Page 34 of The Business of Blood
“Killing. It is an action on both the part of the killer and the victim. A passing, or a journey. A transition from being here to not being here. Death is a quiet thing. A lonely thing. It is not so much for me to bear. It is not so hard for me to do.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Those are my moments, Fiona.”
I wished he’d stop saying my name like that. So familiar. Almost…tender.
“Your moments are after death. In dealing with the offal that is left behind. The anguish. Or the satisfaction. The vindication. The damnation. The noises of grief, and things that are wet. The smell of fear and blood and shit. The sight of who is left behind, not just the bodies but also the beloveds. Those things are heavy.” As was the hand he rested on my shoulder. “They weigh on you. If you are not careful, they might...shackle your spirit to this world when it is your time.”
Did the Blade worry for my soul? Like Aidan did? “Are you saying you believe in ghosts?” If he did, how did he feel about creating more than a few of them?
He gave a non-committal shrug, his lethal hand sliding down my arm until it found the beads still cupped in my lap. Lifting one, he examined it in the gathering light. “I believe the dead haunt us, one way or another.” He leaned forward, eyes glinting, and his ponderous mouth softer than I’d ever seen it.
For a moment, I feared he meant to touch me. To kiss me or some such ridiculous thing. Instead, he gripped the handle of the door and swung it open, revealing the familiar, tidy, red-brick row houses of Tite Street.
To my astonishment, he caught my jaw with his fingers and lifted my neck, though whether to inspect the Ripper’s handiwork or the Hammer’s, I could only guess.
“Be careful in the dark,” he cautioned. “You’ve drawn the attention of a killer.”
I didn’t breathe again until he released me.
He pulled the shadows back around him like a mantle, settling his shoulders against the crimson velvet seat of the coach like a king would his throne.
“Good evening, Mr. Night Horse,” I muttered, remembering my manners before I stepped down onto the walk.
“Good morning, Miss Mahoney.”
The shadows were, indeed, retracting down the bricks of my home, the sunlight burning away the so-called dangers of the dark.
As the driver snapped the reins across the broad rumps of his team, galvanizing them to trot away, an important query leapt onto my tongue. I took several futile steps toward the carriage, my hand out as though an invisible string could pull it back to me.
To which killer did Mr. Night Horse refer to in his warning? The Hammer? The Ripper?
Or himself?
8
“Here’s what’s going to happen next.” The voice in my ear reeked of wicked suggestion, almost as much as the man it belonged to reeked of equal parts Irish inebriation and iniquity.
“We two will part ways for the abbreviated time it takes to walk in our front doors, cast off the filth of the night, and then meet in the garden for tea. Whereuponyou, my darling, are going to confess to me in precise and comprehensive detailwhyyou’ve been dropped at your stoop at dawnsansa blouse beneath that blood-stained pelisse like a common tart. Andwhoyou spent the night with.”
I turned to the one man who never failed to bring a genuine smile to my soul. One whom I’d met on innumerable occasions such as this. Both of us staggering home at all hours and exchanging gruesome gossip until we’d settled enough to sleep.
“Jealous?” I taunted.
“Obviously.” He held his gloves rather than wore them. The limp, expensiveaccoutrementdraped lackadaisically over his palm. In his other hand, he clutched a gaudy walking stick, the bejeweled handle of which he touched to his forehead in greeting. “Except for the bits with the blood.”
Everything about him was a little too long. His face, his limbs, his hair. And yet, with charisma and wit as flawless as his porcelain skin, he was perhaps the loveliest man of my acquaintance.
“Pray, how can you tell I don’t have a blouse on?” I inspected my own pelisse, modestly buttoned beneath my throat, barely concealing the wound above my clavicle.
“Because I am a master of observation. And you, dear Fiona, are a woman of discrete indulgences. I’ve noted it is what you wearbeneathyour elegant dark frocks that makes you an intriguing character. You’ve always a bit of silk ribbon and expensive lace at your throat. Or vibrant combs in your hair.”
The series of flamboyant gestures whilst he spoke never ceased to mesmerize me.
“Why dress up for corpses?I used to wonder.” He tapped his chin dramatically. “Then I realized, a woman does not accessorize unless it matchessomething. Your unmentionables, I’d imagine.” He swirled a finger in the direction of my moreunmentionableparts. “You delight in scandalizing yourself rather than other people. Of holding your naughty secrets close to the skin, as it were.” He eyed my black garb as though he could see through it to the butter-gold corset and garters beneath, beribboned with pale green bows and little silk rosebuds.
Both the Hammer and the Blade had seen everything above the waistband of my skirt. Even those scoundrels had had the discretion not to remark upon my intimate attire.
