Chapter Twenty-Seven
TWENTY-SEVEN
Our train isn’t due to depart until ten, which means we have time for a leisurely awakening, provided we start early, which we do.
The only problem is making sure that the “awakening” doesn’t lead to an “asleepening” right after.
To avoid that, my darling husband had the foresight to order coffee and have it left outside our door, which he brings in, along with a small breakfast, to help us get up and on our way.
We’re due to meet Julius and Rufus near the train station, where Julius will have already procured a food hamper for a more complete breakfast.
I’m in my travel dress, while realizing that at this rate I probably need a second one. There’s a lot of to-and-fro’ing before Bishop can assemble the force he needs to return to Trevelyan and then …
Well, given that we’re likely returning to a burned-out shell, I may indeed require additional simple dresses.
It might also be a good time to add trousers to my wardrobe, as the men wouldn’t expect me to muck about a burned building in a dress.
I do appreciate the freedom of trousers, though I can’t imagine I’d ever give up my dresses entirely.
I’m talking to Bishop about this as we go to the station. Our bags have been sent ahead, but after having such a long night indoors—with a long train ride ahead—we both wanted to walk, even if it is a couple of miles.
“Perhaps you could ask Ann to help tailor trousers and shirts to fit you,” Bishop says.
“Ann?”
“She is an excellent seamstress. Her mother used to mend and alter the Pack wolves’ clothing until she was sent belowstairs, whereupon she apparently ‘forgot’ how to do it.”
“I don’t blame her.”
“Oh, I don’t either. It had been a labor of love, as with her mother before her. Ann’s mother would, occasionally, mend something quietly for those who were kind to her. And from what I hear, she always did so for her brother. Her youngest brother, obviously.”
“Oliver.”
“Ann learned to sew from her mother, and like her mother, would mend and alter for those she deemed worthy. Just last month, I found a favorite shirt of mine perfectly repaired after I’d torn it, and I felt as if I’d won a great prize.”
I squeeze his arm. “You had. But I’m never winning her help, even if I am her cousin.”
“You will. I’d suggest you don’t ask her to make you a shirt and trousers, but instead ask for help with the design and—”
Bishop stops short, his head shooting up, nostrils flaring.
We’ve been cutting through narrow alleys that serve as walkways.
Even the empty ones seem safe, with the rumble of coach wheels and the clop of hooves and the shouts of merchants echoing from both ends.
But all that noise means we won’t hear anyone else, especially when we’re deep in conversation.
Bishop glances over his shoulder, and before I can look, he’s pulling me to him. I’m about to peer behind us when two men appear ahead, striding down the alley toward us.
They’re both the sort of men that women instinctively avoid on a city street. Brawny, rough-clothed, unshaven, and, from the smell, overdue for a bath. One of them carries the extra-musky scent of a werewolf, exploding any hope these are just a couple of human thieves.
I glance over my shoulder to see two more blocking our exit.
When I turn forward again, another man appears behind the first two.
This fifth fellow is a different sort of type to be avoided on a city street—smaller built, better dressed, and better groomed, but with a slick veneer and a smug smirk that tells you he’s just a higher class of ruffian.
The ringleader—because that’s what he’ll be—moves past the two burly men and doffs his hat.
“Greetings to the new Alpha of the Albion Pack, the esteemed Mr. Bishop Danvers.”
“And you would be?” Bishop says, his voice as calm as if he were being greeted in a London gentleman’s club.
“No one of importance.” The man flashes a smile, which he really shouldn’t do, exposing a rotted canine. “It’s my employer who counts.”
“And your employer is?”
“A very fine person who wishes to deliver their regards to the new Alpha in person.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. I depart Glasgow this morning.”
“It wasn’t a request, sir. I’d have delivered that in a fancy envelope. You’ll be coming with us.”
Bishop looks from one man to the other, taking the slow measure of all five. One werewolf and four who are almost certainly supernaturals.
“All right,” he says. “I can spare an hour. However, I would beg leave to send my companion of the evening on her way.”
The man grins at me, his gaze taking me in head to toe.
My travel dress is neither fancy nor revealing, but apparently, he has no problem believing me a lady-for-hire.
I’m not sure whether I should be insulted or flattered.
I glance discreetly at the werewolf, but he’s upwind and obviously hasn’t noticed my lycan smell over the less pleasant odors in the alley.
The ringleader bows low. “Of course. So sorry to interrupt your morning, my dear.”
