David stepped away, tugging the smooth wool of his coat sleeve through Sebastien's fingers. Sebastien could have held on, but he would have torn the fabric to do so. "What makes you think I fled someone?" Faced with Sebastien's brow-arched stare, he frowned and dropped his gaze. "Or that if I fled someone, that's who pursued me?"
The politics of the blood were complex and prickly and devoted to predator games of rank and status, bared fangs and bared throats.
Sebastien was old enough and wily enough, overall, that they need not ever touch him. The others would treat him as a mad old moneyed uncle, and if he caused no offense they would offer him no challenge. And here in America, until today, his isolation had been a protection of its own.
But David had no such protection. And being what he was, he could scarcely avoid offering offense. Sebastien shook his head. "Or that whoever pursued may be slaughtering boy whores as a message to you?"
He said it harshly, without warning, his eyes on David's face. David's flinch was hard and certain. His stride checked, and he rounded on Sebastien. "I beg your pardon?"
"Read the papers," Sebastien said. He could have reached out and taken David's arm again. Instead, he thrust his fist into his pocket and leaned back, from the hips. The street was cold, the cobbles growing slick, the granite pavements gray and hard. Few walked the streets, and the only one close was a lamplighter with his chin sunk deep in his collar. "There's no telling what you might learn."
* * *
They were furious with him, of course. Phoebe shut the door in his face, proof of Jack's wrath. But he had a key, and slipping the lock would have been no challenge if he hadn't; Sebastien merely let himself in the back. Once you've permitted the devil across your threshold, it's not so easy to invite him out again.
And she wasn't actually angry enough to come at him with a fireplace poker. It had been more a gesture than an assault, and when he rejoined the group in the parlor, only Abby Irene looked up. "Are we ready, then?"
Sebastien nodded, not trusting his voice. Despite skirts and corsetry, she rose with grace. Her carpetbag rested on the side table. She slid her wand back in as he watched. "Right then, we'll be back before daylight. Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Smith. Goodnight, Jack."
Phoebe stood to show them out. Jack rose beside her. Before they came to the end of the hall, though, Sebastien checked and waited for them to turn to him.
Something must be understood. He cleared his throat like a nervous human and said, "These things, I must manage on my own, Jack. I'm sorry."
Jack nodded. "Of course you must. The return of the prodigal."
His choice of words, and the sideways flicker of his eyes, gave him away. Sebastien brushed his sleeve, and Jack looked up, meeting his eyes—a dangerous thing to do, when confronted with one of the blood, but Jack and Sebastien both knew this particular wampyr was more tame than not. "Your inheritance is secure," Sebastien said gently. "And jealousy doesn't become you. I cannot appear so frail as to require the assistance of my court for a simple conversation with my own creation."
This was the reason wampyr did not grant their courtesans autonomy, or agency. It was simpler to keep cattle, slaves, servants—with no thought for them beyond maintaining them in health—than to build relationships with one's courtiers. And it hurt less, when the inevitable end came, to lose a servant than a friend.
"Do you think it's Epaphras doing the killing?" Jack asked, right there in front of the other two, and Sebastien knew he was outnumbered.
"David," Sebastien said. He glanced at his fingernails, dull half-moons of dead chitin, sanded smooth along the edge. "I don't know."
He felt the humans staring. He looked up, met their eyes, each in turn. None of the three looked down, and Phoebe took a slight step toward him. "I don't." He shook his head. "But I will. I promise you."
Abby Irene broke the silence. "Shall we see where these young men died?"
Sebastien went with her, in silent gratitude.
* * *
They had some trouble entering the room—Abby Irene's official standing was lost to her, and the Boston patrolman assigned to guard the scene did not at first believe in the authority—or perhaps even the existence—of a