Lois Greiman (13 page)

Gem screamed. The Irishman jumped back, and the giant dropped heavily to his knees, one arm dangling.

“No!” Gem had grabbed Poke’s hand and fallen to her own knees. “Please. ’E don’t know nothin’.”

Poke placed a well-manicured hand on her flame bright head. “How would you know that, Gemini?”

“Look at ’im,” she pleaded. “’E’s a dolt. Surely ’e is, elsewise ’e would defend ’isself.”

Poke shook his head sadly. “So young,” he said. “So sweet and naive. We do not know what he knows and what he does not. Therefore, I must find out, in order to protect my little cubs.” He slipped a hand under her jaw. “In order to protect you, sweet Gemini.”

“’E don’t know nothing,” she repeated, still grasping his fingers. “I’m sure of it. ’E’s bad ’urt already. Take ’im away. Dump ’im somewheres else. ’E won’t come back.”

Poke seemed to consider her words but finally shook his head again, slowly, as if the decision pained him. “I fear I cannot. Not without learning the truth, Mr. Oxford.”

“No!” Gem pleaded.

“I’ve got the chest,” William rasped, and though he couldn’t have said what he hoped to accomplish, he yanked the box out from under his coat.

“Ahhh.” Poke shifted his attention toward Will. “Well done, Mr. Slate. I am impressed indeed.”

“Let him go,” Will said, his heart beating heavy and hard as if he’d been climbing and could not quite draw enough breath. “And I’ll not demand a share.”

Poke raised a brow. “Demand?”

Hatred, raw and acidic, brewed in Will’s system, and that, too, was new. Hate, like love, demanded energy. Far better to draw back and let the world slide dizzily by. But it refused to do so and raucously crowded his senses.

“Ask,” he corrected. “Let the Highlander be, and I’ll ask for nothing from the chest.”

“Tell me, Mr. Slate, do you know what’s in it?”

He was glad now that he hadn’t opened it, for almost it seemed that this man could read his thoughts, could see through his fragile bravado to his trembling soul. “I can only assume it’s of some value.”

Poke laughed. “Aye, it is that, and you’d trade your share for this man you’ve not met?”

“I’m a thief,” William said, and shifted his gaze to Ox. “Not an animal.”

“Did you hear that, Mr. Oxford?” Poke asked.

“You callin’ me an animal?” The words were growled.

“Certainly not.” Caution warred with vengeance in Will’s gut and lost. “’Tis said animals need a reason to kill.”

“I got me a reason,” Ox said, and, circling the downed giant, approached Will, knife ready. “I got me plenty of reason.”

Poke chuckled fondly, then turned his attention back to the Scotsman. “I shall ask once again,” he said. “Why have you come?”

Silence echoed like a death knell in the room.

Poke shrugged and turned his palms up as if they were washed clean, as if he had no choice in the matter. “Gentlemen,” he said.

“No!” Will rasped, and stepped forward, but Ox lunged toward him, knife upthrust. Will parried with the chest. The blade slashed across it.

Something exploded. The world froze.

Will turned like a wooden marionette.

“Stop it!” Gem stood, feet braced wide, gun smoking. Her knuckles were white and her hands shook like poplar leaves as they gripped the weapon. “Stop it.”

The giant lay on his face, unmoving, his life’s blood seeping sedately into the floorboards.

“Why, Gemini,” Poke said, his tone amused, “you took my pistol.”

“I’ll kill ’em.” Her voice trembled, but her hands looked steadier now, and sharp color rode high on her cheeks. “I’ll kill the next man what moves.”

Poke smiled. “What if it’s the giant?”

She pursed her lips. “Don’t mock me, Master Poke,” she said. “I ain’t in the mood.”

He canted his head as if studying an interesting new species. “And what mood are you in, wee Gemini?”

“I know they ain’t of much value to you,” she said, “but you tell Ox and ’is cronies to back off, or I swear I’ll kill ’em all.”

“There are three to your one, lass.”

The gun wobbled. “Then I better get started.”

Not a soul breathed, then Poke chuckled and shook his head. “Ahh, Mr. Slate, look what you’ve done.” His eyes
were bright when he turned to Will. “Ever since your arrival the women have been wild with passion.” His grin was still in place. “However did you manage it? I must learn your trick.”

