Prince of Hearts (Elders and Welders Chronicles)

by Margaret Foxe

  "I hate your clothes, Finch."

  "I don't care," she managed, refusing to be affected by his proximity.

  He raised his finger and tapped her on the end of her nose. "I’ll buy you a new wardrobe,” he said, then leaned close and whispered in her ear, “Better yet, no wardrobe. Not. A. Single. Stitch.”

  All of her self-possession went up in flames. Her whole body seemed to have lit on fire. Over four words. He was seducing her for some nefarious purpose; she knew this in the last rational corner of her brain. But she was powerless to resist him. She began to wobble on her suddenly boneless legs.

  The Professor caught her by the shoulders and pulled her against him, as if he’d been waiting to do just that. Then he let out a ragged breath, and she peered up at him, startled. He was shivering, and his heart was speeding out of control beneath her hands. She’d never imagined a heart could beat so fast. She’d never imagined he’d be as effected as she was. She licked her suddenly parched lips.

  He groaned. "What are you doing to me?" he murmured, sliding one arm around her back, raising the other between them, encircling her neck with his fingers, as if he contemplated strangling her. But she was not afraid. She’d never feared him, though she knew she probably should.

  "I am not doing anything,” she murmured.

  His eyes flashed with amber fire. "You're offering yourself up on a platter, Finch. I would devour you whole."

  Her eyes widened in comprehension. "You wouldn't!" she breathed.

  He held her tight. "I would. I could.”

  "You wouldn't!" she repeated, less certainly now.

  "I could have you, Finch. If you like." he stated. “I could kiss you too. If you like.” He tightened his hold around her back to emphasize his claim, and she let out a little breathless yelp. "I dare you," he finally said.

  She blinked through her fog of desire. "What?"

  "I said, I dare you. Say, ‘I’d like that, Sasha,’ and I’ll kiss you again. Say, ‘I’d like that, Sasha,’ and I’ll …” He thrust his hips against her crudely, almost brutally, letting her feel the hardness of him. Her eyes widened in surprise, but instead of being revolted, she burned even hotter.

  She didn't know how long they stood there, locked together, on fire. They stared at each other, speech forgotten, and for a moment, she thought he looked as startled as she was by this sudden turn of events.

  And God forgive her, she couldn’t remember ever feeling so alive. It was how she'd felt in her flat, when she'd begun challenging him for the first time, how she'd felt when he'd had her against the desk, reason suspended.

  He lowered his head, and his lips brushed hers, light as a butterfly’s wings. She craved more. She thought in that moment she would sell her soul for more. And that scared her so much she managed to get enough of a grip on herself to wrench away from him.

  It seemed to snap him out of his trance as well, and he backed away. His insouciant mask quickly fell back in place. Though the heat in his eyes remained. They practically glowed.

  Anger and shame quickly replaced her momentary madness. She’d let him paw her, while her fiancé danced inside, oblivious to her inconstancy. How could she let him overcome her so easily?

  Not. A. Single. Stitch.

  She shivered, hugging herself. “Why are you doing this to me?” she demanded. “Trying to … seduce me? I am marrying Professor Neverfeel.” Oh, God, and now she couldn’t get her fiancé’s name right. And at such a moment!

  He pulled her spectacles out from his lapel. "You underestimate your importance to me, Finch. Aline." He tapped the end of her nose with her spectacles. "I want you, Finch." Tap. Tap. Tap. "And I shall get what I want."

  Tap.

  She snatched her spectacles from his grasp and settled them behind her ears. Just then, she spotted two figures approaching over Sasha’s shoulder, and her blush returned. The last thing she needed was for others to see her in the aftermath of such a blistering encounter.

  She had no time to escape, however. A grim-faced Earl was nearly running down the path in their direction. On his heels was Inspector Drexler from Scotland Yard, limping behind him with his long cane, looking equally serious. The jagged burn that ran from the edge of the gleaming carapace of his Welding eye to his chin was pulled taut by his frown.

