Page 38 of Ashes To Ashes
"It was a shorter, faster way."
Seth threw his hands in the air. "You try," he said to Gus. "I give up."
Gus blew out a breath. "How can I put it?" He thought a moment then nodded. "I'll be direct with you, sir. If you got rid of Charlie because she got in the way, what will you do with us if we make a mistake?"
"Don't make mistakes and you won't find out."
Seth barked out a humorless laugh.
Gus rubbed his temple. "What if we're no longer useful? Will you shoot us in the foot if we don't do something you ask or do it the wrong way?"
"Or will you kill us?" Seth said, quieter.
Lincoln watched them from beneath damp lashes. Did they think pressuring him would encourage him to bring Charlie home? "If you feel you must go, then go. I won't stop you." He turned and walked to the house. He sensed them following at a distance.
He avoided the kitchen and went through the main part of the house. The salver on the table by the front door overflowed with calling cards. Had Lady Vickers had that many callers, or were some for Lincoln and Seth? His progress up the stairs was deliberately slow, steady, yet he felt like he'd run for miles by the time he shut his door. He shouldn't feel this exhausted after so little exertion. He changed into dry clothes and poured himself a tumbler of brandy, then another and another. It didn't clear his head, only made the fog denser.
If Seth and Gus left, he still had Cook and Doyle. But it wasn't the same. They weren't fighters. Their duties were in the house. And they didn't know how Lincoln worked, not like the others. They just weren't the same, damn them, and Lincolnwantedthe same. He wanted Seth and Gus at his side, complete with their bickering and bad jokes.
He threw the glass into the fireplace. It shattered, spraying shards over the hearth, the floor, onto the rug, over tables and chairs. He marched over. Glass pierced the souls of his feet. It hurt like the devil and no amount of concentration could deaden the pain. He used to be able to master pain—not eliminate it, just mask it. But now, every cut burned, and soon his feet felt like they were on fire.
He hobbled back to his desk, leaving a trail of bloody footprints behind. He sat down and closed his eyes. Let the pain come. Let it consume him and see if it destroyed him.
And if it didn't?
He would get up in the morning and face the day and every day that came after it. He would bury himself in work to the point whereitconsumed him instead. He would find a way through to the other side.
What he felt now… it couldn't possibly last forever.
* * *
The Metzger woman.
Lincoln awoke with a start. He'd forgotten about the Metzger woman! How could he have been so incompetent?
He set his feet on the floor only to wince as pain spiked through them. He sucked in a breath and blew it out slowly, then sucked in another. He stood. Manageable.
He'd bandaged his feet himself the night before using the medical kit he kept in his study. Hopefully he'd removed all the glass first.
He dressed quickly and edged aside the curtain. Light rimmed another gray, dull horizon. It wasn't raining but it probably would later.
He headed downstairs, avoiding all the creaking floorboards, and outside. His feet stung but so be it. He harnessed a horse to the smaller cabriolet and drove out of the Lichfield estate at speed, heading toward Spitalfields. He easily passed the delivery carts with their yawning drivers and plodding hacks.
Number forty-four A had once been half of a sizable residence but was now a two-up two-down with four windows, set evenly apart, and a green door. A tanned woman with sagging sacks beneath her eyes and deep grooves around her mouth answered his knock. She shrank back when she saw him. Her eyes turned guarded. It was impossible to tell if she was owner of the house or a lodger. She wouldn't be a maid or cook hired by the landlady. No one living in the miserable district of Spitalfields could afford staff.
"I'm looking for Mrs. Metzger," Lincoln told her. "Or Miss Metzger. Is she here?"
The woman chewed on her bottom lip and hugged the door. "Who are you and what do you want?" she asked in a strong Russian accent.
"Is she here?" he asked again, trying to summon some patience. "It's urgent. Her life may be in danger."
She gasped and muttered a Russian expletive. "Why?" She didn't tell him he was too late, thankfully.
"Someone wants her dead. The reason is for her ears only. Please, fetch her for me."
"I am she."
He blew out a measured breath and placed his hands behind his back. "Someone is killing people with supernatural powers. I know that you're next on his list."
