back on this moment and consider that I was riding the crest of my anger too well. That I was feeling incautious and daring. For the moment, I only knew that I was tired of waiting. That I wanted my bounty, I wanted to replenish my depleted store of opium, and that I really, truly wanted to expend some of this restless, gnawing energy.
I approached the gate. Two men waited on either side: Menagerie footmen. Thugs, of course, and well paid. I’d never had to tangle with them.
Now, they both stiffened as they saw me.
I frowned as they stepped directly in front of the gilded gate. “Sorry, miss,” one said, his Bow Bell accent lacking the education that softened Betsy’s. “Ye can’t go in.”
“The devil I can’t,” I replied flatly.
Both men, taller than me but not too broad, exchanged glances. “Orders,” said the other one, as if this would explain it.
“From?”
“Hawke.”
My eyes narrowed. If the Menagerie was London’s Garden of Eden, then Micajah Hawke was its serpent. A wickedly dark man whose power lay in his persona. Hawke was ringmaster and director; foreman and tempter. He answered only to the Veil, which gave him free reign in the Menagerie he directed.
The man was sensual as sin. And just as dangerous.
I set my jaw. “He gave the order, did he?”
One nodded, his workman’s cap set low over his beetled brow. “Aye, miss.”
I sighed. “Well.” Bully that for a joke. “I suppose there’s nothing for it.”
I half turned. Both men relaxed as I did, and one turned to retake his position by the gate post.
I spun, all the way around, quick as a snake. Before either could do more than draw themselves up, I seized the capped one’s arm, jammed the heel of my hand into his elbow and heard it pop.
He was suddenly little more than a puppet as he bent over to save his shoulder, which gave me the leverage I needed to slam my foot back into the first guard’s chest and send him clattering into the gate. I twisted the arm in my grip high. Height didn’t matter when one had a man’s elbow bent awry.
The man fell to his knees, strangling on a scream of pain.
“Stand—” The first guard didn’t wait for me to finish my warning. He pushed off the gate, teeth bared and scarred fists raised.
I wrenched the capped man’s arm up higher between his shoulder blades. His fingers nearly touched the nape of his neck, and he screamed, rough and guttural, his other hand flailing wildly as he danced in place.
The approaching man hesitated.
I met his eyes over the man’s bent back. “I will,” I said calmly, only breathing a little hard, “break his arm.” I didn’t know if I could, but he didn’t have to know that. “Go get Hawke.”
The guard met my eyes. Our wills clashed, but I was riding the surge of energy and a powerful triumph. Bracing my other hand on my captive’s shoulder, I flexed my elbow. The guard locked his teeth and growled, “Do it!”
No contest. The first guard stepped back through the gate, turned and vanished into the dark.
I kept ahold of my man’s wrist, just in case his friend tried something stupid. Like bringing more guards. Which, I knew, would be the end of me, but the bastard behind that fence had my bounty. It was mine. I earned it.
I needed it.
In short order, footsteps crunched on the imported polished stones lining the walkway beyond the gate. The guard in my grip had gone white around the edges, but he said nothing, breathing shallowly and silently. As if I would forget I held his working limb in my hands.
The gate swung open, and I looked up to meet the strangest eyes I had ever known. In any life I remembered.
Micajah Hawke wore the fashion of the day as if it were designed exclusively for him. His broad shoulders and exquisitely tapered chest set off a black tailcoat to utter perfection, and the scandalously crimson waistcoat only drew my eyes to his narrow waist. His trousers were black and pressed, his shoes without so much as a scuff. He
I approached the gate. Two men waited on either side: Menagerie footmen. Thugs, of course, and well paid. I’d never had to tangle with them.
Now, they both stiffened as they saw me.
I frowned as they stepped directly in front of the gilded gate. “Sorry, miss,” one said, his Bow Bell accent lacking the education that softened Betsy’s. “Ye can’t go in.”
“The devil I can’t,” I replied flatly.
Both men, taller than me but not too broad, exchanged glances. “Orders,” said the other one, as if this would explain it.
“From?”
“Hawke.”
My eyes narrowed. If the Menagerie was London’s Garden of Eden, then Micajah Hawke was its serpent. A wickedly dark man whose power lay in his persona. Hawke was ringmaster and director; foreman and tempter. He answered only to the Veil, which gave him free reign in the Menagerie he directed.
The man was sensual as sin. And just as dangerous.
I set my jaw. “He gave the order, did he?”
One nodded, his workman’s cap set low over his beetled brow. “Aye, miss.”
I sighed. “Well.” Bully that for a joke. “I suppose there’s nothing for it.”
I half turned. Both men relaxed as I did, and one turned to retake his position by the gate post.
I spun, all the way around, quick as a snake. Before either could do more than draw themselves up, I seized the capped one’s arm, jammed the heel of my hand into his elbow and heard it pop.
He was suddenly little more than a puppet as he bent over to save his shoulder, which gave me the leverage I needed to slam my foot back into the first guard’s chest and send him clattering into the gate. I twisted the arm in my grip high. Height didn’t matter when one had a man’s elbow bent awry.
The man fell to his knees, strangling on a scream of pain.
“Stand—” The first guard didn’t wait for me to finish my warning. He pushed off the gate, teeth bared and scarred fists raised.
I wrenched the capped man’s arm up higher between his shoulder blades. His fingers nearly touched the nape of his neck, and he screamed, rough and guttural, his other hand flailing wildly as he danced in place.
The approaching man hesitated.
I met his eyes over the man’s bent back. “I will,” I said calmly, only breathing a little hard, “break his arm.” I didn’t know if I could, but he didn’t have to know that. “Go get Hawke.”
The guard met my eyes. Our wills clashed, but I was riding the surge of energy and a powerful triumph. Bracing my other hand on my captive’s shoulder, I flexed my elbow. The guard locked his teeth and growled, “Do it!”
No contest. The first guard stepped back through the gate, turned and vanished into the dark.
I kept ahold of my man’s wrist, just in case his friend tried something stupid. Like bringing more guards. Which, I knew, would be the end of me, but the bastard behind that fence had my bounty. It was mine. I earned it.
I needed it.
In short order, footsteps crunched on the imported polished stones lining the walkway beyond the gate. The guard in my grip had gone white around the edges, but he said nothing, breathing shallowly and silently. As if I would forget I held his working limb in my hands.
The gate swung open, and I looked up to meet the strangest eyes I had ever known. In any life I remembered.
Micajah Hawke wore the fashion of the day as if it were designed exclusively for him. His broad shoulders and exquisitely tapered chest set off a black tailcoat to utter perfection, and the scandalously crimson waistcoat only drew my eyes to his narrow waist. His trousers were black and pressed, his shoes without so much as a scuff. He
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