Page 76 of The Business of Blood
“I-I don’t think so.” Over my clothing, his questing fingers found a few tender bruises or abrasions. A great deal of blood stained my torn pelisse. He inspected it roughly, shoving the sleeves up my wrists in search of the wounds.
“It’s not mine,” I whispered, more to myself than him, I think. “The blood isn’t mine.”
“Do be careful, Night Horse, she’s a tendency to sever the fingers of men she does not want touching her.” Though his tone was light, the Hammer watched our exchange with displeased speculation.
I pictured the detached digits that likely still rested in the up-ended coach and shuddered. I’d had to disassemble a few bodies in my day, mostly thanks to the Hammer and Mr. Night Horse, but not someone still alive and bleeding. I’d never get used to the feeling of blade against bone.
At least, I hoped I wouldn’t.
Shame brimmed into heat in my cheeks as I contemplated the violence, the permanency of what I’d done. To be without fingers…I couldn’t imagine such a thing. “I-I didn’t mean to—I didn’t want to…”
“Don’t apologize. It was well done, Fiona. If a fraction of my generals were half so as fierce as you, I’d be twice as powerful.”
I gawked at him dumbly, this man who had an army all his own.
The empire bowed to a great queen, an empress, but London had a king, as well. And it was wise to show him the respect he claimed as his due, lest I incur his wrath.
“Thank you,” I murmured, feeling the gratitude down to my bones, which, because of these two men, were all still intact. “Thank you.” My second articulation at Night Horse wobbled as my entire body seized with uncontrollable shivers.
All three of us perked to the distant pitch of police whistles pealing above the chaos we’d escaped.
The Hammer thrust his chin back toward the fray. “Make certain all is as it should be,” he instructed the Blade. “We do not want police casualties. It will change the conversations of the public and the press.”
I was certain the Blade’s hesitation was imagined, at first. He increased the pressure of his hold on my arms from barely perceptible to almost painful.
At my flinch, the Hammer said, “Not to worry, I’ll see Fiona to safety.”
I didn’t realize I’d been clinging to the assassin until he pulled away from me. My fingernails had bitten little half-moon crescents into his bare arm and accidentally tangled into the long, loose, ebony hair spilling over his biceps. He only glanced at me when the strands caught and pulled at my fingers. An unholy darkness glinted in his eyes.
“Take off your pelisse.” My head whipped around at the Hammer’s gentle command.
My hands trembled too much to be effectual, so he undid the oversized buttons with deft and steady fingers. “This is becoming a distressing pastime, Fiona. Ridding you of bloodstained clothing.”
I made a sound somewhere between a giggle and a sob, causing the brackets around his mouth to deepen fondly. As far as I could tell, my violet blouse had escaped the gruesome stains I might never be able to lift from the wool of my pelisse, and I inspected my plum skirt and wide belt with its golden arabesque buckle for evidence of the carnage.
Finding none, I sighed in relief.
Looking up, I noted that Night Horse had vanished.
“Follow me.” As always with the Hammer, his invitation was more a command. He took Night Horse’s place as my protector and propeller, his arm around my shoulders, bearing the weight my knees refused to support. He provided a taller, leaner, more well-dressed escort than his exotic cohort, and I certainly felt less conspicuous in his company.
Around the corner, we found a passably quiet reprieve from the bedlam, a cul-de-sac of shops hunkered in an alley crowded with colorful signs and shingles. They hung at jaunty angles from beams between buildings preserved from the days of the Tudor dynasty. The façades had once been white, but the pall of time had painted them many colors of faded, exposing some of the brick through cracks.
There was a certain charm to the place. The cobblestones boasted memories of the treads of men and women I’d read about in history books.
“We can take our respite here until the streets are quieter.” The Hammer swept his hand toward a small café door halfway down the alley, above which hung a black shingle, concealing more than it advertised.
“The Morning Star?” I read aloud. “Isn’t that a reference to the devil?”
The Hammer replied with a cheeky wink. “Not to us.”
Us?
As we ducked inside—well, the Hammer ducked, I fit through the door just fine—I observed the almost exclusively masculine crowd. They dressed in dark, somber colors; most grew heavy, impressive beards; and some were adorned with the unmistakable ringlets by their ears.
Oh,us. The Hammer’s people. Thechosenones. The Jews.
Without my spectacles, their faces were mostly indistinguishable, but wariness and displeasure were more often sensed than displayed.
