by Anne Renwick
Now Black’s own sister sat before him, hell bent on opposing her brother’s plans.
Was turnabout fair play?
No, not for the purposes of revenge.
“Your brother is uncharacteristically protective.” A flat statement. An acknowledgement that to take her side was to oppose Black. Not a position one undertook without careful consideration.
She glanced out the window, tugged at the cuffs of her jacket, then met his gaze. “Because he can guess my agenda.”
“Which is?”
“The list is long.” Her steady gaze grew calculating. “Refusing to be confined to a laboratory ranks at the very top.”
She was an acknowledged venom expert. If Miss McCullough believed she had something of value to add to the investigation in the field, ought he not dismiss her out of hand as her brother had done? Some agents partnered with others to achieve specific ends, why not him?
Aether. What was he thinking?
This would end badly.
Yet failing to hear her out might be worse.
“Fine,” he surrendered. “Why exactly do you wish to interview Mr. Acker in person? Why won’t a detailed list of his symptoms suffice for your work?”
As if she held the winning cards, she smiled. “Relying on secondhand reports prevents me from examining the bite marks and asking appropriate follow up questions. There are any number of direct observations a non-expert might fail to notice.” She turned back the label of her jacket to reveal hidden pockets. “And I want a sample of his blood.”
“A syringe and vials?” Really, he ought to stop being surprised.
“Among other items. Always on hand, much like an agent carries his TTX pistol.” Her gaze fell on the edge of his coat where the familiar weight of his weapon lay. “One never knows when the opportunity to study a new toxin will present itself,” she added.
An offhand comment that caught his full attention. “Has it?”
“Upon occasion.” Her grin widened, as if recalling stories that could only be shared with trusted confidants. “When one has brothers who work for the Queen in one capacity or another, certain opportunities present themselves. One learns to be prepared.”
An evasive answer. Wait. “Brothers? Plural?”
“Alec made a bit of a splash in certain circles recently.” She tipped her head, waiting while he assimilated that tidbit of information.
“Alec McCullough?” he asked. “Member of the BURR team based in Glasgow?”
“The very one.”
Her brother had played a key role in saving the floating castle from collapsing into the icy waters of the North Sea and killing all aboard. Including Angela. Rumor was he’d married a selkie. And Alec had a brother, Quinn. An agent no one had laid eyes upon in quite some time.
They were both brothers to Black? Yet they did not share a surname. Curious.
Jack pondered the implications. Had Black been involved in the North Sea incident? Was he partially responsible for preserving Jack’s sister’s life? He shifted uncomfortably.
Which brought him back to Miss McCullough. She was not a Queen’s agent. Yet. Though the title was clearly in her crosshairs. With persistence and time, she might manage it—despite her brother. Talent lay in her lineage.
“Mr. Acker was attacked over a week ago,” he pointed out, not quite ready to concede. “Any toxin will be no longer detectable.”
“Agreed. But my studies indicate that, in response to exposure to a biological toxin, the body will produce small, soluble proteins—antibodies—designed to neutralize future exposures. He’s the only known survivor. The only one who has lived long enough to produce these proteins. With a sample of his blood, I can test several known toxins in my collection. If there’s a match to the venom used by this woman, I’ll find it.”
In her collection.
There was a phrase to strike fear into the heart of a man. As was a madwoman with what appeared to be poisonous fangs. One with a nasty habit of castrating her victims with a sharp knife.
“Sir?” the driver called, impatient. “A direction?”
Anything they could discover would help, and Jack was in charge of this investigation, not Black. But aiding and abetting Miss McCullough’s first foray into the field was bound to have unpleasant consequences. “The Hissing Cockatrice. Covent Garden, Rose Lane.” The carriage lurched into motion, and he pinned her with a look. “Don’t make me regret this.”
“Most men find they regret not letting me accompany them.” She fell back against the straw-filled squab. Her smile grew cunning. “Like the times my brothers left me behind to sneak out of the house in the middle of the night. After all, men gadding about Glasgow couldn’t be seen in the company of a girl.” A certain bitterness crept into her voice. “Not one expected to redeem her origins by marrying well.”
