“I assume that the color of a demon’s eyes gives away what type of demon it is?”
“Yes.” Her voice was cautious now, the heavy dread increasing within.
He ran a finger along the edge of the pole. “Mrs. Noble’s eyes flickered to unnatural black.”
Poppy plunked her chin into her palm. The ugly sensation within her grew but she could not quite acknowledge what was knocking about in her mind. Not yet. “There is a sort of demon whose eyes go black,” she said with reluctance. “The sort who feeds off of sexual congress and blood.”
The pole stilled in his hand. “Do not say it. Do not…”
Her smile was grim. “You might have heard of them referred to as vampires, or nosferatu.”
“You said it.” He sighed, leaning slightly on the pole.
Despite herself, she laughed. “It is simply a name, you know. They are pure demon. Only they favor blood for nourishment. It is because they yearn for human contact, usually in the form of sexual contact, that the human world has developed stories and myths about them. Too much interaction has led to leaks in information.”
Slowly he nodded, but his focus was on the oily water beneath them. “Here is what bothers me.” He softened his tone, which made Poppy’s skin tighten and her fingers grow cold. “Your lieutenant Lena has such eyes. She knew we were onboard the Ignitus, did she not? And she knew we’d interviewed the komtesse as well.”
The temperature dropped so quickly that Win’s next breath came out in a puff of white steam. Cold pervaded Poppy’s insides. No, it could not be. But it was there, dangling before her like a signpost.
“Is Lena a demon?” But he knew the answer. It was written in his sad eyes.
“Yes.” Her voice lowered. “She was the one who brought me Isley’s threat. The undead followed us to the komtesse’s house, and she knew we were going to Farleigh…” Her fist struck the side of the boat. “I should have seen it.”
“Why? You trusted her.”
A sharp laugh rang out. “Hell, Win, you know as well as I that trust is merely an illusion.”
An awkward silence fell over them, but he broke it with a softly spoken, “I know, sweet.”
Queasy in the rocking craft, Poppy drew in a breath of dank river air. Lena was more than a lieutenant. She was her mentor, a surrogate mother—albeit a rather cold one. “But why?” Poppy hated that the question came out in a pathetic warble.
Win’s scarred countenance hardened like mortar, and Poppy shivered at the sight of him standing tall and glowering, yet she felt at once protected and glad to have him on her side. “That, sweeting, is what we shall find out.”
Poppy frowned at the smoldering wreckage that used to be the gaming club and brothel known as Heaven and Hell on dilapidated West Street. Thick smoke billowed up into a pale grey sky, and the facade of the burnt-out building appeared like a leering, blackened skull. The street was abandoned, thieves having long since scavenged anything of value. It felt odd, though, to stand in the middle of London’s East End and not see a soul. A timber groaned as she and Win made their way down the blackened steps to the entrance of Lena’s Hell.
Water dripped from above, landing in hard plops upon Poppy’s shoulders. A trickle of it ran down her neck and under her collar. The smell of smoke was so pervasive that it coated her tongue with its acrid flavor. The heavy iron gate that served as the doors to the underground nightclub was jammed shut, and she stepped aside to let Win wrench it open. He did so with surprising ease, and a little base feminine thrill shot through her.
“You’re certain about this?” he asked, his hand on the knob of the inner door.
“Lena started this fire.” Poppy lifted her skirt away from the diamond-bright shards of window glass that had fallen from above. “Sanguis demons might be known for their feeding habits, but they also have the ability to manipulate fire much like Miranda does.”
“Sanguis demons?” Win’s mouth turned down at a corner. “Is that what you call vampires?”
“I told you, they are not vampires. That would imply that they are reanimated human corpses, when they have never been human, or dead, for that matter.”
“Of course,” he murmured dryly.
From one of the deep pockets sewn into her skirt, she pulled the foot-long stake made of Christ’s thorn wood she had procured from the weapons room.