They brought him to the Cannon Street police station. A custody sergeant took down his name and address, then he was put in the holding yard, an open space surrounded by bars. It was viciously cold, and the men’s breath steamed in the air. There had to be twenty or so of them in here, presumably waiting for arraignment or, possibly, just thrown in here to get them out of the way, like himself. None of them looked like people he wanted to be locked in an enclosed space with. Quite a few of them were watching him. A little man in an expensive coat… Stephen had never actually been arrested before, but he had a fair idea how the next part was likely to go.
The law of the Council provided that he could use his powers against the unskilled only if his safety was threatened. Technically, this meant he should allow himself to be robbed as long as nobody hurt him. He had no more than a few shillings in his pockets, he could afford to lose them. Nevertheless…
Over my dead body, Stephen thought. He slithered behind a big man and by a deal table where a couple of shabby individuals played with a deck of greasy cards, and made himself unobtrusive as he went, warping the ether around him so that observation was directed away and attention found itself going elsewhere. It didn’t make him invisible, and if any of his fellow felons who had cast greedy glances his way came looking for him, they would see him.
And that is their choice, Stephen thought grimly, and they can take the consequences.
He perched on a bench, drawing his knees up to his chin and wrapping his arms round himself, as small and unworthy of notice as he could be, and wondered what to do.
He didn’t want to contact the Golds for bail. If Dan hadn’t come to Hunt’s death, it would be for a damned good reason. He winced at that thought, flinching away from imagining what Esther might be enduring. In any case, and not thinking about that, Rickaby hadn’t wanted him bailed.
Crane’s lawyers would bail him whether Rickaby liked it or not. Hannaford and Greene were the most vicious legal team in London, attack dogs with steel pens for teeth, and he had been given carte blanche to use them at will. A message to them and he would be free.
Assuming that he had the right to call them, of course, when he had walked out on the man like that.
No. Crane would not object to him using the lawyers. Even if he’d pushed him too far this time—he hadn’t, he hadn’t, Lucien would forgive him if he just apologised—but even if Lucien never wanted to see him again, he could use the lawyers. Stephen had no doubt of that. Still, if he did, Rickaby would be told. Stephen assumed that bail would be posted in the name of Hannaford and Greene rather than Lord Crane, but even at that remove, the idea of linking himself publicly to his lover made him nervous. For the same reason, he resisted the temptation to send a note letting Crane know where he was, why he hadn’t come back yet, that he was sorry. The chances that Rickaby would have detailed someone to read it were too high.
Crane would be wondering where he was, though. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe Stephen had tested his patience too far for that.
He pushed those thoughts away as well. He would sit here for a few hours, wasting his time, but not giving Rickaby any more weapons to use against him. He didn’t for a minute imagine that the painter would be easily found, but if he was—well, he’d warned Rickaby, that was his responsibility. It was up to the inspector to stop playing the fool, and Stephen would just have to wait him out.
With nothing else he wanted to think about, Stephen set his mind to the three dead men and the painter.
He’d been in the holding yard for a couple of hours, cold and bored and tired, when the doors opened for about the fifth time. Stephen glanced up, just in case it might be Rickaby changing his mind, but it was merely another prisoner. He went back to his thoughts for a moment before he became aware that the new arrival was walking purposefully in his direction.
Stephen looked up, and saw a man of medium height and athletic build, in his twenties, with deep blue eyes, and tousled black hair marred by a thick, dramatic white streak that slashed down one side. That was the only feature hadn’t been in Miss Nodder’s description of the rogue windwalker, and it hadn’t been there before, either, when Stephen had seen him under the lamplight, flirting with Crane.
“I’m going to kill him,” Stephen said aloud, realisation dawning. He shoved himself to his feet, feeling his hands tingle with building anger as he stalked forward. “You. Jonah Pastern. Get here now.”
Pastern took an urgent step back as Stephen advanced on him. “Wait a moment, Mr. Day—”
“For what?” Stephen slammed the ether shut around Pastern, felt the man push back with impressive force, and tightened his own grip, binding him to the spot. He glared up at the windwalker. “You are coming to the Council, on your feet or your knees. Play the fool and I’ll hobble you. Don’t think about provoking me now.”
“Oh, good heavens, you’re arresting me,” Pastern said. “How charming. You’re under arrest, remember?”
“Yes, and so are you. Twice,” Stephen added, indicating the gaolyard.
“Oh, well, arrest.” Pastern dismissed that with a wave. “Boring business, isn’t it, and I wouldn’t normally go through it. But I needed to talk to you.”
