Heart of Iron (London Steampunk #2)

Heart of Iron (London Steampunk #2) Page 2

But the moment of closeness…

This was all he’d ever have of that.

He ground his teeth and tried to deny the pull. Twice as harsh after three years of abstinence. And just as confusing.

He didn’t feel this way with females.

Or he never had. Until Lena walked into his life.

And I’m not thinkin’ of her. Will bit his lip, trying to ignore the flush of pleasure that thought brought. Dark hair, dark eyes, that flirtatious little smile that drove him insane… His groin tightened and he growled, head bowed as the sensation against his wrist increased.

It was over all too quickly. Will collapsed onto his backside, clutching his wrist against his chest. The skin throbbed, still feeling the imprint of Blade’s mouth. Heat flushed through the ragged edges of the knife cut—his loupe virus, rapidly healing the wound. It would be gone by the end of the hour, barely a pink pucker against his swarthy skin.

Blade gasped, drawing his feet up. His eyes blazed with black fire, and he grabbed the handle of the hilt and ground his teeth together. Crying out, he drew it out of his chest and collapsed back on the roof, panting for breath.

The wound was still bleeding, but sluggishly now. With his blood flushing through Blade’s system, there was a strong chance he’d pull through. Verwulfen blood was thrice as potent as a human’s.

“Honoria’ll…kill me…” Blade gasped.

That’s if he survived. Will took one look at the ashen color of his face and looked away swiftly. Damage to the heart was always dangerous. He had to get him back to the warren, where Honoria, with her medical background, might be able to help.

Rigging up a makeshift bandage, he held his coat in place to suppress the bleeding and then tied the ends of his shirt off. “There. That’ll hold until we get you home.” Sliding his arm under Blade’s shoulder, he helped him to sit.

Blade gasped, clutching at his chest. The sight tore another shaft of ice through Will’s gut. Followed by a hot stab of anger. Three years ago Blade would’ve laughed this off. He was no longer standing on the edge of the Fade—when the craving virus finally overtook a blue blood and he turned into something else, something worse—but for a moment, Will didn’t know if that was any better.

“Can you stand?”

Blade struggled to his feet, his eyes glassy with pain.

“You have to hold on,” Will warned, bending and easing the other man over his shoulder. “I’m goin’ to get you home. To Honoria. She’ll know what to do. Just you hold on.”

Honoria eased the blankets higher and then turned the knob on the gas lamp lower. Light muted, casting a variety of shadows across the room as Blade slept. Will paced in front of the fire, his wrist tingling as the skin healed.

Honoria washed her hands, moving away from the bed. Her face was composed, but deep shadows lingered in the hollows beneath her reddened eyes. As she turned, the light caught her profile and for a moment Will stopped breathing, seeing another’s face in the shadows. Then she looked up, arching a brow at him and the image was gone. She shared the same dark eyes and rich mahogany hair as her sister, but Lena’s face was prettier and she was a good inch or two shorter than Honoria.

Just the ghost of her image lingered, haunting him.

A quick jerk of the head meant Honoria wanted to talk to him. Outside.

Shooting Blade one last look, he strode to the door. An old shirt of Blade’s hung loosely over his chest. He couldn’t quite button it, and the sleeves stretched taut over his arms. Foolishness. But he wasn’t knocking on Rip’s door—Blade’s other lieutenant—and asking for a shirt that might have a better chance at fitting him.

Honoria eased the door closed. “I think he’ll be fine. The bleeding’s stopped and I’ll get some more blood into him. Thank you for bringing him home to me.”

Will nodded. He never had much to say to her. They’d tried, after she first married Blade, to find some common ground between them. But he knew what she thought of him—had overheard it in quite explicit detail the night before he moved out of the warren.

Dangerous.

Unpredictable.

A threat to her sister.

Sometimes he wasn’t sure if she hadn’t been half right.

Her gaze dropped to his wrist. “Do you need tending—?”

“It’ll heal.”

“Something to eat then? There’s stew…in the kitchen. I’ll just—”

“Ain’t hungry.” He nodded his leave of her, then turned on his heel. The back of his neck was itching.

“Will. Please.”

He stopped moving and glanced back over his shoulder.

“You know you can come home now. It breaks his heart that you’re living on your own. And you know…she’s not here anymore either.”

Honoria would never understand. He shook his head. “She weren’t the reason I left,” he growled. Not the only one anyway.

Then he turned and stalked out into the darkness, feeling her eyes on his back the entire way.

No point going home.

Will stared at the fire in the distance, still raging out of control. Something bothered him about the attack. The mysterious device. The flamethrower. The silver knife. Those men had been prepared to face a blue blood and incapacitate them.

He breathed deeply through his nose. It was hard to pick up a scent trail with the overwhelming cling of ash in the air but not impossible. Moving east, he loped across the rooftops, his unease growing as the men circled back toward the north. Toward Whitechapel.

Just before the wall that circled the rookery, they dropped off the rooftops and disappeared into an alley. Will knew the area well. It was a dead end.

He followed them in and stared at the brick wall at the back of it. The ripe scents of the rookery spilled over into the surrounding streets. He wrinkled up his nose and looked around. There was a grate in the cobbles, but surely they wouldn’t have gone down. That led to the sewers and from there into the notorious sprawl of Undertown. Weren’t nothing living there now, only ghosts and whispers. People had tried to move back in once the vampire that had slaughtered its residents was killed, but something drove them back out.

If they came back at all.

All that space, the caverns and homes carved into the old underground tunnel scheme. Empty. Or was it?

Will hauled the grate out of the cobbles and dropped down into the dark, landing lightly on the pads of his feet. His nose told him there was nothing there. Nothing but refuse and the odd rat skittering away.

