Tarnished Knight - By Bec McMaster Page 0,2
neither,” Rip replied, falling into place beside him.
Will stopped outside a wooden door, eyeing the painted symbol of a pair of crossed daggers above the lintel. The matching tattoo was branded on the inside of both Rip and Will’s wrists. A sign of ownership, of protection. Blade’s mark. Will’s nostrils flared again.
“You smell anythin’?” Rip asked. His own senses had improved since he’d become a blue blood, but Will could smell days worth of scent.
“Strange.” Will frowned, his enormous shoulders bunching beneath the oiled canvas of his coat as he stepped forward. He scrubbed at his nose. “Chemical. But nothin’ else. Smells like Honoria’s laboratory.”
Blade’s new wife. Rip breathed in deeply, finding a faint trace of the vinegary tang that reminded him of the laboratory, except for the slight watering of his eyes. The scent was strong enough to linger in his nostrils, wiping out the odours that clung to the streets. Pushing open the door, he frowned when it gave way easily. Unlocked.
Not even the most desperate thief would cross a threshold with Blade’s mark on it. Still… This was Whitechapel.
“Hullo?” Rip called, his voice echoing through the room. He knew the place was empty before he’d even taken a step. The cold was biting here, the chill emptiness of a place that hadn’t been occupied in some days. His hard gaze raked the room. A frying pain in the wash basin, a pile of darning in the corner… Someone had dragged a thin curtain over the doorway separating the bedroom beyond and suddenly Rip could smell something else.
Blood.
No matter what he breathed, he’d always be able to smell that distinctive, coppery scent. Rip yanked the curtain open. A man lay spread-eagled on the thin mattress, his torso slit from chest to groin and intestines spilling out like raw sausages. The blood was long since dried, the scent still strangely diluted. Rip swallowed hard as his vision dipped, painting the world in shadows of gray and white. He almost had it under control when Will brushed against his shoulder and suddenly he could smell something else; blood, hot and fresh, pumping beneath the other man’s skin.
Rip shoved past, staggering out into the alley. He’d fed the day before, but obviously not enough. The world spun around him, the chestnut vendor’s laughter grating against his skin. His head turned that way, the predator in him tracking the man by sound alone. Jem Saddler looked up at the sight of him then paled. Rip scowled and jerked his head, watching as the boy bolted. Looked like prey and his vision narrowed again.
Hell. Rip shook his head hard, his fumbling fingers dragging a cheroot from his pocket and a packet of matches. He lit the match hastily, knowing from the listening sound of the silence behind him that Will was watching.
“You all right?”
“Fine,” he snapped, raking his metal hand over the back of his neck. It was better out here. Not so close. The sounds from the street nearby made it harder to pick out the rushing throb of blood through Will’s veins.
Will stepped off the porch, his boots sloshing through the snowmelt. “Did a right number on him. We ought to tell Blade.”
Rip’s fingers tightened on the cheroot. “No. Let ‘im be.” This was the Warren’s first Christmas and Blade was determined to make it a special one for Honoria. He had enough to manage. “I’ll deal with it.”
Even if only to prove to himself that he could. Rip’d been nigh on useless the last six months. Too stricken by the hunger to be of much good to anyone. He had to prove that he could control it and this was his best chance. Tossing the cheroot on the cobbles, Rip ground it into the wet sludge and started for the street.
“Don’t think I ought to leave just yet,” Will muttered.
Keeping an eye on him.
Rip shoved his hands into his pockets and caught the eye of the whore near the fire barrel. “Do what you want.” His mouth watered as he jerked his chin at her. Time to take care of the pounding thirst for blood. So he could start thinking on who’d killed Liza Kent’s old man, and where the hell she’d gone.
***
The first cold kiss against Esme’s cheek made her look up. Soft flakes of snow tumbled from the stormy sky, tangling in her hair. Her hands tightened around the basket in her hands. She’d always loved snow. When she’d first come to the ‘Chapel after her husband Tom