Record of Blood (Ravenwood Mysteries #3)

by Sabrina Flynn

  “Wilson?”

  The horse’s ears angled forward. She put a hand to his nose, and pressed her forehead gratefully against his. Isobel took a shuddering breath, and briefly considered climbing into the saddle to give chase. But fear (and bruises) shook her body.

  Swallowing, Isobel put her foot in the stirrup, and pulled herself onto the saddle. Feeling sick, she bent over the saddle horn, clutched the horse’s mane, and prayed the world would stop spinning. When the darkness stilled, she nudged the horse with her heels, and plodded slowly in the opposite direction of the wagon.

  14

  Night Terrors

  A girl ran, black hair floating like a ribbon behind her, in and out of pools of light and dark. Her bare feet pattered in frantic flight on wooden planks. But she was like a bird with clipped wings, unable to leave the ground.

  It was dark with fog and smoke, and shadows deeper than any dream. The paper lanterns felt her passage with a stir of air, but their flicker did not illuminate her path. A plank gave way—a rot, like the room she had fled. Her toe caught, and she tripped. Rough splinters dug into her knees.

  Shouts followed her, bouncing through the murk and maze of alleyways. Her heart quickened. She scrambled forward to her feet. And ran.

  920. The foreign numbers burned in her mind. 920. She could taste their shapes on her swollen lips. 920. She would find her wings there.

  A shadow disturbed the mist, and she turned sharply, skidding on planks, lost in the rotting maze of her prison. A door opened, and she flew into the dark portal. It shut.

  “You are safe now, child,” a voice whispered in her ear. She had heard that voice before.

  Slowly, light from a red lantern crept into the dank room. It smelled like a slaughter house. Of blood, and bowels, and fear. The girl stood, shivering. Frozen. The lantern was not red from paper; it dripped blood. And instead of a rectangle, it was the head of an old man with a white beard that had turned grim. The head hung in the dank room, swaying back and forth with a creak. Slowly the bloody light cast a shadow on another man—a faceless man. He held a butcher’s knife.

  The man stepped forward, and the girl stepped back. A macabre sort of dance, until her back pressed against a wall that dripped with human waste. The man’s face passed into the red light, and Atticus Riot smiled like a sickly wolf.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  The sound woke Riot from a worn nightmare. His arm flew out and fingers curled around a familiar weight. With a click he held his revolver close, trying to make sense of shadow and smoldering cinders.

  A volley of heartbeats drummed against his ears. His hand trembled, and he swallowed down bile in his throat, as he listened for the tap, tap, tapping. The sound did not come again; instead, he heard a soft scraping.

  Quick as a snake he flung the covers free, and slipped to the window. With a finger he flicked the curtain aside. A shadow fiddled outside the glass. A blade slipped through the crack between window and sill, and nudged the lock aside.

  The latch moved.

  Riot wrenched the window up, and pressed round steel to a forehead. The cat-burglar yelped, lost a precarious perch, and slipped. Two hands latched onto the sill like a cat’s claws on wood. A cap flew off, fluttering three stories into darkness.

  “Bel?” Relief transformed her name into a whispered prayer.

  The woman in question looked up, annoyance flashing across her eyes. “Are there any other women who’d climb into your window at night?”

  He stared at her, mind reeling from the aftereffects of his dream.

  “Are you going to pull the trigger?” she asked.

  Riot could hear her kicking feet as she tried to find purchase. With a muttered oath he uncocked his revolver, reached over and out, and hauled the woman into his bedroom by her coat. She flopped onto the floor.

  “You’re going to break your neck.” His words came out like a growl.

  “Haven’t yet,” she shot back. Isobel sounded winded, and she seemed disinclined to pick herself up off the floor.

  “Is something a matter?” he glanced out the window.

  “No.” Isobel slapped a hand on the sill, and pulled herself upright. “I had a time dodging Miss Dupree and her gentleman callers though.”

