by Anne Renwick
“Of course.” Never would she admit that her stomach gave a twist at the metallic scent of blood curling into the damp air, that she was glad her breakfast had consisted of only tea and toast.
“You’ll speak to no one of this without permission, or you’ll never work for the Queen’s agents. Understand?” At her nod, Logan peeled back the ragged cloth.
Cait found herself staring into the sightless eyes of a pretty young woman. Thin streams of blood trickled from her nose, marring the soft curves of her cheek.
Her brother directed the beam of his decilamp at the woman’s throat.
She gasped. Two puncture wounds were sunk deep into musculature and surrounded by inflamed and necrotic tissue, consistent with a venomous bite. Were the marks not approximately one and a half inches apart, she would have wondered what serpent had taken to the streets of London to find its prey. “It’s not the mark of a vampire,” she informed her brother. No such thing existed. “But what?”
Logan’s lips twisted. “A question I was hoping you might help answer.”
Chapter Three
“Apologies for the intrusion in the wake of your loss.” Jack stood, declining the offer to sit. He’d not cultivate an illusion of amity with his brother’s friends. “I’ll be brief.”
Stephen Carruthers, the new Lord Saltwell, slumped in a wingback chair before a cold hearth. An empty decanter rested upon the floor at his feet. His eyes were distant and devoid of expression as he stared into a cut-glass tumbler, swirling a final half inch of brandy.
Yesterday, Carruthers could barely stand. Today, sitting was a challenge. Tomorrow, a fainting couch?
The censure written on his face caused the new Lady Saltwell to leap to her husband’s defense. “We all have our own ways of mourning.”
She stood behind her husband, already garbed in flat black, her hands spread over the gentle swell of her stomach, the reason for her absence from the ball. Despite her words, a deeply ingrained sense of propriety, stock and trade of the ton, drew her lips into a frown at the brightly embroidered blue and red stripes of her husband’s smoking jacket.
“Won’t miss the old bastard,” Carruthers muttered. “Nothing I did was ever right.”
A complaint often lodged by many sons.
“Nonetheless,” Jack said, “his death will be investigated. A task which I will handle personally.” As of this morning, it was agreed. The London Vampire would be hunted by the Queen’s agents of the Lister Institute.
A late-night flurry of insistent messages between Lord Thornton, Mr. Black and the Duke of Avesbury himself had won Jack the right to take the position of head agent. Not only had a man died in his family’s townhome, but his background was well-suited to such a case.
Local authorities had no leads and bodies were piling up. Lord Saltwell’s death brought the total to five. All known victims were male. That was, until early this morning, a final skeet pigeon tapping on his apartment window had brought news of the creature’s first female victim.
At dawn, the body of one Lucy Cooper had been found in a Holywell Street gutter. Another mysterious death, this time involving a woman involved in the pornography trade. Facts that thrilled and inspired reporters as they composed their titillating headlines, intent upon causing the London elite to sputter over their morning tea.
Cold calculation or sloppy mistake, the London Vampire had broken pattern, a misstep that Jack hoped would ultimately lead to her capture.
He needed to conduct this interview quickly and adjourn to the morgue.
“You work for the Crown?” Contempt flashed in Carruthers’ eyes. “Ought to have guessed. Always prowling about the edges of the room.”
Jack ignored the dig. “Did your father exhibit any unusual behaviors recently?”
“Aside from dying?” Carruthers snorted. “We did our best to avoid each other.” He tossed back the last of his brandy, frowned at the empty glass. “Though perhaps you’d find it unusual that he often visited his grandson in the nursery? Easier to avoid me, his heir, to focus on a more distant and promising future for our family.” The corner of his mouth kicked up. “Wasn’t too happy when he left.”
“I’m afraid our son is teething,” Lady Saltwell explained. “Bouts of crying have unsettled his stomach, the contents of which he emptied onto his grandfather’s trousers.”
