“May we inquire as to the boy’s new address?” Sunaria asked.
Mrs. Amesbury smiled through pursed lips. “We never divulge such information. Discretion is so important in this business.”
“As it is in ours.” My fake demeanor of courtesy fell away.
As Sunaria closed in on her, Mrs. Amesbury’s smile faded.
* * * *
Many of the streets were named after the trades practiced there, like Threadneedle Street, the aptly named Tailor’s District, or Baker Street, where locals bought their bread. Here in Fleet Street, the wealthy resided—the aristocracy, rich merchants, architects, and men of law.
At the east end of Fleet Street, London’s walls rose high, the dark waters of the Fleet River flowed by. One building miraculously untouched by the constant surge—saved, it seemed, by sturdy white brickwork along the riverside—was the Bradbury’s residence. Their large town house towered three stories high. Long black timbers split along the front, enhancing its sturdiness.
Mr. and Mrs. Bradbury and their staff had retired to bed.
Kitchen shelves were stacked with dark colored breads, vegetables, and assorted cheeses, their scents permeating the air. Several dead rabbits hung upside-down from the back wall, their eyes frozen in fear. The more savory view was the numerous pots of honey lined along a thin shelf. Jacob enjoyed dipping his finger in the tubs of honey at home. I wondered if he’d been allowed to do that here.
The home extended well back from the street. Its size was larger than it had first appeared.
The thought of seeing Jacob overwhelmed me.
A discarded wooden toy boat lying just outside one of the bedrooms signaled that it may serve as the nursery.
In the corner, a child slept and with a gentle tap on his shoulder, the boy stirred.
My heart sank when I saw that it wasn’t my son.
“Jacob?” I whispered. “Is he here?”
The door opened and a woman’s silhouette appeared. She carried with her a bronze candleholder. A breeze extinguished the flame.
I assumed I’d just met Lady Bradbury, but ignored her and spun round to face the boy again.
He rubbed his eyes. “He ran off.”
Lady Bradbury shrieked.
Sunaria grabbed my arm and, like mere phantoms, we flew out of the window, with a terrible scream trailing behind us.
I landed just beneath the window, inconsolable. I’d lost my son to London.
Chapter 35
LONDON OFFERED EVERYTHING a man could want.
But all I wanted was Jacob. I scoured the city, searching night after night, ignoring my own needs. With no trace of him, I thought I’d lose my mind. The loss felt unbearable, the emptiness, agony. I blamed myself for not seeing Ricardo’s jealousy, should have predicted he’d be as wayward as his father. So many times, I’d showered Jacob with affection, but ignored Ricardo. By spoiling my son, I’d put him in danger. How he’d spied on me without detection, I couldn’t work out.
After another agonizing night, I climbed the spiraling steps to our room, cursing my ineptitude.
Once inside, I fell to my knees. “I just want him back,” I sobbed. “I just want him back.” Tears soaked my shirt.
I crawled into my coffin and the darkness closed in. Horror violated my dreams, transmuting them into nightmares.
* * * *
Sunaria caught up with me. I’d taken a moment to peer over London Bridge to watch my victim’s body float down the Thames.
“Oops.” I smiled.
She flashed an angry glare. “You think that’s funny.”
“I assumed he’d sink.”
“A month in the city and you’re infamous.”
“It took me that long?”
“You kill and you don’t look back.”
“I’ve been a little distracted.”
“They burned our building down.”
“What?” I turned to face her.
“Burned to the ground.”
“Who?”
“Don’t fake interest.”
“How do you know it’s because of me? Perhaps a candle fell over—”
“I’m assuming it wasn’t you who left the rose on my casket this morning?” She glanced at the bobbing corpse. “All you think of is you.”
“I was just about to ask about our blind landlord.”
“Half-blind.”
“Did he get out?”
“So now you pretend to care about someone else.”
“Did he?”
“Yes.”
I gazed at the city skyline. “Jacob is out there right now, alone.”
“You’ve brought attention to our kind. They don’t like that.”
“I’ll be more careful.”
“I’m done cleaning up after your nightly escapades.”
“You should be out there searching for him.” I stared at the city’s nightscape. “Not wasting your time.”
“Keeping us alive is not wasting time.”
I turned back. “I’m going to find my son and then we’re leaving this godforsaken city.”
“Are you even listening to me?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“That you’ll use discretion,” she sighed. “Follow the rules.”
I glided up onto the bridge wall. “It’s time we came out of the shadows.”
“That attitude will get us killed.”
With my arms out, I shouted, “Hello, London!”
“Get down.”
“Check out the view.”
“Get down now!”
I sat on the wall. “It’s time the world knew that we’re not myth.”
“Have you lost your mind?” She joined me up on the ledge and wrapped her arms around my waist. “Please shake out of this.”
“I miss Spain.”
“I’ve lost you.”
“No.”
“Come back to me.”
“I’m sorry I put you in harm’s way.” I kissed her forehead.
“Have you considered that he may have left London?”
“Shit,” I said. “Look.”
