Slipping away to report to his ally had almost cost him another memory. After he came back, he’d been saved only by a fight outside the room; Lacca’s few remaining allies tried to steal the string of new mortals Nadrett was going to force into tithing bread. Then there had been another earthquake—not as bad as the one that broke the Market, but more than a tremor—and by the time that was done, Nadrett had been distracted from his punishment. The voice insisted Dead Rick go with him to investigate the Aldersgate door, but how he could do that without getting killed on his return, the skriker didn’t know.
Nadrett gestured to Gadling, who lowered the bloody whip and rubbed his right arm as if it were tired. The clurican sagged in his chains, weeping. While the thrumpin unlocked him, Dead Rick learned why Nadrett insisted he be there. “Run ’im out,” the master said, turning away in disgust. “Into the sewers. Let ’im bloody well drown in shit.”
With Nadrett’s temper so uncertain, he didn’t dare hesitate. Dead Rick snarled and advanced on the fallen Irish faerie. The clurican was so exhausted, he didn’t move at first; Dead Rick had to bite his arm before he’d start running.
Then it was out the door, through the desperate merriment and half-veiled hostility of the Market, all the while wondering if any of it mattered one fucking bit anymore. Dead Rick ran heavily, his heart far less into the chase than usual, and he didn’t pay the blindest bit of attention to anything around him until a net dropped onto his head.
It was made of bronze chains, and their weight bore him instantly to the floor. Dead Rick’s snarls changed from menace to fear. Stupid whelp—stupid and blind, and now you’re going to die— He twisted, trying to see who had trapped him, but someone was there, bundling the net around him and then flipping him upside down to be carried out of the room. Dead Rick saw legs, hands, the back of someone’s head—Blood and Bone. Mortals. But who are they working for?
The answer waited not far away. The men carrying him dropped him to the floor again, chains and all, and Dead Rick looked up to see the rich green of Valentin Aspell’s old-fashioned coat.
“My apologies,” the faerie said, sounding not at all contrite. “As you told me before—so very insistently—it is necessary to give Nadrett some explanation for why you ended up in my presence. He will soon be receiving a message that his skriker has become my prisoner, along with various others of his minions; and while he and I negotiate what should happen next, the one who paid me to kidnap you has a job for you to perform.” Long fingers laid a piece of bread on the stone near Dead Rick’s face; then he heard a pocket-watch click open. “His instructions are that you are to meet him on the north side of St. Paul’s Cathedral in half an hour.”
Dead Rick’s jaws had slipped through a hole in the net, which bound him almost as effectively as a muzzle. Aspell said, “My men are going to unbind you now. I do ask that you not attempt to attack me, as I only did this to get you away from your master without suspicion.”
So this was how his ally intended to arrange the investigation of the laboratory. As soon as Dead Rick was halfway free, he shifted to man form and said, “Nadrett ain’t going to bargain. ’E’ll tell you to kill us all.”
“I think not,” Aspell said dryly. “Once again, you have no faith in my abilities. Perhaps I will take that dispute up with you on some future day. In the meanwhile, you have an engagement to keep.”
One that would, at last, answer the question he’d been chasing since spring. And then I’ll make sure that faceless bastard makes good on ’is end of the promise.
Scooping up the bread, Dead Rick flung a glamour over himself and ran for the Billingsgate door.
City of London: August 6, 1884
Dusk was falling over the world above, turning the light murky and gray. Some of the gas lamps had been lit, but not yet all; in the shadows north of St. Paul’s, Dead Rick needed no charms to hide.
He slowed as he reached the spot, ears and nose sharp for any movement. There were mortals about, of course, but that was it; no fae, no one under any glamour.
Because you’re early, fool. Unlike Aspell, he didn’t have a pocket-watch, but it couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes since he’d left. Dead Rick settled behind a pillar on the curving stairs of the northern portico, where the shadows were deepest, and crossed his arms over his chest to wait.
Before the half hour was up, he saw someone approaching.
It looked like a mortal man, indistinguishable from any of the hundreds of clerks employed by the shops and financial establishments around them. As soon as the fellow drew near, though, Dead Rick sensed the presence of a glamour. The face was of course none he recognized, but—
He found himself staring down the barrel of a pistol. “If you attempt to see my face, I will shoot you on the spot.”
The voice was the one that had spoken to him from the air. His ally had come in person.
Dead Rick licked his lips. Curiosity clawed at him; after so many months, he finally had a chance to see who he’d been working with—which he would need, if his ally backed out on the promise to retrieve his memories. But it wasn’t worth risking right now. Later. When ’e’s not paying attention.
“Sure,” he said easily, not wanting his ally to think about demanding another oath. “If I needs to get your attention, though, what should I call you? Fred? Joe?”
The other faerie uncocked the pistol, looking unamused. “‘My lord’ will do. Come along.”
’E really must be a gentleman. Rolling his eyes, Dead Rick followed him up St. Martins le Grand to Aldersgate Street.
His lordship had to be shown which building to look for. He shook his head slightly when Dead Rick pointed it out, as if surprised by what it had become.
“Is anybody else down there?” Dead Rick asked, looking down as if he could see through the pavement to the faerie palace below.
“I doubt it.” Milord paced around the building’s corner, one hand on his chin in thought.
He doubted it? Dead Rick wished he’d stolen someone else’s gun on the way out of the Market. “What if you’re wrong?”
“Then we will take care of them.” His ally paused and smiled at him, condescendingly. “It is likely to be only Chrennois. Nadrett knows how many can keep a secret.”
Two—if one of ’em is dead. But Nadrett needed the French sprite’s knowledge, so two alive it was. Dead Rick drew his knife and tested its edge. Good enough.
Milord stretched one hand out, just shy of touching the stone. “Take hold of my sleeve,” he said absently, considering the structure in front of him. Dead Rick obeyed. “The alder tree used to envelop those who passed through; this, I think, should—”
The stone flexed outward, and swallowed them whole.
Eager as Eliza was to see Owen, the departure from White Lion Street was delayed when she staggered and nearly fell going down the house’s front steps. Somehow the Goodemeades drew out of her the admission that she hadn’t eaten since her workhouse supper the night before, and then the next thing she knew she was bundled into the Angel coaching inn for a good solid meal. Eliza was on her second meat pie before she realized she’d admitted to being in the workhouse—and that no one had so much blinked at the admission.