Page 32 of A Vocation of Violence
“Your insinuations are as tiresome as they are baseless.” Drumft’s lip curled. “I wager on fighters—it’s a pastime, nothing more.”
“Both fighters?” Night Horse asked, the moonlight casting deep shadows across his chiseled features. “That seems a rather duplicitous strategy.”
“Life is a game of chances, Mr. Night Horse. Betting on both simply improves the odds.” Drumft shrugged, his arrogance as heavy as the velvet cloak draped over his shoulders. “A man doesn’t become as successful as I am by taking unnecessary risks. Which leads me back to George Tunstall. That man harbors more secrets than the catacombs of Paris. I’m telling you, uncover them and you will find your killer.”
“Is that an admission of innocence or a deflection of guilt?” I challenged, though something in Drumft’s demeanor suggested his cruel nature might not extend to murder. He was a serpent, certainly, but perhaps not our viper.
“Believe what you will, Miss Mahoney,” he said. “It’s of no consequence to me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have matters to attend that do not involve entertaining the wild theories of an Irish charwoman and her savage companion.” The corner of his mouth twitched into a semblance of a smile, devoid of warmth. “My security detail will be thickened, tripled if need be. They’ll have orders—shoot first, inquire later.”
With a derisive snort, Drumft turned his back to us, signaling that our audience had concluded. But the air remained thick with the scent of suspicion and the unspoken threats that hung between us like the mist that shrouded our shoes.
“He could be surrounded by legions,” Night Horse murmured. “I’d still want to spill his blood.”
“Indeed,” I replied, my mind churning with plans and possibilities. But even as we drifted in the opposite direction, a shiver of foreboding traced down my spine, the whispered caressof the unseen and the unheard—a harbinger of the darkness that lay ahead.
Chapter Ten
Acold brush against my cheek roused me from a restless slumber, the remnants of a nightmare clinging like cobwebs to my consciousness.
My eyes slammed open to the sight of Aunt Nola looming over me, her silhouette a wraith in the moonlit chamber.
“Child,” she whispered, the urgency in her voice cutting through the silence like a knife. “The Queen of Swords… She beckons.” Her thin frame was draped in flowing black fabric that clung to her bony shoulders. An intricate lace veil obscured her face, its webbed pattern casting shadows across her hollow cheeks.
I sat up, the mattress creaking beneath me, and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. The card was thrust before my face again, its image stark and forbidding. Aunt Nola stood there, a fragile figure cloaked in black, her red hair a wild mane that seemed almost aflame in the pale light. The lace veil draped over her face did little to hide the fervor in her green eyes, or the tremble in her outstretched hand.
I suppressed a groan.Not again.My father’s elder sister’s episodes of madness came on suddenly, without warning. Onemoment she could be lucid, even warm, the next, lost in a world of spirits and omens only she could see.
“Look at her, Fiona,” she implored. “She warns us!”
Her words hung heavy in the air, a portent wrapped in the mad echoes of her mind. Nola’s schizophrenia was a living, breathing entity in our home; it danced in her gaze and spoke in cryptic tongues through her lips. Yet, despite the illness that ravaged her reason, there was an unnerving truth to her delusions—a prophecy entwined with madness.
“Warns us of what, Aunt?” I asked, my voice steady despite the chill that crept up my spine.
“Betrayal…death,” she whispered, caressing the edges of the tarot card as if it were a lover. “The Queen of Swords is a harbinger. She cuts through deceit, yes, but her blade is double-edged.” Her gaze pierced into mine, seeking understanding—or perhaps validation for the dark omens she read in the cards.
“Death has been our constant companion of late,” I replied, the weight of London’s sins heavy on my shoulders. “And deceit is the currency of this city’s soul.”
I gritted my teeth, fighting back my frustration. Nola meant well, even in her madness. But her cryptic ramblings often left me more confused than enlightened.
“Danger lurks in your path. The Queen of Swords is a warning. When she is angry, she will cut down all in her path.”
“What is she angry about?” I asked gently. “Have I done something to upset her?”
Nola’s veiled face turned toward me, her eyes flashing in the darkness. “You tread dangerous ground, Fiona. Your quest for truth disturbs restless souls. Do not look in the queen’s direction. That way lies madness.”
I shuddered despite myself. When Nola spoke like this, in riddles laced with warning, it was hard not to feel a prickle of unease.
But I could not stop now. Too many unanswered questions remained. Vivienne’s murder, Jack the Ripper’s identity, the web of lies and secrets ensnaring those I thought I knew… I had to keep digging, no matter the risk.
Drawing my blanket close, I chose my next words carefully. “I understand, Aunt Nola. I will be cautious.”
She searched my face with feverish eyes, as if trying to ascertain the truth of my words. At last, she gave a jerky nod. Clutching the Queen of Swords to her breast, she scurried from the room in a swirl of black fabric.
I released a shaky breath. Sleep would not return easily tonight. I lay awake staring at the ceiling, my thoughts churning like the dark waters of the Thames.
Aunt Nola’s warning echoed in my mind. I was no follower of faith or tarot, but I couldn’t stop thinking on it.
“Queen of Swords,” I whispered to myself. “Cuts through deception, and those who cross her path risk her wrath.”
