A Dark Heart (20 page)

Miss Bartholomew shuddered. “Why do you think I brought you lot with me
today?” she muttered.

Rowan studied their opponents on the rooftop, then turned to face the
main street, where the two thugs from the market stood watching them. “If at
all possible, I’d rather not test my strength against six leeches, Elijah,” he
murmured. “Brightlingsea was always the warrior, not me. Don’t do anything rash.”

Elijah didn’t dare promise anything of the sort as he followed Miss
Bartholomew to the entrance of the tavern. The door swung open, a billow of
tobacco smoke, stale ale, and urine assaulting his nostrils. Another leech blocked
the doorway, not even bothering to hide his fangs and eyes. Less well-blooded
than the others guarding the alley, the leech’s nose twitched. He focused too
intently on Miss Bartholomew, bloodlust flashing over his face as he licked his
lips crudely.

Rowan placed himself in front of Miss Bartholomew and dared the leech
with an arch of his brow to try anything. The leech took one look at Rowan,
recognized what he was, and visibly deflated, backing up a step. “Himself
weren’t expecting no others but the woman,” the leech sneered. He cast a glance
in Elijah’s direction. “And
yer
supposed to be dead, Inspector.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” he murmured. “Take me to O’Connor, and I can
explain my miraculous recovery to him personally.”

“He don’t want to talk to no one but the woman,” the leech insisted.

“Miss Bartholomew is in my custody. I’ll be doing the talking from now
on,” he said.

The leech cast a nervous glance over his shoulder, into the bowels of the
tavern, before turning back to them with a short, reluctantly nod. He held up a
hand when all three of them began to walk inside the tavern. “Only you,
Inspector, an’ if it’s all the same, you can leave yer weapon at the door,” he
said, nodding at his walking stick.

Elijah passed the walking stick to Rowan, who gave him a grim stare.
“Remember, nothing rash.”

He nodded and followed the leech down the stairs and into the dim, foul
smelling tavern. A few human patrons – ragged, beaten-down punters who
were no doubt near-permanent residents of the tavern – occupied the
tables near the bar, drinking furtively from their pints, trying very hard not
to notice the handful of beefy gangsters stationed throughout the room. It was
unlikely they knew precisely
what
they were sharing their tavern with,
but it didn’t take an Oxford don to sense the malevolence pouring off of
O’Connor’s men.

The twitchy leech led him to the far corner of the tavern and a row of
high-backed wooden booths. His heart started to pound and his palms began to
sweat as the top of an all-too-familiar head came into view through the miasma
of pipe smoke and alcohol fumes. The last time he’d glimpsed O’Connor had been
over fifteen years ago, the day he’d spotted him blithely walking down the
street in Whitechapel, hale and hearty and very much alive. It had been a
visceral shock then, since he’d thought he’d killed the man. His response this
time was no less intense, even though he’d had time to brace himself.

O’Connor’s thick, curly dark locks were just as he remembered them, and
so were his small, mean mud-colored eyes. But he looked remarkably different
from the man Elijah had known. Though he’d not physically aged a day since
Elijah was a lad, O’Connor clearly steeped himself in enough dissolution on a daily
basis to outpace any restorative effects the Bonding could have had. The
reddish broken veins of a heavy drinker stained his cheeks and bulbous nose,
and his belly had expanded, tugging his sloppy waistcoat to its limits. He was
even more disgusting than Elijah remembered.

Those brown eyes locked on his, and after a brief look of irritation, his
thick lips parted in a chilling smile. He still had that one chipped front
tooth, just like in Elijah’s nightmares. Elijah tried not to shudder, tried not
to betray a glimmer of emotion as he slid into the booth opposite the man. He
clutched his hands together beneath the table to still the tremor in them.

So close.
He’d not been so close since he’d run the bastard
through with a fire poker. He wanted to do so again. In less than a second, he
could have had the knife he had tucked into his waistcoat buried in O’Connor’s
eye, straight into that twisted brain of his. In less than a second, thirty
years of torment could finally end. Only the thought of the little girl
O’Connor held captive stayed his hand.

“Ah, Inspector Drexler, I believe,” O’Connor said in his broad,
deceptively cheerful Irish lilt. Elijah had always hated that voice. “We’ve not
met officially, but I am well acquainted with your work.”

