Page 29 of The Business of Blood

By whom? I wondered. My assailant? The Hammer? Mr. Night Horse?

I peered across at the pillar of ebony and shadow that was my companion, his legs splayed in an alarmingly indelicate manner.

Though an expensive evening jacket stretched over shoulders broad enough to be considered uncouth, nothing about Aramis Night Horse spoke of gentility.

So much of him glinted and shined, even in the pallid light. His inky hair caught in one long braid down his back. The curiously dark fabric of his trousers and fine leather boots. His marble-black eyes. The beaded silver earing dangling from his left lobe.

Turquoise.

A voice of caution whispered to me that it would be most wise to remain in this treacherous,silentnether position until we reached my home.

Unfortunately, treacherous silences made me nervous.

And we all knew how I reacted to nerves.

“So, Mr. Night Horse.” I summoned what I hoped was a winsome smile, though it felt rather brittle and tight. “I suppose I owe you a debt of gratitude for saving my life.” Even as the words spilled into the coach, I winced. Only a rank imbecile would dare to admit owing a man like Night Horse a debt.

One could only imagine how he would choose to collect.

A clever lass would have said, “thank you” and left it there, I thought glumly.

“I did not save your life,” he said without inflection.

“Oh. Well. It’s only that—that the Hammer alleged you did.”

He shook his head, causing the earing to dance. “He said I found you in Crosspoint Alley and took you to him. Had I left you there, you would not have died. Even though it bled, your neck wound was not deep enough to kill you.” His accent was American but tinged with an exotic note no less than primeval. It evoked images of jagged mountain peaks and rugged, skyclad people with skin the color of sunbaked sienna.

His eyes burned at me from across the carriage. Two embers of dark coal smoldering within features graced with composure.

I clutched the modest collar of my pelisse tighter. “Who tore my blouse?” I asked tentatively. “Was it you, the Hammer, or the Ripper?”

When he didn’t answer, I made an impatient noise.

“Was it before or after you found me in the alley?” I prodded further.

Silence.

“Do you even know?” I demanded.

“Yes.” His voice was as smooth and frigid as a clear Irish stream sluicing over hard stone.

“Well…then answer me.” One look at his face caused me to amend my command. “If you please.”

“Where I come from, answers are earned through sacrifice.”

I tried and failed to swallow the lump of trepidation lodged like a marble in my throat. What kind of sacrifice would a man like Aramis Night Horse demand?

Blood, perhaps.

Mayhap only flesh.

I didn’t want to find out. Did I?

“I just…I would like to know if it was the Ripper,” I explained honestly. “I deserve that, at least.”

“Perhaps,” he conceded. “But is it your experience people get what they deserve?”

“No.”