  Sasha’s fierce concentration on her broke, and he turned towards the intruders with unnatural speed, something unsettling flashing through his eyes. His hand reached into his jacket, as if for a weapon. Which was absurd. The Professor consulted with Scotland Yard, but he was no warrior. He was a head doctor. He didn’t carry a weapon. Did he?

  When he saw who approached, his shoulders relaxed, but only a little. And his expression did not grow any less dangerous. In fact, his mouth tensed at the edges, as if he was holding back intense emotion.

  The Earl shook his head as he came to a stop next to them. “Sasha, it’s happened.”

  Romanov closed his eyes as if he’d received a great blow. Aline started to feel very alarmed. She’d never seen the Professor look so … human. What was going on?

  “Where?”

  “St. Giles. Where else?” the Inspector said gruffly. “I believe this is what you’ve been waiting for. You’ll never guess the address,” he said, giving Aline a wary glance that she didn’t understand.

  “I think I can.” Romanov heaved a great sigh. His expression was so bleak, so … hard … that Aline started to tremble with apprehension.

  “I think it is time Miss Finch knows the truth,” the Earl said softly.

  It was as if the Professor couldn’t bring himself to look at her now. “This is not what I wanted,” he said in a low, tortured voice.

  “She is stronger than you think…” his Lordship began.

  “No one should have the knowledge we do. Nor should she have to face the dark dealings of this night.”

  Her dread was quickly being replaced by exasperation. Men.

  “Oh, please! Stop these ridiculously ominous riddles! I don’t know whether to be annoyed or frightened. Professor, as I have been your secretary for five years, I have seen plenty of dead bodies. I assume that’s what this is about? There has been a murder?”

  “This is different,” Romanov insisted.

  “More different than even you imagined, Sasha,” his Lordship said in a low voice.

  Romanov looked sharply at his friend. “Something’s changed?”

  The Earl gave Drexler a dark look. The Inspector stared stoically ahead. “Everything’s changed.”

  Suddenly, out of nowhere, Lady Christiana joined their group, slightly winded, as if she’d sprinted from the ballroom. Aline bit her lip. This was all the night needed. Who would join them next? The Misses Ridenour and Eddings?

  “Would someone please tell me the meaning of all of this?” Lady Christiana demanded. But she was looking at the Inspector. And Aline had never seen such an expression on the lady’s face. She looked … well, what Aline suspected she herself had looked like about five minutes earlier when Sasha had been whispering naughty things in her ear. Aline gaped at her friend. Lady Christiana was in love with the Inspector. How could have Aline missed noticing such a thing?

  The feeling, however, did not seem to be mutual. Drexler refused to so much as look at Lady Christiana, his jaw clenching even tighter, his hand gripping his cane until she could see the whites of his knuckles even in the dim gaslit garden.

  When it became clear that the Inspector would not answer her, Lady Christiana’s expression changed to one of frustration … and hurt. She turned to her brother. “I saw the Inspector’s arrival. You’ve been gone forever, you know. What is going on?”

  When Aline glanced over at the Earl, he looked so furious at his sister that Aline took an unconscious step back. She’d not thought Rowan Harker capable of such anger.

  “Go back inside, Christiana,” he ordered. “I will deal with you later.”

  Christiana’s eyes widened. “Deal with me? What in heaven’s name ha
ve I done?” she scoffed.

  “Elijah has just told me everything.”

  Christiana froze, and the blood drained from her face. She turned to the Inspector. “Why?” she whispered. “Why would you…”

  The Inspector shook his head tersely.

  Devastated, she turned back to her brother, rushing to his side and grabbing his arm. She stared up at him pleadingly. “Please don’t hurt him. Don’t tell the others. They’ll … kill him! It was all my fault!”

  Now Aline was sure her mouth was touching the garden path. She took another step backwards, straight into Romanov’s chest. And stayed there. She had a feeling something huge was happening, and she needed something to anchor her. Even if it was her nemesis.

