Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Kendrick, after an interruption that had required him to change his coat, had reached the imposing bank edifice just before closing and now left with a vast number of bank notes secreted about his person.
The gas streetlights illuminated the gold lettering above the door as he stepped out and merged with the foot traffic on the still-bustling street. He made his way down to Regent Street, where many goldsmiths and smelters plied their trade. He found the shop he wanted and knocked on the door.
“Is your forge banked?” he asked when the door opened.
“We’re closed.”
“Is it banked?” he repeated, narrowing his eyes.
“No,” the man said, recoiling from whatever it was he saw in Kendrick’s face.
Kendrick put bank notes in the man’s hand. “Good. I would like to buy a portion of gold from you, and I’m renting your forge for the night.”
That, plus the persuasion, was enough for the man to leave Kendrick alone with the fire and the anvil and the tools once more bank notes had changed hands for the gold and other necessary metals.
Fire was a vampire’s natural enemy. They could die by fire or sunlight just as much as a sword to the neck.
But Kendrick knew forges and bellows and hammers and tongs, and he had a healthy enough respect for flames to be wary about his business.
He had observed and learned many crafts over the centuries, but smithing had always been one of his favorites.
It took skill, strength, imagination—and for one such as he, a chance to face one of his last remaining fears.
He set his sword aside and doffed his coat, rolling up his sleeves before donning a smelter’s apron. He reached for a gold bar and set it to heat.
Giver of rings, a king was.
He stoked the fire high.
This evening at Sally’s, Hannah had been full of questions about Christmas. “Is it really coming? What do you do at Christmas? What is it about?”
What is it about? Genevieve wondered as baby Justin blew bubbles on her shoulder. Could a child get to this age and not know anything about the season? “Does your mother have a Bible, Hannah? If so, I could read you the story.”
“Don’t think so,” Peter said. “But Augie’s mum takes them to church. She might.”
“Oh, is she home?”
Peter shrugged.
“I shall go and inquire.” Genevieve carted the baby with her out of the room and up the stairs. She didn’t need the number—she could follow the scent trails of the children to the second floor. She knocked on the door quietly.
The normal sounds of movement and quiet voices behind the door ceased. After a long silence, feet moved towards the door and someone carefully unlocked it. “Yes?”
The woman behind the door blinked bottle-green eyes at Genevieve. Blonde hair struggled out of the pins piling it on top of her head. The woman looked hollow-cheeked, as if she were not eating enough. Perhaps she was giving her portions to the children.
Genevieve smiled. “Good evening. My name is Genevieve Dryden. I watch children for Sally Blevins and others.”
“Oh!” The woman’s expression cleared. “Miss Dryden—thank you so much for helping June and August. I hate leaving them alone, but I—I had to go out suddenly.” She swallowed. “I am pleased to meet you. I am Evangeline Hartshorne.”
Genevieve shifted Justin to her other arm and shook hands with the woman whose name and accent marked her an outsider among the East End’s inhabitants.
“I was happy to. And if you ever need to, you can always bring the children by for a while. I try to do a short lesson on their letters or numbers. But I wondered if you had a Bible I might borrow. Hannah has asked about the Christmas story, and I thought I would read it to them.”
“Oh, yes! One moment.” Mrs. Hartshorne disappeared into the room and through the open door, Genevieve saw August playing with June on a threadbare quilt that covered the bare floor.
He waved at her, the solemn tyke. Genevieve smiled and returned the motion.
Then she helped Justin wave too before the baby shoved his hand back in his mouth.
“Here. What a wonderful idea, to read through the Christmas story,” Mrs. Hartshorne said. “We have been reading the Old Testament stories lately, but switching to the Gospels for the season is very appropriate.”
“Thank you so much,” Genevieve said. “I shall return it before I leave.”
On her way back to Sally’s room, she wondered what sort of past Evangeline Hartshorne had, to have begun her life somewhere very different and ended up here.
But didn’t we all, Genevieve thought. Except perhaps Fletcher. Worry roiled in her stomach, but there was nothing she could do about it until Sally came back.
With Hannah waiting expectantly around the wobbly table and Peter pretending indifference but still listening, Genevieve sat down and opened the book to the Gospel of Luke.
“‘And in the sixth month the angel Gabriel was sent from God unto a city of Galilee, named Nazareth, to a virgin espoused to a man whose name was Joseph, of the house of David; and the virgin’s name was Mary…’”
The story of the angel’s arrival to Mary and his announcement that she would be the mother of the Most High rolled off her tongue in the small, squalid room, until she reached the next-to-last verse of the section. “‘For—'”
Genevieve’s throat closed. She cleared it. Cleared it again.
“‘For with God, nothing shall be impossible.’”
She stared at the type on the page, faded as if another thumb had smoothed the words over and over, clinging to the promise. Genevieve swallowed hard. The words were not some ephemeral maybe or perhaps. They were declarative. Without equivocation.
“Nothing shall be impossible.”
“Is there more?” Hannah broke in.
“This is just the start,” Genevieve said, pushing aside the hurts the season held for her. “Christmas is the time of hope coming to fulfillment. The long-awaited Savior of the world being born to Mary.” She took a deep breath and continued.
Once her bonnet was tied on and her cloak fastened, Genevieve delivered the Bible back to Mrs. Hartshorne. “Thank you for the loan,” she whispered as Mrs. Hartshorne opened the door. She could hear the quiet breathing of the sleeping children.
Mrs. Hartshorne wrapped her shawl around her. “You’re very welcome, Miss Dryden.”
