A Soul's Worth

by T. S. Barnett

  Warren smiled faintly. “I agree. Thank you, Elizabeth.” He tilted his head at the Travers as they arrived in the parlor, and he whistled to Cam on their way out the front door.

  Dusk was only just beginning to fall over London as the three men rode toward the river.

  “I ‘ear that right, boss?” Owen asked. “You givin’ up the family business?”

  “Yes,” Warren said quietly. “I’ll still keep you boys on if you like. I’m sure I’ll have business in the city occasionally, and apparently Elizabeth would miss you.”

  “She would,” Owen agreed solemnly. “So where are we visitin’ now?”

  “The Llewan,” Warren said. “I owe them a favor, apparently, and I should tell them not to expect many more gifts from us.”

  “Why now?” Simon asked, and Warren let out a short sigh.

  “Because Ben asked. Because it’s what I should have done a long while ago. You were right about the blood magic, Simon. My father was right. I won’t lose Ben because of it.”

  The Irishman seemed to accept that answer, and they rode in silence until they reached the now too-familiar warehouse. Warren opened the door for them, and Simon lit the way through the dark tunnels to the wide entry of the den.

  The blackness of the lair soaked up the light from Simon’s flame, giving only the barest hint of what lay inside. Warren waited at the arch with folded arms for the elder to appear, slinking and shuffling his way out of the crawling darkness until his wrinkled face was illuminated.

  “You’ve returned to us in person, Hayward,” he rasped with a slow chortle. “To what do we owe the pleasure? Come to learn a few more tricks?”

  “This is the end,” Warren said simply. “There will be two or three others, and then no more. I’ve come to tell you that I’ll do your favor for you now or not at all. I’m leaving London.”

  The old man scowled at him, and he straightened up his hunched back as well as he could to look Warren in the face. “The end,” he muttered, squinting as he looked into Warren’s eyes. “No. Not yet.”

  Warren lifted an eyebrow at the man as he scuttled away. “Not yet? I’m telling you to collect your debt or forego it; there is no negotiation here.”

  “We choose when to collect,” the old man spit, “and you are not yet ready.” A hissing whisper sounded from the darkness, and the elder turned his head to listen. “We do not leave the city,” he added after a moment. “Perhaps some is better than none at all.” He whispered and mumbled, seeming to converse with the very dark itself, and then he turned to Warren with a conciliatory grin. “We accept, Hayward,” he murmured, and he offered his hand to the younger man.

  Warren didn’t move, keeping his arms safely crossed in front of him. “You think to get a grip on my pulse, cur? Tell me the price of the gifts I have given you.”

  The elder hissed at him with angry droplets of spittle spilling out over his chin, yellow teeth clenched and bared in a snarl. “We did not train up a witch to see him walk away,” he growled, and both twins moved closer to Warren as the darkness shifted ominously in front of them.

  The blackness of the den seemed to move en masse, and Warren caught a glimpse of sickly pale limbs coming toward them when Simon pushed him aside, flames pouring from his mouth in a long breath and spilling like liquid over the floor between them and the Llewan. The sound the creatures made was hideous; they shrieked and cried while they attempted to escape the flames burning their ragged cloaks. A few managed to get by, and Warren could hear Owen’s sound of disgust as he was forced to grab one of the sickly men around the neck to keep him from reaching his employer.

  The elder had his eyes on Warren, who scowled behind his guards. The old man reached out his hand and beckoned Warren closer, forcing him to take a step forward. “You made an oath, Hayward,” he rasped in almost singsong teasing. “You are bound to submit.”

  “Submit?” Warren answered through gritted teeth, fighting the pull the elder had on his blood. He could feel it, drawing him forward by his very veins. He ground his heels into the stone floor and snapped, “Brec,” teetering forward as though his strings had been cut. The look of panic on the elder’s face made him pause, but he could feel fury in his chest—the first thing he’d felt with any depth in a long while. He hadn’t done all of this just so that some flea-ridden creature in a sewer could tell him to submit.

