Chapter Sixteen
It took Hugh the lengths of two streets to realize he was being followed, and a third to do something about it.
There was a subtle art to tailing someone, of rendering yourself so completely inconspicuous, you ceased to be anything other
than a shadow in the periphery. It was nearly impossible to avoid triggering a person’s primal instinct that they were being
hunted; the trick of it was to make them doubt their own mind.
Like a fine blade, the skill had to be sharpened slowly, over time. It had taken Hugh years of practice to become halfway
decent at it, enough that his uncle and Reddy wouldn’t immediately mark him. His unusual height had made the challenge that
much more frustrating, until he’d learned how to use that to his advantage, too.
His pursuer was doing little to hide the scuff of their light steps. Hugh strained his ears, judging the closing distance
between them by the sound of their flapping cloak.
Amateur. Glenmoor must be getting desperate, to hire a street thug to do his despicable business. Good.
Hugh fought a smirk as he left the tony streets of Feygrove Square and slithered into the curving crescent lanes of Old Temple.
The borough had risen from the ashes of a rather suspicious fire and been reborn with brick terraced homes built by new-money
merchants. Though the title for the city’s worst slum had been unceremoniously passed to the Brickbats, this area had once
been known as the Thieves’ Den, owing to the alleyways and blind turns created by the unusual arrangement of streets radiating
from the ruins of the temple to the fairy sun god Solarius. It was to his advantage now.
The moon was in its waning phase but still too bright for his liking. Slowly, subtly, Hugh increased his speed to lengthen
the gap between him and his pursuer. He stepped right into the first alley and flattened his back against the sheltering curve
of the wall. Flicking his right hand, he unsheathed the knife hidden in the grip of his walking stick and palmed it.
The steps hurried toward him—closer—closer still—
His blood was hot, his mind narrowed on that single instinct to survive. He played through all the scenarios: how the man might grab him, how he would shift his strategy if the man had a gun, the
soft points on the assailant’s body unprotected by the thick cloak.
The stench of sweat and damp wool arrived a moment before the man’s hulking form did. Hugh sprung forward, allowing shock
and momentum to do the work for him. He felt the man’s gasp leave him, how his pulse jumped as he snatched the assailant by
the throat, slamming his back into the wall. Brick dust shivered down over their boots as the man struggled, his eyes flaring
from within the depths of the hood.
The man made a single, desperate jab of his rusted knife, but the killing point of Hugh’s own weapon had already found the
sliver of space between his ribs. He shoved forward, driving the blade directly into the man’s heart.
Blood poured over the assassin’s lips as they babbled wordlessly, painting his chin crimson. He stared at Hugh, his eyes flared
with pain and the terror of mortality.
“I want you to remember that you had a choice in this,” Hugh said, giving the knife a little twist. “That we both might have
gone about our business this evening without the need for such unpleasantness.”
The life dimmed in the man’s eyes. As many times as he had seen it, Hugh still had to steel himself for the moment the man’s
soul finally peeled away. The body sagged as if registering the loss of it.
Hugh slid his knife free with a wet suck of blood and stepped back, allowing the man’s body to slump to the ground. The death
had been quicker and cleaner than the man had likely deserved.
Disgust shuddered deep within his chest, stirring his uncle’s voice from the depths of memory. Taking a life will leave a stain on your heart, even the necessary deaths.
Perhaps that was true, but it hardly mattered when Hugh had ensured his damnation years ago. Just then, the more pressing
stain was on his coat sleeve and gloves.
He tugged off the latter with a cluck of the tongue, depositing them on the body before retrieving a second pair from his
greatcoat’s pocket. Nothing to do about the sleeve, but then, that’s why he always wore black.
Still, why send an assassin at all? Hugh had narrowly evaded the policemen the duke had installed at Feygrove Square tonight. It had been an unusually inelegant effort to intimidate him on Glenmoor’s part. But this attack . . .
Gritting his teeth, Hugh pushed the man’s hood back, studying his unfamiliar face. Opened his mouth, checked his ears, searched
the pocket of his cloak. He unknotted the rough wool, pushing the blood-soaked fabric away from the man’s chest.
Then, of course, he saw them.
The crushed flowers pinned to the man’s tattered shirt, elegant and taunting: a rose and a violet.
The night air turned to blades in Hugh’s lungs.