“Please call me Genevieve.” She smiled. “Have a good night, Mrs. Hartshorne.”
“Evangeline.” The woman returned the smile. “You as well, Genevieve.”
Pleasure bloomed when Genevieve found Kendrick waiting for her in the dark street. “You’re here.”
“That I am.” He smiled, and it was as if some of the darkness rolled back when he caught her in his warm gaze.
“You didn’t have anything better to do tonight besides wait for me to finish minding children?”
“Actually, I managed quite a lot this eve. Arranged for furnishings to be delivered, looked in on the cleanup efforts, stopped an assassination attempt—”
“Already?” she exclaimed, eyes widening.
“Not to worry,” he assured her. “It was a vampire named Damon, and all he did was ruin my coat. Joseph and I stopped him—we even tried to take him alive, but when he saw which way the wind blew…” He shrugged. “But I am safe this night, fair lady.” He bowed.
“Then why do you smell like smoke?” The scent of hot iron and burning coal hung about him in the air. Even the heat of the fire seemed to cling to him like a phantom.
“That was after I changed my coat.” He offered her his arm.
Heaven help her, she took it.
She expected him to press her on her answer to his proposal, but he didn’t, instead asking, “And how were the children tonight?”
“I read them the Christmas story—up to Bethlehem’s star. I thought to save the Magi and the Flight into Egypt for another night. I thought I remembered the words by heart, but they surprised me again.”
Kendrick lifted his face to the moon, visible this night as it waxed nearly full. “Christmas draws nigh. And what shall I give you, Miss Dryden?”
She blinked at him. “Me?”
He smiled. “For the twelve days of Christmas. What would you like?”
“I have no need of an abundance of birds,” she said, smiling a little. “I don’t even know what the original singer did with twelve days of birds.”
“And lords and ladies dancing and leaping, with a smattering of musicians thrown in for good measure.”
“They must have had a grand estate,” Genevieve said.
“I do have gold rings, however. That is what I made this eve. In days long past, a king was a giver of rings to his nobles and those with whom he made oaths. I took what you said under advisement and decided that would be as good a way as any to forge new bonds with the people.”
“I think that is—”
Genevieve halted at the street corner, slowly turning to breathe in the cold, fetid air. Under the stink of the street and the snap of the wind, she thought she had scented something.
“What is it?” Kendrick asked, his hand twitching towards his sword.
“I thought—there’s a boy who sometimes walks me partway home. He lives on the streets. I haven’t seen him in a few days, and I’ve been worried. Never mind.” She bit her lip. She could have sworn she sensed him.
“No, trust your instincts. Which direction?”
When she would have demurred, he directed, “Close your eyes and reach out with your other senses.”
Genevieve let her eyes flutter shut as she listened to the low murmur of voices in pubs and doss-houses, breathed in the air that carried the hint of snow coming on and something that reminded her of Fletcher. She hesitantly pointed. “But I don’t—”
Kendrick pivoted, his eyes narrowing as he followed where she indicated. “Blood.”
He swiftly made for an alley. Genevieve seized her skirts and hurried after him.
They left the light. Only the moon guided them through the twisting, ramshackle passageways between buildings—Kendrick nearly had to turn sideways to fit a time or two.
Finally, the narrow passage disgorged them before a building half-rotted.
“Stay here,” Kendrick said, waving her back.
“What in there can hurt me? I’m a vampire,” Genevieve objected.
“Keep close, then,” Kendrick said before putting his shoulder to the door. It gave with little resistance, and Genevieve followed him in.
They found Fletcher in what passed for a cellar—he had been entering and exiting by a broken window. The boy huddled under a pile of rags, his breathing thick with phlegm and his face marred with bruises.
“Fletcher?” Genevieve breathed, touching his mottled cheek. It was blazing hot.
Something under his jacket squeaked.
Kendrick moved the fabric aside. They came face to face with a puppy, a small, skinny thing that barely looked old enough to be weaned and still had its milk teeth. It yelped and attempted a growl.
The noise roused the boy. He flinched away.
Kendrick yanked her back just as silver in his hand flashed. The object was not a shiv or a switchblade, but a silver-plated table knife.
“Get back,” Fletcher forced out. He held the knife out in front of him warningly as he coughed. The rattle in his chest sounded horrible. “Get back, reavers, back…”
Genevieve pulled against Kendrick’s hold. “Let go; he’s not well. Fletcher, it’s me. Miss Dryden. What happened?”
Kendrick released her and bent over, ridding Fletcher of the knife. “He’s delirious.” She heard the sizzle of the silver against his skin as he slid the knife into his pocket.
The puppy squeaked and flinched away, and that made Fletcher gasp and recoil.
“He’s hurt; I have to help him!” Genevieve pulled back the rags and the boy’s coat to find the gashes on his arms. “Dear God, what happened?”
“He’s human.”
“He’s a child and my friend!” Genevieve spat. “I am not leaving this boy here.” She moved to lift him.
Kendrick gently pressed her aside to lift the boy himself. “Carry the dog.”
“Dogs don’t like vampires.” She eyed it dubiously.
“He fought for the thing; he will want to see it when he recovers.”
“Will he recover?” she whispered, using some of the ragged blankets to tuck around the boy. She carefully used another to lift the squirming dog.
“We’ll do our best.”
“We?”
“Well, you’re not taking him down to the Ossuary. Besides it being off limits to humans, it is probably the worst place for him. But as it happens, I have a nice, clean house.” He nodded towards the rickety stairs they climbed down. “After you, Miss Dryden.”