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“No!” Alders cried. “N-never. My girl. She be the one who thought ... said—”

Malcom lifted a single finger, instantly silencing the man. “In these sewers, my word is law. Are we clear?” When the other man hesitated, he stuck his face close and whispered, “Are we clear?”

The old tosher gave another shaky nod.

Malcom grinned. “Off with you, then,” he said with his earlier false cheer.

Alders hesitated, as if he recognized a trap and had to pick his way out of it. Then he took off racing, splashing noisily through the water, the echo of his footfalls growing increasingly distant and then fading entirely.

The old tosher forgotten, Malcom flung his things over his shoulder, grabbed his pole, and followed a different tunnel away, this one narrower.

Darker.

The dark.

And there it was ... Despite his infallibility over the years, that child’s weakness mocked him. Attempted to drive back logic and replace it with only fear.

Malcom kept his gaze forward and forced himself not to look sideways and note the cramped walls, walls that were closing in around him.

Refusing to give in to that irrational fear, he hummed a song in near silence.

Roome for a lusty lively Lad,

dery dery downe, That will shew himselfe blyth be he ne’re so sad,

dery dery downe ...

The corridor widened, and some of the tension eased from his frame. Malcom strode quickly forward and didn’t stop until he reached the familiar grate. Setting his belongings down, he pulled himself up and scoured the space through the slat in the grate. Waiting. Waiting. His ears attuned to every slightest sound—the distant drunken revelry, the rattle of a lone carriage.

He pushed the covering off and shoved it aside. Dropping once more to the ground, he tossed his stick out first. Clamping his knife between his teeth once more, he grabbed the brown bag, shoved it through the opening, and then climbed out fast behind it.

The moment his feet found purchase on the East London cobblestones, a faintclicksounded just behind him. “Ya’ve gotten careless in your old age,” the low, rough voice containing a trace of Cockney taunted. His palms up, Malcom inched slowly around and then, with a swift move, swept his leg out, capturing the other, broader figure, taking his feet out from under him.

Cursing, the man went down hard. His pistol clattered just once before Malcom had it in hand and turned on the man knocked clean on his arse. “And you’ve gotten sloppy in yours, Giles.”

Dark eyes glared up at him, and then a reluctant grin curved those scarred lips. “Bloody hell, Malcom,” he cursed, and yet, there was a thread of admiration as Malcom stretched a palm out.

With his only hand, the other man, Malcom’s associate, took the offering and made to wrench him forward.

Anticipating that movement, Malcom compensated, angling his weight back, and then drove Giles back onto the ground.

“Oh, fuck yourself,” Giles muttered, and this time, a scowl replaced his earlier smile as he ignored Malcom’s hand and jumped up with an impressive agility for a man of his powerful size. “Damned smug, you’ve always—” The other man’s words cut off as his gaze went to the bag Malcom hefted over his shoulder. Giles whistled slowly. “You caught him.”

“Aye.”

“He’s had his sights set on these tunnels since Fowler began to slow,” Giles said, speaking of the old tosher who’d trained Malcom years earlier.

Ever since, Malcom had been defending his own territories—and his livelihood—from potential usurpers such as Alders ... people who’d try to take from him. If a tosher didn’t keep those people out, if he didn’t take back what had been stolen, one lost one’s operation and people starved because of it.

“Did you take care of him?” Giles asked as they fell into step, as casual asking that question as if he’d asked whether Malcom had invited his nemesis for an ale at a tavern.

“I handled him.”

“Someone’s looking for you.”

So that’s why Giles had searched him out.

It wasn’t uncommon for a man to be hunted in St. Giles. This, however, had been eerily different. A persistence that didn’t fit with constables looking to cart a guttersnipe to Newgate to ease the worries of some fancy toff. Someone had begun asking the other toshers and street waifs who hung ’round these parts about Malcom. As such, Malcom had stayed low, keeping to the shadows even when he embarked on his work.