“She can’t get us all,” Ox rasped, shifting his knife to his left hand. “And I can do ’er first.”

“Mr. Oxford.” Poke’s tone was almost sorrowful, his expression disapproving as if he scolded a wayward schoolboy. “We do not kill women here in the Den.”

Ox growled something unintelligible.

“No,” Poke said, and smiled beauteously at the girl. “And neither do we stifle their passion. Very well.” He nodded once with paternal kindness. “I leave him in your gentle hands, young Gemini.”

She glanced toward the body on the floor but didn’t move, as if frozen in place, as if terrified to hope.

“Tell me you don’t mistrust me, lass.”

Her gaze flickered, and he sighed. “Go,” he said, and, reaching out, took the gun from her hand. “I’ll not forestall you.”

She released the pistol and stumbled toward the giant.

“What about ’im?” Oxford’s voice was raspy as he yanked his gaze from the Scotsman to Will.

“What indeed?” Poke mused.

“’E’s trouble.”

“Aren’t we all?”

“’E ain’t one of us.”

“Perhaps not, but it appears as if he has accomplished his mission.”

Will watched him carefully. Past Poke’s shoulder, he saw that the Highlander had not yet moved. His stomach clenched.

“Perhaps I misjudged you,” Poke was saying. “I confess, I expected you to fail.”

Will tried to focus on the matter at hand, at the slippery task of survival. “Did I disappoint you?” he asked.

“Not at all. Indeed, I am delighted.”

“Then perhaps you should call off your hounds.”

Poke laughed, sounding surprised. “First an animal, then a hound, Mr. Oxford. If I did not know better, I would think our Mr. Slate dislikes you.”

Oxford snarled a smile. His teeth were stained and his gums red. “Want to ’ave us a go, Mister Fancy Trousers?”

“I believe we already did that,” Will said, his tone remarkably steady. “Or would you have assistance this time?”

Ox stepped closer, his eyes darting sideways. “I don’t need me no ’elp for the likes o’ you.”

Will’s knees all but buckled. They were about to give out—along with his stomach, and he was going to pitch forward into his own vomit—seconds before he was hacked to pieces by this rabid mob. “That didn’t appear to be the case last time,” he intoned.

“Fuck—” Ox began, raising his blade, but Poke held up a hand.

“Cease,” he said. “I’ve had quite enough entertainment for one day.”

“I’ll cut your bloody ’eart—”

“Quit,” Poke said. His voice was deathly quiet. Yet somehow it shivered through the room. Not a soul moved. He smiled. “That’s better. Now, Mr. Slate, will you adjourn to my office with me?”

Will shifted his gaze to the downed Scotsman.

“I’m certain Gemini can take care of our reticent guest.”

“Yeah,” said one of Oxford’s companions. “And we’ll ’elp.”

Poke turned his sleepy eyes toward the man with the club. He was lanky and bowed, with an Adam’s apple that jumped like a nervous tree frog. “The interrogation is over, Mr. Black. You will allow our guest to rest now.”

“Yeah,” he said and chuckled as he tapped his club against his palm. “I’ll let ’im rest…in peace.”

Poke laughed. “Very good, Mr. Black. Very good,” he said, then raised the pistol and pulled the trigger.

The gun exploded. Gem screamed. Ox swore, and Black stared in wide-eyed disbelief. A neat circle of red marked his forehead, but the wall behind was not so tidy. Brains and blood were spattered across the cracked plaster like curdled milk from broken crockery. He made a gurgling sound in his throat. His club fell to the floor, and he lifted his hand, fingers bent like claws, and fell forward, toppling stiff-legged onto his face.

Poke turned to Will and lifted an elegant hand. “After you,” he said.

But William couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. A glob of fatty brain matter slid languidly down the wall to the floor.

“Mr. Slate,” Poke said, tilting his head slightly, “you look a bit green. Is your stomach still bothering you?”

He was going to be sick. His hands felt clammy and his throat tight.

“Perhaps you’d best give me the chest and get yourself some air.”

William turned numbly toward Poke. The gun was still in his hand, the smile still on his face.

“Mr. Slate?” he said, reaching out.

There was nothing Will could do but surrender the chest and stumble toward the door.

