Hammond stood at the inner door, shielding her as she clicked the three parts of the lens into place. She held it to her eye. Pale blue outlines shimmered around all of the bar patrons. Except one.
Her lens stopped on a sandy-haired man seated on a bench with a woman on his lap, most of her sagging breasts shockingly exposed, and another gent seated at his side. To all ordinary eyes the sandy gent was a handsome middling sort, wearing a good coat and with a fine set of whiskers. Only Helen could see the bright blue energy around him and the obscene grey feeder tentacle that extended from his back. It curled around the bare shoulder of the woman lolling against his chest, its thick circumference pulsing as it drew on her energy.
Helen quelled a shudder. A Luxure Deceiver, if she were not mistaken, feeding on the drunken lust of the woman. The tentacle rose like the head of a cobra, then slid across the other man’s hands as he squeezed the harlot’s breasts, drawing on his energy too. The three of them laughed raucously, the woman thrusting her chest harder into the kneading hands. Helen felt her jaw lock with revulsion.
‘There is one,’ she said, lowering the lens, ‘but it is skimming.’
Therefore not her business, she reminded herself as she folded the three-part lens back into the body of the watch. A Reclaimer was to approach a Deceiver only if it was glutting upon one person, or its skim-feeding was causing obvious harm to its victims.
‘Lowry is already here,’ Hammond said, tilting his chin at a man sitting alone at one of the plank tables set at the far wall. ‘Do you wish to stay for a moment more, or shall we go in?’
A candle in a sconce above Lowry cast his face into shadow, but Helen could sense his fixed stare upon the doorway. A wide space had been left around his table. It seemed the patrons of the Bear recognised a dangerous man when they saw one.
‘I am ready,’ Helen said, ignoring the tightening of her gut. She kept the watch in her fist; a handy weapon. ‘I shall go first.’
Hammond hesitated, then stood aside.
They entered the large room — intolerably humid from the press of people and an unnecessary fire in the hearth — and weaved their way around the crowded tables and benches. Helen took shallow breaths, her Reclaimer sense of smell revolted by the stink of malty ale, sour wine and hot bodies all underpinned by a faint wash of urine. The sweat under her breast-band itched almost as much as the false hair at her temples, yet she could not address either.
She focused on Lowry. He had straightened at their entrance and she saw a flash of pale tongue as he licked his lips. Was it nerves or anticipation?
‘Oy!’ Helen turned at the sharp protest. An old man in a drab suit glared up at her from a stool. ‘Watch where you’re going, pup. You nearly had my drink over.’
Helen lifted her chin and drew in a haughty breath, then froze. She had almost told him not to speak to her in such a way. A woman’s words. No, a lady’s words.
The man stared at her; what should she do? A raucous burst of laughter from a nearby table broke her indecision.
With a slight bow, she said, ‘My apologies, sir.’
The man squinted at her, then nodded and turned back to his ale.
‘That was close,’ Hammond murmured.
She glanced sharply at him; he had seen her falter. Well, she would not allow another mistake.
Ahead, the Deceiver had his hands under the woman’s patched skirts, the tentacle, no doubt, crawling across her private skin. Helen forced her eyes away from them. She could not challenge the creature, but maybe she could intervene. At Almack’s, she had seen Lord Carlston use his touch watch to persuade a Deceiver to leave the ballroom. Perhaps she could do the same here. Show Mr Hammond she was a true Reclaimer.
‘This way,’ she said to him, and swerved around a table of soberly dressed tradesmen intent upon the words of one of their number who had come to his feet with the passion of his speech. She caught a snatch of his polemic: ‘… not at the current price of wheat. We must act!’
The Deceiver was at the next bench, his attention fully upon the harlot in his lap. Helen clutched her touch watch, feeling her palm dampen around the smooth enamel. Did she dare? What if the creature attacked? No, it was not likely in so crowded a public place.
She was almost upon him. It was now or never.
