“Quite right, mum. Waiting on your pleasure.”
How that must gall her. “How very polite. I shall take luncheon in my study, Finch, and we shall go over the household accounts with Madame Noyon afterwards.”
“Yesmum.” There was a certain spring in his step as he left, and she allowed herself one more moment of studying the hellebore’s wide leaves and juicy, thriving green before she made her way to the drawing room.
Mikal was at the door, sweeping it open at her nod.
Clare was at the mantel, studying the mirror over it with an air of bemused worriment. Inspector Aberline, his wounded ankle securely wrapped, leaned heavily on a brass-headed Malacca cane, but he did not dare sit in the presence of the stout, heavily veiled woman on the blue velvet settee.
Mikal closed the door, and Emma surveyed them, clasping her hands in ladylike fashion. She did not pay the woman a courtesy, instead regarding Aberline with a lifted eyebrow.
“Good morning, Inspector. I take it you’re well?”
He glowered. “Fires. Property damage, loss of life. Waring swears he’ll have my head, the public is calling for my dismissal.”
“How very uncomfortable.” Given your usual methods, I cannot say I mind. Still, he had aided Clare. “Do you wish to keep your position? Should you not, I am certain those present may be of aid in finding a better one.”
“I’m to go on holiday until the fuss dies down.” His gaze turned to the veiled woman. “With your permission, Your Majesty, I shall be about my duties.”
“We are grateful for your services, during these troubled times.” The Widow of Windsor offered a plump, gloved, beringed paw, and he bent over it. “You have Our thanks, and Our blessing.”
Much good may it do you. Emma held her tongue.
Aberline limped past her, pausing at the door. “My regards to Mr Finch, Miss Bannon. Good day.”
I shall not pass along any of your regard, sir. “Good day, Inspector. Pleasant dreams.”
He restrained a curse, but only barely, and she waited until she heard the front door close behind him before her attention turned elsewhere.
The silence quickly became uncomfortable. Clare appeared to take no notice, until, with a sigh, Victrix pushed her veil aside and regarded the sorceress.
Her eyes were shockingly, humanly dark, the constellations of Britannia’s gaze dim and faraway in pupils that had not been visible for years. “Sorceress.”
“Your Majesty.”
“They tell me it is… finished.”
For me, yes. “It appears so.”
Her reply apparently did not satisfy. Colour began below the high neckline of the Widow of Windsor’s stiff black gown, mounted in her cheeks. Died away. The tiny points of light flickering in her pupils sought to strengthen. Emma observed this with great interest.
Finally, Victrix spoke again. “We are weakened. No doubt this pleases you.”
“It does not.” I wish you every joy of it, though. “The sorcerer responsible for the recent… unpleasantness… suffered a hideous fate, Your Majesty. Perhaps that may comfort you.”
The Queen hefted herself to her feet. Clare stepped away from the mantel, as if to assist, but she merely stalked to within a few feet of Emma. Their skirts almost brushed, and the sorceress banished the smile seeking to rise to her mouth.
It would not do.
“We are not comforted, witchling.” There was no cold weight of power behind the words, but the echo of Britannia’s frigid, heavy voice underlay Victrix’s words. “We suspect…”
Have you learned nothing, my Queen? Emma did not blink.
Two women, studying each other, the only thing separating them a wall of trembling air. And, of course, a measure of pride on either side.
Victrix’s shoulders sagged. Her hand twitched, slightly, as if she wished to reach out.
If she did, what would I do? She is not the queen I served.
The memory of vast weight, the temptation to step aside from her human self and become more, rose inside her in a dark wave.
Emma Bannon found, much to her relief, that her decision was still the same, and that she suffered no regret.
“You are the Queen,” she murmured, and lowered her gaze. She stared at Victrix’s reticule–and what use did royalty have for such a thing, really? She certainly never went marketing. Perhaps it was a touch of the domesticity she had craved with her Consort.