“Otherwise, my father spent his days at the club, his nights chasing pretty things wearing skirts into shadowed corners. Hardly unusual.” Carruthers lifted a finger. “Save the final part where he was bitten.”
“You mentioned the attacker was a woman.” Lady Saltwell tilted her head. “You’re certain?”
“Absolutely. I found her bent over him, mouth at his throat. Before I could catch her, she leapt from a window and escaped via the garden.”
Lady Saltwell frowned. “While wearing a gown?”
Pride stuck in his throat, but facts were facts, regardless of the damning implications. “Yes.”
“Sounds like your investigation is off to a running start.” Carruthers snorted. “But you’ll pardon me if I question your interpretation of my father’s death. Aubrey saw no such figure fleeing the scene and is convinced you chased after some imagined specter. There must be a more logical explanation. Perhaps my father suffered an apoplexy?”
Jack’s eyebrows rose. “Involving puncture wounds to the neck?”
A pained look crossed Lady Saltwell’s face, but she held her tongue. It was clear that Carruthers cared neither who—or what—might have perpetrated the crime.
“Yes, well, for all we know the marks were made earlier during overenthusiastic role play on the part of his mistress. My father was both a lusty and wealthy man, Tagert. His mistresses were keen to retain his favor. If that’s all,” Carruthers waggled his empty glass, “I’ve other matters to attend to.”
Jack ignored the dismissal. “As relates to your father’s death, I will keep you informed. However,” he held up a finger. It was wrong of him to let personal matters intrude, but the three school chums often shared a single brain. He’d not waste this chance. “Unofficially, I would appreciate any information you can provide about the Grand Menwith Hotel and Spa.”
“I’ll wager you would.” Carruthers squinted. “Predictable. Digging into Aubrey’s finances, unable to accept his success. Envious, are you?”
Lady Saltwell laid a hand upon her husband’s shoulder. “Perhaps—”
“No. Absolutely not. The answer is a firm no. We are not interested in another investor.” He snapped his fingers at the steam butler. “No worries, Tagert, if you fail to catch this vampire. My father sucked the life from me and many others, so it’s a fitting end. He won’t be missed.”
Jack took a deep breath and climbed the broad, stone stairs that lead to the entryway of the Lister Institute. He crossed black-and-white checkered tiles beneath a bright, new Lucifer lamp that replaced the one shattered by the Christmas Eve explosion. Though months had passed, a respectful silence endured in the space where a fellow agent had lost his life to the machinations of a jealous colleague.
No trace remained of the scorched pits that had marred the walls, ceiling and floor save those upon a single floor tile—formerly of smooth, white marble. There, the blemishes served as a memorial. A silent reminder that sometimes betrayal came from within.
Much like the tumor that threatened his vision. His own cells conspired to grow into a small but stubborn mass within his skull, pressing upon the optic nerve. Not life threatening, but career ending. First Jack would lose vision in his left eye, then possibly his right. Worse symptoms would follow if the pituitary adenoma continued to grow unchecked.
But to remove it? To date, physicians had only speculated about how such a surgery might be accomplished, none yet willing to attempt a feat with a high likelihood of mortality.
All save Thornton—neuroscientist, surgeon, fellow agent and friend—and even he had reservations. “Blindness and headaches aren’t life ending,” he’
d objected.
“If it leads to sexual dysfunction as well,” Jack replied, all grim determination, “it might as well be.”
“I’ll need to consider the approach—transcranial or transsphenoidal—there are risks to both.” Thornton had rubbed the back of his neck. “If I agree to carry out the surgery, you’ll need to have your affairs in order.”
“Done. In the event of my demise all I possess is willed to my sister.”
Thornton had sighed at his eagerness. “There’s no rush. For now, we’ll track the progression of your symptoms, but Mr. Black needs to be informed.”
“No.” Jack had snatched away his medical chart. “I’m fine.”
“For now.” Thornton frowned. “When your symptoms worsen—”
“I’ll let you know.” He wouldn’t. Lest Black use the information to relegate Jack to a desk job. “Please. You said yourself it would be months before my vision worsens.”