Without the ash or a breeze, it was easier to follow the trail. The men weren’t moving fast, probably thinking they were safe from the Echelon and their metal army down here. Will shook his head. Dead men walking. The Echelon didn’t just rely on the metaljackets. Give them an hour and the tunnels would be full of Nighthawks, the infamous guild of trackers that did most of the thief-taking in the city. Rogue blue bloods who could smell almost as well as he could and track a shadow over stone, or so it was said.

He’d have to hurry if he wanted to get his hands on them first.

He waded into the sluggish stream, his nose almost shutting down. He’d smelled worse things—the vampire sprang to mind—but right now they were only a distant memory. It was the curse of heightened senses. He could smell everything, from a woman’s natural musk to the slight hint of poison in a cup; he could see for miles and if he listened, he could hear things people didn’t want him to hear.

Like stealthy footsteps, a few hundred yards in front of him.

Will made no sound as he stalked them. Whispers echoed and then a light appeared. A shuttered smuggler’s lantern by the look of it.

“Got him,” the short, fat one crowed. “Right in the chest. Won’t be so high-and-mighty now, will he?”

Will’s eyes narrowed.

“Shut up,” the taller shadow snarled. The acrid scent of fear-sweat washed off him. “Didn’t you see his bloody face?”

A shrug. The short man sloshed through the water carelessly. “All looks the same to me. Pasty-faced vultures.”

“It was him,” the other man replied with a shudder. “The devil himself!”

“The Devil of Whitechapel?” The shorter man’s face stretched in a delighted grin. “Cor, Freddie! All them years and the Echelon themselves ain’t been able to get near him! And you done him in! You’re famous now!”

“I’m bloody dead, is what I am,” Freddie snapped back. “If that were the devil, then you know who the other one was!”

Will took another step forward, drawing the blade at his side. He smiled. That’s right, you son of a bitch. You’re in trouble now.

“Who?”

“The Beast,” Will hissed, his voice echoing out of the darkness.

Freddie screamed and swung the lantern.

Will smashed it aside and it hit the water and hissed out. Darkness fell like a theatre curtain, but he was already moving, driving his fist up under the whistling swing of an arm and connecting with a pair of ribs. Bone snapped and then Freddie was down with a gurgling cry, splashing under the water.

Will stilled, listening to the frantic sound of breathing.

“Freddie?” the fat man whispered. He fumbled for the sides of the sewer, his breath high-pitched and panting.

Will took a slow step forward, water sloshing around his knees.

“Oh, God.” The fat man tried to run. “Oh, God, no! I didn’t have naught to do with it! It were Freddie! Leave me alone!”

Will grabbed his cloak and hauled him back. He landed with a splash, his legs kicking in the sewer water as he squealed like a downed pig. Fisting the cloak, Will wrapped it around the fat man’s throat and then hauled him up in a choking grip.

“Who are you? Who do you work for?”

The fat man kicked, making strangled sounds. Will held him long enough for the kicking to falter, then dropped him in the water.

Movement behind him. He lashed out, catching the heavy metal tube as Freddie swung it and followed through with a punch. Blood sprayed as his fist connected with Freddie’s nose. The coppery tang of it flavored the air, and Freddie screamed and fell back into the water.

“Jaysus.” The fat man sobbed, his throat hoarse.

Will caught him up by the coat and slammed him back against the slimy walls. He slid his hand into the man’s coat, rifling his pockets. A switchblade the idiot was too dumb to draw, a piece of waxed paper, and an odd, finger-shaped device. Another one of those noisemakers. He pocketed both it and the piece of paper.

“Consider yourself lucky he ain’t dead.” The thought set off the red-hot flare of rage in his head, and he slammed the fat man against the wall. Then again.

“Please, please don’t kill me!”

Careful, a little voice warned. Don’t lose control.

Will growled, the sound echoing inhumanly through his throat. They already thought him a beast. Why the hell shouldn’t he rip them apart? They’d put a knife in Blade. Nobody touched his adopted family and lived to tell of it.

Shouts echoed through the tunnels. Will’s head shot up and he clenched his fist. Nighthawks. On the trail already, damn it.

He leaned closer and sniffed the air beside the man’s ear. “Got your scent now,” he whispered. “You ever come near Whitechapel again and I’ll come for you. I’ll rip you apart, one piece at a time…and feed it to you. You don’t want that, do you?”

The stench of urine filled the air and the man sobbed his agreement. Will dropped him with a splash then turned on his heel.

The Nighthawks would smell him, but they wouldn’t catch him. This was Will’s turf here, and they wouldn’t dare cross the wall circling Whitechapel to hunt him. Time to get the hell out of here. He gave Freddie and his fat friend one last hungry look, then turned and fled into the darkness.

They’d remember his threat. That was all that mattered.

Will tossed the shirt away with a wet slap and then started on the buttons of his breeches. Both stunk from the tunnels, but he felt a damned sight better. The tension between his shoulders eased with every blow he’d dealt.

He’d wanted blood. Wanted to kill. But sometimes it was best to leave them alive. Witnesses. Men who’d spread the stories in hushed tones in local alehouses, warning others not to risk the wrath of Whitechapel’s Beast. It was all part of the legend he was carefully cultivating. A lesson he’d learned from Blade.

Fear was often the best defense.

The air was chilly as he kicked off the rest of his clothes and strode for the washbasin. He usually didn’t notice the cold, but he’d been wet for hours and his stomach was empty. Scrubbing the stink off himself, he draped a blanket around his hips and then turned toward the kitchen. There was bread and cheese left over, and a jug of clean water.