With heart thudding, she lurched into him and grabbed his meaty shoulder. The telltale itch of his recent feed crawled across her skin. With her other hand, she pressed hard upon the diamond arrow on the watch, deforming the Iceland spar inside to create a spark of energy. It passed through the circuit of her Reclaimer body: a slight tingle for her, but something far more brutal for him. His heavy muscles jerked under her grip as the mechanical charge delivered a dose of toxic energy. He swung around, his pained outraged eyes meeting her own.
‘My apologies, sir,’ she said, showing her teeth.
‘I’m doing no harm,’ he hissed, pulling away.
‘Harm enough,’ Helen said.
The woman smiled blearily in her direction. ‘Yer a pretty boy,’ she slurred. ‘Wanna join us, sweethe—’ The invitation turned into a shriek as the Deceiver pushed her off his lap onto the filthy floor. ‘I thought we was having a night of it,’ she whined. ‘You said all night.’
Helen moved on, leaving the harlot’s protests behind.
‘I take it that was the creature?’ Hammond asked.
Helen nodded. Her hands were shaking.
‘He’s leaving,’ Hammond reported.
Holy heaven, she had just chased away her first Deceiver. ‘Good,’ she answered with a smile, riding the elation.
Ahead, Lowry was watching with interest; he had seen the confrontation. She fought the impulse to look over her shoulder to make sure the creature had gone. A real Reclaimer would not look back, and she had to appear strong in front of Lowry.
He stood as they reached his table, a jerk of his chin acknowledging the tussle. ‘A Luxure?’
Helen nodded.
‘I hate Luxures,’ he said without heat and waved over a wiry serving girl. ‘Three tankards, and don’t dawdle.’
The girl ducked her head and bustled off with the order.
Bartholomew Lowry was exactly as Helen remembered: not overly tall, but with a broad, powerful build and a fleshy face that was veined from drink. A line of sweat sat above his upper lip and in the cleft of his heavy chin, and stringy brown hair hung blunt on either side. His clothes were the usual low-middling mix of old and new: his burgundy weskit still had rich colour and sheen, but the cravat at his neck was yellowed and limp, and the points of his linen shirt were grimed above the worn collar of his drab jacket. His eyes were green and pig-small, with a cunning intelligence that set the skin crawling. Especially, Helen thought, when they lingered insolently on her groin. She clenched her teeth; she would not flinch.
His pale tongue flicked out again. ‘You make a comely man. You should watch yourself around him.’ He nodded at Hammond. ‘He might forget you’re not a real boy and take you back-wise.’
Helen froze at the profanity. But that was what he wanted, wasn’t it? To shock her and enrage Hammond. She cleared her throat, sending a warning glance at her companion: Do not rise to it.
Hammond’s blue eyes were dark with fury, but he gave a slight nod.
‘Where are my manners?’ Lowry said and waved a mocking hand towards the benches. ‘I beg you, sit, Mr …?’
‘Amberley,’ Helen said.
‘Mr Amberley.’
Helen stopped herself from saying thank you and stepped over the bench, remembering at the last minute to flick out her coattails as she sat. Hammond took the seat by her side. His face was rigid with dislike, but he had himself under control.
‘You know why we are here,’ Helen began. ‘I have the authority —’
She stopped as the serving girl approached with tankards clasped in her reddened hands.
‘’Ere you go.’ The girl slid them onto the table, sending a small, gap-toothed smile in Helen’s di
rection. ‘You want anyfing else?’
Lowry gave a yellowed leer. ‘My young friend here might be up for a tumble later,’ he said, raising his brows.
The girl eyed him waspishly. ‘I ain’t no whore, sir.’
‘Well then, he won’t pay you,’ Lowry said, snorting a laugh.
Helen smiled at the girl. ‘That will be all, thank you.’
The courtesy drew a shy sideways glance and a mottled blush.
Lowry dug inside his breeches’ pocket and tossed three grubby coins onto the table. ‘There, that’s a penny over. Surely you’ll spread your legs for that?’
The girl gathered up the coins. ‘Only to take a piss.’ She sent a last sliding glance at Helen, and was gone.
Lowry burst out laughing. ‘I’d like to take my whip to her — I reckon she’d kick and scream good.’
From all that Hammond had told her, Lowry was not speaking euphemistically. He pushed a tankard across to Helen. She stopped its trajectory with a flat hand.