  The flask in his jacket pocket felt heavy. He had made a promise to Ben—but it wouldn’t be the first promise he had broken. He took the flask and uncapped the lid, spilling only a drop of precious blood down his chin as he emptied the container and dropped it to the dusty ground.

  “Come here,” he snarled, and he reached out a hand toward the elder, tugging him closer without touching him. The old man’s feet dragged on the stone floor, scraping and scuffing as he attempted to pull out of the invisible grip. When he drew near enough, Warren reached out and snatched up his wrist, feeling the blood pump through the Llewan’s veins with a rhythm that was like a sweet song to him. The old man went limp in his grip, and Warren could feel the pale flesh heating quickly under his hand.

  “You thought me a meal, did you?” he whispered softly. “Teach me your ways, let me grow strong, and then devour me like all the rest?” Warren leaned down close to the old man’s blotchy, twitching face, and he said in a low voice, “You miscalculated.”

  Warren took hold of the man’s throat and pulled until the wrinkled skin broke, spilling blood over his hand in burning rivers. The smell of it almost made him lose his senses, but it wasn’t until he lifted his bloody fingertips to his lips that his world went dim. Ahead of him, the Travers were building a small pile of burned or beaten bodies, but the sound of the brawl was muffled to him. Everything seemed darker and yet more clear, even the blackness of the inner den. The blood had never been like this before.

  He let the old man’s body drop to the floor and crouched over him without thinking, letting the blood pour into his cupped hands and tasting it greedily. It ran hot over his tongue and pulsed through him like electricity. The elder weakly clutched at Warren’s shirt for his last few breaths, but his hand went slack as his blood soaked into the sand on the floor. Warren touched the red stain with longing he’d never felt, and as he lifted his hand, droplets rose up from under his palm as though drawn by his will, forming a shifting sphere of red in the air. He watched it with held breath, holding his hand still to support it until he heard one of the twins shout at him, and all the sounds of the tunnel came rushing back over him. He could hear the roar of flames and the sparking thud of fists on flesh, the screeching and the shouting of the Llewan as they attempted to claw past the Irishmen to get to their elder.

  With a shuddering breath, Warren drew the blood nearer to him, and as it coursed down his throat, he felt heat in his veins that he could barely stand. His stained hands trembled as he rose, and as he stepped over to the twins, the Llewan in front of him seemed to quiet. He brushed the Travers apart with a gentle touch and stood in front of them. These skittering, crawling creatures had left marks upon his men and threatened his own life. He could feel them in front of him, each one of their trembling heartbeats thudding in his ears. Eight of them left—no, ten.

  Warren reached out a hand and the Llewan scattered, but he could pull them just as easily as if he held their strings. He drew them back from the dark corners of the den and forced them to the floor in front of him. He could see clearly in the dim light given off by the few bodies whose cloaks still burned, and he looked down into the faces of the wretches before him. He recognized the woman whom the elder had claimed as his daughter and drew her to her feet, watching her dirty face as she struggled against the force of his will.

  “Listen to me,” he said softly, his voice low and cold, and the woman glanced at him and away as though afraid to meet his eyes. “Your elder is dead, and the debt you claim I owe is paid with your lives, do you understand?”

  She nodded because he allowed it, and she chewed nervously at a
cut on her lower lip, probably where Owen had caught her in the mouth during the scuffle. Warren’s eyes went immediately to the red droplet on her lips, and the woman trembled as he leaned in close to her, frozen in place as he slowly licked away the precious blood. He looked down into her wide grey eyes, a breath away from her, and he let her fall to the ground.

  “You can lead these people,” he told her, “and you will continue as you have been. But I expect that if I call for you, you will answer, and that these men will be safe here by my command. Am I clear?”

  “Yes,” she hissed softly, cowering against the filthy bodies of her fellows.

  Warren turned away and gestured to the twins to follow him. He could sense their hesitation, but they walked with him through the tunnels, a small flame in Simon’s palm for light, until they reached the empty warehouse. The outside world seemed bright to Warren now, and he flinched as Owen pushed open the door and they stepped into the moonlight.

