Blood Kin (5 page)

“The death of their lord is somewhat beyond the level of a squabble.”

“Still.” I rolled my shoulders again, not sure what I was trying to say. “This is different.”

“Different, how exactly?”

“It feels like . . . more.”

“More?”

“Purposeful. These aren’t random fights breaking out.”

“You think they’re organized?”

“They’re not forming ranks and taking up arms. But they are organizing. We were ambushed tonight. By Beasts with the same coloring as the one sent to attack Lily and Simon. That’s not something I’m willing to write off as a coincidence. Things should be calming down now that everyone can see the Blood aren’t imploding. But they’re getting worse.”

“And why is that, do you think?”

That was the question that had been playing on my mind. “I’m not sure, sir. But, if I had to guess, I would say that someone is trying to stir up trouble. This close to the treaty negotiations, that makes me nervous. Especially when you add in a Beast attacking Simon and Lily.” Father Cho didn’t know the true secret of the value of Lily’s blood to a vampire—that drinking wraith blood gave them wraithlike powers, including the ability to shadow and pass unseen. Meaning they could go anywhere and get to anyone. But he knew Simon was a target.

Father Cho’s brown eyes were intent. “I have a healthy respect for your instincts, Guy. But what good does stirring up trouble do? It would take more than a few brawls to derail the negotiations.”

“A citywide riot might do it, though. Or someone doing something that breaks the treaty.”

“You think someone is trying to disrupt the negotiations? Or stop them?”

I nodded unhappily. “We both know there are factions within the Night World and the Veiled World who’d be happy with a return to the old ways, sir. And that wouldn’t be good.”

“I agree. But stopping it is difficult when we lack proof that anything is even happening. You said yourself it’s hard enough for us to work out where to patrol.”

“We need better information,” I said, half to myself. We were drifting off-topic. I was here to see to Simon and Lily’s safety. “People are at risk.” I leaned forward. Best to get my request over with. “Sir, I’m requesting—”

He cut me off with a gesture. “No.”

“No?”

“You were going to ask for protection for Simon and Lily, weren’t you?”

I nodded, jaw clenched.

“Then no. They are welcome, of course, to stay in here in the Brother House, but we can’t afford the men for a separate detail, Guy. You know that.”

“But—”

“I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “I can’t treat your family any differently than anyone else’s.”

“Even though they—”

“Yes. I won’t say that killing Lucius wasn’t a good thing, but we’re paying the price now.”

“Due respect, sir, but Simon and Lily are a special case. They’re being specifically targeted. Whatever Lucius was doing, we haven’t seen the end of it. And whoever was working with him has to want Lily and Simon out of the way.” Or under their control. That was the alternative I didn’t want to let myself think about.

“I can’t disagree, Guy.” He spread his hands. “But I don’t have the men. Unless—”

“Sir?” I didn’t like the sudden speculative gleam in his eyes.

“You said it yourself, Guy. We need better information. If we had that, we could be more focused and I might be able to spare a detail. Lily is uniquely suited to—”

It was my turn to cut the conversation short. This was not the way I’d wanted this to go. “No,” I said flatly. “No. I’m not asking her to put her life on the line. She’s paid enough.”

“But you want us to put our lives on the line for her.”

“That’s what we do, sir.”

He looked grim. “I’m sorry. My decision stands. As long as we’re stretched so thin, I can’t spare anybody.”

“I see.” There was no point arguing. He’d made up his mind. Which left Lily and Simon exposed if I couldn’t convince them to move to the Brother House. Short of drugging them and dragging them here by force, I didn’t like my chances.

Hell’s balls. I couldn’t leave them at risk. I wouldn’t lose any more of my family to the Night World. Father Cho wanted information. I was going to find a way to get it.

Chapter Three

HOLLY

The
familiar churn of emotion tightened my stomach when I stepped down from the hackney.

Breathe, Holly girl,
I reminded myself as I smoothed my skirts and ran a hand over my hair. I looked like any respectable human girl. As far as the staff in the building in front of me knew, I
was
a respectable human girl.

The dutiful daughter visiting her mother.

That part was true.

I hoped they wouldn’t ever find out the rest of my story.

The bell by the door made a genteel chime that had always made my teeth grit. It was answered promptly, as usual, and soon enough I was being ushered through to my mother’s room.

“How is she?” I asked before the nurse opened the door.

The nurse’s brown eyes were sympathetic. “About the same as usual, Miss Everton.” She pushed the door open and I took a deep breath before forcing my lips into a smile as I followed her into the room.

“Good morning, Mama,” I said.

My mother sat by the window, in a pretty pale green robe, staring out the window. She didn’t turn at my greeting. I hid the pang of hurt and continued on into the room, waving the nurse away.

I picked up the hairbrush from the tall chest of drawers that sat against the wall and crossed the room. “It’s a pretty day, isn’t it?” I said softly.

It was indeed. The chill of the night before had dissipated and the sky was blue, promising warmth, if not heat, later in the day. Still, as I watched my mother, I felt colder than I’d felt back on the rooftop in Seven Harbors.