The body caught on the left side of the riverbank.
“Did you hear me?” she continued, impatiently.
Within seconds, it bobbed off again.
“What do you want me to do,” I said. “Run between Spain and here?”
“It’s just that I wonder if he’s trying to find his way home.”
“I feel him,” I whispered. “He’s out there somewhere. Why can’t I hear his thoughts?”
“I believe it’s because he’s so young.”
“So unfair.”
“What if the Creda left the rose as a warning?” she whispered.
“You’re just paranoid.”
“I think they’re following me.”
“Yep, that defines paranoid. It’s your imagination.”
She hugged me tighter. “I’m worried about you.”
“I’m fine, just distracted, that’s all.”
“I’ve planned something for you tonight.” She leaned against me. “It’ll do you good.”
I pulled away. “Not interested.”
“We’ll have dinner together. I’ve arranged a little something that’ll take your mind off London.”
The body sank.
“Thank fuck for that.” I pulled my knees up and hugged them.
“You need a break.” Her words sounded rehearsed. “Lately, you’ve been backtracking over old ground.”
“Whatever it is, I’m not going.”
* * * *
Sunaria’s persuasion had been impossible to oppose.
Within the Globe Theatre, sitting comfortably in our private box up to the right of the auditorium, we had a good view of both the apron-style stage, and the audience. I finally agreed to attend, half out of guilt for neglecting Sunaria, and half hoping that she might be right, that this evening’s diversion might actually be good for me. Maybe it would even silence the interna
l chatter, if only for an hour or two.
The dialogue-heavy play was ordinary enough, the company of actors portraying a day in the life of a Tudor family. The theme emphasized the moral attitude of supporting a stable government.
Weekly shows were a popular social gathering for the aristocracy. Even the fashions contrasted Spaniards. The women wore such high hats that I wondered how the audience members behind them could see. Many of the men wore what was considered the latest fashion, heavy tunics over their woolen shirts, and breeches. Textures had advanced and enriched color pallets reflected a fresher style, conveying privilege.
Sunaria’s clasp tightened. I assumed my fidgeting annoyed her, until I followed her gaze over to one of the other burgundy draped boxes, high up to the left of the stage, and caught sight of Lady Bradbury. Her pale blue glazed stare revealed her boredom. She seemed to sense someone staring at her and our gazes met. Although she’d seen us only for a moment, our dramatic exit from her bedroom window had left an impression.
Her face flushed brightly as she offered her apologies to the three other women who shared her booth. Almost tripping on the hem of her dress, she withdrew.
Through sheer determination, and the reminder from Sunaria’s grip, I maneuvered at a laborious pace, not wanting to arouse suspicion. We ran out through the theatre front doors. Lady Bradbury climbed into her horse drawn carriage.
We followed.
The carriage rumbled over cobblestones, past her home, and continued on. Within half an hour, we were flying through a forest, heading for the outskirts of London.
Converging dense woods surrounded a lone house. Lady Bradbury climbed out of the carriage with the horseman’s assistance, and headed for the front door. She slammed the brass doorknob and checked behind her.
We sneaked around the back and sidled along the rear wall of the building. I peered into the study. Lady Bradbury conversed with a young man who tried to calm her. I considered that she must have sought out this place soon after our shocking appearance and mysterious disappearance. We had, after all, been two floors up. In order to unravel the truth behind such a marvel, her search had obviously brought her here. And by the way she argued with the man, this was not her first visit.
A tug at my trouser leg made me look down. I flinched in horror at the large dog gnawing through my flesh, sending searing pain into my ankle. Four more hounds turned the corner. I shook off the dog and flew after Sunaria, up and onto the roof. The dogs barked and growled at us, their teeth bared.
Even now, under these circumstances, it was easy to become distracted by the way my torn skin healed, the edges shrinking rapidly. The only evidence from my scrap with the animal was my blood soaked trouser leg.
Sunaria reached for my hand and grasped it. “We have to get out of here.”
“Who are they?”
She caught her breath. “Stone Masters.”
Chapter 36
MY FIRST RUN-IN with our one true enemy, the Stone Masters, left me unimpressed.
They were no more than a handful of men with little sign of leadership, evidenced by their lack of security. An amateur’s collection of do-gooders that women like Lady Bradbury sought out for help, only to leave without resolution, failed by men unable to grasp the true extent of London’s underworld. These were aristocrats who were awarded responsibility, but lacked the power to effectively alleviate what they saw as a threat. Though I had to admit, the same could not be said for their dogs.
We checked into The Fountain Hotel—one of London’s larger hotels—just off the Strand. Guests could come and go with some assurance of privacy, and business and pleasure agreeably mixed. A temporary residence until we found something more suitable.
Sunaria and I had gone our separate ways at my insistence. I reasoned that we’d cover more ground if we split up. Despite her protests, I’d given her no choice.
Bad weather, sleet, and hail, cleared London’s streets like nothing else. No one would brave such elements, other than me of course. When eventually the rain did let up, it left a welcome freshness and the air became tolerable, at least for an hour.