“Our business was concluded,” Bishop says.
The man leers. “I’m sure it was concluded many times. No wonder you’re in such a reasonable mood. I don’t suppose you’d be free tonight, my dear?”
“You couldn’t afford her,” Bishop says in his cool and imperious way, which has the two of the larger ruffians grumbling, but the leader only grins.
“Oh, you might be surprised,” he says. “Off with you then, lassie.”
“Am I not getting breakfast?” I squawk, trying for more Cockney in my voice. “I was promised breakfast.”
The man beside the werewolf drops a hand to his crotch. “Oh, I’ll feed you breakfast, miss.”
Bishop tenses, but I only sniff and say, “I had more than enough of that last night. I’ll get my own breakfast, but you’d best not be trying to cheat me of my pay.”
“Simmer down, lassie,” the leader says.
“Simmer down? Did you tell me—?”
“Enough,” Bishop says. Then to the leader, “She’ll only get louder if you keep on. She’s a screamer, this one.”
“Screamer?” I say. “Do you want to hear screaming? Cheat me of my due and I’ll bring every—”
“Let me pay her,” Bishop cuts in. “Then she’ll be on her way.”
He steps in front of me and doles out the money as I cast a privacy spell under my breath and whisper my idea to him.
“There,” he says as he hands me the money. “Acceptable?”
“Indeed,” I say.
I flounce the other way, toward the two men to our rear.
I make a move to tuck the money into my bodice, which draws their attention, but my dress goes up to my neck.
I huff, as if in annoyance, and undo a button to slip it into my corset.
One man nearly falls over trying to see through that opening.
I’m stuffing it in when one of the bills flutters to the ground.
“Would you be so kind?” I say to the larger of the two men as I motion to the fallen bill.
“Can I slip it in?” he says with a grin.
“If you mean slip that bill in my corset, yes. If you mean anything else, you’d better have a full wallet.”
That sets all the men laughing, and the one who asked gives a gallant bow as he bends to pick up the bill while I move closer. Then I slam my fist into his stomach as I hit his companion with an energy bolt.
A shout sounds behind me. I don’t bother with those three. Bishop can handle them.
The one I hit in the stomach is on his knees, which means he’s perfectly positioned for my boot to connect with a man’s most sensitive spot. When it does, he gives a scream that suggests it’ll be a while before he “slips it in” to anyone.
I make a potentially fatal error here. I forget I have two adversaries. Fortunately, the other man is still busy trying to figure out how he got burned.
Mistake number two follows. I’m so relieved that I survived mistake one that I try to replicate the kick by freezing the second fellow in a binding spell and then aiming a punch at his groin, only to realize my aim is too low.
He’s not much taller than me, and I pull my punch when I realize it’ll neither hit his stomach nor his privates.
That punch, of course, means the binding spell breaks, and I don’t get the chance to hit again.
I slam another energy bolt at him … and it hits the wall. Because he’s not there. I spin, just as his fist nearly connects with my shoulder.
Half-demon. Teleportation. At the lowest subtype, they can only move a few feet, but in a fight, it’s enough. You can’t hit a disappearing target.
I pull back my arm, fingers splayed, the obvious tell that I’m about to cast a sorcerer spell.
He vanishes, and I pivot fast and hit him with a knockback when he reappears.
The surprise of that sets him off-balance.
Another knockback has him on the ground.
I’m about to leap on him when I remember what he is and that I’ll be leaping onto empty air.
I slam him with a fireball, right in the hole the energy bolt burned in his shirt, and he shrieks and disappears, only to reappear on my other side.
I do keep checking on the supernatural I kicked, but he’s seated against the wall, recovering.
The half-demon and I go a few more rounds—I manage to land one more spell before he disappears—but I don’t have anything strong enough to actually stop him.
I know I could. When Silas killed my aunt, I’d lashed out at Henry Cain with an unbelievable burst of power. But I can’t just reach inside myself and channel that rage. Not yet.
I do know how to kill. I did kill in that fight at Trevelyan. Yet I need to be able to combine my spells with fighting skills, and I can’t do that with a teleporting half-demon.
All he’s going to do is exhaust my spell power.
I need better spells, and the ones in Edith’s grimoire will take weeks to learn, which doesn’t help me now. I do try the calming spell, hoping it might slow his teleports, but it fizzles.
There is something else I can use. My folding knife, deep in my pocket. I reach for it and then stop. I’ll never get a chance to stab this half-demon before he wrests the blade from me.