When she had stared up the barrel of Em’s gun, she hadn’t felt this paralyzing fear. Em was a businesswoman, for all her jaded temper. Something about this man reminded her of Hatchet-face. The same unpredictable, not quite sane gleam lit his eyes. Only this man would use a gun instead of his hands to hurt her.
He took a long draw on the cigarette, then tossed it aside and blew the smoke in her face. Her throat tightened, her stomach churning as the stale smelling smoke stung her eyes and nose. Then, he rested the hand holding the gun on her shoulder and swiveled it so the barrel pointed into her ear. She sucked in a breath, wincing. He took her chin in his other hand and turned her to face him. His fingers were soft, a toff’s hands. His eyes shone bright and feverish. A smile lifted the ends of his neatly trimmed moustache.
“You’re not so fierce. If you trembled any harder you’d shake yourself apart.”
I’m just a rat. I don’t matter. A tear slid down her cheek. Please, let me be invisible again. She tried to pull her chin away and his grip tightened.
“I almost expected you to be oily, the way you slip away from everyone, but you’re not, are you? You’d be a comely little bird if you let your hair grow and put on a proper dress. With your exotic looks you’d fetch a fine price at any brothel.”
Never.
He brushed the barrel tip along the line of her cheekbone and licked his lips. She swallowed back a rush of burning bile. Throwing up on him might be reason enough for him to shoot her.
I’m not ready to hold up a stone. She clenched her hands tighter around her abdomen, trying to stop her shaking. It was useless.
“You don’t talk much, though, do you?”
For the first time in her life, she wanted to talk. She wanted to ask why he was doing this, to keep him busy long enough to think up a way out, but her throat refused to make any sound more coherent then a tiny moan. She managed to stare back at him, trying to find the well of defiance that would keep her from sinking down into a shuddering, weeping ball the way she wanted to.
His smile broadened with manic delight. “I see. I wish I had more time. I’d love to play this game with you for a while, but I really must find the ones responsible for this tragedy.”
His words gave her pause. Could she have been wrong? Was he trying to avenge his partner’s family? She managed a small shake of her head. “They didn’t do it.” It came out a strained whisper.
“What do you care? Someone has to take the blame.”
Someone has to… She stared at him. The woman and child lying on the floor of the flat rose up in her mind. She had been right. The thwarted partner taking matters into his own hands. “You killed them.”
She thought he would deny it, wanted him to, really. She very much wanted him to give her some convincing proof that he was only a concerned friend and partner.
His eyes were wide and wild, at odds with his nonchalant tone. “Convinced of that, are you?”
“You were more interested in Macak than the dead woman and her child at the tower.” She muttered it under her breath and gave a slow nod. “Mr. Folesworth’s death would make you owner of Clockwork Enterprises and let you reopen weapon negotiation with the Lits.”
“You’re smart. Too bad you won’t live to put those brains to use.” He took a deep breath and let it out as if releasing a great burden. “I didn’t want to hurt them. Feels good to tell someone that. I hired some bludger to do it, but he didn’t show. I had to handle it myself.”
Hatchet-face. “He was nicked by the Lits.”
A flicker of surprise in his wild eyes and a bigger grin. “You’re the bird that set him free? I owe you my gratitude. He’s out there now, looking to finish the job for me. It’s only a matter of time.”
If there were any justice in the world, the two would end up cellmates. They deserved each other.
He traced the barrel tip along the side of her jaw then down her neck, coming to a stop at the hollow of her throat. He pressed it in hard. She jerked back into the wall to escape the pain of flesh pinched between bone and steel. When her mouth opened with a small cry, he hooked his thumb over her bottom teeth, yanking her head forward and jamming the barrel in harder still. She bit down, tasted blood. He didn’t flinch, didn’t let go. Another tear ran down her cheek and her stomach heaved against the force of her will as his blood trickled over her tongue.
He leaned close, cigarette-tainted breath filling her nose. “You need to start talking. Now.”
The pub door swung open with a sharp screech and Heldie stepped out. Joel let go of Maeko’s jaw and twisted to look over his shoulder. She shoved him with all the force of her terror. He slammed into the wall with a grunt and Heldie’s red-rimmed eyes popped wide. She pushed him back toward Maeko.
A small form dropped from above. A flash of brass. Macak wrapped his legs around the toff’s head, digging claws into his face, then sprang away. Taking advantage of his surprise, Maeko kicked out, hooking behind his knee with her foot, and swept it forward. He fell and she bolted, spitting to get the taste of his blood out of her mouth. Cold sweat broke out on her forehead and her stomach heaved again, threatening to interrupt her escape with a round of vomiting. She fought the sickness down, snatched up Macak and ran. A muffled bang sounded as she rounded the corner. The sound of Heldie slamming the door as she rushed back inside? She hoped so. You never looked back.
Her legs and lungs burned with the strain of more running, her reserves wearing down, but she forced herself on, sprinting as far and fast as she could with Macak clutched to her chest.
You were supposed to take care of him, Tomoe. Not that she minded his assistance, but how had he gotten back to the pub?