Elijah didn’t bother answering. He
couldn’t
answer, for he was
inwardly reeling from the realization that O’Connor had
no idea who he was
.
There was absolutely no hint of recognition on O’Connor’s face as he studied
Elijah across the table. He’d watched O’Connor at the card table often enough
as a lad to realize the man was a poor player. He’d always given away his hand.
If he’d truly recognized Elijah, he would not have been able to hide it.

For years, Elijah had assumed that O’Connor had known who he was. At the
very least, he’d taken it for granted that O’Connor would recognize him when
they finally met face to face. It was … disconcerting to discover O’Connor’s
complete ignorance. Disconcerting and maddening. How could O’Connor not know
him, when Elijah knew him so well?

When Elijah said nothing, O’Connor lifted a brow and took a giant draught
of his ale, smacking his lips afterwards, causing Elijah to cringe inwardly.
He’d always hated that sound – that wet, sloppy, revolting sound.

“I heard about your little tiff with a few of my men the other night. You
look as if you’re feeling better. Much better.” O’Connor’s eyes narrowed. “I
thought I heard your maker was dead.”

Elijah smiled coldly. “You were misinformed.”

“What brings you to here today, Inspector?” he demanded a bit impatiently.

“So many things, Nicky,” he murmured.

Something hard and vicious flashed through O’Connor eyes. He’d always
hated it when someone called him that to his face. It filled Elijah with a
measure of satisfaction to annoy the man in that small way. He’d not had the
courage when he was a lad.

“I suppose that Bartholomew bitch is to blame for this visit of yours,”
O’Connor muttered.

“She is outside with the Earl of Llewellyn. She wishes to have her sister
back, and her father.”

O’Connor’s eyes widened at the mention of the Earl, and they widened
again at Elijah’s last words. He gave a short chuckle. “
Sister
? Is that
what the whore told you?” he scoffed. “The lass ain’t her
sister
, and
that’s for sure. And she’ll not be having her back for anything less than the
other one.”

“You mean the lad. What does he have to do with this business?”

O’Connor’s expression turned sly. “Ah, then you don’t know what old
Hubert did? Interesting.”

Elijah wanted to pound the smirk off of O’Connor’s fat mouth, but he
reined in his fraying temper. “Tell Ehrengard that you’ll not be getting the
lad, or the pages,” he growled. “Miss Bartholomew wants her family back. And
Brightlingsea wants his blueprints. I suggest you do what he wants, and stop
whatever you’re planning.”

“Or what?” the man sneered.

“Or Brightlingsea will come after you,” Elijah said. “It is only a matter
of time until he does. And trust me when I say you do
not
want him as an
enemy.”

O’Connor looked unimpressed. “The device has naught to do with me. It’s
all Ehrengard’s idea. I just do as I’m told.”

“That must rankle you,” Elijah said.

O’Connor gave him a dry look. “You’ve not met Ehrengard, have you?”

Elijah shook his head, though it was a lie. He’d met the man, all right,
and had the scar to prove it.

“Well, even I don’t cross a man like him, is all I’m saying. Brightlingsea
can do his worst. I’ll take my chances with Ehrengard,” O’Connor said stonily. “What’s
it to you anyway, Inspector? Seems to me you’re warning me off.”

Elijah shrugged. “I suppose I am. You’re mine to kill. Not
Brightlingsea’s. Not Ehrengard’s.”

O’Connor laughed, though Elijah could hear the nerves in the man’s voice.
“Bloodthirsty bastard, aren’t you? Wanted my arse for years, and I never have
understood why.”

Elijah grinned, though his soul felt twisted up inside. “I’ve a very good
reason, I assure you,” he murmured. “I’ll be happy to tell you, right before I
rip your fucking ballocks off and stuff them down your throat.”

O’Connor stilled, and his jaw hardened, unamused. “Such threats. What is
it you want, Inspector? What will it take for you to leave me and mine to our
business? Blunt? Whores?”

“You’re trying to bribe me?” Elijah asked, clenching his hands into
fists.

“You won’t be the first copper on my payroll.”

Elijah stood up, unable to take any more. “I’m not interested.”

O’Connor tensed visibly as Elijah loomed over him, his fangs descending,
his eyes pulsing with light. “If you kill me now, the girl won’t live past
sunset,” he hissed.

Elijah rolled his eyes. O’Connor had always been a coward. “If I was
going to kill you, I’d have done so before I had to listen to you talk. I will
inform Miss Bartholomew and Brightlingsea of your unwillingness to cooperate.”

