“—that damned half-breed bitch, acting like a white woman, aping her betters, pretending to be a doctor—”
Shivani throttled her own impulse to interrupt his raving. She did not want him to know she was interested in what he had said. He would use it to try to manipulate her. He had done this before, and this time she was in no mood to fence with him, placate him, or give in to his demands. He was coming to the end of his usefulness, and was no longer worth the time it took to work with him. She would listen to him rant, and wait him out.
She had patience, more patience than he. And to make him more loquacious, she surreptitiously added a handful of drugs to the single block of charcoal in the incense brazier below her. Could it be? Could it possibly be that she had found her sister’s child?
Carefully, surreptitiously, she opened her Third Eye, and practically snorted her contempt for his blindness aloud. How could he possibly have thought the girl had struck him physically, when he practically reeked of the power that had been used to render him unconscious? How could he have missed something so blindingly obvious? Perhaps only because he himself was so stubbornly blind. It would never have occurred to him that the girl could have as much or more power than he, therefore he had never looked for the signs of it. Stupid swine.
She couldn’t tell much from the residue, but in a way, she felt a grudging admiration for the girl that had done this, even if it did prove to be the traitor she sought. The girl had, after all, managed to knock him unconscious without actually damaging him in any way.
But that might simply be a matter of accident rather than control. Admittedly, striking a man dead in the midst of a crowded building would leave one with a corpse that could prove very difficult to explain—but the man was a sahib, and arrogant sahibs were prone to do foolish things that caused them to die with great suddenness. There would be no marks on the body to explain, and heat did kill. And with every moment that passed, Shivani considered that if it had been her and not the unknown who had been molested, Parkening would be in his coffin at this very moment.
As the drugs filled the air, she armored herself against their effect, while waiting for them to loosen Parkening’s tongue further.
She did not have long to wait.
Before long, Parkening embarked on a long, rambling condemnation of two of the doctors in the hospital, the one that Shivani was interested in, and a second, an Irishman, that Shivani could not have cared less about.
Unfortunately, this was the one that Parkening blamed for all his misfortune, so this was the one he expounded at length upon.
Great length. Shivani was getting ready to strike him down herself if he didn’t get to the girl soon. How on earth could this fool be so obsessed with a man who probably didn’t even think about him unless Parkening did something to interfere with him? If the Irish doctor was not his enemy yet, Parkening seemed determined to make an enemy of him. Was his life so very empty that he had to go out of his way to create enemies to enliven it?
Finally, he got around to the woman in the case.
“—O’Reilly’s mistress,” he growled. “She must be, I’m sure of it. Why no one but me has spotted it—she’d be thrown out of the hospital in a moment, if I could get the proof. Fornication; can’t have that in my hospital. Very deep, that one. Must be her. Couldn’t be O’Reilly, he hasn’t the brains. But that half-breed—mongrel vigor, that’s what it is. Cunning. Not brains, but cunning. Should have guessed it. Bloody wogs. Hindoos—can’t trust ‘em, too cunning by half.”
He seemed to have forgotten that Shivani, upon whom he depended for his further magical instruction and before whom he sat, was Indian; she did snort with contempt at that faux pas, but the drugs had taken him far enough that he didn’t even notice.
“Says her father was a doctor. Ha! Probably some ranker. Probably some Cockney Tommy. And if he married her mother I’d be surprised. Half-Hindoo wog bitch. Hit me! Me!” There was a fleck of foam on his mustache, and his eyes had begun to glaze. He would probably pass out shortly; she would have to have her servants revive him. Or—perhaps not. Perhaps she would simply have them bundle him into a cab and leave him to deal with cab and cabby when he arrived on his own doorstep. If he was lucky, the cabby would summon his servants. If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t wake up again, a body would be found in the Thames, and the cabby would be much, much richer. There was no telling which sort he’d get in this neighborhood.
It was of no great matter to Shivani; she had decided now that he was a risk and a nuisance, and she was going to be rid of him. She did not wish draw attention to herself and her dacoits and thugee by murdering him herself, but she would banish him from this place from now on.
“Witherspoon.” He snorted. “A concocted name if ever I heard one! Doctor-my-ass Maya Witherspoon! Not bloody likely! Bastard bitch half-wog—b—b—b—”
He began to splutter, as if he no longer had any control over his tongue. He probably didn’t; by now he had breathed in enough intoxicant to fell most men. His head wobbled loosely on his shoulders. He blinked, shook his head.
Then his eyes rolled up, and he dropped over onto the cushions in an untidy heap.
Shivani rang for the servants. Two of them came immediately, bowing to her with utmost servility.
“Take him away,” she said languidly, waving a hand at him. “Put him in a cab, or drop him in the river, I care not which. Only take his stinking body from my sight, and do not admit him to my presence anymore. I am weary of him.”
They bowed again, and hauled him off. They would probably put him in a cab, but only because it was too far to drag him to the river, and there was always at least one cab waiting outside the house of pleasure on the corner.
Shivani got up, and stretched, no longer languid. She had a great deal to do, for now she had a person, and a name. Revenge—and power—would be hers.
It was only a matter of time now.
Shivani flung back her veil, and smiled into the night.
Chapter Sixteen
I THINK I may be the happiest man in the world.
Peter had forgotten his original intention of warning Maya about the mysterious deaths the moment she flung herself, sobbing, into his arms. When he’d seen her in the light from the hallway, dressed in her exotic sari with her hair down and her eyes as wide as a frightened deer’s, the last thing he would have said to her, had he had time to think about what he was saying, was how beautiful she was. But the exclamation had been startled out of him, and it had resulted in this—
He stroked her hair and said nothing as she wept and raged alternately, during which time he gathered the gist of what had happened to her at the hospital. He didn’t know a great deal about women, but his instincts on this were that the best thing he could do for her right now was to listen. And meanwhile, he was beginning to have some glimmerings of what to do about this Simon Parkening.
What he wanted to do, of course, was to march over to the cad’s flat and punch him in the nose. Maya’s distress had awakened a number of very cavemanlike feelings that were not altogether unfamiliar to him—but he knew very well that what might pass for reasonable behavior on the deck of a ship would only lead to a great deal of trouble in this case. He hadn’t worked his way up to captain by punching everyone who offended him.
Much as I would like to smash his face to a pulp, whoever this Simon Parkening is, I don’t think that’s the best tactic for getting him out of Maya’s life.