There were no sounds of pursuit, no gunshots. She didn’t stop until her lungs screamed for air, then she stumbled into a building, leaning against it to catch her breath. She spit again. The salty tang of his blood stuck to her tongue.
The sky had turned leaden gray, the color of the soot that belched out of the many factories. It smelled of soot too, and of cold wet streets and waste. She shivered, not as much from cold as from the knowledge, confirmed by the encounter she’d just escaped, that she was plunging down deeper into the mess with every passing minute. At what depth did death wait?
I should have listened to Chaff.
Macak squirmed in her arms and she set him down. She rubbed at the spot where Jacard had pushed the gun in, feeling the tenderness of bruised flesh. Why did she have to be right about him? He’d hired Hatchet-face to do the deed, but who else was in on it? Were there Lits in on it? Or had he taken the action on his own? If she listened to pirate propaganda, no Lits could be trusted, but she knew better. No one could be trusted.
A meow drew her attention.
She crouched down and stroked the cat’s head. “How’d you get away from Tomoe? Did you come back here looking for me? Troublemaker. You’d make a fine street rat.”
Macak accepted the attention for a second, then trotted a few feet away, looked back at her and meowed again.
“You want me to follow you?”
He took another couple steps then paused again and looked at her.
“Well, you are pointed the right direction.”
She wiped at her damp cheeks and began to walk, following the cat toward JAHF. Heldie’s imperfect directions put Mr. Folesworth hiding in one of the warehouses southeast of JAHF, near where Hatchet-face had taken her. She didn’t like going that way because she didn’t know the back streets around that section of the waterfront well and mostly because she feared the scarred murderer might be haunting the back alleys, especially if he were making headway on his own search for Mr. Folesworth. This time of night, there wouldn’t be many people around. Still, she had to go there to find Lucian Folesworth.
Naze?
The question came in her mother’s voice. Why? Why did she even want to find Lucian? What would she do if she found him? Did she care that much about Ash? Could he care about her? They were from such different worlds.
Could a street rat find a place in his world?
She could hear her own voice declaring, “I’m not a rat.” What am I then?
It started to rain then, the kind of drenching downpour that soaked a person through before they hardly realized it was coming down. The upside of that was that anyone trying to follow her would have trouble being discreet because the night streets cleared of all but a few stubborn or desperate folk. The downside was that she would have to work harder at hiding from Lit patrols with so few people out…and the pervasive cold began to creep in as clothes not yet completely dry from the last rain gradually became saturated.
Macak shook himself every few steps for a time then gave up, letting the downpour pummel him whenever he couldn’t find adequate overhang to shelter him.
Determined to get some good out of the situation, Maeko stopped, tipped her head back and opened her mouth. She let rain fall on her tongue and rinsed it around, cleansing the last traces of Joel’s blood away, then spit it out and resumed walking.
Passing in front of JAHF without notice made her feel clever until she remembered that they were understaffed. It was probably the least likely place to run into a patrol. Beyond that, she found herself following Macak along a path not much different from the one she had gone down with Hatchet-face, and the chill of the wet was enhanced by the icy prickle of remembered fear.
Why had she come out here alone? No one even knew where she was, which didn’t bode well if she got into trouble.
But who could she have told?
If she’d given in to Chaff’s questioning and told him what she meant to do, he would have tried to talk her out of it, perhaps going as far as using physical restraint. He’d done that once before and she hadn’t spoken to him for days afterward. At the very least, he would have had her followed despite his promise not to. All of which suddenly seemed like great reasons to have told him. He thought her crazy for not turning her back on the whole mess, regardless of what role she played in it, an assessment she was starting to agree with. As reckless as he could be sometimes, he knew when to back out of a situation, and she couldn’t imagine anyone she would rather have at her side right then.
Ash, assuming he would even speak to her after their last exchange, might have insisted on coming along had she told him and he didn’t have the right experience to thrive on the streets. Besides, his presence would have been a distraction. She would have worried about him and about what he thought of her. She didn’t have to worry about him now. With his father injured and not fit to travel, he would have gone back to her mother’s house in Chelsea and would probably stay there so long as he didn’t know where to find his brother.
Her mother was never an option.
At least alone, she didn’t have to worry about someone else getting hurt, except Macak, who at least had the sense to stay in the shadows as much as possible.
She spotted two Literati officers walking the streets and ducked into the shadows of a building to watch. Macak stood under her, taking advantage of the rain block she provided. The Lits went along in careful silence, peering down the many cross streets. They appeared to be looking for something or someone in particular rather than running a routine patrol.
Hatchet-face, perhaps?
She shuddered and moved out, following at a distance, her heartbeat speeding up with the effort of not making any sounds or movements that might draw attention.
They stopped at an intersection and she ducked back into deeper shadows to wait, chewing her abused lip. The one on the right made a silent gesture, indicating a direction and they continued their cautious search. Macak trotted to the same intersection and turned the opposite direction. She slipped along behind him with all the silence of the rat they named her.
