type, Archer thought grimly, for he was in no mood to throttle children, who always wanted a fight.
“Hello,” said Pan, stepping back one pace. “Don’t mind me. Just out for a stroll.”
The taller one of the two laughed, showing a large gap between his teeth. “ ‘Out for a stroll,’ ” he parroted. “Who you think you are? Prince Bertie?”
Pan was quick to rally. “Eh? Can’ a man use the Queen’s English now an’ then?” he chided, slipping into street tongue as smooth as plum pudding. “Especially when it helps wit me fannin’?”
Young Pan eased around them, slyly moving toward the back of a large town house. There lied safety, Archer realized. It was the boy’s home. It was Ellis’s home, he realized with a little shock. Who was this boy?
“Them marks always appreciate a kind word,” the boy went on.
Archer had to appreciate the boy’s flair with the common tongue; he hardly understood a word. But the lad was putting it on too thickly. The young roughs knew it, too.
“You think we’re flat?” one of them snapped.
The youth backed up as the older boys closed round. “Here now, no need to kick up a shine…”
“Need a slate, do ya?” The taller of the two roughs cuffed the boy lightly on the head. The boy’s hat flew off, and Archer’s heart stopped short. A silken mass of fire tumbled free, falling like molten gold down to the boy’s waist. Archer fought for breath. Not a boy, a girl. And not thirteen, but closer to eighteen. A young woman.
He stared at the mass of red-gold hair. He’d never seen hair so fine and glorious before. Titian hair, some would call it. That ineffable color between gold and red that captivated artists and poets alike.
“Keep back!”
The high pip of a voice pulled Archer out of his reverie. His urchin moved into a defensive stance as her attackers loomed in with interest. Surprise had overcome the two roughs as well but they recovered quickly and now sought a new opportunity.
“Aw, come on, luv. No need for tantrums. We didn’t know you was a dollymop, now did we?”
They moved in, and the hairs lifted on the back of Archer’s neck. A growl grew in his throat. Archer took a step, then another. They wouldn’t hear him yet; he was too quiet, his form steeped in darkness.
“Show us your bubs, eh?” said the shorter one, and clearly the first who would feel the business end of Archer’s fist.
Surprisingly, the girl didn’t appear as afraid as she ought to be. She stood defiantly, keeping her fists raised and her eyes trained on the boys. The idea was laughable.
“Leave off,” she said with iron in her small voice.
The street roughs laughed, an ugly sneering sound. “Oh right, leave off, she says.”
The taller one snorted. “Listen ’ere, toffer, behave an’ we’ll leave you intact.”
Green eyes blazed beneath her auburn brows that arched like angel’s wings.
They were green, weren’t they? Archer squinted, his abnormal eyes using what little light there was to see. Yes, crystalline green ringed with emerald, like the cross section of a Chardonnay grape. Yet he swore he saw a glint of orange fire flash in them.
“Leave now,” she demanded, unmoved, “or I’ll turn you both to cheese on toast.”
Archer could not help it, mirth bubbled up within, and he found himself laughing. The sound echoed off the cold stone houses and brick-lined alley. The young men whirled round. The fear in their faces was clear. They weren’t up for an exchange with a grown man, most especially any man who’d be out on the streets at this hour. Archer knew their cut, cowards who preyed on the weak and fled at the first sign of true danger. He came close enough for them to see his shape and the toes of his Hessians, preferring to stay in shadow until necessary.
“Hook it! This ’ere’s our business,” said the tall one with forced confidence.
“Stay a moment longer in this alleyway,” Archer said, “and your time in this world will come to a swift end.” His voice was not his own. A pale rasp after his last battle, it had been torn by injuries that should have robbed him of his ability to speak. But he would heal. Soon.
They sensed the unnaturalness in him—the street wretches always did—and stood gaping at him like dead fish.
He cracked his knuckles. “Or perhaps not so swiftly. I do enjoy playing with my prey.”