What dreams had been put aside when the spirit of rule descended upon Victrix? Did she curse the weight and cherish it at once, as a Prime might well both curse and cherish the burden of a Will that would not allow rest or submission?
“We are.” But Victrix only sounded weary. “We shall not trouble thee again, sorceress.”
Is that meant to sting, or to soothe me? Emma merely nodded, and Her Majesty swept past, her veil whispering as she lowered it again. The door opened, and Emma turned her head, staring at the velvet-cloaked window. “Your Majesty.”
A pause, a listening silence.
“I shall not trouble you, either.”
There was no answer.
Chapter Forty-Nine
You Have Caused Her Grief
Most intriguing. Clare cleared his throat. “Emma.” Her head rose, and Clare discerned a redness rimming her dark eyes, a trace of moisture upon her cheek.
The front door opened, closed again, and he was alone with the sorceress.
“Archibald.” The high neck of her gown failed to disguise the livid scar about her neck. What had she suffered at the hands of the mad, faceless Prime?
“How…” How do you feel? The ridiculousness of the question kindled a fierce heat in his cheeks. Was he blushing? Irrational. Illogical. “You look… well. Quite well.”
“Thank you.” A colourless reply. She studied him, her chin set, her hands clasped–he did not miss the tension in those knotted fingers. It must pain her, to clench them so. “You do, as well.”
“Ah, thank you.” He took a deep breath. “I… Emma, I must ask. The… stone. The thing you… can you, will you, take it from me? It is… irrational. It causes… Feeling.”
“How interesting.” She studied him, dark eyes moving slowly, her earrings swaying a trifle. “That is generally not among its effects. And no, Clare. I will not.” She halted, and answering colour burned high on her soft, childlike cheeks. “Not even if you… if you hate me.”
What must it have cost her, to say such a thing? Hate? He was a mentath. He did not…
And yet. Was it the thing she had done to him that created these storms of Feeling?
Was it the woman herself?
Or, most unsettling of all, were these tempests somehow… his own?
“Emma.” Hoarsely. There was something caught in his throat. “I do not… I cannot hate you.”
She nodded. “Thank you.” What was her expression? Did he dare to name it? Could he?
“But I am… I am leaving. I must learn how to… moderate my reaction to this…” This was not how he had thought such an interview would go. What had he expected–tears? Cries of remorse? From her? From himself? “To this… gift. Of yours. This very fine… gift.”
Another nod, the crimson in her cheeks retreating. “Very well.”
“I cannot… I do not wish to cause you… pain.” How on earth did others bear this illogical, irrational agony?
“Do as you must, Clare.” Her fingers were white, clasped so tightly. “Should you ever need my aid, all you must do is send me word.”
His throat was alarmingly dry, he forced himself to swallow. “Thank you. I… I shall.” He could delay no longer, yet the urge to do so rose. He denied it. “Pico has a hansom waiting; I shall pay his wages myself. He is a very useful young man.”
She said nothing.
There was nothing more for him to say, either, so he forced his legs to perform their accustomed function. He paused at the door, studying its crystal knob. Slowly, as an old man might, he twisted it, opened the door and stepped ou
tside.
When it closed, he turned and made for the front. In the entry hall, though, was the last gauntlet to run.
Mikal tilted his dark head. His hair was slightly disarranged, and his hand rested upon a hilt–one of the knives at his hips, wicked blades Clare had a healthy respect for his facility in handling.
Clare drew his gloves on, slowly. Settled his hat.
“Mentath.” The Shield’s words were a bare murmur, but Clare’s quick ears caught them. “You have caused her grief.”
It was his turn to nod. There was no denial, no excuse he could offer.
There was, however, an answer to the charge. “So have you, sir.”
Mikal’s hand fell away from the hilt. Clare expected more, but the Shield was simply silent as the mentath brushed past. Just before the front door, he paused.
Once I leave, will I ever return?