  The twins paused at the door, both of them watching their employer with curious eyes. Blood covered Warren’s face and hands, tiny rivers beginning to dry on his cheeks and chin. He looked up at them with cold, empty eyes, as though he hadn’t just moved people with a gesture and taken over a centuries-old blood cult.

  “You’ve, uh,” Owen started quietly as he tapped his own chin, “you’ve got red on you.”

  “Thank you,” Warren answered dryly, taking the handkerchief from his pocket and beginning to wipe the blood from his face.

  “What now?” Simon asked, glancing over his shoulder to check for passers-by.

  “Now nothing,” Warren said. “We carry on as planned. Tomorrow I’ll make some calls, and we’ll begin to prepare for the move. This is finished.”

  The brothers exchanged a brief look, but Warren simply brushed by them on his way back to the autocar, scrubbing at the bloodstains on his chin as he went.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Ben paced the parlor floor, Cam peeping in at him from the doorway to the dining room. Ben caught sight of him and came to a stop, sighing and urging him inside.

  “I wasn’t able to keep the secret, was I?” the golem said in its quiet, tinny voice as it stepped into the room. “The cellar door has been opened.”

  “It’s not your fault, Cam. Warren shouldn’t ‘ave asked you to keep this secret from me. He shouldn’t ‘ave ‘ad cause to keep it himself.” He dropped down onto the sofa, glancing up at the golem as it approached him. “Tell me plain. Has Warren been killing people to make his golems?”

  The machine hesitated, its aperture eyes shifting halfway closed as though it was weighing its loyalties. “Yes,” it said at last. “The twin men find them and bring them here, and Warren Hayward does the magic.”

  Ben laughed, but it was a hollow sound, and he ran his good hand over his face and shook his head. “Of course they ‘ave been. Bloody bodyguards—I knew better than that. I’ve been a damn fool, Cam.”

  The golem stood beside him and reached out to touch his shoulder, two brass limbs separated only by the fabric of Ben’s shirt. “I don’t think you have been a fool.” Ben paused at being addressed as ‘you’ rather than by name, but he stayed silent. “I see you,” the golem said. “You and Warren Hayward both. You disagree, and you argue, but you stay. You are sad, and you are angry, but you stay. I will never know love, but I understand what it means because I know you.”

  Ben watched the machine with a furrowed brow. “When you open that set of ‘inges, you’ve a lot to say, ‘aven’t you?”

  “Warren Hayward does not ask me for my opinions, but I have them.”

  “You know it’s wrong, don’t you? What he’s been doing? Do you understand that killing people is wrong?”

  “He is not killing them,” the golem said easily. “He is putting them in a new body.”

  Ben shook his head. “You aren’t Sir Bennett. You’re you. You said so yourself. There’s no excuse for what ‘e’s done. I know you don’t understand, but Warren’s been asking you to help ‘im keep an awful, awful secret.”

  The front door opened, and Ben got to his feet, taking a shaky breath as three sets of footsteps sounded in the hall. Warren didn’t smile at him as they entered, but Ben was used to that by now.

  “Leave us be, Cam. And you boys get out of it,” Ben said to the twins, gesturing down the hall. When they hesitated, he snapped, “Get out of it or I’ll put you out.” They didn’t move until Warren waved them away, and Ben watched the hall until he heard their bedroom door click shut. Cam lingered a moment before disappearing into the kitchen.

  “You’re awfully sour for someone who’s about to get everything he wants,” Warren said as he approached, but Ben snatched the redhead’s wrist tightly in his brass hand before he could touch his chest.

  “I’m going to give you one chance to tell me the truth, Warren,” he said softly, looking down into the other man’s questioning face. A pit formed in his stomach as he noticed a bloodstain on Warren’s shirt collar. He was on an errand, Cam had said. He felt sick thinking of what sort of errand it had been. “Tell me how you’ve been making your golems,” he said at last. Warren glanced at Cam with an accusing scowl, but Ben touched his chin to force him to hold his gaze. “Don’t look at ‘im; it’s not ‘is fault. Tell me.”

  “You don’t want to hear it, Ben. Not really.”

