Chapter 1 #3
Without the ash or a breeze, it was easier to follow the trail.
The men weren’t moving fast, probably thinking they were safe from the Echelon and their metal army down here.
Will shook his head. Dead men walking. The Echelon didn’t just rely on the metaljackets.
Give them an hour and the tunnels would be full of Nighthawks, the infamous guild of trackers that did most of the thief-taking in the city.
Rogue blue bloods who could smell almost as well as he could and track a shadow over stone, or so it was said.
He’d have to hurry if he wanted to get his hands on them first.
He waded into the sluggish stream, his nose almost shutting down.
He’d smelled worse things—the vampire sprang to mind—but right now they were only a distant memory.
It was the curse of heightened senses. He could smell everything, from a woman’s natural musk to the slight hint of poison in a cup; he could see for miles and if he listened, he could hear things people didn’t want him to hear.
Like stealthy footsteps, a few hundred yards in front of him.
Will made no sound as he stalked them. Whispers echoed and then a light appeared. A shuttered smuggler’s lantern by the look of it.
“Got him,” the short, fat one crowed. “Right in the chest. Won’t be so high-and-mighty now, will he?”
Will’s eyes narrowed.
“Shut up,” the taller shadow snarled. The acrid scent of fear-sweat washed off him. “Didn’t you see his bloody face?”
A shrug. The short man sloshed through the water carelessly. “All looks the same to me. Pasty-faced vultures.”
“It was him,” the other man replied with a shudder. “The devil himself!”
“The Devil of Whitechapel?” The shorter man’s face stretched in a delighted grin. “Cor, Freddie! All them years and the Echelon themselves ain’t been able to get near him! And you done him in! You’re famous now!”
“I’m bloody dead, is what I am,” Freddie snapped back. “If that were the devil, then you know who the other one was!”
Will took another step forward, drawing the blade at his side. He smiled. That’s right, you son of a bitch. You’re in trouble now.
“Who?”
“The Beast,” Will hissed, his voice echoing out of the darkness.
Freddie screamed and swung the lantern.
Will smashed it aside and it hit the water and hissed out.
Darkness fell like a theatre curtain, but he was already moving, driving his fist up under the whistling swing of an arm and connecting with a pair of ribs.
Bone snapped and then Freddie was down with a gurgling cry, splashing under the water.
Will stilled, listening to the frantic sound of breathing.
“Freddie?” the fat man whispered. He fumbled for the sides of the sewer, his breath high-pitched and panting.
Will took a slow step forward, water sloshing around his knees.
“Oh, God.” The fat man tried to run. “Oh, God, no! I didn’t have naught to do with it! It were Freddie! Leave me alone!”
Will grabbed his cloak and hauled him back. He landed with a splash, his legs kicking in the sewer water as he squealed like a downed pig. Fisting the cloak, Will wrapped it around the fat man’s throat and then hauled him up in a choking grip.
“Who are you? Who do you work for?”
The fat man kicked, making strangled sounds. Will held him long enough for the kicking to falter, then dropped him in the water.
Movement behind him. He lashed out, catching the heavy metal tube as Freddie swung it and followed through with a punch. Blood sprayed as his fist connected with Freddie’s nose. The coppery tang of it flavored the air, and Freddie screamed and fell back into the water.
“Jaysus.” The fat man sobbed, his throat hoarse.
Will caught him up by the coat and slammed him back against the slimy walls.
He slid his hand into the man’s coat, rifling his pockets.
A switchblade the idiot was too dumb to draw, a piece of waxed paper, and an odd, finger-shaped device.
Another one of those noisemakers. He pocketed both it and the piece of paper.
“Consider yourself lucky he ain’t dead.” The thought set off the red-hot flare of rage in his head, and he slammed the fat man against the wall. Then again.
“Please, please don’t kill me!”
Careful, a little voice warned. Don’t lose control.
Will growled, the sound echoing inhumanly through his throat. They already thought him a beast. Why the hell shouldn’t he rip them apart? They’d put a knife in Blade. Nobody touched his adopted family and lived to tell of it.
Shouts echoed through the tunnels. Will’s head shot up and he clenched his fist. Nighthawks. On the trail already, damn it.
He leaned closer and sniffed the air beside the man’s ear. “Got your scent now,” he whispered. “You ever come near Whitechapel again and I’ll come for you. I’ll rip you apart, one piece at a time…and feed it to you. You don’t want that, do you?”
The stench of urine filled the air and the man sobbed his agreement. Will dropped him with a splash then turned on his heel.
The Nighthawks would smell him, but they wouldn’t catch him. This was Will’s turf here, and they wouldn’t dare cross the wall circling Whitechapel to hunt him. Time to get the hell out of here. He gave Freddie and his fat friend one last hungry look, then turned and fled into the darkness.
They’d remember his threat. That was all that mattered.
***
Will tossed the shirt away with a wet slap and then started on the buttons of his breeches. Both stunk from the tunnels, but he felt a damned sight better. The tension between his shoulders eased with every blow he’d dealt.
He’d wanted blood. Wanted to kill. But sometimes it was best to leave them alive.
Witnesses. Men who’d spread the stories in hushed tones in local alehouses, warning others not to risk the wrath of Whitechapel’s Beast. It was all part of the legend he was carefully cultivating. A lesson he’d learned from Blade.
Fear was often the best defense.
The air was chilly as he kicked off the rest of his clothes and strode for the washbasin.
He usually didn’t notice the cold, but he’d been wet for hours and his stomach was empty.
Scrubbing the stink off himself, he draped a blanket around his hips and then turned toward the kitchen.
There was bread and cheese left over, and a jug of clean water.
Resting his backside against the table, he bit into his meal and stared at his shirt. There was something sticking out of it. A piece of paper. The note the fat man had carried.
He padded across the room and knelt, chewing slowly.
The paper was thick with wax. Whoever had written it had wanted it to stay dry, which meant he thought the recipient of it would get wet at some stage.
Will frowned. Just where had those two been heading—in the sewers?
The water this time of year was barely knee high.
There were whispers that it was deeper down below, though. In some parts of Undertown.
Fishing it open, he tilted it toward the single lamp. Lines of symbols crisscrossed the parchment—letters, numbers, and odd slashing marks. An incomprehensible mess.
What the hell had he stumbled upon? Will took another bite of his bread and cheese and stood, crossing closer to the lamp. The better light made no sense of the symbols, not that he’d expected them to.
Will flipped the paper over, but there was nothing on the back. No scent but the odd waxy substance. He frowned. Burning down the draining factories, coded letters, strange devices that had obviously been made to incapacitate blue bloods… Somebody was looking to start a war.