“What? Why?”
Pastern gave him an almost flirtatious grin. “I’ve got your ring.”
Stephen took a breath to shout that he knew, and choked on it as he realised what Pastern meant. “My ring?” he repeated, playing for time.
“The Magpie Lord’s ring. The one that your lover Lord Crane gave you. Which, considering…” Pastern tipped his head to one side, looking Stephen up and down. “No offence, but you must be a firecracker in bed.”
Stephen sent a vicious flare through the binding ether and relished Pastern’s gasp of pain. “Shut your mouth.”
“That hurt.” Pastern wore a wounded expression. “I was just saying—”
“Don’t.”
“Your ring, Mr. Day. I’ve got it.”
“Then give it back.”
“I’d love to.” Pastern sounded entirely sincere. “I don’t want the damned thing. Look what it did!” He gestured at the white streak that shone bright in his black hair. “I put it on once, and this happened, and it’s getting worse every day. I look about ten years older.”
“It will kill you if you keep it much longer,” Stephen said. “A cancer, perhaps. Maybe a consumption. It’s not yours, and it will hurt you.”
Pastern flinched, apparently ready to believe that bit of invention. “All the more reason for me to get rid of it. Can we sit down, Mr. Day? You need to listen to me.”
Stephen flexed his hands. “Why don’t I just make you tell me where the ring is, and then drag you to the Council and see you thrown in gaol for theft?”
“I’m working for Lady Bruton.” The words were blurted hastily, but they stopped Stephen in his tracks. Pastern went on, “If you want to know about that, you’ll have to listen to me.”
Stephen stared at him. Pastern stared back, deep blue eyes full of apparent sincerity.
Trick? Trap?
It didn’t matter. He had to know.
He released his etheric grip on Pastern, and they walked together to the side of the yard, ignoring the curious glances of the other inmates. Pastern seated himself on a bench and patted it invitingly. Stephen stayed on his feet.
“Go on. Make it good.”
Pastern laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back. “Well, it’s simple, really. Lady Bruton—dreadful harpy, isn’t she?—told me to do some stealing in London, to incriminate Miss Saint. In particular, to make sure that I got your ring, and that you thought it was Miss Saint who did it. Preferably to take it from Lord Crane’s rooms. That took some arranging, I can tell you. Lady Bruton knows all about you and his lordship, of course.” Pastern gazed off into the middle distance, with a little sigh. “He’s really quite something. Those cheekbones. Those tattoos.”
“How do you know about his tattoos?”
“Terribly dominant, isn’t he? And twice your size, it must be thrilling. I do like a big assertive man. Well, so do you. Goodness, he makes you squeal.”
It occurred to Stephen with some force that, while in general it was perfectly safe not to shut the curtains because nobody could see into Crane’s fourth-floor flat, this did not apply to people who could walk on air. “Shut up,” he said savagely. “Get to the point. Why are you doing Lady Bruton’s work?”
“Why do you think? Because she has me over a barrel, of course.” Pastern’s voice was suddenly bitter. “She’s got a hold on me, and she’s a lot more powerful than I am. I don’t have a chance in hell of fighting her. But that doesn’t mean I want to work for her.”
“So?”
“So I thought that you and I could come to an agreement. I haven’t given her the ring yet. I’d like to, because my hair, and she’d certainly like me to, or at least she says so, but it’s never actually come to me handing it over. I think she’s frightened of it.”
“She ought to be. It nearly killed her once already.”
“She knows that she has me where she wants me, and it isn’t biting her while I carry it. So she’s leaving it with me, and that means I could give it back to you.” He raised his brows with an inviting look. “For a price.”
“Which is?” Stephen would cheerfully commit Crane’s money to this purpose. Particularly as he had every intention of reclaiming it from Pastern at his leisure once he had the ring back.
“Get me free of her.” There was no humour in Pastern’s smile, only teeth. “She’s after you. You and Lord Crane. The pair of you made her a widow, and not the good kind. She wants the Magpie Lord’s power, thinks you owe it to her, and she wants revenge for what you did. You’re going to have to kill her. Do it now, quickly, and the ring’s yours.”
“I’m a justiciar. I don’t commit murder.”
“You kill warlocks. She’s a warlock.”
“You still haven’t explained why I shouldn’t force you to tell me where the ring is and hand you over to the Council,” Stephen pointed out.
“Because if I can tell the Council that the thefts were me, not Miss Saint, then I can tell them all about you and your noble love nest. Love nest, Crane. That’s quite good. Do cranes nest?”