“H
e’s dead.” She croaked the words into the darkness like a lost child, knowing she should be silent, knowing she dare not care. “I killed him.”

“Hush. Hush now.” Peter’s voice was quiet, too, but not devastated, not mourning, not broken like a child’s. “Else someone will hear you.”

She knew he was right, knew she must be cautious. Emotion was weakness. Weakness was death. It was as simple as that. But…

“He’d done me no harm,” she whispered. Indeed, she had barely ever seen the man called Dag. He was but one of Poke’s guards—the numberless, faceless army that surrounded the Den, keeping her in as effectively as they kept others out. But she’d crushed his skull. Struck him with a scrap of timber before he could do the same to the stranger. She shivered. What had she become? A murderer. And for what? She’d never even met the giant. Didn’t even know his name.

And perhaps Dag had only been doing his job. Perhaps he had a family to feed. The idea clawed at her chest, scraping her heart. She lifted her eyes to Peter, finding his face in the darkness. “Did he…did he have children? Do you know?” she whispered, but Peter snorted.

“Dag? Naw. None that was human nohow. God’s bones, Princess, he was a bastard and worse. He would of killed you quick as a snap. You know that.”

“But he didn’t,” she whispered. “I’m still alive, and he’s lying back there with his skull—”

Peter grasped her arms, shaking her. “That’s cuz he was set on killing the other bloke, the giant. It’s not as if he was on his way to chapel, Princess.”

“I just…” She scowled at her hands. The darkness hid all manner of evil, but she knew her fingers were stained. She knew it, whether she could see it or not. She could feel it on her skin, on her damaged soul. Her stomach twisted. “The Scotsman,” she whispered, remembering foggily. “I don’t know him. I don’t…Perhaps he’s worse than Dag. Perhaps—”

“It don’t matter,” Peter hissed. “It don’t. You did what you did. What you thought was right. We just gotta keep it quiet now. Can you do that?”

Her hands were shaking. She stared at them. They never shook. Fear was fatal. Weakness was death. “So much blood,” she whispered.

“Princess!” Someone rushed at her from the darkness. She jumped, disoriented and terrified. But it was only a boy. How long would he live? No hope. She jerked at the memory of Slate’s words. “Princess, you ’urt?” the lad rasped, but his words made no sense to her fluttering mind.

Death was all around her, smothering her. Killing her.

“Get away,” she said, staring at boy, staring but not really seeing. “Go.”

“What’s the matter with ’er?” His eyes were round, his narrow body all but invisible in the heavy darkness.

“Nothing,” Peter said, “there ain’t nothing’ wrong. She’s just scared.”

“Scared,” the boy breathed.

She drew a slow, deep breath. Reality eased in a careful inch. It was Nim. Nimble Jack. The boy with the earnest eyes and the quick smile. The boy with no hope.

“Princess don’t never get scared,” he murmured.

“Get out,” she whispered, and gripped his jacket in fingers gone numb with cold and regret. “Go back, Nim.”

She could see him scowl in the darkness, could feel his confusion. “Back where?”

She pulled him close, and whispered, softer still, “Back where there’s hope.”

He leaned away, his eyes wider than ever, his voice raspy. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. This ’ere’s me ’ome.”

She tightened her grip. Her bloodstained fingers ached. “I can see the difference in you,” she whispered. “I felt it when you came back to us. Where were you?”

“I told you, I was in prison. But I escaped.”

“Do you want to die?” She pulled him closer still. The whites of his eyes gleamed in the darkness as he strained away. “Is that what you want? What you think you deserve?”

“Let go,” Peter said, his voice quiet. “Let go now, love. You’re scarin’ him.”

She realized in foggy dismay that her nails were digging like talons into the boy’s tattered jacket. She eased up a bit, and he pulled away and stepped beyond her reach.

“P’raps you should go, Nim,” Peter said.

The boy backed up a pace. “She gonna be all right?”

“Sure. Sure she is. Just, don’t tell nobody ’bout this.”

The boy shook his head, turned, and disappeared into the darkness. Like a wraith, like a ghost, like someone who had never been.

He would be dead soon. Dead and gone. Tears stung her eyes. “Don’t let it happen, Peter.”

“Don’t let what happen?” He was holding her arms, whether to soothe her or restrain her, she couldn’t say.

“Don’t let them kill him.”

