Page 28 of The Business of Blood

His word registered with a jolt of panic.Oh, God!Croft couldn’t find me at the Velvet Glove. I had no good reason to be here, especially in my current state of undress. This could ruin everything. Were he in a good mood, he’d throw me over his barbaric shoulder and haul me home.

Were he in a bad mood…he’d arrest me.

The Hammer straightened, forgetting me instantly. “Inspector Croft? Here? What does that sanctimonious fuck want at this hour? We know it isn’t a whore, opium, a loan, or a good time. The bastard wouldn’t know what to do with such things.”

I knew it was an absurd moment to laugh, but some truths were both gloomy and amusing.

“Answers.” A cold, midnight gaze slid to me, and even with the Hammer by my side, I felt as though I might never be safe again. “About a murder in Whitechapel.”

Retrieving his tailored jacket from a hook, the Hammer donned it in a smooth motion and salvaged his cufflinks from the desk.

Gems that size would have paid for my entire house in Chelsea.

“See her home,” the Hammer commanded. “I’ll deal with Croft.”

It took a moment for my dread to register. “But—” I couldn’t be alone with the Blade! Chances were I’d never make it home alive.

“See her homesafely, Night Horse,” the Hammer amended as he leveled a speaking glare at the assassin. “And then we have much to discuss, you and I.”

7

It is impossible to express the array of sentiment I experienced whilst alone in a dark and confined space with perhaps the second most unrepentant murderer in London.

The first, of course, being Jack the Ripper.

I had harbored a slight suspicion that Aramis Night Horse and Jack the Ripper were one and the same. But now…I had a sense of the Ripper. A voice. A scent. The memory of his body pressed against me.

The Ripper had those corporeal details of me, as well.

A terrifying thought, that.

Not allowing myself to blink, I stared at the Blade as the Syndicate’s luxurious coach swayed on well-oiled springs beneath us.

And he stared right back.

An ashen dawn coaxed the Thames to add silver to the inky swath of ribbon before the light burnished it a dull brown. The moment of beauty was ephemeral, and still, I didn’t dare glance away from the assassin before me, even to enjoy what might be my last lovely view before I died.

St. Brendan’s bollocks, I inwardly used my father’s favorite curse. I’d just been caught tattling—for lack of a better term—on Mr. Night Horse.

I tried not to note the alleys still darkened by shadows as we passed. Nor did I fail to notice the many fantastic places to hide a body short as mine, should one be so inclined. Granted, I generally did the corpse hiding for his operation…but come to think of it, expediency had kept me in the Syndicate’s employ rather than anyone else’s lack of ability to do the job.

I’d been given to believe that power simply meant you no longer had to hide the bodies yourself.

Ultimate power meant…you didn’t have to hide the bodies at all. You could kill people to the sound of applause, and even God would absolve you.

If there were such a thing as God.

If there were such a thing as absolution.

The vice winching about my ribcage released a quarter turn when the carriage veered toward Westminster rather than following the river. Tite Street was a little row of lovely houses tucked beyond Westminster and Belgravia in the charming borough of Chelsea. The quickest route from the Strand was through the city.

I’d never in my life been so happy to pass the grey grandeur of Westminster Abbey.

The wool of my pelisse scoured my bare shoulders through the thin silk lining, a prickly reminder that I was all but naked beneath. I wondered after my blouse.

Shredded, the Hammer had said.

Ripped.