Page 43 of A Vocation of Violence
Paying them no heed, I followed him, taking two trotting steps to every furious one of his.
“It was not my secret to share,” I explained. “I—I wanted to protect you. To save Amelia from?—”
“Protect?” he echoed, the fury in his voice rising like a tempest. “You’veno rightto decide what pain to spare us. What truth to hide!”
“I know. You’re right. Grayson, I…” Words failed me; they retreated into the shadowed corners of my mind, leaving me defenseless before his wrath.
“It’d better be a long time before I see you again, Fiona Mahoney,” he said, his wrath a darkness I couldn’t comprehend. One I hadn’t known he possessed. “And the next time you meddle at one of my crime scenes, I’ll throw you in a fucking cell and see you dragged in front of a magistrate.”
“I’m sorry, Croft,” I whispered, my heart aching with guilt. “I didn’t want to hurt you, but I couldn’t keep silent any longer.”
“I mean it.” He spat on the ground next to the hem of my dress, an insult I deserved. “Keep the demon of death that follows you away from me and mine.”
He turned on his heel, the tails of his coat flapping like a raven taking flight—as if he could escape the specter of his own pain and loss.
Escape the messenger of death.
Me.
“Grayson!” My plea dissolved into the chill air, unheeded. I watched him stride away, every step driving a nail into the coffin of our nascent trust.
Guilt gnawed at my insides like a famished rodent. He’d said the truth was what he hungered for over ignorance.
Was the truth a poison I had unwittingly administered? Would it eat away at him until he succumbed to its toxins?
A sense of loss enveloped me, creeping through my bones as surely as the evening fog that began to roll off the Thames. I watched his retreating figure become a mere silhouette against the backdrop of London’s sprawling indifference.
I stood alone, the cold bite of London’s disdainful breeze a stark contrast to the heat of my churning emotions. Croft’s bitter departure left me adrift in an ocean of guilt, the briny taste ofregret on my lips. His words, a barbed arrow, had found their mark, and I reeled from the impact.
Drawing a shuddering breath, I wrapped my arms around myself, not for warmth but as a futile attempt at self-comfort. The fabric of my coat felt rough against my palms, a tactile reminder of the harsh reality that had just unfolded. My heart grieved, not only for the friendship that now seemed irreparably torn but also for the man who bore the weight of unspeakable loss.
My eyes, stinging with the threat of tears, refused to release them. It was not the time for weakness.
I straightened my shoulders, feeling the invisible mantle of responsibility settle upon them once more. Each step forward felt laborious, like wading through the mire of my own making. But move I must, for the dead could not cry out for themselves.
“Justice,” I whispered to the uncaring wind. Vivienne still had none of it. Nor did Mary.
So many women lay in unmarked or unknown graves. In rivers and oceans. In gardens and forests. The violence that ended them hidden from the blind gaze of justice.
“Forgive me,” I said once more, though I knew the words were but a whisper in the void. Forgiveness was a luxury I could ill afford. My path was set, and I must follow it to the end—be it redemption or ruin.
With a final glance toward the direction Croft had vanished, I turned away, my heart heavy but my spirit unyielding.
There was work to be done.
Always.
And as was true for so much labor a woman must take upon herself, no one but me seemed inclined to see it through.
Chapter Fourteen
I’d almost missed the fight.
A deceased mother-in-law in Mayfair would pay every bill I owed next month, and I couldn’t pass up the job. I’d underestimated the intensity of evening traffic on the Strand during the fight and barely made it in time to watch one of the matches meet its blood-soaked end.
A deafening roar crashed over me as I stepped into the dank underground fighting pit. A cacophony of raucous noise, an operatic din composed of humanity’s basest notes. The air thickened with the stench of sweat and ale, mingling into a heady perfume that saturated the underbelly of London’s night. Frenetic, violent shadows danced along the walls, flickering like the very flames of Hades, as anticipation gripped my throat in a vise as unyielding as iron shackles.
“Come for the blood sport, pretty bird?” A voice slithered into my ear, the speaker remaining unseen behind me. “Why don’t you sit in me lap?”