“No.” He moved closer and slipped an arm around her shoulders. His body felt warm against hers. “’Course not.”

She shivered in his embrace. “So much death.”

“Dag woulda killed the other bloke,” Peter said. “And you. He woulda killed you, if it come to that. You did what needed doin’.”

What needed doing. She had no idea what that was. Perhaps once she had. Perhaps once life had made some sense. But no more. “Blood.” She held her hands out again, searching for the stains. “Pain.” She winced. “Fire.” She shivered again, feeling cold and hot in vicious cycles. “Death. And why?” She lifted her eyes to search for answers in his face. But there were none. Only sadness, only worry. Only…

“Peter.” Reaching up, she touched his cheek. “Are you crying?”

“No.” He cleared his throat, but her palm was wet when she drew it away. “I’m just…sorry is all.”

“Sorry?” she whispered.

“A lady like you…” He shrugged and eased away, dropping his arm from about her shoulders. “You should be dressed in fine clothes and fed proper, not…” He dropped his voice. “Not whorin’ for Poke.”

Lucidity returned like falling snowflakes, lighting cautiously in her mind. She drew a breath. “How old are you, Peter?”

He shrugged. “Near eight-and-ten I suspect.”

She smiled wistfully. Had she ever been so young, she wondered, and doubted it. For she felt ancient, old and
beaten and weary to the bone. “It’s not too late for you,” she murmured.

“For me to what?”

“To get out. Make a life. Maybe have a family.” Images, warm and happy slipped into her mind.

“Me?” He laughed. “Who’d marry me? I’m a—”

“You’re kind,” she said, and slipped her hand onto his cheek again. “Do you know how uncommon that is? True kindness?”

“
You’re
kind,” he countered, but she shook her head.

“Perhaps once.”

Reaching down, he drew her fingers into the warmth of his. “You could leave him, Princess. You could get away. Sail—”

But she covered his mouth with her fingers, hushing him before she weakened completely, before she fell from the sky forever. “You cannot worry about me, Peter. You must get out.”

His eyes were wide and earnest, but finally he lifted her hand and kissed her palm. “And leave you here cryin’?” he asked, and grinned.

“I’m not…” she began, but he touched her cheek and she felt the tears smear across her face.

“We can’t have no one see you like this. Our princess in tears.”

She shook her head, weak and fuzzy. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” His eyes were soft, his voice the same. “For savin’ the big bloke’s life?”

She exhaled carefully, grappling for strength. “For being weak.”

He laughed. “You ain’t weak.”

She shuddered. Another tear slipped down her cheek, burning with heat and silent regret. “Then I’m sorry for taking a life.”

“You did what you had—” He stopped, his eyes lifting.

“What is it?”

“I think I heard something.”

“What—”

“Who’s there?” queried a voice from the darkness.

She opened her mouth, but Peter placed a finger to his lips. “Stay,” he whispered. Dropping his hand, Peter sauntered into the night.

“It’s me,” he said, his voice jovial. “And who might you be?”

“What the ’ell you doin’ out ’ere?” The voice was deep, gruff with suspicion and self-supposed superiority.

“I’m ’avin’ me a smoke,” Peter said. “Or would be if I could find a damned match. You got one?”

“I thought I ’eard voices.”

Peter laughed. “I been known to talk to meself in lieu of a cigar. You want one?”

The guard was silent a moment, then grunted, seeming to find Peter harmless. “Why you ’ere?”

“I was just headin’ back to the Den. Want to come along?” He laughed. “Keep me safe?” His tone was marvelously casual.

From her place against the unforgiving wall, Shandria saw the brilliant flare of a match. It set the two faces in sharp relief for a moment, then yanked them back into darkness.

“You ’ear about Dag?” asked the guard.

She could smell the pungent scent of tobacco.

“What about ’im?”

“’E’s dead. Someone killed ’im. Clubbed ’im ’ard enough to scramble ’is brains.”

“No!” Peter said, and turned back toward the Den. The guard followed.

Their voices faded into the darkness. Shandria closed
her eyes. Quiet settled in, frightening and soothing at the same time.

“Why’d you do it?”

She stifled a scream and tried to scramble away, but her back struck the wall, and she cringed. The advancing shape stopped some yards away, watching her in silence, giving her time, giving her breathing space. She calmed herself with desperate speed.