“One month, Tagert,” Thornton had grumbled. “If there’s any change, I will place it on record and inform command.”
A fortnight remained. He hoped it was enough time to hunt down a murderess.
To that end, he strode down the hall with a newfound sense of purpose, winding his way through a maze of corridors. Summoning the ascension chamber. Standing inside the metal cage as it lowered him into the bowels of the building. The door slid open and he turned a corner to face the autopsy suite.
Would this be his own endpoint?
It might well be, unless Thornton pulled off a miracle.
Since the diagnosis a certain detached numbness had clouded his mind, leaving him adrift with nothing to dwell on save his brother’s suspicious good fortune. But now excitement curled through his veins and fired his pulse. A small explosion, a moonlight chase and murders headlining newspapers to investigate.
Chance might have brought him eye to eye with the murderess, but the next time they met, it would be no accident.
This was why he’d become a Queen’s agent, why he’d first abandoned medicine, then research. Nothing compared to the thrill of fieldwork. He’d damn well enjoy it while it lasted.
He pushed open the door and stepped into the morgue. Lord Saltwell lay upon a metal gurney, reduced to a rotund, cloth-covered lump, yet not alone in death. Upon the central table beneath harsh, bright lamps lay the slight form of a young woman.
Thornton himself was bent over the body. Black was also in the room—an unnecessary, supervising evil. Jack supposed it was inevitable. But as there was a third individual present, an unfamiliar woman, he clenched his teeth preventing the obscenities that burned in the back of his throat from escaping.
Instead, he let the metal door slam closed behind him.
“There’s a neurological component?” he asked Thornton, abandoning any pretense of greetings and focusing on the business at hand. There was only one reason the man would be roped into this investigation.
“So there is,” Thornton rumbled.
Black’s head snapped up to meet Jack’s gaze. “It’s about time you arrived. Lingering over your eggs and bacon when you have such a new and interesting victim?”
“Not at all how I’d have you introduce me, Logan,” the woman chided with casual familiarity as she turned, pushing a cart toward the female victim’s side.
A jolt crackled down his spine and heated the air in his lungs, halting any words he might have formed in response. She was stunning, her beauty unmuted by the dull gray gown she wore or the refrigerated storage chambers that served as a backdrop.
“You must be the infamous Jack Tagert, Jack of all trades.” Unless he was much mistaken, he detected a hint of a Scottish accent.
“Master of none.” He grinned. An epithet he’d earned by refusing to sit the medical boards in favor of working in the Department of Cryptobiology, before abandoning medicine and research altogether. It was rare for an agent’s reputation to be known to a lady. “So I am.”
She glanced from Mr. Black back to Jack, both expectant and assessing. “Does the chill in the room always extend to such proceedings, or do the two of you have something you’d like to get off your chests?”
Her dark eyes flashed, and her wide mouth hinted at a suppressed desire to laugh. At both of them. An unusual reaction.
Cautious deference had always colored the manner in which women approached him, be they Lister employees in awe of a Queen’s agent, or calculating debutants who simpered and giggled, trying—and failing—to entertain a man who, with a sudden stroke of mortal luck, might become a viscount.
He couldn’t recall the last time a woman addressed him with such brazen overfamiliarity.
Was Black growling? His gaze flicked sideways. Indeed, a dark cloud had descended upon the man’s face.
“Oh, for aether’s sake.” The woman exhaled, stepping around the body to extend her hand. “Allow me to introduce myself. Miss McCullough, venom expert and sister to the mute Mr. Black who rather grudgingly permits my involvement.”
Sister? Black had family? His eyebrows shot up. Jack would have been less surprised to learn that the man was raised by a pack of wild wolves.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Jack bent over her bare fingers, lips twitching at this opportunity to vex Black with situationally inappropriate ballroom behavior. He did, however, wish to live. And so, the kiss dropped harmlessly into the air above her hand.
