Page 33 of The Business of Blood
“We—my people—are still at war,” I told him. “With ourselves. And with them.” I thrust my chin toward the window. A gesture to encompass all the empire. “The battles are just quieter now. Fewer cannons and more rhetoric. Our battlefields are our neighborhoods, and their warfare is as economic as it ever was violent.”
He leveled me with a meaningful look. “And yet you live among your enemies and profit from the spilling of their blood.”
The way he gave my words back to me stole every thought from my head, and every remonstration from my tongue.
The knowledge of this lifted a corner of his mouth. “We are not so different. Fiona of the Bear Clan.”
Unsettled. Displeased. I muttered, “I wish that was not so.”
“There is a charming saying you English have. If wishes were horses…”
“Then beggars would ride.”
“We will always be beggars, you and I.” A somber note washed away all traces of amusement from his face. “Wishing the past was different. Think of who is gone. Hating who took them from us. Dreaming of vengeance.”
“What do you know of my dreams?” Curling my hands into fists, I wrapped my arms tightly around myself, hoping to create a shield against his distressing perceptivity.
“Only that you whisper Mary’s name when you sleep. Andhis. Other people call him the Ripper. But to you, in your sleep, he is Jack. He is a man, not a monster.”
“He is both,” I murmured.
He nodded once. I’d seemingly pleased him again. “The only monster is man.”
That Aramis Night Horse knew something I didn’t know about myself; that he’d watched me sleep, dreaming of Mary as he conveyed me from Crosspoint Alley, was an intimacy I couldn’t face. Not tonight when I shook from exhaustion.
“What were your people like?” I asked the painful question in a gentle voice.
He peered at me oddly. “It is hard to describe a whole people. There are good ones and bad. Weak and strong. Beautiful and…” He slid me a level look. “Monstrous.”
“Of course.” What a silly thing to ask.
“My people laughed.”
It was the last thing I expected him to say. The way his gaze softened as he stared into the past, transfixed me utterly.
For an ephemeral moment, a mélange of emotive manifestations tightened the smooth skin over sharp, high cheekbones. “We hunted and fought and feasted and fucked. But, mostly, we laughed. And we danced.”
I could scarce believe it. Here I sat, reminiscing with an assassin. Finding common ground. Sharing stories of loss. I could not decide if this boded well or ill for me.
“The Mahoneys were jolly, as well.” I found myself recalling. “We'd gather around a fire with fiddles, flutes, and drums. And we'd drink and dance until our feet ached and screamed at us to stop. I think they could hear us laughing in Scotland, could mark the sounds of our shoes on the ground.” My lips melted into a smile, and suddenly his gaze was more alert as he searched my face.
Maybe this was a memory we shared. Bonfires warming the cheeks of those now long gone. Animal skins stretched over frames of wood, driving hearts and feet to fly in tandem. Flute melodies lifting the spirits. The poetry of ancient songs stirring our souls, taught to us by our elders.
The hedonistic worship of the night.
Maybe this was something all clans, all tribes, allpeopleonce did. Something our souls still ached to do.
“We, neither of us, laugh much anymore,” he predicted.
“No, Mr. Night Horse,” I whispered tremulously. “In that, you and I are very much alike.”
It impressed me how still he sat. He didn’t fidget or smoke or examine parts of himself or his surroundings. There was no folding or unfolding of arms. No touching his hair or adjusting his clothing.
Also, he stared at me for an uncomfortably long time until I realized why looking at someone without interruption or respite was considered so rude. After a moment, layers of yourself began to peel away beneath the unrelenting examination. I’d never known how distressing that could feel until just then.
“You see too much death, Fiona,” he observed.
I huffed at him, pulling a cloak of indignation around my shoulders to warm the chill beget by loss. “That's rich, coming from the likes of you.” I’d grown bolder in his company, in our candid exchange.
