Razors & Ruin (Rare Horrors #1)

Chapter 17

17

Nellie

B eadle Higgins passes my window, unbesmirched and unhurried. Whatever happened can’t have been remarkable, and I detect no false note.

When Sweeney appears a minute later, he seems to have found his center, and the hum of sick tension no longer permeates from his body as he strides into my space.

“There’s to be a function tonight at The Regent,” he says, taking a seat at the counter. “My new best friend wants to bring me along so I can meet his establishment pals and show off my skills.”

“You mean the masquerade ball?” I ask.

He frowns, and I realize he has no idea what I’m talking about.

“They hold it once a quarter,” I begin. “All the grandest people get dressed up and do their dirty business under the cover of anonymity, or so they say. I’ve heard a few whispers about it.”

Sweeney leans closer. “Such as?”

“Orgies,” I murmur, arching a brow. “Depravity. No one admits to a thing, of course. But it could be quite the sight.”

He sits back on his stool and eyes me, his expression stony. “You’re not coming along, Nellie. Is that clear?”

"Oh, I see. I’m not suitable for a ball, is that it? A place like that, full of masked women with soft hands and softer mouths. You wouldn’t want me cramping your style."

I pause, daring him to deny it, but he doesn’t. I cannot keep the poisonous wrinkle from creasing my nose, and I sneer at him like he’s something I scraped off my shoe.

He’s in danger of being discovered if he sets foot in that nest of vipers. It’s quite the fucking liberty for him to assume I’m of no use to him in an environment like that.

The pie shop publican came and spoke truth to me, the truth my dismissive lover here does not possess. The knowledge sits in my chest like a brand, hot enough to burn, but I give nothing away.

I will not allow Sweeney to walk the floors of The Regent’s Ball without me to watch over him.

I could tell him what I know—that he is already compromised—but the information I have is too sparse to be helpful. Who saw him? What will they do about it?

Wetherby may have been the one to connect the dots; it wouldn’t exactly take a genius. He will doubtless be there tonight, ready to laugh at the hapless Mr. Todd as he’s paraded before the elites of the city like a Russian bear.

More fool anyone who prods Sweeney, that’s what I say.

I put my palms on the counter and lean over, bringing my face close to his.

“Now, you see here, Mr. T,” I say. “We’ve been through a lot in a couple of days. You’ve asked a lot of me, and I think it’s fair to say we let it get weird. You and I have found some balance, despite everything. Yes?”

He nods guardedly, and I warm to my theme. "But I wonder, Mr. T... Would any of those ladies let you carve your name into their skin the way I did?”

He tilts his head. “I have to suppose not, treacle.”

“So tell me what you and the Beadle talked about.”

"Leave it alone, Nellie. I have it handled."

I lace my voice with mocking sweetness. "Oh, I’m sure you do, love. After all, you’ve got a way with people, don’t you? Well, don’t you worry about me. I’ll be right here, waiting for whatever’s left of you when you come crawling back."

Sweeney glances at me, and something buckles within him, as though he realizes he must give a little if I’m to back down.

It’s a small but unmistakable shift of power, and it makes the hairs on the back of my neck bristle.

“Alright; we talked about Johanna.” He sniffs and crosses his ankle over his knee. “Well, sort of. I wanted to know where the missing kids go. The ones whose names vanish from the ledgers, if they’re written at all.”

“And?”

“The Beadle clammed up. I had to agree to this stupid folly to get closer to people who move in his circles. He implied that there are men who know more, and unless they will lend me an ear, I have no means to discover the truth.”

The fucking truth ? He’s in no place to hear that. He thinks his bouncing baby brat will turn up safe and well, and in that shining alternate universe, there may be a place for him.

But him alone . He’d carry his scarred arm beside him and see my name daily, but his heart would no more belong to me than his viscera, blood, or bones would.

What’s flesh today is ash and shit tomorrow, that’s for damn sure. He’d burn me for Johanna without hesitation, happy to trade all our ruinous wrongs for even a delusion of something right.