  Riot closed the window and curtains, and turned to his cat-burglar. “Who knew a resident prostitute would keep crime to a minimum. Were you planning on stealing my pocket watch?”

  “No. Your virginity.”

  The comment caught him off guard, like so many other things about her. Isobel Kingston unbalanced him, constantly. And that was the last thing he needed right now.

  He started to holster his weapon, and realized he was wearing a thin white union suit. But only just. The upper half hung around his waist, and he was drenched in cold sweat. Riot shivered, and carefully set down his revolver on a side-table. He walked over to the washbasin, dipped his hands in cold water, and drenched his face. The water cleared his mind.

  After he had slipped his arms through the underwear and tugged on his trousers, he turned to find Isobel holding out a glass of brandy for him. She had one of her own, and a thoughtful kind of look in her eyes. As if she were plotting her next move in chess.

  He accepted her offering.

  “You look the worse for wear, Riot.”

  “Finding an intruder at one’s window does that to a man.” He looked at her for the first time—with sharp eyes and a clear mind. Her peacoat was buttoned up to her neck, and she wore kidskin gloves. She looked dingy and worn, as if she’d been doing hard labor all day.

  “You don’t look much better yourself,” he noted.

  “Cold steel to the head will do that to a woman.” Glasses clinked, and they both took a fortifying drink, nearly downing them in one. Warmth flooded his veins, chasing away his night terrors.

  “Are you fortifying yourself with drink to steal my virginity?” he asked.

  She swirled the brandy in its glass. “I think I’d like to be sober for that.”

  “Someone beat you by a few decades,” he said dryly.

  “There goes that plan.” She took another draught, and when she moved to pour another, he threaded spectacles over his ears. She came into sharp focus, and he noted the vibrations in her brandy as she brought it to her lips. She was trembling.

  Riot stepped over to her. “Where have you been?”

  “I was looking for a horse,” she said casually.

  “Wilson.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Were you looking for me?”

  “You were supposed to spend the day with Lotario.”

  “So you followed my trail?” Her voice was hoarse. “That’s an annoying habit, you know.”

  “We were worried.”

  “Lotario came with you?” There was something close to panic in her voice, but then she caught herself. “How far did the trail take you?”

  “To Ocean Beach. There appeared to have been a struggle on the dunes, but the storm erased the trail. I was worried you were involved.”

  She took a small sip, and casually turned, placing the glass on the sideboard. With her back to him, she said, “I’m sorry I missed it. Whatever happened might have made for a good story. The recovery of a missing horse is hardly newsworthy.”

  Riot noticed she did not mention Sinclair’s missing corpse. “What happened, Bel?” His words were soft, a mere brush of a deep purr on an uneasy night.

  “Why do you think something’s wrong?”

  “Did you have another reason for tapping on my window at,” he glanced at the mantle clock, “three in the morning?”

  She turned to face him. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Couldn’t you?” He reached out, and gently gripped her wrist. Her whole body was shaking.

  “A question was plaguing my mind,” she said.

  “What question was that?”

  “You asked me what I thought of your beard, but I never asked what you thought of my kiss.”

  Another comment to th
row him off track. He thought of cornering this elusive woman. He ached to corner her. To demand a direct answer and play his cards, but that, he knew, would be a sure fire way to never set eyes on her again. Isobel Kingston was a feral, wild thing, and the only way to befriend a creature like that was to let her come to him.

  He rubbed a hand over his trim beard. “I was drowning at the time.”

  She smirked. “You were not.”

  “Close enough.”

  “So how was it?”

  His own pulse quickened in memory. She had not yet taken her wrist away, but neither had she stepped forward, nor back. She was on the verge of one or the other, and while he could play along with her game and take her bait, Riot was more concerned with her condition than with his own lust. She was clearly frightened.

  “Are you going to tell me what force drove you up the side of a house to my bedroom window?”

  “I asked first.”

  “I’m hammering out the rules of the game, Bel.”

