Emma Holloway - A Study in Ashes

“I’m not just anybody.” He raised one hand, extending it palm out. “You and I have always been together.”

“I killed Magnus ,” she repeated.

“Good,” he said again, and kept his hand right where it had been.

He saw her fingers twitch, wanting to respond, but her fear was fighting his invitation. He felt the flutter in his own gut, the sense that his own strength was about to be tested. And then she quickly raised her own hand and pressed her palm to his. Her magic had always been of earth, of the green and growing fields, the rich soil and sun-warmed rocks. Now Nick felt the force of her magic like a bolt, dark and terrifying as an abyss. She was all that she had been, but there was utter darkness, too.

He felt that darkness lick at his power, wondering if he would be good to eat. A fine shiver crawled over his flesh, but he knew how to respond. After all, he’d grown up around lions and tigers and had seen them tamed often enough.

Nick unfurled his magic—not to hurt as he’d done with the shadow creatures, but with the slow, insistent radiance of sun and air. His magic pressed against hers, blazing to a corona of light. There had always been a silver sheen when they touched, but this was a starburst of silver. He heard Evelina catch her breath, every bit as awed as he was by the potency of the wild magic they could call.

“You have something Magnus never had,” Nick said, putting all his reassurance into his voice.

She met his eyes, looking just as she had with one foot out of girlhood, testing what it was to be a woman. “What is that?”

Nick gave his best, his most piratical smile. “Me.”

London, October 13, 1889

HILLIARD HOUSE

11:55 p.m. Sunday

A FAINT BREATH OF WIND FLUTTERED THE LACE CURTAIN. IT was slight enough that Bancroft, adrift between wakefulness and sleep, wondered if it was just a trick of the gold-washed light from the street outside. Then the clock on the landing bonged. He blinked, and told himself he had better get some rest. It was hard since he had sworn off strong drink. His mind never quite shut down.

The nervous chatter in his brain was worse now than ever, however much he shied away from any thoughts of Tobias or Imogen. The search for his grandson continued, and with it the anxious despair of his family. They’d tried letters, telegrams, and delegations to the Gold King with no effect. He’d vanished, and Jeremy along with him. Bancroft had called on his allies to help, but those he could interest in the plight of a single baby didn’t have any more access than he did. And everyone was far more interested in the war.

Skirmishes had broken out between the Gold and Blue forces, but they had yet to progress to full-on battle. Bancroft’s guess was that neither side was as ready as they’d imagined. What had begun with a bang had fizzled to a whimper as one side or the other attempted to negotiate. The proposals were utterly insincere overtures—tactics meant to put the other off his guard—but still they dragged on. It was like waiting for a boil to burst.

Bancroft tossed, plumped his pillow, and heaved a sigh as his mind skipped to yet another topic. He’d spent the evening in the offices of the Whitlock Bank—one of the few still standing after the Gold King’s attack on the Green territories—transferring funds to Han Lo for the coal. There was plenty of coal in the city now for whatever attacks the rebels planned. Unfortunately, the supplies were in London and most of the rebels were in the south. Han Lo had promised some assistance—Bancroft wasn’t certain how far the Black Kingdom’s influence stretched—but the rest Bancroft would have to get through the blockades. He had no idea how—yet. He needed a miracle but he had managed to get the coal, so that meant he hadn’t lost his capacity to work wonders.

He closed his eyes and imagined possible rewards for all his care: a ministerial appointment, accolades in the press, maybe a handshake from the future king. He had gambled heavily on the Baskerville affair, risked much and paid more, but dreaming of all he might win took the sting from his efforts.

He had just about sailed into peaceful oblivion, when he heard a light footfall. This time he sat up, the covers falling to his waist. He glanced first at the connecting door to his wife’s bedchamber, but it was closed. Then he wondered if it was his youngest daughter up to no good. “Poppy?”

A knife flashed, and the next moment he was pinned against his pillow. Bancroft heaved in a gasp, shrinking into the softness, his skin twitching to get away from the blade. Automatically, his hand shot toward the bedside table where he kept a gun, but the knife dug in.

“Greetings, my lord.”

A black outline blotted out the square of light from the window. Bancroft’s mind whirred, grasping for facts, but there was little to work with. The only thing that he could determine was that the figure was small.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Remembrance.” The word was precisely spoken, but with a curious accent. Chinese, he thought, though more pronounced than that of Han Lo. “I had a brother who came to these shores.”

Bancroft waited, deciding that the voice sounded female. “How can I help you?”

The knife jerked, making him gasp.

“I do not need your help!”

“Then tell me who you are.”

“Hush!”

The blade turned, the point spinning against this flesh. A terrified sound worked its way from his throat. His gaze flickered to his wife’s door, praying that she remained asleep.

“Do you know what happened to Mr. Harriman?” said the voice in a whisper like dry, dead leaves.

Harriman, Keating’s cousin, had been Bancroft’s partner in the forgery scheme—the one that had ended with so many Chinese bodies in the underground rivers. If Bancroft had entertained any doubts, now he was sure he was in trouble. “He died in prison.”

“How poorly that describes his fate,” the voice mocked.

“I don’t know the details. It didn’t matter to me.”

“It should.” The knife turned slowly, snagging in his flesh. “He died one cut at a time. It didn’t matter if his keepers locked him away. The knife came each night and took a little bit of him away.”

“Good God!”

“Not good if you were Harriman. Every dawn would find less. An ear, a finger, a toe. Eventually the easy pieces were gone and the rest had to be done in strips.”

Bancroft had had enough. He reached up to grab the knife hand, but a hard blow slapped him on the wrist, making his fingers turn to rubber.

“If one is frugal, there is enough flesh on a man to last a year before he dies. But Mr. Harriman did not live through the summer. He stopped sleeping, too afraid to shut his eyes for fear of what he would lose next. A man cannot go on forever like that.”

Bancroft’s flesh pebbled in disgust. “What did Harriman do to deserve such an end?”

The knife pricked hard enough to draw blood. “You do not remember?”

Bancroft’s heart was pounding now, but the fear was clearing his head. “Harriman was versatile. He did many things.”

The knife jabbed again.

“All right, all right.” Bancroft had been the brains, but Harriman was the actual perpetrator of the forgery scheme. “He hired goldsmiths from China. A dozen workers in all.”

“A dozen workers and my brother, the one you called Han Zuiweng,” the figure said, the words little more than an angry hiss.

Bancroft shuddered at the name.

“Harriman confessed that he paid my brother to kill the others, but he swore that it was you who killed my brother.”

Of all the moments for Harriman to start telling the truth . “It was Harriman.”