“As the spare of a wild heir, I sympathize.”
“Wild?” Her eyebrow quirked.
“Most likely to ride a clockwork horse over a cliff following a drunken bacchanal?”
Her laughter sent zings of pleasure zipping down his spine. There, it coiled and tightened into desire. Instinct told him he played a dangerous game, letting this woman into his life.
“Yet here you are,” she said, “pursuing interesting and necessary work while he frets about the newspaper’s reporting of the great ice sculpture’s punch plunge and a cooling corpse upon his carpet. He drains a decanter while you track down a murderer.”
“Not inaccurate.” How long had it been since his face had stretched into a such a wide grin? “But working for the Lister Institute comes at a cost.”
“Such as the lack of a wife?” She reached out to give his starched cravat a tug. “You’re wealthy enough, handsome enough. It can’t be for want of attention from the ladies.”
“More a lack of engaging and intelligent ladies.” Someone like her might have tempted him to matrimony. Miss McCullough was an original. Would he dare court such a woman? And how had she loosened his tongue so? Marriage was not a topic he cared to discuss. With anyone. “I’ve time yet to find a bride. What of your excuse?”
“You need to ask?” She gave him an odd look. “I’m a difficult woman. I refuse to settle for any less than exactly the right man.”
What about me?
No. He wouldn’t rise to the bait and ask, lest he find his own flaws and deficiencies disqualified him. Not that he was in the market for a wife, or wished to wed a woman who wore a poison ring. The last thing he needed was more trouble in his life, no matter the appealing trappings in which it was wrapped. Time to move the conversation back to safer footing.
“You didn’t say,” he nudged her knee with his, “why your brothers regretted leaving you at home.”
“So many reasons.” A mischievous light danced in her eyes. “But one particular exploit rises to the surface. If you ever feel the need to stretch your neck out on a block, ask the great and mysterious Mr. Black about the tattoo on his hairy arse.”
“I can’t imagine wanting to know.” He grimaced. “Or see. Would you have stopped him?”
She snorted. “I would have advised him against his chosen image. It’s a clear illustration as to why such permanent body art ought not be selected while under chemical influence.”
Laughing, he crossed his arms and fell back against his seat. “But you’ve no objection to making an impulsive, if sober, choice.”
Her sly grin slid back into place. “What makes you think I haven’t done exactly that?”
His heart gave a great thud, then picked up its pace as his mind peeled back layers. Envisioning the curves of her backside wasn’t at all unappealing. What would he find? Not a delicate flower or a sweet songbird. A honeybee? A diaphanous jellyfish with barbed tentacles?
“Mr. Tagert!” Miss McCullough pressed a hand to her chest, feigning insult even as her eyes laughed and her voice teased. Had his expression given him away? “Such loud and personal thoughts! Think twice about that inquiry. You might
like my answer.”
He might indeed.
She nudged his foot with the pointed toe of her boot. “But now you know too much about me, and I very little of you. Time to even the score. Share a secret.”
What made him wish to match her daring statements with one of his own? He should confess to nothing, but found himself admitting to the calculated sabotage of his brother’s engagement ball. After three tortuous months of listening to his mother plan the centerpiece, its dramatic destruction had been deeply gratifying. “I myself set the fuse that melted icy feathers and precipitated the newly risen phoenix’s punchbowl plunge.”
“You?” This time it was Miss McCullough’s mouth that fell open. Satisfaction, primitive and warm, spread through his limbs as her eyes widened. “A magnificent distraction allowing you to…”
“Investigate my brother’s imprudent use of funds. As I left the study, I noticed a door ajar and found—”
“A murderous woman in white bent over the neck of Lord Saltwell.” She leaned forward. “Tell me. Was there anything about her that struck you as unusual, something that others might call supernatural?”
The crank hack slowed, turning the corner onto the narrow street where they would find the only man to survive the London Vampire’s bite. All levity fell away as he contemplated his response. “Her agility was… exceptional. Leaping from a window, scaling a wall, diving into a ventilation shaft to disappear in an underground tunnel.”