  “Well, I thank you kindly for the drink, Mr. Riot.” Her eyes strayed to his chest, to exposed flesh, and the swath of dark hair. Before he knew it, Isobel removed her hand from his, and slipped out the window. He rushed to the sill, and watched her scramble down the drain pipe.

  “Bel,” he hissed.

  She stopped, and looked up. Eyes wide, and face pale.

  “Your kiss breathed life back into me.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” she called back in a whisper. She touched ground, and the fog swallowed her.

  “Dammit,” he swore. She was not escaping that easily. He turned, and raced out of his room. He ran down the stairs on bare feet. When he hit the first floor, he skidded on the carpet runner, scrunching it and sliding halfway down the hall before he shot out the front door. The air was wet and cold, and it cut to the bone as he ran down the steps.

  A slim figure walked under muted lamplight.

  He raced to catch her. She glanced over her shoulder, and seemed about to bolt. But then stopped. “You’ve ruined my dramatic exit,” she said.

  “I’m hoping you won’t attempt another.”

  “Was it that bad?”

  “Worrying, more like.”

  Water dripped from his hair onto his face, clouding his spectacles, and leaving his beard glistening in the half-light. Blind from the soft drizzle, he removed his spectacles and wiped them hastily on wet linen. When he returned them to his face, the lenses were streaked.

  Isobel’s gaze traveled from his bare feet, to the suspenders hanging around his waist, and finally to his soaked union suit. Frowning, she opened her umbrella and held it over his head. “I’m not good at… this,” she blurted out.

  He shivered slightly. “You’re holding the umbrella just fine.”

  His comment didn’t lessen her frown. The gas lamp at the corner was only a dim beacon in the cold night, and he wished he could see her eyes better.

  “I mean sharing,” Isobel explained. “Things in my life.”

  “There’s a hot bath and warm food waiting for you inside. That’s all, Bel. You don’t have to tell me a thing.”

  She took a step closer, and looked up into his eyes. He could feel the heat of her body, see her breath misting in the cool night. The umbrella handle was the only thing that separated them.

  “What does din gau mean?” she asked.

  The question was like a kick to his stomach. He took a step back. His hand jerked towards where his revolver should have been. He glanced around the empty street, feeling exposed without it.

  “Where did you hear that name?” It was a demand, not a question.

  Isobel raised her brows. “I didn’t say it was a name.”

  He clenched his jaw. “What have you gotten yourself into?” He gripped her hand, fingers curling around the umbrella handle over her own. But there was no gentleness. He held it like a man clutched a lifeline, his knuckles stark in the night.

  “It appears I’m not the only one who has difficulty sharing.”

  “What happened?” It was a plea.

  “I’m fine, Riot.” Her voice was soft. “It’s over now.” He didn’t believe her for a second.

  Riot forced himself to relax, to loosen his hold, to breathe. “Stay with me tonight.”

  “Oh, now that’s low.”

  “You were more than eager the other day,” he said.

  “You just want to keep an eye on me.”

  “And my arms around you.” He slipped his finger under her glove, and traced her wrist. She winced with pain, and pulled away, but not before he felt the raw patch of flesh circling her wrist.

  Isobel made an exasperated sound. “That’s precisely what I mean. You’re a scoundrel. You did that on purpose.”

  “I’m only employing your own tactics.”

  “What does din gau mean?” she repeated. “Why do the Chinese call you that?”

  He stood frozen. His tongue heavy, and his throat parched. Words got stuck in his throat, as she waited, eyes searching his own in the dark. Flashes of light burst in his mind. Screams. Guns. And blood.

  A touch brought him back to the present. There was concern in her eyes, and her lips were moving, but he barely heard her words. “…you’re the last man on earth I want to hurt, Riot. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. I made a mistake coming here.” She withdrew her hand, leaving him holding the umbrella. “I left Wilson in your yard. Can you see him stabled, and returned to Sinclair?”

  She didn’t wait for an answer, and as she turned to leave, Riot closed his eyes. He hadn’t answered, because he didn’t have one to give her.