‘I am not here to drink, Lowry. I am here for the journal.’
He sobered immediately. ‘Just you and me.’ He turned a pugnacious smile upon Hammond. ‘You go wait outside like a good little lap dog.’ He tilted his head. ‘Or should that be arse dog.’ He snorted again.
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Hammond said.
‘This is Reclaimer and Terrene business. Not for the likes of you.’ Lowry took another swig, his eyes on Helen. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. ‘I know he’s not your Terrene.’
‘No.’
‘I hear your maid is going to be your Terrene.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I still got a friend or two in the Dark Days Club.’ He gave another amused snort. ‘A girl Reclaimer and a girl Terrene. I can imagine Pike’s view on that. You haven’t done the bond ritual yet, eh?’
‘No.’
He smiled and leaned back, his eyes finding Hammond again. ‘Like I said, Reclaimer and Terrene business, and you ain’t neither.’
He was not going to deal until they were alone. ‘Wait in the yard,’ she told Hammond. ‘This will not take long.’
He gave a small shake of his head. ‘I will not leave you with this man.’
Helen clenched her fists on her thighs. He was making her look weak. ‘Go,’ she ordered.
He angled his face from her own, bracing against her insistence.
She leaned closer and whispered, ‘He will not bargain while you are here. Do you want us to fail?’
Hammond hissed out a breath, logic finally overcoming his distrust. He stood, his eyes on Lowry. The former Terrene gave a contemptuous wave, then raised his tankard again and drank deeply.
Hammond stepped back over the bench, pausing for a moment near Helen’s ear to whisper, ‘I will be at the doorway if you need me.’
She nodded, although if Lowry did attack it would be at Terrene speed. Hammond would have no chance of getting near her in time.
‘Well now,’ Lowry said as Hammond walked away, ‘that, there, is the crux of the problem.’
He placed his emptied tankard on the table and pulled across Hammond’s abandoned one, the ale slopping over the side. Helen watched him. No need to ask the question: he was going to tell her anyway.
‘That’s why female Reclaimers don’t work,’ he pronounced. ‘A man wants to protect a woman, even when the chit in question could tear his head off with one hand.’
Helen let the comment pass. ‘Pike wants the journal,’ she said steadily, her voice pitched for privacy although no one sat close enough to hear in the babble of the room. ‘I have the authority to offer you five thousand pounds.’
Lowry leaned his elbows on the rough plank table. ‘Straight to business.’ He pointed a forefinger at her chest, a crescent of dirt beneath the nail. ‘You have the black heart of a merchant, Mr Amberley.’
‘Five thousand,’ she repeated, ignoring the insult.
Lowry rested his chin on his hands. ‘Has he told you anything about it?’
‘Enough,’ she said warily.
‘Did he mention what it’s written in?’
‘What do you mean?’
Lowry smiled. ‘Benchley wrote the whole thing in blood. Real hard to read, in more ways than one. Makes you want to puke after looking at it awhile.’
‘Blood? Whatever for?’
He lifted a shoulder. ‘He never told me the whys and wherefores. We did do quite a bit of blood-collecting though.’
Helen regarded him narrowly. Was he just trying to scare her or was the journal really written in blood? She could see no deception in his small eyes, only unholy enjoyment. From her reading she knew that blood was one of the carrier elements of alchemy, just like hair. The Colligat that her mother had created — now in the hands of the Grand Deceiver — had been made out of hair, its power woven into the strands. Perhaps the journal had power woven into its blood-ink? A disturbing thought.
‘Want to know where we got the blood for the last bit?’
‘I do not,’ Helen said curtly.
He grinned. ‘Ratcliffe Highway.’
The name of the infamous murders brought a chill of horror. ‘Are you saying it is written in the blood of those people? That poor baby?’
‘We were after the blood of the two Deceivers amongst them. But it got messy in there.’
‘You are disgusting.’
‘Well then, you won’t want to know what I copied out about your parents.’ He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a grimy, creased piece of paper and placed it on the table. ‘Call it an enticement.’
An enticement for what? Pike was already offering to buy the journal.
‘How do I know what it says is real?’