He knew. Glenmoor knew. Not just that Hugh had found another perfumer to save the King and threaten his plans. Glenmoor knew about
Viola. Her name. Her identity. And he wanted Hugh to know as well.
How, damn it? Hugh had been so bloody careful every step of this. He’d been certain the curricle’s explosion had been meant for
him.
He ripped the violet from the man’s chest, crushing it in his hand. He’d made light of the insipid language of flowers not
even an hour before, but the message here was clear: Nothing is out of my reach. Not you, and not her.
Hugh pushed to his feet. Fury burned in him, threatening to erupt into a bigger catastrophe. The violet wept within his grip,
crushed so easily.
Why was he surprised? Why hadn’t he learned by now that Glenmoor would always remain just that half step ahead of him, no matter
how careful Hugh’s plans and preparations were? He breathed in raggedly, counting each sawing inhalation as Uncle Giles had
taught him. You must master your temper before it masters you.
He willed the feelings away, the frustration and guilt and fear, boxing them into smaller chests in his mind. Steadier, he
looked down at the dead assassin once more, hating the pity he felt for the man.
Hugh would never be able to match Glenmoor’s callous disregard for what he saw as the lesser value of others’ lives, and that
was why Hugh continued to fail. That was why he had never anticipated Glenmoor would sacrifice a man’s soul to send a message.
A distant whistle had Hugh spinning back toward the entrance to the alleyway.
Before he’d put a thought to it, he seized the man by the shoulders, dragging him deeper into the lane’s waiting darkness.
His eyes shot to the pool of blood at the alley’s edge just as a man in a dark uniform strode by, a lantern swinging at his side.
Hugh held his breath, calming in the shadows’ embrace. The policeman slowed, making the puddle grasping for his boots glint
sinisterly. After a moment, however, the policeman continued past them, still whistling “The Black Needle” to himself.
With a harsh breath, Hugh fell back against the alley’s wall. If he couldn’t get Glenmoor out of the home secretary’s office—and
he had tried—Hugh had to find a way to wrest Glenmoor’s control of the police away from him before the duke turned them into
his own private army.
If it hadn’t happened already.
Feeling cold to his bones, Hugh retrieved his card case from the inner pocket of his coat. He took a small amount of pleasure
in flicking through the calling cards there: identities, past and present; his own cards; and, finally, the expert replicas
Tommy had made of the duke’s notoriously gaudy ones.
He plucked one from the case and slid it into the pocket of the nameless man’s cloak. Giving it a little pat, he stood. Whoever
found the body would know precisely where to return it—and to whom.
Glenmoor would worm his way out of it, of course, but there was nothing that rankled the bastard more than mess and minor
inconveniences.
Still. A rather inauspicious start to the night’s work.
Hugh ensured the dark street was empty before he swept back into it. He glanced at his pocket watch. He had two objectives
to complete before the sun rose, and he was already late to the first. There was still time to make the meet—less time than
he would have liked. But then, that was what Lockwood seemed bloody determined to be: an ink spill over his best-laid plans.
He’d told her more than he’d intended to; he might not have said anything at all, if Keyes hadn’t looked at him with such
blatant disappointment. The sort that made him shrivel back into the tearful boy he’d been, terrified she might leave him,
too. It was unfair of her. Hugh had only done what Uncle Giles had countless times: contained the information to only those
who needed to know it.
Of course he regretted misjudging the situation with Lockwood. Of course Felicity would be upset by it all. That was why he hadn’t told any of them. It wasn’t shame so much as . . .
He sighed. No, it was shame. He felt its heartless sting even now. It had to be why he’d told Lockwood about his mother—that truly had been something
Lockwood hadn’t needed to know, not to complete her task.
Keyes had been right about one thing, at least. Lockwood wasn’t a prisoner. She’d shown him trust by bringing him into her
family’s hidden archive. The very least he could do was trust her with his suspicions about Glenmoor. They were descending
into this darkness together.
And the truth was she was nothing he’d expected her to be. She had a seemingly insatiable, maddening need to possess what
others would keep from her, whether it was the impossible knowledge of perfumes or a vast fortune. That drive, it echoed with
something in him.
More surprising still, he hadn’t needed to protect her from the terrifying truth; she’d simply taken it all in stride with
the same aplomb she’d used to negotiate with the divinely anointed King of Albion. Though she liked to play the streetwise