I recognized nothing. I’d flown along the darkest streets to the farthest outskirts and dawn threatened to break at any moment. Sparrows broke into song.
I’d run out of time to make it home.
Westminster Abbey welcomed me with its familiar perpendicular style—simple lines and minimal artifacts. I strolled down the aisle tempting daylight, passing under wide arches and admiring the stonework and half-finished stained glass windows—some relaying biblical narratives, others perfectly crafted images of serene saints captured in their moment of martyrdom.
I made my way through the nave then down into the cathedral’s lower tenements. With the drop in temperature came the promise of darkness. I peeked into one of the few doors along the corridor and found a burial chamber. Hoping for something more suitable, I trekked on, checking out my temporary dwelling.
I reached a dead end.
My foot splashed into a shallow puddle and I traced its origin. A trickle of water leaked from the roof and trailed under the end wall. I studied the lower bricks.
I ran my fingers up and along until I found the lone brick that jutted out just a little more than the others. I heaved open the doorway and was hit by a burst of cold air and a puff of dust. Excited by my find, I entered and strolled down a long tunnel. Within a few minutes, I had arrived at the end of the passageway and found another door. My skin tingled—nature’s way of alerting the undead. Unable to resist, I peeked through a keyhole.
Light!
I flinched and staggered back. A stupid idea to take such a risk. Searing pain settled in my right eye and I bit into my hand to stop me from yelling. Rubbing it, trying to ease the searing stab, blinking several times and willing normal sight to return, I headed back. Once through, I gave the wall a shove and secured the passageway.
The burial chamber would have to do.
I banged the door shut. The air felt clean and the chill actually quite refreshing. Nearby, water dripped. Already, it irritated the hell out of me. When my sight returned, I viewed line upon line of caskets, the scent surprisingly pleasant. From the ornate brickwork and craftsmanship on the dark wood shelving, this place was reserved for the privileged.
A rat scurried around at the back of the chamber. And something else too. A Vampire.
“Good evening.” I bowed.
Luminescent eyes glared from beneath his hood, which he’d pulled forward, making it difficult to read his expression. Hidden from view, but detectable, a woman lay just around the corner.
I gestured to the door. “As soon as it’s dark, I’ll leave.”
“Who are you?” he asked with a cockney accent.
“Daumia. And you are?”
“Why are you here?”
He had a tall, slender build, not as tall as me, but almost.
“Did Count Delacroix send you?” His hood flopped back and revealed an eighteen-year-old face.
“Who?”
“To take us back?”
“No.”
He eyed me suspiciously.
I gave a wry smile. “Nice place you have here.”
“Piss off.”
“If we’re going to spend the night, we might as well be cordial.”
“Get out.”
“You know quite well that’s not possible.”
“Turn around and leave.”
I shrugged.
He looked puzzled.
“Your name?” I asked.
“Get out!”
As I studied his mind, a stream of confused thoughts flowed. He had no idea that he’d been turned.
He closed his mind, an interesting skill for a fledgling and an ability I still had to master.
“What’s wrong with the girl?” I asked, softly.
He glanced in her direction. “You knew we were down here?”
“Well, now I do.”
“Don’t hurt her.”
/>
“Of course not. How long have you been here?” This threatened to be a long night. “Are you a Londoner?”
“Why?”
“I’m just making conversation.”
He stared at the door behind me. “I’m Benjamin.”
“So this Delacroix . . . ?”
“You really don’t know him?”
“Never met him.” I stepped closer to the girl.
“Don’t!” Benjamin’s eyes widened.
“All right, all right. She’s not well. I was just—”
“We don’t need your help.”
“So I can see.”
He stumbled, quickly finding his feet again. “I feel . . . kind of . . .”
“How long have you felt like this?”
“A couple of nights. I’m sick.”
“Well, you’re definitely afflicted.”
“You’ve seen this illness before?”
“You could say that.”
“Can you help us?”
I held my patience. “Sure.”
“What’s wrong with me?” Benjamin’s face reddened.
“May I take a look at your friend?”
“Sister.”
I turned the corner and there on the floor lay a young girl, sixteen or so, her hair a vibrant titian. I knelt beside her.
“Can you help her?” He looked woeful, as though already aware of the answer.
“What’s her name?”
“Rachel.”
“She’s very pale.” I felt a wave of sadness. In his confusion, Benjamin had drank from her, leaving her close to death.
“Does she have what I have?” he asked.
“How did you come to be down here?”
Benjamin settled beside me, his face sallow. “Rachel got a job as a housekeeper and I as a servant at Delacroix’s.”
“Go on.”
“The count found favor with her.”
Delacroix had also found favor with Benjamin, but I didn’t push it. Again, Benjamin closed his mind to me, providing only controlled glimpses, allowing me just enough to make assumptions.
Benjamin sighed. “The count’s behavior was so strange.”
“I get the idea.”
“No, I don’t think you do.”
Rachel’s bodice was tight. I wanted to loosen it to aid her breathing, but knew how it would appear.
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