  No, you’re hiding from the answer, Ravenwood corrected.

  15

  Bricks Without Clay

  Wednesday, July 8, 1896

  920 Sacramento sat on a hill which would strain the hardiest of legs. As Riot climbed the steps, he noted a man lurking in an archway across the street. A common sight around the Presbyterian Mission home. Brick walls protected its runaway slave girls from the outside world as sure as the women who ran the mission.

  Riot banged the knocker against its plate. A small grate opened in the door, and an eye peeked through. Caution was always required at the mission.

  “Atticus Riot for Miss Culbertson.”

  The eye shifted to either side of him before the door opened. A black-haired girl of fifteen with bright eyes welcomed him. He removed his hat and stepped inside the front hall, offering a traditional bow in return to hers.

  “You are growing like a rose, Miss Ling.”

  She smiled. “A weed or hay is the proper term, Mr. Riot.”

  “It hardly suits you.”

  “A rose has thorns; hay is useful.”

  “Then you’re definitely hay.”

  The girl beamed, and gripped his hands.

  “How are you?” he asked, squeezing her hands gently.

  “I’m well. And you need rest, Mr. Riot. You always need rest.”

  “I’ll have plenty of time for that when I’m in the grave.”

  She paled. “Spirits do not always rest easy.”

  “I’m hoping to be a lethargic one.”

  Ling laughed, and hugged him briefly. It was a beautiful sound, that laughter. She had come a long way since he first met her.

  “Then your lazy spirit can wait here. I will tell Miss Culberston.” She left him in the front hall, and walked off on light feet. Peaceful sounds of children playing, soft singing, and waves of conversation in both English and Cantonese drifted down the halls.

  A few minutes later, Ling returned with Miss Donaldina Cameron.

  “Atticus.” She shook his hand heartily.

  “Good to see you, Dolly. I apologize for calling so early.”

  Donaldina waved a dismissive hand. “There’s no such thing as early here.”

  In her late twenties, Donaldina was a force to be reckoned with. He had escorted this woman into dark dens, then watched her charge through windows and climb through skylights
in pursuit of a slave girl. She was a kind gentlewoman who had arrived at the mission a year earlier as the sewing teacher, and quickly dived headfirst into Chinatown rescues.

  Riot looked up into her eyes. “How are you doing?”

  “As sleep-deprived as you appear. Margaret is in her office.”

  “There’s a fellow across the way with his eye on the home.”

  “Yes, we know. We had a new arrival a few days ago. It feels like the mission is under assault of late. The police came by with a writ of habeas corpus. We had to hide the woman under a sack of rice in the basement. I suspect that fellow is hoping she’ll look out a window.”

  As she spoke, he followed her to the office. A rail-thin, middle-aged woman sat behind the desk. Miss Culberston smiled in greeting. But it quickly fell. “You do not have the look of a man bearing good news, Mr. Riot.” Her voice was clear and crisp, and as matter-of-fact as they came.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Would you like tea or coffee?” Donaldina asked.

  “No, thank you.”

  She reached for a waiting tray, and poured two cups, handing one to Miss Culberston.

  “I haven’t had a chance to look at the newspapers. Has there been another murder?” Miss Culberston asked.

  He produced a sketch of the most recent victim, and both women leaned in to study it with hard eyes, as if committing the nameless girl’s face to memory, branding it on their hearts so the girl might live on in some form or another.

  “Ling, please show this drawing to the others,” Miss Culberston instructed. “See if any of them recognize her.”

  Ling looked at the sketch, and hurried off.

  When she was out of earshot, Riot continued, “Last night, when I mentioned 920, a girl told me that the women here eat their shame. She referred to you here as Fahn Quai—white devil.”

  Miss Culberston nodded. “I’ve heard a similar story before. Their handlers tell them that we drink their blood and eat their organs. They make us out to be evil spirits.”

  “Dolly, you mentioned that you feel like the mission is under assault of late. Why is that?” Riot asked.