Nothing new in that. I hated seeing my mother like this. Lost in her own world. Ruined and old before her time, thanks to the gin she’d turned to increasingly over the years. The sanatorium had managed to wean her from that habit, but they hadn’t been able to give me my young, beautiful mother back. No, instead, I had a shell, skin too lined and body too worn, housing a mind that had broken with reality quite some time ago. Occasionally my mother knew who I was, but apparently today wasn’t to be one of those times.

I hated it and I knew who was to blame, but for now I locked away the emotion and busied myself with brushing my mother’s hair. Still silver blond and long—I refused to let the sanatorium cut it—it was the one thing that still matched my memories.

As I brushed, I spoke quietly, telling my mother tales of the life “Miss Everton” supposedly led. A neat, respectable life, working for a modiste and renting a small flat in Bodwell, one of the human boroughs a few miles from Temple Heights where the sanatorium was located.

It was a pretty picture and sometimes I wished I really was that girl, working quietly in a world free from intrigue and violence.

Though I’d probably be bored stupid within days. Nothing ever really happened here. The “doctor” who ran the place wasn’t a healer . . . the sanatorium was a place for those the healers couldn’t really help, those whose minds rather than bodies were broken. Regardless, he was well trained and his staff was kind. It was the best I could do for my mother—give her a peaceful place to live out her days.

I intended to keep her here, which was why, as far as the sanatorium was concerned, I was Miss Everton and my mother was a widow who’d never gotten over her lost husband. A twisted version of the truth really.

I wasn’t ashamed of my past, but this was not the sort of place that would accept a failed whore and her half-Fae bastard daughter as suitable clientele. So Miss Everton I would be.

As long as my mother needed me to be.

* * *

The lingering sadness of my morning’s visit had almost lifted when I reached the door of my salon around noon. I’d occupied myself on the hackney ride back trying to remind myself of the good news I had to share. My charms had decanted enough information to keep my client happy the previous evening, plus my trip to the Blood Assembly to bring her said information had been blessedly uneventful. On top of that the costume mistress at the Gilt had commissioned not one but three dresses for the new diva.

The last would be welcome news to Regina.

“Reggie,” I called as I let myself in, “I have news. Is there tea?” I locked the door behind me. The salon wasn’t open today.

“I’m in the workroom,” Reggie replied, voice slightly muffled. I made my way across the tiny reception room where we met our clientele and pushed past the green velvet curtain into the back room.

Regina Foss—Reggie to me—stood regarding the half-finished dress on the mannequin in the center of the room with a considering frown. Her lips were pressed around several glass-topped pins.

“Tea?” I repeated, and she waved a hand toward the sideboard where a pot sat steaming gently. I poured myself a cup gratefully. The kitchen at the Swallow didn’t really come to life until midday. Between six and midday, one was left to the tender mercies of the assistant cook. Who invariably offered stewed tea and burned coffee. I hadn’t wanted to stop anywhere on the way to Bodwell, in case I was late for Mama.

Reggie, on the other hand, made perfect tea, hot and strong.

And sweet, after I stirred in the sugar she wrinkled her nose at. She should’ve been the one with Fae heritage. The Fae specialized in complicated herbal brews they wouldn’t dream of sullying with sugar. But her mother and unknown father were both human. The strange thing was, Reggie, blond, blue-eyed, and sweet-faced, resembled my mother far more than I did. My father had stamped his connection to me clearly. A fact I resented each time I looked in the mirror.

I sipped tea and waited for Reggie to finish making whatever decision she was contemplating. Finally she altered the width of a pleat before placing her pins. When she straightened, pushing wisps of hair back into her neatly coiled bun, I had nearly finished my cup and was considering a second.

Reggie studied the gown for a moment before giving a pleased nod and turning her attention to me with a smile. There were shadows under her eyes, and her plain navy blue dress looked somewhat crumpled.

“Did you work through the night again?” Reggie tended to lose track of time when she was in the throes of creation.

She shook her head. “I got some sleep.” Her eyes flicked guiltily to the long, low sofa against the wall. It was intended for our customers to use during fittings. More often than not it was where Reggie catnapped during her all-nighters.

“How much sleep?” Probably no more than me, but I needed less sleep than a human. “Do I have to start sending someone to escort you home again?” I shook my head at her, not entirely joking. “You know you don’t need to work so hard. We’re doing well.”

“I wanted to finish this. Mrs. Bailey is always so pleased when we finish early.”

So she should be, the old shrew. Mrs. Bailey was married to the man who owned half of Lower Watt. She did her best to spend the money he made and was one of our best customers, but each new order was a test of Reggie’s patience as trims and colors and designs were debated and fussed with endlessly. Which was why I largely let Reggie deal with our customers. I probably would’ve brained the old bat with the teapot by now.

“Well, make sure you rest this afternoon,” I said. “We have a new commission from the Gilt.” I rummaged in my carpetbag for my notebook.