If he goes to the party alone, he may never return. If he is recognized as Currer Brook, the Beadle will have his curio—God, maybe that’s it.

It could be an elaborate bluff, and Sweeney is squirming on a lure, unaware he’s being reeled in. Just playing with people’s lives, as the powerful are wont to do.

An idea fizzes at the edge of my consciousness, one too hot to dampen. I will have to finesse it to pay off, but the touchpaper is alight and burning.

I already know what Mr. T will do—having executed (ha!) his party tricks, he will simply don a mask and blend into the revelry, spinning his silk around some woman who knows much about her husband’s dirty hobbies but little about how a man’s hot hands should feel.

Not on my watch. If I see some bitch give my Sweeney a glad look, I will extract her eyeballs from their sockets and make them into cufflinks. Anyone who doubts it can take it up with Marianne, if they care to dredge her out of the estuary.

I touch Sweeney’s hand. “It sounds like hard work, dear. I think you did well not to bleed that fucking Beadle as soon as he sat down.”

Sweeney smiles, apparently pleased that we’re moving the conversation forward. No doubt he expected more resistance, but if I can distract him, we’ll be fine.

“I wanted to do it. His days are numbered, I guarantee, but for now, I need the fat cunt alive and well.”

“Surely a little cirrhosis wouldn’t go amiss,” I say. “A dose of the clap, just to get him leaning harder on that cane.”

“ Relatively well, then.” He stands. “Now. I promised you some better ingredients. I have a good guinea here and change. We could?—”

The doorbell again, and a young man appears, pointing at Sweeney. “Oi,” he says, waving his hand like he’s being attacked by wasps, “I need a shave.”

Sweeney’s jaw tenses as he turns around. “Are you seeking to engage my services?”

The man gives a mocking bow. “Fucking highfaluting barber. I don’t have all day, right?” He heads out and up the stairs to the tonsorial parlor, and Sweeney and I exchange glances.

“You wanted customers. Beggars can’t be choosers, love.”

I watch his back as he follows his patron out the door and wonder about Sweeney’s future in the service industry. To say he doesn’t like people in general would be quite an understatement, but they don’t like him either, so fair’s fair.

I like him. Love him, even if that’s what my cold sweats and shuddering dreams add up to. Lying beside him in bed is like sleeping beside a slumbering dragon, some mythic beast, curled tight like a spring.

He sprawls over my body, heavy limbs draped on mine, but he wraps tendrils around my mind and heart, too. Choking, over-fertile vines, stealing into my tender places and seizing my very breath, stilling it where I can neither draw it deeper nor let it out. Unless he wants it to be so.

In those quiet places, I feel the essence of him. The airless depth of the thing he is, rather than the man he could have been before he carelessly left the door to his soul open so the light got out.

I cannot let Sweeney don a mask and take his predator’s focus into that Bacchanalian hall of wonders. They will not be able to hold him back; he is too powerful for the likes of them.

In an ocean of floundering pissants, my man will draw all eyes like a lighthouse, yet none will truly see. And he’ll get what he wants, of course.

He will find a lead on Johanna because he will dazzle despite the danger and risk. Eyes will burn from skulls, lips will drop pearls of truth, and he will start his ascent.

I must be the ballast he needs. His shipwreck is too much rotted to be risen now.

The tray of pies for the non-existent lunch rush is ready to bake. I decide to take them down to the bakehouse, as I could use the big oven, plus I fancy getting a little hot and bothered down here.

Mr. T could use some further sweetening, and after reigning himself in twice in one morning, he’ll be ready to do some damage.

I’ll always be ready to bleed for him; a timely reminder won’t go amiss. I’m about to reach beneath my skirts and get something going when I hear raised voices above.

The yelling doesn’t last long, and from down here, it’s muffled, but whatever Sweeney is about, his customer service is not up to par. The silence after is worse; cold and spacy, like a void has opened somewhere and is sucking the air out.

I sigh and head up to the the parlor.