I know,” Ben shrugged. “But who knows if some of the younger ones are just keepin’ it secret? We found Bailey a few months ago completely by accident.”
“Perhaps you need to do a bit of recruiting.”
Ben chuckled. “You lookin’ to change careers, love?
“No thank you. I can think of much better ways to spend my time
than walking up and down the Heolstran road all day and night. Does this mean you’ll be at home more?”
Ben hesitated. “I’m not interested in desk work, but I suppose I’ll ‘ave to do more of that, won’t I?”
“It’s safer,” Warren reminded him. “I won’t worry about whether it’s your blood or someone else’s I’m cleaning out of your joints.”
Ben flexed the fingers of his prosthetic hand with a soft whirring of gears. There had been too many nights when he had shown up at Sir Bennett’s back gate with a bloody lip, a charred shirt, and a gummed-up arm. Chasing someone down on the Heolstran road was often more complicated than simply catching someone in the side of the head with a billy club. He had his electroshock device, but it wasn’t much use against men who could make lightning in their own hands. Warren had sat up with him on numerous occasions, shut in his tiny servant’s quarters, attempting to clean the blood and dirt out of Ben’s machinery in the dim lamplight. He had nearly lost his mind after the accident. Ben watched him now, calmly riding along in his autocar that cost hundreds of pounds, and he almost wondered where the timid boy had gone.
Ben had been asked to investigate a disturbance on the West End almost three years ago, back when his arm was made of flesh instead of brass. The neighborhood was well out of his usual patrol, but apparently the Captain knew the owner of the house to be a witch, so sent someone who could reasonably deal with whatever the problem turned out to be.
The old woman next door had called the police after hearing a loud bang from the adjacent house—likely nothing of consequence in the home of a witch, but she doubtless would have continued to call until she saw an officer investigate. Ben knocked on the door and found himself face to face with Warren Hayward for the first time. He was barely twenty-one, and Ben himself only twenty-six. Warren had a bit of chalk dust on his shirt and a smear of soot on his face, and he had answered the knock timidly, peeking around the door with a servant’s smile.
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