She slowed then, looking around for the entrance, a door almost hidden behind a stack of old crates. The nearest gas-lamps at the corner did little to light her way in the rain. Several stacks of crates stood outside the buildings on both sides of the street, hulking forms in the darkness. The door she needed should be close by, but in the dark and with heavy drizzle obscuring her vision, she found it hard to see much of anything. Whoever the Lits were looking for, she doubted they would ever find them in this.
Macak’s tail went up and he started trotting toward a stack of crates across the street. Maeko watched him. Then the cat jumped, twisting around to face her for a second before bolting up the stack of crates and in through a cracked window.
Someone grabbed her from behind and pulled her back. She stifled a scream when something cold and sharp pressed against her throat. Even with the drenching rain, the rotting sour smell of the muscular body constricting around her made her stomach clench and her head spin.
“I told you I’d find you,” Hatchet-face crooned.
One arm snaked around her, pinning her arms to her sides and squeezing tight. He didn’t leave her enough freedom to maneuver, and the knife pressed into her neck made her reluctant to try.
His breath rasped harsh in her ear and his muscles trembled either with excitement or with the chill of the same drenching rain that soaked her. The blade slipped on her wet skin. The sudden sting of a small cut elicited a gasp from her and she pressed into him to get away from the weapon. His arm tightened, taking in slack.
She could scream. The Lits might be close enough still to hear. They weren’t going to give her another chance to escape, though. After the last slip, they would know better than to leave her unwatched in the cells. Besides, if Hatchet-face intended to kill her, screaming might encourage him to hurry up and finish the job.
If I live through this, I swear I’ll go straight to Whitechapel.
Her muscles continued to shake with cold, fear, and exhaustion. Her nerves buzzed with panic. The world around her tilted in her vision and it was taking more energy than she had left to come up with a calm coherent plan. Screaming might be the extent of her capabilities at this point. She had to try something.
“I met…” It was hard to speak with the blade against her throat. She managed to shift her neck a hair away. “I met Joel Jacard. I never took you for a Literati dog. You enjoy begging for his scraps?”
“I work for whoever pays,” Hatchet-face said. “Not too late for you to join me. Say the word and I’ll cut you in on the take. Otherwise, I’ll just cut you.” His tone said he would be content either way.
He adjusted the knife, cutting into her skin again. She flinched back harder against him, the revulsion of the contact bringing the burn of bile up in the back of her throat again. The officer’s he’d killed getting out of JAHF passed through her mind.
“What if his partner was willing to pay you more?”
Hatchet-face was quiet. The knife eased away from her throat a fraction. Maeko screamed. His free hand clamped on her upper arm with bruising force and the blade pressed in, digging into one of the prior shallow cuts. Tears sprung to her eyes and streamed down her cheeks.
Hatchet-face laughed. “Who’s going to help you here, rat?”
He didn’t know the officers were nearby. The knowledge provided a glimmer of dubious hope. She almost screamed again, but the press of the blade, a cool promise of more than just pain, increased enough that she didn’t dare do so much as swallow. Her shaking was bad enough now that it alone made the edge dig deeper.
A heavy thud made her flinch and Hatchet-face slumped, sliding to the ground. The blade cut a track across her neck and bit deep into her shoulder before it fell free of his hand. She spun around and grabbed her shoulder, holding the wound.
Standing over Hatchet-face and holding a heavy brass candelabra stained with blood was a man who, if one looked past his rain soaked ragged state, fit Em’s description of Lucian Folesworth in every detail down to the odd little clockwork ring he wore on his right hand. He had deep shadows under his eyes, the dark turning them into black hollows. His hair stuck out, a touch unkempt, though the rain was slicking it down, and his fine togs were dirty and rumpled, as if he’d been sleepi
ng in them.
Beside him stood Macak, looking quite pleased with himself.
The pain of the cut and a wave of overwhelming relief numbed her thoughts. Warm blood seeped between her fingers, mixing with the cold wet rain.
The man stared with wide eyes at the object in his hands as if it had assaulted Hatchet-face of its own malicious will. Wrenching his gaze away from the sinister candelabra, he looked at her, or at least at her covered shoulder. “You’re hurt.”
She looked at Hatchet-face, crumpled in a heap between them. A heavy flow of blood spread over the back of his head from a split in the flesh.
“Is he dead?” Her voice sounded strange, as if coming from across a great distance. The buildings still tilted around her.
The man drew in a sharp breath, alarmed by the notion, and looked down at the still figure. Just when she caught the slow rise and fall of Hatchet-face’s chest, her rescuer sighed with relief.
“No. He’s alive.”
“Give me that.” She held her bloodied hand out. “I’ll kill him.”
The man shook his head, drawing the candelabra in close to his chest. “Have you ever killed anyone?”
“No.” She knew she couldn’t kill anyone, even Hatchet-face, but the sharp stabbing pain in her shoulder fed her hatred for him.
“Then I’m not letting you start now.”
She clamped her hand back over the wound. “Who do you think you are, my father?”
“I’d be surprised if you know who your father is. I feel it is my obligation to step into that role for a decision with such grave consequences.”
The Girl and the Clockwork Cat (Entangled Teen) Page 17