  The Earl looked down at his sister, his expression arctic. Then he removed her hand from his arm, gently but impersonally, as if she were a stranger. He turned away, as if he could not bear to look at her. “You should worry for your own hide, my Lady. Go inside. You’ve a ballroom full of guests, and it will look most odd if one of us is not there. We shall discuss this later. I have business that cannot wait.”

  Lady Christiana stood there, her shoulders stooped as if in defeat, and a heavy silence fell over the garden. Aline wanted to go to her friend and comfort her, but she could not seem to move her feet. She was too stunned, too confused to do much of anything but gape at the scene unfolding before her eyes.

  “Do as the Earl says,” the Inspector said finally, breaking the silence. He was staring at Lady Christiana’s back with a bleak expression. “You’ve done enough. Said enough. We are not alone here, your Ladyship, if you have not yet noticed.”

  Slowly, as if awakening from a dream, Christiana glanced in Aline’s direction, as if just realizing she was there, and her expression grew guilty. “Rowan …”

  “Just go, Christiana. I … won’t hurt him,” the Earl said, still not looking at her.

  Finally, she nodded. Then after sending one last worried glance Aline’s way, she started back towards the ballroom.

  At some point, Romanov had placed his hand on her shoulder. She’d not even noticed, in her shock. He tightened his grip a fraction, and when he spoke, she could feel the fury rising up inside of him, his heartbeat once more pulsing at an alarming rate against her back. “It seems you have much to explain, Harker.”

  The Earl nodded. “But for now, let us depart and show Miss Finch the trouble we face.”

  “Professor?” she asked, turning her head in his direction, ashamed at how small her voice sounded.

  Her heart sank when he met her gaze. He had that soul-dead look again, nothing remaining of the masterful seducer. “I’m sorry, Finch, truly sorry. But you must see for yourself.”

  Chapter 6

  MURDER IN WHITECHAPEL! The hunt for the villainous Ripper continues despite the Metropolitan Police’s Inspector E. Drexler’s recent violent encounter with a suspect in the case last week. The state of the Inspector’s health is unknown, but he remains on temporary leave from the Force…

  -from The London Post-Dispatch, 1888

  FINCH’S expression was ominously blank as she stared at the woman’s nude, butchered body lying in the moonlight on the floor of the condemned St. Giles warehouse Alyosius Finch had once owned. The killer’s sense of the profane was evolving. He had placed the spectacles on the victim, who was completely unclothed.

  The victim also appeared to be unenhanced, which was telling. Either she was younger than she appeared to be, born after the Clean Air Act barely sixteen years ago, which was disturbing enough. Or this woman was of Finch’s generation, which meant the killer had gone to a great deal of trouble to find her. The similarities to Finch were even more pronounced, down to eye color, and Sasha knew there would be little more than a handful of unenhanced thirty-year-old women in this country who fit that description.

  And the scene was even more gruesome than usual. It was as if the killer wasn’t even bothering to reinvent Da Vinci’s Heart anymore. There were no indications of experimentation or finesse. The incisions on the chest cavity were crude, and the heart looked as if it had been literally ripped out. Nor had the woman been bludgeoned. Instead, there were suspicious marks on her throat he’d never seen before, two deep gashes over her jugular.

  There should have been a lot more blood at the scene with that neck wound, unless the body had been moved to its present location. But something about the violence of the scene, the position of this woman’s limbs, told Sasha the killer had done the deed here.

  Another departure from the pattern.

  If not for one of his father’s poems scrawled in atrocious Cyrillic script next to her head, he’d almost believe an entirely different killer had done this.

  And had he known what they’d find here, he would have rethought Finch’s presence. This was leagues worse than what he’d seen in Genoa. At the very least, the officers could have covered up the woman’s nudity. He knew it broke Drexler’s stringent protocol, but letting Finch bear witness to that woman’s unclothed, butchered corpse just seemed wrong.

  It could have been her.

  During the ride across the city in his steam car, Fyodor at the wheel, Aline had remained silent, studying him with unnerving intensity. As if she’d never seen him before. He’d not met her glance once, and he wondered if he’d ever be able to again. He’d nearly seduced her twice in the past week, and now he was taking her to view a corpse.