At the mention of the Duke, O’Connor visibly winced.

“But know this,” Elijah leaned over the table, bracing his hands on its
sticky surface to keep from reaching out to strangle the man. He forced himself
to meet those cruel brown eyes. “I’m coming for you. I could care less about
Brightlingsea and Ehrengard. And if you have harmed one hair on that girl’s
head, you’ll be begging for me to kill you after I’m through with you.”

A tremor passed through O’Connor’s shoulders, betraying his unease, but
his eyes narrowed, searching Elijah’s face. “Who are you?” he demanded in a low
voice. “I know you, don’t I?”

Elijah straightened abruptly, away from O’Connor’s scrutiny. He didn’t
want the pimp identifying him now. But he knew it was too late. As he backed
away from the booth, he saw the flash of recognition finally pass over
O’Connor’s florid features.

“You!” O’Connor breathed, slack-jawed and wide-eyed. “You’re that damned
little molly-boy who tried to geld me.” He must have seen something in Elijah’s
expression that delighted him, because his shock was quickly replaced by
narrowed, calculating eyes and a sly grin. “What, you didn’t like getting poked
in the arse? Could have fooled me. The best lay I ever had.” And then he licked
his lips with exaggerated lasciviousness.

Elijah shuddered. He couldn’t help himself. This seemed to further
delight O’Connor, who laughed and tucked his hand beneath the table,
touching
himself.

Elijah turned away and fled the tavern, blind to his surroundings. He was
six years old again, trapped beneath Newgate Nick’s heaving, sweaty body, and
torn in two with pain. He felt the same unseeing terror, the aching
helplessness, that he had then. He burst into the alley, trying to breathe,
trying to focus on anything else but his horrible, choking memories.

Rowan was there, touching his shoulder. “Elijah, what is it?”

He jerked away savagely, unable to tolerate anyone touching him. He
spotted two of O’Connor’s leeches staring down at him from the rooftop opposite
him, and anger began to replace his terror. He needed to do
something
before he imploded. He geared up to leap to the rooftop, but he felt two
implacable arms encircle around him.

“No, wait!” cried a voice.

He shuddered and cried out.
God
.
It was O’Connor.
He was
going to hurt him again. He managed to shake off the embrace and rounded on his
attacker, lashing out violently. He wasn’t a helpless child anymore. He was a
damned monster as much as O’Connor ever was, and he’d make this end, once and
for all. He went for O’Connor’s throat with a snarl, pinning him to an
algae-covered brick wall, cursing him the whole way. He’d nearly managed to
sink his fangs deep when the man shoved him hard.

The shove sent him sailing through the air to the end of the alley. He
crashed through a rotted wood fence and rolled through the damp. He scrambled
to a crouch, ready to renew his attack, when Rowan’s voice cut through the haze
in his mind.

“Stop, Elijah. It’s me! It’s me!”

Elijah panted, trembling, as his vision cleared and the nightmare
receded. Rowan and a very shaken Hex Bartholomew stood at the other end of the
alley gaping at him.

Rowan approached him warily, his once-immaculate suit now looking the
worse for wear. Elijah winced as he realized who his attacker had been. Not
O’Connor after all.

“Damn it, Elijah, what was that?” Rowan demanded, tugging his waistcoat
back into place. “You nearly ripped my throat out.”

Elijah got to his feet unsteadily and scanned the rooftops. O’Connor’s
men watched him with the same wary expression Rowan was wearing. God, what he
wouldn’t give for a good fight right now.

Rowan read the direction of his thoughts. “Don’t even think about it.
I’ve counted at least a dozen leeches out there, not just the six. You’ll be
endangering us all.”

He couldn’t stop panting, couldn’t quell the rage flowing through his
veins, or the pain in his chest. “I want to kill him,” he cried. “I want to
kill all of them. I just want it to end!”

Rowan came near enough to clutch his shoulders, grounding him. This time
Elijah didn’t pull away. “Calm down, Elijah. O’Connor has Miss Bartholomew’s
sister. We can do nothing to jeopardize that child’s life.”

Elijah squeezed his eyes shut as guilt added another layer to his misery.
He’d nearly forgotten. How could he have forgotten the reason he’d not gelded
that bloody pederast when he’d had the chance? “I know. I know.”