He reached for the paper. ‘You don’t have to read it if you don’t believe me.’
Helen snatched it up; she had to know what was on it. Ignoring his soft laugh, she angled the slip of paper towards the dim glow of the candle. The writing sprawled in an upward slant, the letters ill-formed. Squinting, she slowly made out their meaning.
Lady C and Lord D boarded the Dolphin at Southampton 25 May 1802. VC told me they were intending to flee to France.
The sentence stopped. Helen turned the paper over; nothing written on the back. Was the information genuine? The twenty-fifth was the day before her parents had died, and the Dolphin was certainly their yacht. Moreover, no one had known her mother and father had decided to flee to France. It seemed likely it was real.
‘Who is this VC?’ she demanded. ‘You’ve read the rest of it, haven’t you? Tell me what it said.’
‘If I told you everything, you wouldn’t need the journal.’ He tilted his head to one side. ‘I’ll tell you one thing though: Benchley thought he and Carlston were the ones meant to fight the Grand Deceiver. Not you. He said you was just the bringer of evil.’
‘I’m not the one who kills babies and innocent people.’
Lowry snorted. ‘Girl, you just wait a bit. You’ll be killing like us in no time, or you’ll be dead.’
She ignored the vile prophecy and slid the scrap of paper into her jacket pocket. ‘I’m keeping this.’
Lowry shrugged. ‘I’ve got the original, and five thousand ain’t enough for it.’
Pike had said fifteen thousand was the maximum offer, and after that she had to make it clear that the Dark Days Club would take it by force. Would this man even care about such a threat?
‘Fifteen thousand in gold. That is the most I can offer.’
‘Fifteen thousand in gold,’ he repeated. ‘Holy Mother of Christ.’ He looked around the smoky room and drew a deep breath through flared nostrils. ‘Well, that answers the question of how much Pike wants it. If you’d offered me that a week ago, I’d have taken it. But not now.’ He licked his lips. ‘Now there’s something I want far more than just money, and it’s the only thing I’ll take for the journal.’
What on earth could he want other than money? She did not have the authority to promise
anything else.
‘What is it?’
He leaned forward, his eyes fixed on her like the ravening hyena she had once seen at the Exeter ’Change. ‘I don’t want to lose my Terrene powers,’ he said softly. ‘The only way I can keep them is to bond with another Reclaimer — you. Tell Pike if he makes me your Terrene, he can have the journal.’
‘No!’ She jerked back from the demand. ‘I already have a Terrene.’
‘You just said you ain’t bonded yet. Easy for me to step in and take over.’
‘It is a ridiculous idea. You could never enter my world. You are too low.’
‘That won’t wash in the Dark Days Club, my lady,’ he said, pitching his voice for Reclaimer ears only. ‘Pike was a butcher’s son, now he’s Second Secretary. I grew up in the Brighton workhouse, and I rose to be Benchley’s Terrene. It don’t matter where you come from in our line of work. Besides, you’re trying to place your own maid as your Terrene. She’s got an estate and fine manners, has she?’
‘At least she is civilised,’ Helen snapped. He had been in the workhouse? She almost felt a stab of pity. Almost. ‘Pike has already agreed to my choice. The matter is settled.’
He regarded her with narrowed eyes. ‘Pike don’t want two women doing what we do — it ain’t natural.’ He sat back and crossed his arms. ‘I know he’d get rid of you if he was able, but he can’t change the accident of your birth. Mark my words, he’ll jump at the chance of getting rid of your maid and putting me in her place. Not only will he get the journal, he’ll save his precious Home Office fifteen thousand pounds and get an experienced Terrene to keep you in line.’
‘No. Pike …’ Helen’s mouth dried around her words. He was right: Pike would take the offer in a heartbeat. And if she was to believe the scrap of paper in her pocket — which she did — the journal really did contain information about her parents and most probably Lord Carlston too. Even so, she could not have this man as her Terrene. It was unthinkable.
‘I don’t want you.’ It was all she could manage to say.
He shrugged. ‘Did you take the oath?’
She pressed her lips together.
‘Of course you did. You’re bound by law to do what Pike says. Or will you go against your King and your word?’