know what it was.
Blade paused. Panic never did a man good. But sending his lads out to face something they were unprepared for was sending them to suicide.
“A vampire,” he replied. “But keep it fuckin’ quiet, or we’ll ’ave a riot on our ’ands.”
Chapter 5
The last dying rays of sunlight glimmered on the horizon like a molten puddle of gold. Blade walked along the edge of the gutter, hands thrust deep into his pockets. It had been a long, frustrating day. He, Tin Man, and O’Shay had worked the northern end of Whitechapel while Will, Rip, and Lark had worked the south, hunting for a scent trail.
There was plenty of rot in the ’Chapel. Plenty of fetid stinks. The stench from the nearby draining factories filled the air, overwhelmed only by the splash of urine against an alley wall or the hint of garish perfume on a whore’s throat. Blade closed his eyes and kept walking, letting his nose sort through all the distinct scents, through the layers, dropping lower and lower, hunting for that sickly sweet rot.
“Bloody ’ell,” O’Shay muttered from behind. “I ’ates when you do that.” There was a brief flurry of scrabbling feet on the slick tiles. O’Shay swore. “It’s gettin’ dark, Blade. If the vampire’s out there, he’ll be thinkin’ ’bout breakfast.”
Blade stopped. Then opened his eyes. The end of the rooftop was an inch from the toe of his boots.
“I’d rather not be breakfast,” O’Shay called. “You know what I’m sayin’?”
Blade spun on his heel. O’Shay clung to a chimney. Tin Man rolled his eyes and hopped over him, sliding down the steep incline of the roof until he hit the gutters. He sunk the hook of his left hand into the tiles and caught himself in time. More metal than man, he’d shown up on Blade’s doorstep ten years ago, mute, his body scarred, and willing to do anything for his master, as long as Blade took in the small bundle in his arms too. Rumor said he’d once worked the coal mines, where the black lung took him. How a poor coal miner ever got the coin to pay for an iron lung was never explained, though. Nor where Tin Man had gained his scars.
Blade didn’t know where Tin Man had found Lark. She could have been his child or even a sister; he didn’t know.
Tin Man stared at him. The man couldn’t talk, but his eyes were eloquent enough.
Blade nodded. Lark was out there, determined not to be left behind. The rest of the men could handle themselves, but she was only fourteen. Or near enough.
“Time to regroup.” Blade dug a whistle out of his pocket. The high-pitched noise shot straight through his ears, but neither Tin Man nor O’Shay blinked.
In the distance an answering whistle screamed through the onslaught of night. “There ’e is, lads. Back to the warren.”
***
Night was edging closer as they made their way back to the warren. Blade felt it coming, felt it seeping its way through his body. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. He scrubbed at them sharply. Of late he’d been more aware of the moment the sun set.
“You all right?” O’Shay was watching him as they walked.
“Happy as a whore with a bottle o’ blue ruin,” Blade answered, forcing a smile onto his lips.
Will, Rip, and Lark were waiting at the warren. Rip stoked the fire with his usual patience, the flames reflecting off his green eyes. Will paced the parlor while Lark sat in his chair with her feet up on the footstool, scratching Puss’s chin.
“Off,” Will commanded, nudging Lark’s feet.
The girl flashed him a cheeky grin, then darted out of the room.
“Got nothin’,” Will said. “Nothin’ but piss and stink. It’s like he vanished into thin air.”
“He went to ground,” Blade said. “They always do.” He poured himself a glass of blood, swirling it under his nose. He refused to buy it from the Drainers, but there were those who offered it in exchange for coin or protection. A man could get too used to taking direct from
Blade paused. Panic never did a man good. But sending his lads out to face something they were unprepared for was sending them to suicide.
“A vampire,” he replied. “But keep it fuckin’ quiet, or we’ll ’ave a riot on our ’ands.”
Chapter 5
The last dying rays of sunlight glimmered on the horizon like a molten puddle of gold. Blade walked along the edge of the gutter, hands thrust deep into his pockets. It had been a long, frustrating day. He, Tin Man, and O’Shay had worked the northern end of Whitechapel while Will, Rip, and Lark had worked the south, hunting for a scent trail.
There was plenty of rot in the ’Chapel. Plenty of fetid stinks. The stench from the nearby draining factories filled the air, overwhelmed only by the splash of urine against an alley wall or the hint of garish perfume on a whore’s throat. Blade closed his eyes and kept walking, letting his nose sort through all the distinct scents, through the layers, dropping lower and lower, hunting for that sickly sweet rot.
“Bloody ’ell,” O’Shay muttered from behind. “I ’ates when you do that.” There was a brief flurry of scrabbling feet on the slick tiles. O’Shay swore. “It’s gettin’ dark, Blade. If the vampire’s out there, he’ll be thinkin’ ’bout breakfast.”
Blade stopped. Then opened his eyes. The end of the rooftop was an inch from the toe of his boots.
“I’d rather not be breakfast,” O’Shay called. “You know what I’m sayin’?”
Blade spun on his heel. O’Shay clung to a chimney. Tin Man rolled his eyes and hopped over him, sliding down the steep incline of the roof until he hit the gutters. He sunk the hook of his left hand into the tiles and caught himself in time. More metal than man, he’d shown up on Blade’s doorstep ten years ago, mute, his body scarred, and willing to do anything for his master, as long as Blade took in the small bundle in his arms too. Rumor said he’d once worked the coal mines, where the black lung took him. How a poor coal miner ever got the coin to pay for an iron lung was never explained, though. Nor where Tin Man had gained his scars.
Blade didn’t know where Tin Man had found Lark. She could have been his child or even a sister; he didn’t know.
Tin Man stared at him. The man couldn’t talk, but his eyes were eloquent enough.
Blade nodded. Lark was out there, determined not to be left behind. The rest of the men could handle themselves, but she was only fourteen. Or near enough.
“Time to regroup.” Blade dug a whistle out of his pocket. The high-pitched noise shot straight through his ears, but neither Tin Man nor O’Shay blinked.
In the distance an answering whistle screamed through the onslaught of night. “There ’e is, lads. Back to the warren.”
***
Night was edging closer as they made their way back to the warren. Blade felt it coming, felt it seeping its way through his body. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. He scrubbed at them sharply. Of late he’d been more aware of the moment the sun set.
“You all right?” O’Shay was watching him as they walked.
“Happy as a whore with a bottle o’ blue ruin,” Blade answered, forcing a smile onto his lips.
Will, Rip, and Lark were waiting at the warren. Rip stoked the fire with his usual patience, the flames reflecting off his green eyes. Will paced the parlor while Lark sat in his chair with her feet up on the footstool, scratching Puss’s chin.
“Off,” Will commanded, nudging Lark’s feet.
The girl flashed him a cheeky grin, then darted out of the room.
“Got nothin’,” Will said. “Nothin’ but piss and stink. It’s like he vanished into thin air.”
“He went to ground,” Blade said. “They always do.” He poured himself a glass of blood, swirling it under his nose. He refused to buy it from the Drainers, but there were those who offered it in exchange for coin or protection. A man could get too used to taking direct from
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