on the threatening end of far more dangerous weapons. And still . . .
They were inching away from her.
What in hell? Whit edged closer in the shadows.
“Where’d you get that, gel?” Eddie Doolan asked. Was his voice wavering?
“You know it, then?” She was surprised.
“E’ryone in the Rookery knows it,” Mikey said, his panic undeniable.
She came into view, lit from above by a shaft of reflected sunlight, and Whit nearly rocked back on his heels at the sight of her. Tall and strong, her shoulders back and her jaw set like a warrior. And in her hand . . . a blade that promised wicked punishment.
Punishment Whit knew without question, because he’d meted it out a hundred times. A thousand.
The woman held one of his throwing knives.
Shock was chased by a thrum of anticipation when Eddie asked, words reed-thin with fear, “Are you Beast’s?”
Whit ignored his instant reaction to the question.
“I have his blade, do I not?”
Clever girl, brazening it through.
“Shit,” Mikey spat, “I ain’t no part o’ this.” He scurried off like the street rat he was, there, then gone.
She turned surprised eyes to Eddie. “Rather disloyal of him, don’t you think?”
Eddie swallowed. “You ain’t tellin’ Beast, are you, lady?”
Whit answered for her, stepping out of the shadows. “She won’t have to.”
Hattie gasped as Eddie spun toward him, hands already up as Whit advanced. “We weren’t doin’ nuffin’, Beast. Just scarin’ ’er a bit. Just enough so she don’ mess wi’ our card men again.”
He came closer. “What are the rules, Eddie?”
The other man’s throat worked, searching for the answer that wouldn’t come. “No hurtin’ gels. But—”
Whit hated the word. There were no qualifiers to the rule. That single syllable made him want to tear the other man apart.
Eddie’s eyes went wide as Whit came closer, his fear spilling stupid words into the dusk. “We didn’t expect ’er to pull a knife, Beast. If you fink abou’ it, the lady started it.”
What a fucking imbecile.
He nodded. “Started it by running from you.”
Eddie’s minuscule brain clamored for a reply. “Runnin’ after the card man. Lookin’ fer you.” Thinking he’d struck on something valuable, he smiled. “We were protectin’ you, see?”
“Oh, please,” Hattie scoffed from over Eddie’s shoulder, but Whit refused to look at her, afraid of what might happen if he did.
Instead, he reached for Eddie, clasping Eddie’s grubby lapels in his hands and pulling him close. “If I ever see you threaten a woman again, I’ll show you just what that blade feels like. Remember, I’m everywhere. I see everything.”
Eddie swallowed, sweat beading on his forehead. Nodded.
“Do you have something to say to the lady?”
“S-sorry,” the filth whispered.
Not good enough. “Louder.”
“Sorry, lady. Beg pardon. Sorry.”
Whit did look to Hattie then, her own eyes wide with surprise. “Yes. All right.” She slid her gaze to his, and he didn’t like the uncertainty there. “I accept. He appears to have learned a lesson.”
“Get out.” He threw Eddie away from them, not watching as he fell to the ground and scrambled immediately backward, rising to a run. Instead, Whit turned to the rooftops and whistled, long and piercing, to the night. “Find me Michael Doolan. Tell him he’d best find me at the fights. And if he doesn’t come to me, he shan’t like what happens when I come for him.”
He turned back to Hattie, whose uncertainty had turned to curiosity. “Do you make a habit of speaking to buildings?”
“I’ll stop when they no longer do my bidding.”
“The stones will fetch this man to you?” When he didn’t answer, she added, “So it’s true what they say?”
Who had spoken to her? What had they said?
He grunted his reply, ignoring the rage that whirled through him at the idea that she might have been hurt here, on his turf. Ignoring the deeply unsettling idea that he might not have been able to protect her had he been a few minutes later. Whether or not the woman held his knife.
Speaking of. He extended a hand. “Give me the weapon.”
She tightened her grip on the onyx blade, and he imagined the warmth of her palm against the design there, the softness of her gloves polishing the fine ridges of steel that kept a grip firm and ensured a straight aim and a true strike. “What are the fights?”
His only solace. Ignoring the question, he said, “The blade, Hattie.”
She looked at it. “They were afraid of it.”
He did not reply, waiting for her to say what she really meant.