Page 51

“As a spy. Some men from my hometown had connections with one of her ministers, and got me on. I was set to watching Catholics abroad, who might be fomenting plots against her, and playing the part of a tutor to their children.” He shrugged. “It paid well, and allowed me to avoid going into the church, which my scholarship required.”

The Abraham man laughed at that. “You don’t strike me as a churchman!” he agreed.

But the others were still scowling at Kit, as if he cared. He looked at Leta. “Where is this Gideon?”

“Dead,” Estrilda said abruptly, regarding Kit with an expression he couldn’t read.

“We took him out,” Leta said. “All of us!”

“Well, mostly Estrilda,” the Abraham man demurred.

“Mostly my arse,” the friar put in. “The bastard almost got fangs in me half a dozen times on the way here!”

“That’s ‘cause you insisted on trying to burn him wi’ the cross. Told you that didn’t work.”

“They’re inhuman servants of the devil!” the friar said. “It should have.”

He suddenly leaned forward and pressed the swinging symbol of his faith against Kit’s bloody arm, through a rent in his shirt. The flesh not only failed to go up in flames, but also continued to heal beneath it. Kit regarded him sardonically.

“Garlic doesn’t work, either,” he informed the man.

“Then you’re not infernal hell-spawn?” the friar demanded.

“Oh, I probably am. I have a friend, however, who retains his faith—your faith, in fact. He manages to be a vampire and a good Catholic at the same time.”

The friar cursed and turned away, and Kit went back to regarding the witch. Who should have been seen as a spawn as well, or possibly a bride of Satan. But apparently the good friar’s belly overrode his scruples in her case.

“You killed a master vampire?” Kit asked, not trying to keep the skepticism off his face.

“How d’you know he was a master?” One of the sailors challenged.

“If he wasn’t, and he was killing children, his master would have taken him out for you. He wouldn’t have risked letting the news get back to the Senate.”

“He preyed on this area for that reason,” Estrilda said sourly. “No one notices what happens here. And if people go missing, nobody asks too many questions.”

“That used to be true.” Leta said. “But you’ve built something better! You killed him for us; gave us all this—”

“You killed him?” Kit asked again, because he still didn’t believe it.

Witches could be formidable, but many of their spells didn’t work on non-living bodies. And those that did . . . well. They had best do their work quickly.

Spells didn’t long outlive their caster, something that his kind knew well.

The witch shrugged. “I fomented the plan. The others led him here, and Tremolina took care of the rest.” She patted her pet, who stretched and almost purred under her touch. “Tis likely why she attacked you, as soon as you came through the door.” She smiled somewhat nastily. “The other must have tasted good enough.”

“We do need to speak, Rilda,” Gillian interjected quietly, before the conversation deteriorated further. “It’s important.”

The older woman looked annoyed, and took her time examining her massive baby’s snout, which appeared less damaged than it had a moment ago. Either Kit’s blow had been off course, or else dragons healed even faster than master vampires. And then a scale of pewter-colored armor popped out of the indent that Kit’s fist had left in the great nose, and back into place, as perfectly as if nothing had ever happened.

Answered that question, he thought sickly.

“Very well.” The witch finally agreed. “Supper’s almost ready in any case. You lot come with me.”

Chapter Fifteen

The walk was a short one, just over the hill and down a brief, tree lined path toward a vine wrapped pergola. It was autumn here, with the grass still mostly green but the leaves starting to change. The vine leaves had held on, but yellow was etching its way across their surfaces, which also had brown insect bites speckled throughout.

Autumn was in the air, as well: woodsmoke, roasting meat, a briskness that wasn’t quite the chill of winter but whispered it on the wind . . . and something else. A scent that grew stronger as they approached the pergola, which sheltered several wooden tables, a press, and a bunch of baskets filled with fruit. The fruit wasn’t any that Kit recognized, but the liquid was pungent enough to wrinkle his nose, smelling something like a cross between apple cider and perry, the fermented juice of pears.