When he straightened, Miss McCullough’s gaze momentarily alighted upon his lips. Was that disappointment in her eyes?
It was.
He imagined Black’s sister was as much trouble as his own—a thought that had him fighting a smile.
Ah, how the tables had turned.
“A venom expert?” he repeated, ignoring Black and forcing his mind back to the task at hand. “To examine the bite of a vampire?”
Miss McCullough all but snorted. “A rumor we can now dismiss.” She peeled back the cloth cover, revealing two puncture marks in the dead woman’s swollen throat. “The bite to Miss Cooper’s neck pierced the external jugular vein, a poor choice for a vampire, who would presumably target the carotid artery, harnessing the victim’s own blood pressure for feeding purposes.”
Black sighed. “Is such speculation necessary?”
She smiled. “Not strictly so, but given the tabloid headlines—”
“Venom?” Jack prompted in an attempt to refocus their squabbling, much as the idea of watching Black engage in a sibling spat appealed.
“The tissue damage surrounding the wounds is consistent with illustrations drawn by experts who have studied the venomous bites of elapid snakes, such as the cobra or krait.” Lifting a cotton-tipped stick from the cart, she carefully swabbed the region around the bite marks, dropping it in a glass test tube. “However, caliper measurements of the distance between the puncture marks of both victims are twenty-four millimeters, consistent with the maxillary intercanine distance of humans.”
Black sighed. Heavily.
Thornton’s lips twitched, but he withheld any comment.
“Such are facts, Logan,” she said. “You’ve either a venomous human prowling dark streets or an extremely large reptile, one that could not possibly function with vigor during our cold nights. A snake that size would hail from the tropics.” A faraway look entered her eyes. “Though with a knowledgeable handler…”
Black snapped his fingers. “Stop daydreaming.”
She shot her brother a narrow glance. “Fine. To summarize, the swollen tissue surrounding the wounds is consistent with illustrations drawn by experts who have studied the venomous bites of elapid snakes, such as the cobra or krait.”
“Illustrations?” He looked at Black. “You said your sister was an expert—”
“She’s plenty of experience,” her brother grumped, “with all manner of toxins and poisons.”
Miss McCullough gave her brother a worrisome grin. “If not with serpents, a deficiency I intend to correct as soon as the London Zoo agrees to allow me to—�
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“Not now,” Black interrupted, giving his sister a pointed look.
“Fine.” She lifted a syringe and expertly drew blood from the corpse. “I’ll run a few immunological tests, pass samples through the Ichor Machine to see what might turn up, but between protein degradation rates and the length of time her body is presumed to have been in the rain, there’s little hope of positive results. I have to admit to a certain disappointment that you,” she glanced at Jack, “failed to collect fresh samples from Lord Saltwell.”
The truth of her words burned. “An inexcusable oversight on my part not to carry laboratory paraphernalia with me at all times.”
“No need to snipe,” she said, repeating the same procedures upon the second corpse. “I understand this man died in your brother’s library during his engagement ball. Likely you were overwrought. You have my sympathies.”
Disappointment.
Overwrought.
Sympathies.
Pandemonium clanged inside his head. Was Miss McCullough deliberately needling him?
He began to understand the pained look on Black’s face. He’d been in Miss McCullough’s presence for all of ten minutes, and Jack wasn’t sure if he wanted to strangle her or kiss her.
Kiss her?
Where had that come from?
No. No, no, no.
Not Black’s sister.
Absolutely not. Though it was rare to find beauty and accomplishment in one forthright and confident bundle, Miss McCullough was not for him. No matter how much satisfaction he would derive from annoying both his mother and Black by marrying a venom expert.
Marrying?
What was wrong with him?
They’d never make it to the altar. From the glare Black had shot him earlier, Jack would find himself strung up in a noose if he so much as laid a single finger on Black’s sister.
He had no business making any woman his wife.
“Not overwrought, Miss McCullough.” Why did he feel the need to defend himself in her presence? “I interrupted the attacker and was forced to give chase.”