“They’re birds, of course they— Shut up. Tell the Council what you like, and go to the devil. I won’t be blackmailed.”
Pastern’s eyes narrowed, then he let out a little whistle. “I believe you might mean it. How self-sacrificing. Of course, the problem is, while you’re being shouted at by the Council or packed off to another gaolyard, who’s looking after Lord Crane?”
“What?”
“Lady Bruton wants him. As much as she wants you. And with you out of the way, what’s to stop her taking him at her leisure?”
Stephen could feel the blood draining from his cheeks. “What’s she doing?” he demanded.
“She’s not quite ready to make her move. But I doubt it will take her much longer. It’s all lined up. If I were you, I wouldn’t waste any more time. Go after her, kill her, now. You need to do it.”
“What do you know?” Stephen leaned in, fingers curling.
“Nothing I can tell you.” Pastern held up a hand. “Look at it from my point of view. Ideally, you get me out from under Lady Bruton’s hold. I’m trying to help you do that. But if I help you and she finds out—no. So the next best outcome for me would be that she kills you and your bit of stuff, and is so happy about it that she lets me go.” He gave a flashing smile. “The lot of you can kill each other with my blessing, as long as I get away. Lord Crane would be a waste, but there are lots of other pretty men. I really don’t care.”
Stephen felt dizzy with rage. He was going to take this little swine apart, and be damned to consequences. “Listen to me—” He reached out as he spoke, and felt his hand hit something so solid in the air, it could have been a wall.
“Uh-uh,” Pastern said. “None of that. I’m not stupid. I know you could force me by fluence to say where the ring is. I’ve taken precautions about that, which obviously I’m not going to describe to you, but I can promise you, if you drag the information out of me by force, you’ll never see the ring again. If you want it back, you deal with Bruton.”
“Be damned to the ring,” Stephen snarled, and shoved, but Pastern’s etheric barrier had shifted a crucial few inches. Jolted, Stephen changed his focus, but it cost him a second’s lost concentration, and in that second Pastern shot upwards, from his seated position, scrabbling backwards straight up the wall like some sort of lizard.
Stephen gave a stifled shout of alarm and fury, and lunged for him. The ether whipped out to his bidding, a savage strike far more powerful than he’d intended. Straw and scraps and dust billowed from the ground in a cloud, hats flew off heads to a chorus of cries, and the playing cards of nearby gamblers fluttered upwards in a chaotic rattle of pasteboard.
That was too strong. Too strong, and too late, because the windwalker had already reached the top of the wire-lined wall and vaulted backwards over it in an impossible acrobatic flip.
“What the sodding hell,” breathed a voice, and Stephen looked round to see that half a dozen of the other inmates were staring, pointing, gaping at the unfeasible escape. Someone was already feeling the wall to work out what he’d used for handholds. Others were batting at the dust that had engulfed them.
“I didn’t see anything,” Stephen said curtly, and strode for the gate to demand a lawyer. He urgently needed the services of Hannaford and Greene.
While Stephen sat in the gaolyard, Crane was in the gymnasium.
He didn’t belong to any of the sporting associations that he might have been expected to join. The way he and Merrick sparred had nothing to do with the Marquis of Queensberry, everything to do with years of practice in staying alive by any means necessary, and would probably have got them thrown out of any decent institute of athletics. He wasn’t ashamed of it, but nor did he particularly want to explain his vicious scrapping style to curious members of his own class. And he and Merrick were decidedly less noticeable stripped to the waist in places where a higher proportion of the other men were also tattooed.
He mostly attended a working men’s establishment in Houndsditch, conveniently between his Limehouse office and the Strand. The vicar who ran the place was of the muscular Christian type, believing in salvation through bodily health and exercise, ploughing his meagre salary into funding the club and equipping it with a collection of books and periodicals to encourage mental improvement. Crane registered as Mr. Vaudrey, paid the standard subscription plus a generous donation in return for an absence of awkward questions, and had quickly succeeded in becoming a part of the scenery, so that he had long stopped attracting gaping watchers. He did still have to put up with the odd wag yelling, “Good morning, Mr. Magpie!” at him, but that was a small price to pay.