“And her teeth?”
“Sharp. A trickle of blood upon her chin.”
“Then fangs are a decided possibility.” Miss McCullough hummed as their conveyance drew to a standstill.
A gas flame burned steadily inside an overlarge lamp that illuminated the hanging pub sign of a strutting cockatrice. Gold-painted letters confirmed arrival at their destination. Beside the building ran a narrow alleyway, connecting Rose Street with another. When Mr. Acker had stepped into its passageway, someone—or something—had been lying in wait. Had he been a specific target? Or merely a ready victim?
“Anything is possible.” Jack eyed a poster nailed to the front door advertising tonight’s bare-knuckle fight. Soon, spectators would flood the pub. They needed to be quick. “It’s merely unlikely. Shall we see what we can convince the publican to share?”
He needed to leave this pub with a tangible lead, with more than a newfound appreciation and regard for Miss McCullough. Otherwise, Black might realize Jack’s interest in his sister was more than academic and decide to unman him.
Chapter Six
The interior of the pub was a sad disappointment. Though the dark wooden paneling, sputtering gas jets, and the pulsing red glow of hot coals in a grate yielded a sufficiently mysterious atmosphere, not a single anatomical specimen floated in a glass jar upon a shadowed shelf.
With a resigned sigh, she allowed Mr. Tagert to tug her toward the bar.
“A nice downy bit.” A man hunched upon a stool with his fist wrapped about a beer glass shot her an ill-mannered glance, then turned his bloodshot gaze upon her companion. “But if it’s a room you’re after, turnabout and leave. Your cracked pitcher isn’t welcome here.”
Chatter among men scattered about at tables quieted.
Mr. Tagert returned the man’s stare. “You’ll be polite to my wife, or the fight will start early.”
Had the man called her a whore? Cait’s cheeks heated. He must have. It was the only explanation for Mr. Tagert’s continuation of their charade. Why else stake a public claim in a questionable establishment?
She slid a narrow glance at the man and lifted her chin ever so slightly.
“What can I get for you?” asked the bartender.
“We need to speak with Mr. William Acker,” Mr. Tagert replied.
“Will’s not up for any more prying,” his eyes narrowed as he spit out the last word, “visitors. He’s said all he has to say.”
“Not an option,” Cait piped up. “He survived. Others did not. We need to know why.”
“You’ve a bare-knuckle fight scheduled to raise funds.” Mr. Tagert dropped a sovereign into a large jar. “For Will” read the hand-lettered paper pasted to its surface. “Shame to cause a scene.” He let his coat fall open to reveal the handle of the Queen’s agent’s trademark TTX pistol.
The bartender frowned. “Ten minutes.” He jerked his head. “In the back room.”
They walked the length of a hall, stepped into a room empty of all but one occupant. A man of considerable size sat, hunched and forlorn, tin cup in hand.
All tables and chairs were pushed against the wall. Across the floor, a layer of sawdust in anticipation of blood and sweat. Rarely, tears.
“Mr. Acker.” While Cait elected to stand, Mr. Tagert lowered himself into an empty chair beside the man. Without preamble, he said, “Two more fell prey to the London Vampire last night. A man and a woman. Both dead.”
“A woman,” Mr. Acker repeated, voice flat, eyes downcast. “Was she robbed of her…” The man blinked as Cait’s ruffled hem came into focus. “Female bits?”
“Worse. A portion of her brain was removed.”
“Brain?” His eyebrows drew together. “Whatever for?”
“We’d very much like to know, though preventing another death is top priority. Our search for clues, however minor, led us to your door. I understand your disinclination to speak about your encounter, but there are questions we need to impose upon you.”
Mr. Acker glanced at Cait. Squirmed in his chair. “They were cut clean off. Not tied or bandaged. I was left for dead.”
As an almost undetectable shudder ran across Mr. Tagert’s shoulders, Cait picked up the conversational thread. “We’re more interested in the initial attack.” Fascinating as was castration, there was nothing this man could tell them about the why. Better to focus upon the attack, upon the bite. “There’s reason to believe the bite of the vampire is poisonous.”
