“Sadly, yes,” said Rodrigo in muffled tones. He kept his eyes averted from the corpse.
“We’ve seen this young man commit such murders before,” said Sir Ander, his voice burning with anger. “He seduces these young women and then makes them believe that by dying for him, they’re proving their love. You’ll note there is no sign of a struggle.”
“Good God!” Stephano said softly. He swallowed hard.
“There’s more blood down here, Father,” Sir Ander reported, flashing the lantern light about on the pavement. “Not the young woman’s. It might belong to the Warlock.”
“How do you know it’s not her blood?” Stephano asked.
Sir Ander squatted down. “See how the blood is smeared? Looks as if the person was shot in the foot. He was dragging his boot in his own blood. And here he trod in it. You can see bloody footprints. And so did Wallace. You can see faint traces of his footprints walking along behind. Probably holding a gun on the young man. I’ll follow them, see where they lead.”
He continued down the alley, shining the light on the cobblestones.
“I take it from what Sir Ander says that the two of you have been working to stop this Warlock,” said Stephano.
“For many long months,” said Father Jacob.
Kneeling beside the body, he began to pray. Rodrigo bowed his head. Stephano didn’t want to pray. He wanted to lash out, hit someone-God, maybe.
Sir Ander was not gone long. He waited for Father Jacob to finish his prayer to make his report.
“The bloody smear of the Warlock’s trail ends at the canal. Wallace’s prints continue down the street. Maybe he threw the young man into the Breath,” Sir Ander said hopefully.
“I doubt it. Wallace took him hostage. If he’d wanted to kill him, he could have just shot him. With all the barge traffic, Wallace probably dumped him in a passing boat. There is something between Wallace and the Warlock, that much is clear.”
“The Sorceress,” said Sir Ander. “We know she spent time in Freya.”
“I fear you may be right, my friend,” said Father Jacob. He paused, then said, “And I believe I know how she and Wallace might be connected. We long suspected he had something to do with the attack on the Defiant.”
Father Jacob started to stand, caught his foot in the hem of his cassock and staggered. Stephano reached out his hand to steady the priest. He was eager to start on Wallace’s trail, but there was something he needed to say first.
“What will happen to this young woman?” Stephano asked, gesturing to the body.
“Sir Ander and I will take care of the poor child,” said Father Jacob. “There is a convent nearby. The nuns will tend to her until we can learn her name and give the sad news to her family.”
Stephano coughed, cleared his throat. “After seeing this… Well, um, I may have misjudged you, Father. I’m sorry if I’ve been.. .” He paused, uncertain.
“An ass?” Rodrigo suggested.
Stephano flushed. “Not exactly the word I was going to use in front of a priest.”
Father Jacob smiled. “I understand, Captain-perhaps better than you think. May God go with you.” He held out his hand.
“And with you, Father,” said Stephano. He accepted the priest’s handshake.
Sir Ander lifted the young woman in his arms, cradling the lifeless body as gently and tenderly as a father. Rodrigo drew a lace-edged handkerchief from his pocket and laid it over the cold, pale, blood-smeared face. Father Jacob gave both Stephano and Rodrigo his blessing and told them to take the lantern.
“We walk with God’s light,” said Father Jacob, as he fell into solemn step alongside Sir Ander.
Stephano waited to see them safely on their way with their sorrowful burden, then turned back to the business of tracking Sir Henry.
“I’m amazed,” said Rodrigo. “A priest blessed you, and you didn’t sneer.”
“Because I have a feeling we’re going to need it,” said Stephano. “Let’s see if that compass-thingamajig works.”
The compass worked, apparently, for it led them down the alley in the same direction as the faint trail of bloody footprints. When they came to the end of the alley, the compass indicated that Sir Henry Wallace had continued along Canal Street. Rodrigo walked on, delighted with his new toy, then stopped when he realized Stephano wasn’t with him.
“Hey,” he said, glancing around. “What are you doing? Father Jacob warned us that the magical connection wouldn’t last long.”
Stephano stood in the darkness that seemed thick and heavy with evil, hard to breathe.
“You heard what Father Jacob said about this man, Wallace,” said Stephano. “The priest was serious. My mother calls Henry Wallace the most dangerous man in the world. She told me I should quit looking for him. Even she’s afraid of him.”
The two were quiet, somber.
“My mother does pay well,” said Stephano.
“And on time,” Rodrigo said with a deep sigh. Looking down at the compass, he pointed. “Wallace went that way.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
In a city where “watch your back” means you get stabbed in the chest and you can’t even trust your own shadow not to kill you if the money’s right, the Blue Parrot is known for offering privacy, respectability, damn fine brandy, and a rear exit.
THE COMPASS LED RODRIGO AND STEPHANO down Canal Street. They turned left onto the Street of Saints, where the compass led them straight to an exclusive bordello known as the Dovecote. The trail ended on the walkway outside the bordello’s ornately carved and gold-leaf-trimmed door as they discovered when they walked past the house and continued down the street about a block. The compass did not react.
“He must have taken a cab,” Rodrigo said, not knowing whether to be relieved or disappointed.
“I don’t think so,” said Stephano. Turning around, he studied their location. “Cabs don’t frequent this street, at least not this early. He came here for a reason.”
“To the Dovecote? You can’t be serious,” Rodrigo said, carefully tucking the compass in an inner coat pocket. “He’s been ambushed by demons, involved in dark magic and the murder of a young girl. A priest from the Arcanum knows he’s in Westfirth, and Wallace decides to go play slap and tickle?”
“If he’s a member, he would ask the doorman if he-”
“-could make use of their carriage,” Rodrigo finished, catching up with his friend’s thinking. “That makes sense. I wonder if Dag’s friend is still the owner?”
“We have the priest’s blessing,” said Stephano. “Let’s see if it’s worth anything. Do I look presentable?”
“No,” said Rodrigo, twitching Stephano’s long coat in place to hide the fact that his trousers were grimy and blood-stained and shaking his head over the sorry state of his friend’s shirt. “But, then, you never did, so no one should be surprised.”
The two retraced their steps back to the bordello and walked down the paved path that ran from the street to the entrance. The grounds were pleasant. They walked beneath the overarching limbs of graceful poplar trees and through a rose garden. The house was quiet at this time of evening with only a few lights in the windows. The women would be dressing, putting on their jewels and powder and perfume, preparing for the night’s work. In the back rooms, the owner would be preparing the tables for baccarat, dice, and other games of chance. The doorman stood in a well-lighted portico adorned with tubs of geraniums and lilies. He had been keeping an eye on the two gentlemen and, as they ascended the stairs, he advanced to meet them. He was a shortish man, almost as wide as he was tall with broad shoulders, arms thick with muscle, and no neck. He touched his hand to the brim of his hat.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said polite, but firm. “I fear you have made a mistake. This is a private club, for members only-”
“Thomaso,” said Rodrigo warmly. “Don’t tell me you have forgotten old friends?”