There was no answer. He took a deep breath, adjusted his hat, and stepped out into a foggy Londinium midmorning. A spatter of rain touched the small, exquisite garden, and Miss Bannon’s gates were merely ajar instead of fully open.
He sallied down the stone path, and when he exited the gate it closed behind him, with a small, definite click. There was a hansom waiting, the driver’s face half-hidden by a striped muffler, and a chill touched Clare’s back.
It was irrational, so he discarded it, and clambered into the hansom.
Pico, cleaning his fingernails with a thin, flexible knife, greeted him with a nod. “All’s well?”
No. “Yes. Quite.” He settled himself, and tapped the roof. “Baker Street, please, number 200.”
“Sir!” The whip cracked. Clare suppressed a shiver.
What came next? If he thought only of what must be done next, he could, he thought, perhaps navigate this situation properly. “Mr Pico. Miss Bannon has released you into my service. I trust you have no objection?”
“Course not, guv.” The lad grinned. “Interesting indeed. Still want to learn from her grim one, though.”
I am certain you do, he is most dangerous. “When your duties permit. You are a bright lad, and shall be of great help. Tell me, are you fond of travel?”
“Can’t say as I’ve ever tried it, guv.”
“Well.” Clare settled himself, steepled his fingers, and gazed past them at the faded fabric curtains swaying as the hansom rocked over cobbles. “You shall, and very soon.” Very soon indeed. “There are experiments to be done.”
He lapsed into a profound silence, which did not discommode Pico in the least. As the conveyance bore them away from Brooke Street, the lad even began to whistle.
Note
A string of brutal killings in London in 1888 are still a subject of unholy fascination to this day. I make no apology for the allusions to said murders within this work of fiction, for indeed it is difficult to write of Victorian London without tripping over a mention or two of the fear that gripped the city in that awful autumn. I do, however, wish to state that there are a number of excellent books and interesting theories about the murders, and that I availed myself of several.
I wish to further state that though I may allude, I deliberately do not address the killer by the name he might have given himself, or the name the nascent “popular media” christened him with and that he is known by today. Instead, I shall list other names:
Emma Elizabeth Smith
Martha Tabram
Mary Ann Nichols
Annie Chapman
Elizabeth Stride
Catherine Eddowes
Mary Jane Kelly
There are a multitude of others who also met untimely ends, by violence or poverty.
If they cannot be avenged, may they all, at least, be at peace.
BOOKS BY LILITH SAINTCROW
Bannon and Clare
The Iron Wyrm Affair
The Red Plague Affar
The Ripper Affair
The Damnation Affair (e-only)
Dante Valentine Novels
Working for the Devil
Dead Man Rising
Devil’s Right Hand
Saint City Sinners
To Hell and Back
Dante Valentine (omnibus)
Jill Kismet Novels
Night Shift
Hunter’s Prayer
Redemption Alley
Flesh Circus
Heaven’s Spite
Angel Town
A Romance of Arquitaine Novels
The Hedgewitch Queen
The Bandit King
As Lili St. Crow
The Strange Angels series
Strange Angels
Betrayals
Jealousy
Defiance
Reckoning
Praise for
The Iron Wyrm Affair
“Saintcrow scores a hit with this terrific steampunk series that rockets through a Britain-that-wasn’t with magic and industrial mayhem with a firm nod to Holmes. Genius and a rocking good time.”
—Patricia Briggs
“Saintcrow melds a complex magic system with a subtle but effective steampunk society, adds fully fleshed and complicated characters, and delivers a clever and highly engaging mystery that kept me turning pages, fascinated to the very end.”
—Laura Anne Gilman
“Innovative world-building, powerful steampunk, master storyteller at her best. Don’t miss this one.… She’s fabulous.”
—Christine Feehan
“Lilith Saintcrow spins a world of deadly magic, grand adventure, and fast-paced intrigue through the clattering streets of a mazelike mechanized Londonium. The Iron Wyrm Affair is a fantastic mix of action, steam, and mystery dredged in dark magic with a hint of romance. Loved it! Do not miss this wonderful addition to the steampunk genre.”
