Page 29 of A Vocation of Violence
Night Horse’s dark eyes flashed with determination, and his voice echoed the urgency I felt. “You must promise to keep me between your body and his at all times.”
“Understood,” I said. And I meant it, too. I’d no pressing need to be anywhere near Oswald Drumft, his tiny hands, or his enormous ego.
As we began our pursuit, I couldn’t help but be acutely aware of Night Horse’s presence beside me—the quiet cadence of his footsteps, the heat radiating from his body as he moved effortlessly through the darkness. It was a comfort, knowing that he was there, despite the dangerous path we now embarked upon.
Drumft’s silhouette loomed ahead, his gait brisk and purposeful—a shadow amongst shadows. Night Horse and I trailed behind, our steps muffled by the dampness, moving like wraiths determined to unearth what lay beneath the veil of night and deceit.
“This Dublin Destroyer…” Night Horse murmured from my side. “I’ve noticed your interactions with the fighter. Do you…have feelings for him?”
My eyes remained fixed on Drumft’s retreating figure, but my mind raced. Was it so obvious? “No,” I replied, truthfully. “He’s like a brother to me. Besides, he’s just lost his fiancée. I couldn’t possibly entertain such thoughts.”
“Then why are you going to such lengths to help him?” he asked, his voice soft yet insistent.
“Because I believe in justice,” I answered, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. “Darcy is innocent, and it’s my duty to find the real killer. For old times’ sake, if nothing else.”
Night Horse nodded, accepting my explanation without further inquiry. The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken thoughts and shared conviction. We continued our pursuit, melding into the shadows as we closed in on our quarry.
As we trailed Drumft through the dark alleys and gaslit streets, I couldn’t help but wonder what secrets he held. What role had he played in Vivienne’s murder? And how would this tangled web of lies and deceit unravel in the end?
The cityscape around us grew darker, more ominous, as we ventured deeper into the heart of London. Gas lamps cast eerie shadows on the brick walls, and the distant echoes of carriages and laughter gave way to the sound of raindrops splattering against the ground. It was as if we had entered a realm of secrets and shadows, where nothing was as it seemed.
“Look, there,” Night Horse murmured, nodding toward a narrow alleyway where Drumft had come to an abrupt halt.Checking a notepad from his pocket, he verified the address before slipping inside a nondescript building, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
“Shall we follow?” I asked, my pulse quickening at the prospect of uncovering yet another layer of intrigue.
“Wait,” Night Horse instructed me, holding up a hand to stall my advance. “We must be cautious.”
His intensity sent a thrill down my spine, igniting within me a fierce determination to see this quest through to its bitter end. Together, we approached the building with catlike stealth, our eyes adjusting to the gloom as we peered through a crack in the door.
“Remember. Keep me between you and anyone else,” Night Horse whispered, his breath warm on my cheek. “Even if they seem safe.”
“I will,” I replied, swallowing my apprehension as we prepared to step into the unknown.
With that, Night Horse pushed open the door just enough for us to slip inside, and we were immediately plunged into a world of shadows.
Chapter Nine
The sound of battle assaulted us, echoing in fractals from down a dark hall.
The moment we slipped through the creaking door, the stench of mildew, men, and liniment assaulted my senses. A cacophony of grunts and the thud of leather against flesh filled the dimly lit space. A gymnasium, cavernous and echoing with pugilistic combatants locked in their dance of violence. The atmosphere was thick, heavy—laden with the scent of sweat and iron resolve.
We melded with the shadows, our presence cloaked by a discreet alcove that offered an unobstructed view of the gym’s gritty interior.
“By the saints,” I muttered, tugging at the collar of my blouse, which all at once seemed too tight as I took in the fighters’ near-naked torsos gleaming with perspiration, muscles straining and contracting with every calculated blow. The sheer dedication etched into the grimaces of these pugilists spoke volumes of their commitment to the brutal ballet of fisticuffs. They fought like men possessed, driven by some unfathomable inner demon, or perhaps the simple promise of coin and glory.
“Look at them,” I breathed, unable to pull my eyes away. “They’re completely consumed by their craft.”
“Much like you are with yours,” Night Horse observed, his tone unreadable.
“Except I don’t bare my soul, my skin—or anything else, for that matter—for the world to see,” I countered, though I couldn’t deny the parallel. My quest for justice was much like a fight, relentless, exhausting, often painful and brutal.
“You touch what most cannot bring themselves to look at. Lives like ours do not call for us to seek a spectacle,” he conceded, a flash of a smirk discernible even in the shadowed space. “But you cannot mask the fire in you, Fiona Mahoney. It burns as bright as any here.”
To hide my discomfiture at his words, I swept my gaze across the room, taking in the half-naked forms of the fighters, muscles coiling and flexing with each deliberate movement. The raw power on display, unfettered by the decorum of society’s dress, stirred something primal within me—a recognition of the struggle between man and his baser nature.
“Look,” Night Horse murmured, his voice barely above the resonance of leather against flesh. “The Prussian snake slithers into the pit.”
Oswald J. Drumft, in all his corpulent menace, breached the threshold of the gymnasium. His eyes, sharp as flint, scanned the room before settling on his quarry, a large, bald fighter in the far corner with a handler the size of a lamppost.