  “I suspect I don’t,” he murmured. “But I ‘ave to.”

  Warren sighed, but it wasn’t regret. He seemed almost as though he was being made to answer the questions of an irritating child. “It’s a life for a life. It always has been. You must have known.”

  Ben released him, taking a small step back. “I think I decided not to know it. Not lettin’ me into the workshop, hiring the Travers—all the disappearances—”

  “You can keep pretending,” Warren suggested. “I’m going to quit, remember? I only have two or three more orders—”

  “Two or three more murders, Warren! For God’s sake! Listen to yourself!"

  “You can forgive the blood magic, Callaway, your inspector—and this is where you draw your line? You have profited endlessly from what I’ve done,” Warren said in a voice much too calm for Ben’s liking. “And you will continue to do so. Everything that I’ve done has been for you.”

  “You never should’ve started this,” Ben answered, shaking his head. “You should’ve sent Wakefield away, told ‘im you didn’t know anything about Sir Bennett’s experiments.”

  “And still live in that house, with Mrs. Burnham watching our every move, waiting to ruin us? Scrape by on your earnings, hoping no one realized Sir Bennett had died? I’ve suffered too, Ben; I’ve done things I never thought I would. Don’t you understand what I’ve sacrificed to give you what you want?”

  “Human lives,” Ben said with desperation in his voice. “People, Warren. People who never did no wrong by you, who died because you were too greedy to be grateful for what you ‘ad.”

  “Greedy?” Warren closed the space between them, looking up into the inspector’s face. “Every step of the way I have been met with trials. Everywhere I turned there were threats to our safety—threats to our freedom. Threats to you. What I’ve done is made it safe for us. If I am to be accused of greed, then I am greedy, but it is for your sake that these things have been done. They had to be done.”

  “How can you say that?” Ben shook his head, almost laughing out a sigh. “I would rather be in prison than ‘ave this on my ‘ead. Don’t tell me all these people died for me. It was your doin’. I never would’ve stood for it if I’d known.” He frowned, searching Warren’s face for any sign of regret or remorse and finding nothing but blank, dark eyes staring back at him. “Why couldn’t you ‘ave just been happy? Why couldn’t you be happy with what you ‘ad?”

  “What did I have, Ben? What did I have besides a master who treated me poorly and a life of servitude ahead of me?”

  “You ‘ad me!” Ben snapped, his voice breaking. He took a deep breath, putting h
is hands to the sides of his head as he turned away and moved to the far end of the room. When he composed himself, he let his arms drop and looked back to Warren with resignation on his face. “Do you know that you ‘aven’t said you loved me since this started? Not since before Sir Bennett. You say you’ve done all of this for me, but do you even care for me anymore?”

  Warren hesitated, but he tried not to let his uncertainty show on his face. “Of course I do,” he said after too long a pause, and Ben shook his head and dropped his gaze to the floor. “Ben, all of this will have been for nothing if you give up now. We’re at the end! We’ve done it! Don’t you see that?”

  “We are at the end,” Ben whispered, looking back up to Warren’s face with his jaw set. “You know what I ‘ave to do. I can’t let this go on.”

  “What are you suggesting, pet?” Warren tilted his head as he watched the inspector clench his brass fist. “Are you going to take me in?”

  “You know I ‘ave to.” He reached his hand out to the other man, but his heart was barely in it when he spoke the word, “Heald.” Warren stood still as the light sparked from the other man’s brass palm, and Ben faltered before twisting his hand in an attempt to bring his former lover to his knees. Warren remained standing, watching the inspector with an almost pitying look.

  “You’ll have to do better than that,” he said gently, and he held out a hand, pulling Ben to him in an instant and letting him drop to his feet in front of him. Ben panted, his limbs aching as though Warren had moved him by the blood in his veins.

  “Have any other tricks up your sleeve, Inspector?” When Ben opened his mouth to speak again, Warren pushed him away without touching him, sending him tumbling back over the coffee table with a crash. “We really could forget all this, you know,” he offered as Ben pulled himself to his feet. “We could live peacefully in the country, just like you wanted.”