—Devon Monk
“Lilith Saintcrow’s foray into steampunk plunges the reader into a Victorian England rife with magic and menace, where clockwork horses pace the cobbled streets, dragons rule the ironworks, and it will take a sorceress’s discipline and a logician’s powers of deduction to unravel a bloody conspiracy.”
—Jacqueline Carey
extras
meet the author
Daron Gildow
LILITH SAINTCROW was born in New Mexico, bounced around the world as an Air Force brat, and fell in love with writing when she was ten years old. She currently lives in Vancouver, WA. Find her on the web at: www.lilithsaintcrow.com.
introducing
If you enjoyed
THE RIPPER AFFAIR,
look out for
FULL BLOODED
Jessica McClain: Book One
by Amanda Carlson
It’s not easy being a girl. It’s even harder when you’re the only girl in a family of werewolves. But it’s next to impossible when your very existence spells out the doom of your race… Meet Jessica McClain—she just became part of the pack.
CHAPTER ONE
I drew in a ragged breath and tried hard to surface from one hell of a nightmare. “Jesus,” I moaned. Sweat slid down my face. My head was fuzzy. Was I dreaming? If I was, this dream hurt like a bitch.
Wait, dreams aren’t supposed to hurt.
Without warning my body seized again. Pain scorched through my veins like a bad sunburn, igniting every cell in its path. I clenched my teeth, trying hard to block the rush.
Then, as quickly as it struck, the pain disappeared.
The sudden loss of sensation jolted my brain awake and my eyes snapped open in the dark. This wasn’t a damn dream. I took a quick internal inventory of all my body parts. Everything tingled, but thankfully my limbs could move freely again. The weak green halo of my digital clock read 2:07 a.m. I’d only been asleep for a few hours. I rolled onto my side and swiped my sticky hair off my face. When my fingers came in contact with my skin, I gasped and snapped them away like a child who’d just touched a hot stove.
Holy shit, I’m on fire.
That couldn’t be right.
Don’t
panic, Jess. Think logically.
I pressed the back of my hand against my forehead to get a better read on how badly I was burning up. Hot coals would’ve felt cooler than my skin.
I must be really sick.
Sickness was a rare event in my life, but it did happen. I wasn’t prone to illness, but I wasn’t immune to it either. My twin brother never got sick, but if the virus was strong enough I was susceptible.
I sat up, allowing my mind to linger for a brief moment on a very different explanation of my symptoms. That scenario would be impossible. Get a grip. You’re a twenty-six-year-old female. It’s never going to happen. It’s probably just the flu. There’s no need to—
Without so much as a breath of warning, another spasm of pain hit clear and bright. My body jerked backward as the force of it plowed through me, sending my head slamming into the bedframe, snapping the wooden slats like matchsticks. My back bowed and my arms lashed out, knocking my bedside table and everything on it to the ground. The explosion of my lamp as it struck the floor was lost beneath my bona fide girl scream. “Shiiiit!”
Another tremor hit, erupting its vile ash into my psyche like a volcano. But this time instead of being lost in the pale haze of sleep, I was wide awake. I had to fight this.
I wasn’t sick.
I was changing.
Jesus Christ! You’ve spent your whole life thinking about this very moment and you try to convince yourself you have the flu? What’s the matter with you? If you want to live, you have to get to the dose before it’s too late!
The pain buried me, my arms and legs locked beside me. I was unable to move as the continuous force of spasms hit me one after another. The memory of my father’s voice rang clearly in my mind. I’d been foolish and too stubborn for my own good and now I was paying the price. “Jessica, don’t argue with me. This is a necessary precaution. You must keep this by you at all times.” The new leather case, containing a primed syringe of an exclusively engineered cocktail of drugs, would be entrusted to me for safekeeping. The contents of which were supposed to render me unconscious if need be. “You may never need it, but as you well know, this is one of the stipulations of your living alone.”