“Dancer.” She grappled for control when she recognized him, but her mind clattered wildly on. How much had he heard? How much had he guessed? “Do you make a habit of sneaking about in the dark?”

“Doesn’t everyone?” he asked, and watched her in the ensuing silence. She struggled to read his mood, but she could barely guess her own.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, and found that despite everything, her voice was steady. What did that say of her?

He advanced another step. “I thought I’d ask the same of you,” he said. “You missed all the excitement.”

She locked her knees. “Excitement?”

“We had a visitor at the Den.”

“Did you?” She controlled her breathing with an effort and lifted her chin slightly, fighting for control.

He still watched her, unmoving, not speaking, as if gauging her every word. “A Highlander by the looks of him. Giant of a man.”

She forced a laugh. It sounded maniacal in the gritty darkness of the alley. “I didn’t think you the type to make giants out of shadows, Dancer.”

“Who was he?”

“How would I…” she began, but the weight of his words crashed in, nearly sending her to her knees. “
Was?
” She felt her legs tremble and splayed her hands
against the cracked plaster behind her. It bit into her fingers, and she pushed harder, revived by the bite of pain.

“Oxford and his cronies had already gotten to him before I arrived,” he said.

Her head felt light, her stomach knotted. She had been sure when she’d first seen the Scotsman that he was just passing through, a lost vagabond whom she would never again lay eyes on. She had been certain she could remain hidden in the shadows, watching, but then Dag had appeared and she had been forced to do something.

“What was he to you?”

She shook her head, trying to think, to maintain, to survive. “I don’t know what—”

“God damn it!” he snarled, and lurched forward.

She forced herself to straighten against the wall, to remain where she was, but inside she was curling into herself, sobbing hopelessly, begging for mercy.

His fingers snatched her arms. “I know.” His words were softer now. “I heard your conversation with Peter.”

Dear God! Oh dear God! He would tell Poke, then it would all be over. But not quickly. Not easily, and long before she could right the wrongs that surrounded her. And yet it was not in her simply to crumble. She could not, no matter how much she longed to. “Did you?” she asked and met his eyes as she drew a slow breath. It seemed to burn her lungs. “So you’re a thief
and
an eavesdropper, Dancer?”

His face was close to hers. “Why did you try to save him?”

“I didn’t—”

“Why?” he growled, and tightened his grip painfully on her arms.

She closed her eyes, fighting with everything she had, but it wasn’t enough. “Is he dead?” she whispered.

“Why would you care?”

“I wouldn’t. I—”

He shook her again.

She squeezed her eyes shut and held back the tears. “I don’t know him. I swear it,” she whispered.

The night went silent. His hands loosened on her arms. “Then why did you kill the guard?”

“The giant, he seemed…” Not harmless. Hardly that. “He seemed a good man.”

“And the guard was not.”

She didn’t attempt to stifle her chuckle. “He worked for Poke.”

He watched her. “As do you,” he intoned. “Indeed, you share his bed.”

She stared at him as pain blistered through her heart, but what did she care what he thought? Who was he to judge her? Who was he at all? “Yes,” she said, her voice finally steady. “That I do.”

She waited for his recrimination, but he said nothing. The silence bore down on her. His eyes were sharp in the darkness. He wore his soul there, deep within, but just visible if one knew what to look for. She glanced away, not wanting to see.

“Why?” he asked.

“So many questions, Dancer. I can’t hardly keep track—”

“Why do you stay with him?”

“Do you not think him attractive?” she asked, and pulled her arms from his grip.

He said nothing. Silence stretched into eternity. She shifted her gaze back to his.

“You hide in the darkness,” he said, his voice as quiet as the night, “and cry over a man you don’t care about; but when Poke threatens you, you shed not a single tear.”
Quiet again, eating away at her. “You don’t even ask for mercy. Why?”

She tried to turn away, but his eyes held her captive and horrid honesty knocked insistently at her mind. “What good do you think it would do me, Dancer? Do you think he would set me free? Kiss away the pain?” She shuddered.

He scowled, watching her, too closely, too damned close.

“What good does it do to cry here?” he asked.

She raised her chin, struggling madly. “None,” she admitted. “None at all. So if you’ll excuse me…”