Crane was at the punchbag now. He would rather have been sparring—he would have liked to spar with Merrick today, very much, and for that reason, he hadn’t. If it turned into a real fight, he’d have to find another gymnasium after they got thrown out, and he wanted a real fight. He shot a look over at Merrick on the other side of the room now, muscles working, chest bare except for the little hide bag that hung around his neck on a leather thong. It was a shaman’s talisman that he’d had for years, worn for protection, or out of habit. Crane was strongly tempted to throttle him with it. If it hadn’t been for that bloody business with Saint…
He forced his attention back to his exercises, away from his thoughts. Sweat ran down his bare back as he worked the punchbag with as much controlled force as he could manage. He landed blow after blow with his right fist, working out his anger with Stephen and himself and Merrick and England, shoulder muscles singing with exertion, head buzzing with an anger that hadn’t calmed since the previous night.
Bloody shamans. Bloody liars. Bloody Stephen. Did they not have enough between them of love and loyalty and narrowly saved lives that Stephen would tell him the truth, just sometimes? That he would listen? That he would stop taking responsibility for the whole God-damned world and let Crane take some for him?
He switched to jabbing with his left, pounding out the frustration. Stephen was living on his nerves, fraying at the edges. They could scarcely have a conversation without it degenerating into an argument. It was maddening.
And it was worrying. Stephen was overwrought, overworked and nervous, but he wasn’t self-pitying or self-indulgent. He was usually one of the fairest-minded men Crane had ever met. But he had weak points—Crane himself, his justiciary team, his overwhelming sense of responsibility—and all of those weak points seemed to be under attack at once. Just as they needed to stand together, the stresses on Stephen seemed to be pulling them apart.
Crane paused, letting the bag swing back and forth for a few beats, then took up a steady rhythm of punches, left, right, left, right.
He had spent four long months holding himself back, respecting Stephen’s independence, restraining his natural tendency to take over any situation in which he found himself. Well, fuck that for a game of tin soldiers. Stephen was in trouble, he was sinking, and it was time for Crane to stop pussyfooting around the obstinate little sod’s pride and start hauling him out of that trouble, whether he liked it or not. He would make Stephen listen, and he would fix whatever problems he could with the expenditure of whatever or whoever it cost, and come to that, he would make the bloody man stop working if he had to kidnap him and take him across the English Channel by force. He was sick of Stephen’s sodding justiciary—his fist hit the leather bag with brutal force—sick of the Council—another savage strike—sick of the harassment and the concealment and the constant fucking fear—
Crane smacked a vicious right hook into the punchbag, which exploded.
He jerked back, startled, as the horsehair filling burst out around him. The split leather bag bobbed wildly on its chain. The gym was, he realised, completely still. Everyone was staring at him.
Merrick was at his elbow, grabbing his arm, voice low and forceful. “You. Out. Now.”
“I should pay—”
“Fucking out.” Merrick gave him a savage shove, emphasised by a knuckle to the kidney. “Move.”
Crane moved. Bare-chested, Merrick looked like his old self, not the respectable black-clad serving man he liked to appear these days, but the tightly knotted mass of muscle and scar tissue, tattoos and aggression, who had held his own in the fight cages of Shanghai. He had beaten seven bells out of his nominal master on several occasions in years gone by, when the young Lucien Vaudrey had needed to be taught a lesson. Crane saw that expression on his face now, and did as he was told.
“Why so urgent?” he asked as they swung towards the changing room. Everyone they passed was staring, some of them open-mouthed. “It’s just a punchbag, it must have been worn out—”
“You punch ’em. You don’t kill ’em,” Merrick retorted. “And why so urgent is, while you were smacking that thing, your fucking magpies were flying all over you like a fucking raree-show—”
“They what?”
“And now look.” Merrick shoved him towards a spotted mirror in the changing room. Crane looked, and recoiled.
There was a magpie tattoo, unmoving, as if it had always been there, inked right across his face: his left eye and cheek completely obscured with black and white, the tail stretching across his mouth and onto the other side.
“Jesus Christ. No.”
“Because if that fucking thing is going to stay there—”
Crane grabbed for his shirt. “It won’t. Surely. They always go back to where they belong—”
“Except Mr. Day’s one.”
“I need Stephen. Get Stephen.”
“You need to get home before anyone else sees this. The fucking state of you.” Merrick was dressing fast. A young man poked his head into the changing room, retreated rapidly at the manservant’s doglike snarl. “And I’ll tell you what else, there was nothing wrong with that punchbag. You hit it too bloody hard. You hit it like Jen hits stuff. Like a shaman.”
“That’s magic. I’m not magic.”
“Yeah? Tell that to the vicar. Only not now, because you look like the King of the Cannibal Isles, and every fucker here knows you didn’t have a magpie on your face when we came in. Come on, we got to get out of here.”