I’d finally captured Reggie’s interest. She turned away from the mannequin, joining me at the worktable. I winced a little as I sat down. I’d stiffened up in the ride back from Temple Heights. I felt as though I’d, well, fallen off a building. Two bands of livid purple across my upper and lower back had greeted me in the mirror this morning and I ached all over. Some of the bruises had darker patches in perfect circles.

Next time I fell off a building, I would make sure I was caught by someone wearing something far more comfortable than a mail shirt. Or land on a haystack. Of course, the more sensible thing to do would be not to fall off the building at all. Even if that meant missing out on being saved by handsome knights.

“Holly?” Reggie’s voice dragged my attention back to reality. “Are you well?”

I blinked, then nodded. “Yes, perfectly, thank you.” I spread the notebook open, showing her my sketches. “These are for the new production.
The Courtesan’s Lament
.”

Reggie reached for the drawings. “These are for the courtesan?”

“Right. First act, white before she’s seduced. Then the purple for the middle and red for the final act.” The wardrobe mistress had given me a quick outline of the story. Typical theatrical rubbish, romanticizing life. Being a courtesan was hard, and falling from that position was harder still. It wasn’t all beautiful gowns and handsome lovers.

“And the hero?” Reggie asked.

“There are two. A mysterious Beast and the faithful human swain. Three guesses as to how that ends.”

“With tears and beautiful singing as one dies?”

I nodded.

Reggie snorted. We had much the same opinion about the appeal of operatic plots. Like me, Reggie was the daughter of a former employee of the Dove. Like me, she’d pulled herself up from that life to quasi respectability. Or maybe near respectability, in her case. After all, she was truly a modiste, not a thief and a spy who mostly pretended to be a modiste.

Though, in fact, our arrangement was a partnership. I drew designs and Reggie executed them, generally improving the dresses in the process. I gave her the lion’s share of our income, though she didn’t currently know that. My other activities brought me enough income to pay my mother’s expenses and mine and I wanted Reggie to have some security if anything ever happened to me. Along with Fen, she was one of my closest friends. I didn’t want any of us ending up like our mothers.

“Did Madame Petrovich give you the new diva’s measurements?”

“Of course.” I nodded at the notebook. “They’re on the next page. The diva will deign to be fitted at the Gilt once you’ve done the muslins.”

“I’m sure that will be delightful,” Reggie said. She copied down the measurements. “They might take a while . . . that third one is complicated with the train and the cloak and all that beading. Let me make more tea and you can tell me all about last night.”

For a horrible moment I thought she meant the Templar and the roof, but then I realized she meant my interview with Madame Petrovich. I summoned a smile. “Excellent plan.”

We spent another hour or so going over the designs, me explaining my ideas while Reggie suggested alterations and additions. As I stood to make yet another pot of tea, there was a rattling of the doorknob and a voice piped, “’ullo in there. Looking for Miss Evendale.”

I frowned slightly. Most of my customers were women and they, apart from a select few, tended to come here rather than summon me. The kinds of people who looked for the Owl knew to go through the Swallow. So who was looking for me?

I stuck my head through the curtain. A small boy peered through the glass, his expression brightening as he spotted me. Even curiouser. He didn’t look like a servant, more like one of the street rats who made a living overcharging anyone they could pester or con into giving them small jobs and errands.

“You Miss Evendale?” he yelled in a squeaky bellow.

I walked over and unlocked the door. The boy stepped back as I opened it a crack. “I can get a message to her,” I said, not wanting to confirm my identity.

“I were told only to give this to Miss Evendale herself.” He waved an envelope at me and I caught sight of a familiar seal. Damn.

I held out my hand for the envelope. “I’m Miss Evendale.”

He looked suspiciously at me from under the peak of his grubby cap, for a moment reminding me of the Templar, then grudgingly handed me the envelope.

“Hold on a moment,” I said, and went to get a tip. Street rat he might be, but I didn’t like to think of him going hungry.

The boy’s eyes widened gratefully when he took the shilling. “Any reply, miss?”

“No. Not now.”

He shrugged and left. I locked the door again and carried the envelope into the workroom, laying it on the table beside my notebook. I sat regarding it with disfavor, wondering whether I should have pretended ignorance of Miss Evendale. But the one who’d written this note would find me in the end.

He always did.

Reggie lifted her head from the notes she was making on the diva’s dresses. “Is something wrong?”

I sighed. “No. An errand to run, is all.”

“Are you sure? You look pale.”

“Just tired,” I fibbed. “It was a late night last night by the time I was done at the Gilt. And Mama was having a bad morning.”

She nodded, eyes full of sympathy, and turned back to her notes. She didn’t pry, Reggie. She listened if I wanted to talk, but she didn’t demand information. It was one of the reasons I liked her so much.

I gathered up my things. “I’ll come back after, if I can. Otherwise, tomorrow. Make sure you get some rest.”

She lifted her eyes once more and smiled. “I’ll be here.”

I blew her a kiss and left. It was nearly noon now and the streets of Gillygate were bustling. As border boroughs went, Gillygate was the least disreputable. Mostly human poor rather than Night Worlders and its shared border with Bellefleurs along the western edge, where the cathedral and the Templar Brother House were, tended to keep things more peaceful than elsewhere.