Chapter Twenty-Eight
Cordon stomped down the alley. After losing himself to despair in front of Kitty’s shop, he’d rallied and tackled his other problem: Blaylock. He’d spent the entire night tracking him, but the man was slippery and vanished every time Cordon got close enough to corner him.
The foul odor of rotting meat wafted around him, making him gag. This was an area of Whitechapel he’d never visited. Perhaps it hadn’t been wise to send the cab away, as now he would have to find a way back on his own.
He remembered how he’d guided a nearly-nude Kitty on the horse into the park, how those men had spotted her and stumbled toward them, shouting in a drunken haze.
That moment had been filled with fear for Kitty as much as excitement.
But as three men in battered overalls appeared at the end of the alley and started walking toward him, he felt only resignation.
“Aye, toff!” a slurred voice called. “What’s a blighter like you doing about these parts? You be lookin’ for trouble?”
Cordon flexed his muscles. A fight was exactly what he was searching for, to burn away the despair that had engulfed him.
He wouldn’t take the lives of the men who had the unfortunate timing of confronting him when he was in such a mood, but he’d teach them a lesson they would not soon forget.
It had been quite some time since he’d tested the limits of his vampiric abilities.
It was time to see how much faster he’d become in the past decade.
“Oi think this toff’s pockets need emptyin’,” the drunkard said.
Cordon straightened and strode faster toward the group, his heart pounding as he imagined smashing his fist into flesh, shattering bone, sending blood spraying across the alley walls. He would do it fast, before the men could call out for help.
Then he took an awkward step, and his leg buckled, sending him crashing to the sticky, rocky ground.
He was only down for a few seconds, but it was enough that when he struggled upright, he could see the wicked gleam of the knives held in the men’s meaty fists.
He stood as still as possible until the first of his victims reached him, then attempted to hammer his fist onto the man’s forearm to make him drop the weapon.
Except instead of his hand hitting flesh, someone caught his wrist in an iron grip.
Then he was back on the sticky ground, wrapping his arms around his head as heavy boots slammed into his body from all sides.
“That’s enough,” a familiar male voice said.
The blows stopped.
Cordon peered through his fingers as his attackers ran away, revealing Blaylock. Cordon might not have recognized the man, who now possessed vibrant-blue eyes and a full head of curly, black hair, were it not for the pin in his cravat that bore the symbol of the Wild Hunt.
Cordon’s side screamed in protest, but he forced himself to a sitting position. Blaylock might have found someone to turn him, but he was still a fledgling. That meant it was Blaylock who owed Cordon respect.
“My nest has claim over Whitechapel,” Blaylock said. “If we find you in our territory again, you will not be shown mercy.”
Cordon coughed, then wiped the blood from his face with the back of his hand. “Who is your maker?”
There were few vampires in London older than Cordon, which meant that whoever had turned Blaylock had failed to instruct the man in vampire customs. That was an unacceptable breach of decorum that Cordon would fix the moment he was back to his full strength.
Blaylock laughed. “My maker was a pathetic, old-looking vampire so deep in debt that he came to me begging for a loan. When he couldn’t pay it back, I suggested he turn me instead.
He agreed but was so weak that I stabbed him through the heart with a wooden stake I’d concealed in my coat during the transformation.
It was a trifle to have my men track down where he’d come from, and then I quickly claimed his nest and his territory.
” He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and threw it on the ground.
“Clean yourself up, then return to whatever hole you crawled from.”
Cordon pushed himself to his feet. “Insolent fledgling.” No matter how much it hurt, he would not suffer the insults of a newly made whelp. He allowed anger to fill him, then grasped Blaylock by the throat and shoved him against the wall.
“W-What…?” Blaylock clawed impotently at Cordon’s hands. Cordon responded by tightening his grip, crushing Blaylock’s windpipe. It wouldn’t kill him, but it would hurt. Cordon would not allow the pitiful creature to dominate him.
“You will leave this city,” Cordon said. “Or I will track you down and peel the flesh from your bones, then leave you in the sun to die. Do you understand?”
Blaylock’s eyes seemed ready to burst from his head. He opened and closed his mouth several times, then nodded furiously.
Cordon released the man. He fell on his hands and knees and scurried out of the alley like an insect.
With luck, he would no longer be a problem for Kitty.
Just in case, Cordon would leave instructions for Helena to watch over the Carter family.
Unlike Seraphina, who would prove vexed at the command, or Lucina, who would immediately forget the moment she left his side, Helena was reliable.
She would honor his request, especially after he died.
A wave of weakness passed over him. The strength he’d summoned to discipline Blaylock was quickly fading.
He ran out of the alley and didn’t dare stop until he was back in Mayfair.
Then his foot hit a stone, and he went flying.
Rather than fall face-first, he twisted and landed on his side.
A fierce pain bloomed in his ribs, and his cheek felt as if someone had rubbed it along the road.
He laid there for several minutes until the fear of being found eclipsed the ache in his side. He pushed to his feet, staggered upright, walked into another alley, and leaned against the wall.
God, he hurt.
He’d never felt such tremendous, bone-deep pain. It radiated down his leg and darkness crept into the edges of his vision.
Home. He had to get home. Then he would be safe.
He hoped.
An hour later, he closed the door to his room and sagged against it. The pain that had bloomed in his side worsened with every step. He didn’t even want to call Adams, for fear of what he might find.
Each slight tug was like a needle thrusting deep into his chest until at least he was free of his jacket and shirtwaist. But there was no relief. The pain only grew worse. He peered down at his abdomen and gasped.
It was like someone had spilled red wine on his side.
The bruise that had only been on his back before now reached from just below his breastbone to his knees, with other colors tickling the edges: faint yellows, greens, and purples.
He lifted his trembling fingers to the center of the bruise and touched it, then winced as a thick, black substance oozed out.
A rattling in his lungs made him cough. A moment later, the world went black.