Page 31 of A Vocation of Violence
The streets of London had become a treacherous labyrinth, each turn more menacing than the last. We followed Drumft’s shadowed form, our footsteps echoing softly against the cobblestones.
The relative quiet was shattered by a sudden explosion of chaos and aggression. Two monstrous figures emerged from the shadows of an alleyway, their intentions glimmering with the malice in their eyes.
A startled cry tore from my lips as instinct propelled me backward.
But Aramis Night Horse—part man, part primal force—met the ambush with a fearsome grace.
His fist struck first, a sound blow to the larger assailant’s jaw that snapped the brute’s head back with a crack. The man staggered, but Night Horse was relentless, his movements a dark ballet choreographed to the rhythm of survival. Another vicious punch crunched into cartilage; a nose flattened with brutal efficiency.
“Behind you!” I warned, balling my own hands into fists.
But Night Horse needed no assistance. He spun and caught the second attacker’s arm mid-swing. There was a grotesque symphony of snapping tendons and breaking bone as he twisted sharply, rendering the limb useless. The man howled, a guttural cry that echoed through the foggy air, his face contorted in agony.
“Run to your master!” Night Horse growled, his voice a harbinger of doom. The injured brute didn’t hesitate—with a whimper, he fled past us, past Oswald Drumft, who’d turned to play spectator to the carnage.
“Remember this mercy,” Night Horse called to Drumft, a dark promise lacing his tone. “Your next lackeys won’t be so fortunate.”
I shivered, not from the cold, but from the deadly calm in Night Horse’s eyes as he turned to survey the scene. The remaining brute lay crumpled on the ground, gasping through shattered teeth.
The fog of the London night seemed to coil tighter around us as Night Horse and I approached the imposing figure of Oswald J. Drumft. The Prussian’s eyes, cold and calculating, flicked between us with the measured disdain of a man who believed himself untouchable.
“Roth’s minions, are you? Only a Jew would send a savage and an Irish whore to do his dirty work,” Drumft spat, apparently deciding to go on the offensive after being caught misbehaving.
“Seems his distrust is warranted,” I volleyed back. I’d been raised with too many brothers to allow him to get away with such childish behavior, and knew that rising to the occasion would invite more abuse. “Tell me, Herr Drumft, are you paying Mr. Lewis to throw the fight or to win it by some cheeky swindle? All of London will want to know.”
His countenance remained as impassive as a marble bust, yet within those cold eyes, I discerned the flicker of something feral. “Miss Mahoney,” he replied, his voice thick with scorn. “You presume to accuse me with nothing but suppositions and whispers?”
“Accuse you? No.” I tilted my head, feigning overexaggerated innocence. “We both saw the envelope change hands.”
“The envelope will be easy enough for me to take from Lewis and his manager,” Night Horse threatened. “Whatwon’tbe easy,for you, is explaining to Mr. Roth why you are playing both sides of this match.”
I had to give him credit—though his skin paled, Drumft’s lip curled into a sneer. “I don’t need to explain myself to anyone,” he blustered. “This is business, Miss Mahoney. A realm where predators thrive, and the likes of you are devoured. Look at what happened to poor Miss Bloomfield.”
The way he said her name grated against my skin. It felt less like a mispronunciation, and more like a desecration.
“Jorah will hear of this business,” Night Horse interjected, his tone deceptively calm.
“I do not see why he will care.” Drumft gave an infuriating shrug. “Nothing that happened here tonight will affect his outcome. He stands to make as much money as I will. If he hasfollow-up questions, I suggest he seeks me out himself, as I do not work with intermediaries.”
He tipped his hat, and something inside of me snapped. “What about Vivienne?” I demanded. “Your contempt for her?—”
“Is no secret,” Drumft replied, irate. His arrogance was a palpable force, as if he could will us into nonexistence with sheer disdain. “But do not mistake my contempt for guilt. Everyone hated Vivienne, but as you might have noticed, much like Roth, I pay others to do my wet work.”
Which was why I didn’t find his alibi provided by the baron compelling in the least.
“Yet here you are under the cloak of night. An envelope with an umbral seal changes hands, and suddenly one cannot help but speculate.”
“If you want to speculate about a manager, look to your own. Tunstall is worthy of your surveillance, not I,” Drumft retorted with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I wager on both fighters. One openly, the other in shadow. That is my affair.”
“Indeed, it is,” I conceded, locking gazes with him. “But perhaps you might enlighten us as to why Mr. Tunstall should draw our attention instead?”
Drumft’s mouth twisted into a grimace of distaste. “He’s been skulking about with secrets that would make the devil himself blush. Secrets a man ought never to have.”
“Secrets that might lead to murder?” I prodded, arching an eyebrow.
“Perhaps.” Drumft stepped closer, his breath a foul whisper against my cheek. “They’re secrets I would kill to keep. Either way, they’re buried deep. And I would tread warily, Miss Mahoney.”
“Are you threatening her?” Night Horse took a step forward, driving Drumft to mirror the motion in retreat.