“Poisonous?” For a long moment, Mr. Acker fell silent, considering this new notion. “Well it did hurt something vicious. So bad I heaved up everything in my stomach. Couldn’t breathe. Everything went blurry. Then I collapsed.” He closed his eyes. “That’s the last I remember, until I woke up.”
More consistent with venom coursing through his bloodstream than mere blood loss. “You didn’t see—” Cait hesitated, not wanting to lead him to a gendered pronoun.
He shook his head. “The creature leapt upon me from behind. Sunk his teeth into me.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Dark hair and pale skin? Black clothing. Maybe a cape. It isn’t well lit, the alley beside my pub.”
“Murderers do prefer the dark,” Cait sympathized. “Did you feel a pair of hands? A mouth? Knees?”
Silent, Mr. Tagert lifted an eyebrow, inviting her to continue.
Mr. Acker tossed back the gin in his cup, swallowed. “Unnaturally strong hands. Clawed fingers dug into my coat as it bit down.” He pulled his collar from his neck to expose an angry scar crawling—red, ropy and gnarled—across his shoulder and neck. “Fangs tore through both my collar and cravat.”
“A nasty bite,” Cait hissed in sympathy. “Your outerwear might have been what saved you, might have prevented the creature from discharging the entirety of its venom into your bloodstream. Incomplete envenomation. Or, possibly, the quantity of venom was lower because the creature had,” she cleared her throat and adjusted her term to meet the man’s expectations, “fed earlier.”
Close enough, though Mr. Tagert tossed her a curious glance. Had she overstepped with such an opinion? Or was it her use of the word creature after they’d agreed nothing supernatural was in play?
The agent’s expressions were hard to read, though she was beginning to recognize a few. Hard to miss the tell-tale heat of desire in his eyes as his gaze skimmed over her curves the moment before he’d addressed her as Mrs. Tagert. Her body grew warm at the memory. What would it be like to kiss such a man?
But she forgot herself. Again.
“Poison?�
�� Mr. Acker asked.
“Of a kind.” Cait nodded, then groomed his ego. “It would certainly explain how a man of your considerable size fell so easily. A mere bite could not accomplish such a feat. How tall are you?”
“Over six feet.” Realizing he’d not stood much of a chance against so deadly an attack, the man straightened as his self-confidence struggled back to life.
Mr. Tagert gave her the slightest nod of approval. They could prove nothing, but the average woman would need to leap onto the back of a man Mr. Acker’s size and cling tightly to sink her teeth into his throat.
“My colleague studies the effects of venom upon humans.” Mr. Tagert lifted his hand, tapping the lapel of his coat. She reached inside her own jacket to withdraw a syringe, a rubber-corked test tube, and a vial of ethyl alcohol. Now was the time to press their advantage. “If you’ll permit her to draw a sample of your blood, she has access to technology that might inform us what kind of poison was introduced into your blood.”
Wary, Mr. Acker shifted upon his chair.
“It’s a tiny needle,” she said. “A small prick of the skin, easily tolerated by the only survivor of the London Vampire.” The awe she injected into her voice was not at all manufactured. She was keen to learn all about this woman who walked the streets of London at night. To trap her in a cage where she might be safely studied. “Will you help us catch the creature?”
Her compliments tipped the balance. With a sigh he rolled up his sleeve and placed his arm on a table.
Cait moved quickly, lest he change his mind. “If you’ll make a fist?” She drew a length of rubber tubing from her pouch and wrapped it about his arm just above his elbow to raise his veins. A splash of alcohol dabbed into the crook of his arm with cotton lint, and she was ready. No need to inform the poor man that he was her first patient. She’d practiced the technique one-handed upon herself for years, and the needle slid in quick and sure.
Blood spurted into the glass barrel of the syringe, and she unwrapped the tubing. A few seconds later, she pulled the needle free. Tucking the ball of lint into the folded crook of his arm, she transferred the blood into a tube. Fast and efficient. If life had taught her anything, it was to act decisively.