  It should have never come to this. He’d wanted to keep the truth from her forever. But even Rowan had argued that was impossible now. Only ocular evidence of the truth would convince her – frighten her – enough to cooperate, and maybe Rowan was right. But the last time he’d regretted something this much, he’d still been the Tsarevich of Russia.

  And when she’d begun to recognize her surroundings and had seen the crowd gathered outside her uncle’s former residence, she’d grown increasingly uneasy, as if she’d known something more dreadful than usual was awaiting her inside.

  “But this is my uncle’s warehouse. I lived here,” she’d murmured.

  He’d finally looked at her. Or at her shoulder. “I know.”

  But now … now, there was no expression on her face, and he felt as if he might do something desperate, like scream. Or cry. For a few moments, the warehouse was silent, almost frozen in time, as Finch stared at the corpse.

  Then she raised her head, looked right at him, and said, “She looks like me.”

  Of course his Finch would cut straight to the heart of the matter. And though her expression was blank, her eyes were filled with such horror, and such accusation, he nearly did cry. But he strangled his emotions and nodded. And then, as if his legs were no longer connected to his body, he started in her direction, to somehow comfort her, as out of practice as he was at such things.

  And he wanted to be near her, God help him – craved it. He knew exactly how her skin would feel, feather soft, supple. He knew exactly how her hair would smell, of lemon groves and oceans of mint.

  He clenched his hands at his sides, and made himself stop, shaken by this inconvenient desire for his secretary. Ever since he had kissed her, he could not look at her without remembering every detail of the way she'd felt, the way she'd smelled and tasted.

  It was getting out of hand.

  “Excuse me,” she said dully. “I think I’m going to be sick. I’ll be outside.”

  He moved to follow her once more, but she sent him such a dark look he stopped cold.

  “Stay with Fyodor and Matthews,” he told her. “Don’t leave their side.”

  She nodded tersely and walked back towards the entrance. He watched her until he was certain Fyodor was with her. When he turned around, Drexler was studying him with a rare sympathy. As if he understood him. And maybe he did, a little. Sasha suspected Elijah had nearly as many demons as he himself, having been born in a gutter – quite literally – and raised in London’s worst slums. Something drove the man to pursue the most unholy of England’s c
riminals with a nearly reckless single-mindedness.

  Something also drove the man to inject opiates into his veins on a regular basis, a fact that no one else seemed to realize. But Sasha had trained as a doctor in his last life. He knew an addict when he saw one.

  Yet Elijah had never confided in Sasha, and Sasha had certainly never confided his own dark history. Sometimes he wanted to, wondered what it would be like to have a true confidante.

  But how could he ever burden another with his past? A past soaked in blood and violence and hate that no one in this warehouse, including Drexler, could ever conceive of? How could anyone truly know him without knowing the unspeakable?

  And that Finch was here now, in the presence of even this small part of his legacy, made him insane.

  He turned to Rowan. “Have your associates been informed?”

  Rowan shook his head. “Not yet. I’m thinking that perhaps we should keep this between ourselves for now.”

  Sasha gave Drexler a pointed look. The Inspector shrugged. “None but Matthews and myself have seen the victim. The witness is in our custody and too scared to speak.”

  “The crowd outside?”

  “Know little of the facts. There will be a thousand stories on the streets by daybreak.”

  “The Council will have to be told. Eventually,” Rowan continued. “But if one of our kind is in league with this madman, keeping our hand close for the moment might prudent.”

  “So you believe me,” he said.

  “I have always believed you, Sasha,” Rowan growled. “But I still think you know this madman. You just don’t remember him.”

  Sasha shook his head. “It isn’t possible.”

  Rowan sighed. “I know you don’t like to speak of your past, but the few times you have, you said there were holes in your memory.”

  “I remember too much,” he growled.

  Rowan shook his head. “When you were reborn, you said you were out of your head for months – years. I think you need to remember that time. I believe our killer was there, with you. How else would he know everything? He knows you were struck in the head, then cut open while you were still alive…”