Page 35 of The Hunter
“I’ve been looking into the death at Madame Regina’s ever since, and so far have not found the culprit, though I’ve drawn the same conclusion. Whether in Soho, the East End, Hyde Park, or the Strand, these other deaths and disappearances must be related.”
Morley almost seemed relieved. “I’m having a devil of a time convincing the commissioners or anyone above me of that.”
“That is because they’re fucking idiots,” Blackwell said.
“On that, at least, we agree.”
Dorian pondered a moment, preparing to make one more galling move before the inspector left. “Should I learn anything, it will be dealt with, in my own way, but I will make certain that you are informed, Inspector.” It was an olive branch. Or, more aptly, an olive leaf, but it was the most Morley could expect from him.
“Actually… I appreciate that.” Morley nodded “And, I’ll extend the same offer. Though if it’s dealt with my way, you’ll likely learn from the papers.”
“My way might just as well end up in the papers.” Dorian smirked. “But the pictures won’t.”
They’d be too gory.
“We have an understanding, then,” Morley stated. “All I want is this killer stopped… by any means possible.”
“Indeed.” Dorian stood, enjoying his superior height to the man, and bent to kiss his wife. “Now get out of my house.” With that, he strode to his study and shut the door.
He and Argent stared at each other in silence as they waited for the sounds of Farah kindly bustling Morley down the hallway to fade to another part of the house.
Dorian Blackwell had known Christopher Argent longer than almost anyone else. And yet, he knew him not at all. They’d grown up in hell together, except Argent had been an expert at survival there, because he’d been born to it rather than sentenced. They both had blood on their hands, though Dorian’s was generally more figurative, and Argent’s literal.
What he knew about Argent: the man was a killer. He was loyal, but had no emotional ties to Dorian. To anyone. He was cold, unfeeling, and broken. What caused Dorian occasional pause was the utter lack of hesitation or humanity in the face of brutality. The dead, empty eyes that never quite met his, but always seemed to be looking somewhere in between.
Waiting. Ready to be lashed at, to be struck down. Waiting for an excuse. Any reason to retaliate. To kill.
Dorian had cultivated a ruthlessness, his own wall of ice behind which to keep his heart. He did what he had to. He manipulated, intimidated, maimed, and killed men when the situation called for such brutality. He’d struck down everyone who’d dared oppose him until he controlled the parts he wanted and left the rest for the dregs. His whole life he’d had a mission, a reason, a vengeance, and a search for salvation that had ended better than he could ever have dreamed.
But Argent. Dorian still didn’t know what drove him. The man was built like a Viking, and seemed to have a similar code. Which wasn’t much of one by anybody’s standards.
Once the door closed behind Morley, Dorian narrowed his eyes and asked the question haunting him for a few months now. “Is it you?” he asked. “Are you the killer Morley is looking for?”
Argent’s pale eyes swung between the brass globe paperweight on the desk and the fireplace poker hooked on the very expensive wrought-iron stand for other such implements on the hearth.
No doubt, he was identifying anything in the room that could be used as a weapon. Newgate habits died hard deaths, and counting the means by which one could protect oneself to the death was a habit not exclusive to the assassin.
“I don’t kill children,” Argent stated matter-of-factly. “You know that.”
“I didn’t think so… but people change.” God knew Dorian, himself, had changed since he’d been married.
“Do they?” The question took Dorian completely by surprise. Before Argent turned to face the window, Dorian thought he caught something on his face he’d never before encountered.
An emotion. Specifically, vulnerability.
What the devil?
If Dorian knew anything about weakness, it was that once one caught sight of it, it had to be exploited. Such was the only way to find out what he wanted. “As much as I hate to admit it, Morley has a point. This kind of brutality against women and children hasn’t been seen since—”
“Since Dorshaw,” Argent supplied.
“Precisely. Uncontrolled violence such as this creates chaos and fear out there on the streets, both of which are bad for business.” Dorian studied the broad back of his associate. Of a man he’d call a friend, if men like them had friends. Which they didn’t… He knew what riddled the flesh beneath Argent’s clothing, and for Dorian, a man with his own scars, who only had the use of one good eye because the other had been made milky by a knife fight at nineteen, Argent’s wounds still evoked a wince. For a man to endure what the assassin had was unthinkable, and Dorian had often found himself wondering if the cold, unfeeling man, who’d been his most ferocious ally, might someday turn into his greatest liability.
“If this serial murderer is you…”
“I told you it isn’t.”
“You’re the only man alive with whom I cannot decipher truth from lie.”
