A Dark Heart (The Elders and Welders Chronicles) Read online

  "You bloody better be. We've waited twenty-five years, you and I. I want O’Connor. I want to punish him for what he did to me. For what he did to you. I want to watch you rip out his heart," she said in a cold, conversational tone that would have chilled most people to the bone. But not him. He understood her perfectly. They exchanged a similar litany of desires often, as if reinforcing the vow they had sworn to each other when they'd been reunited by chance over a decade ago.

  Of course, the gruesomeness of their plans for their enemy had changed when he had changed and had become capable of actually ripping someone's heart out. He had a feeling Percy reveled in that aspect of his monstrousness.

  She was the only one.

  "But not before you make that son of a bitch give you his name," she added, as she always did.

  As if Elijah needed any reminder of him. The second man's face – the one who'd given him his scar and killed Percy's brother – was forever etched in his memory. He'd find out the man's name for Percy, no matter what it took to extract it from Nick O’Connor's lips. But he had a feeling he was not going to like what he discovered.

  When Lady Christiana had transformed him, all of his wounds, old and new, from his ruined eye, to Percy's blade work on his abdomen, down to the very hangnails on his toes, had healed ... except for the scar on his cheek. Elijah's memory of that long-ago night was hazy, but he did remember cutting that toff’s arm open, and the sizzling, streaking pain on his face that had followed. It had been like acid eating away his flesh to the bone, and he could think of only thirteen men on earth who had blood like that.

  Newgate Nick, child procurer, whoremonger, murderer, thief and current king of the Black Market, had remained alive and well all these years, even after being skewered by a poker, for a reason. He wasn't entirely human. O’Connor's dominion over the stews was maintained by his personal vampire army, men and women he'd turned in order to terrorize his competitors – and the general citizenry – into submission. That meant that O’Connor had to be a Bonded, for only the Bonded had the blood capable of turning someone into a vampire.

  And that meant the Elder who'd Bonded O’Connor had to have been the man who'd killed Percy's brother that night, for whatever reason, before handing Percy over to O’Connor’s tender mercies.

  When Elijah had finally put the puzzle pieces together, he knew that their simple quest for vengeance had become something much bigger.

  Percy didn't understand this. Like many who conducted their business on London’s roughest streets, she knew about vampires and the fact that O’Connor was somehow turning people into them, but she didn't know about the Elders. Despite her brilliant knack at espionage, she'd yet to learn about the existence of the shadowy group of immortals who secretly ruled the world. This didn't surprise Elijah, who knew to his detriment how closely the Elders guarded their secrets.

  And Elijah was not about to tell Percy the truth, not until he absolutely had to. God knew what she'd do with such information.

  It wasn’t that Elijah felt he owed any loyalty at all to the Elders. He kept their secrets for Lady Christiana's sake, and no other reason. Hell, he trusted Percy more than he trusted an Elder, which was why he'd refrained from telling Rowan anything concerning O’Connor or the unknown Elder he suspected was behind all of the Black Market's rotten business. Rowan was a good man, but Elijah had no desire to test his true allegiances.

  "We'll find him, Percy," was all he could say to her now. He couldn't tell her the whole truth, but he could tell her a part of it – the only part that mattered to both of them. "We'll find all of them. My vow hasn't changed." Even if it is an Elder, he added silently.

  She nodded, satisfied for the moment.

  "So are you going to tell me why you're here?" he prompted, changing the subject.

  "Right. Forgot my news. The Gentleman struck again. Just as you said."

  "Bloody hell," he muttered.

  "How did you know he'd visit my new employer's safe?"

  "A hunch," he said. Though it hadn't been. He'd been tracking the most notorious jewel thief to hit London in years for a few months now. He knew the Gentleman’s patterns as well as he knew the back of his own hand. He'd just never cared enough to actually try and catch the bastard, no matter how much of a fuss the nobs in Mayfair kicked up over it down at the Yard. In fact, he'd gladly let the thief nick all the baubles he wanted from the fat, indolent Upper Ten Thousand. It had not been Elijah's problem.

  Until he worked out that Newgate Nick employed the Gentleman. Then it had become his problem. And Percy's. The thief was their best hope in years of infiltrating O’Connor's stronghold at long last, but they had to catch the elusive man first. Thus Percival Parminter, valet extraordinaire, had been born, lending services to the rich aristocrats who were the Gentleman’s potential targets. It seemed their efforts had finally paid off.

  "The thief went straight for Lord Montague's wall safe. Nearly had it opened before I could even bloody blink. But I did as you told me to. I made just enough noise to scare him off before the deed was done. He was out of an attic window in a flash. I followed him the best I could, got halfway to Covent Garden, then lost him. The little bugger is fast," Percy said, with grudging admiration. "Faster than I ever was."

  "Did he know he was being followed?" he asked, taking his long cane from Percy's outstretched hand. He'd used a cane to support his crushed leg before the transformation, so he pretended to use one now – except this one had a long, deadly sword sheathed inside of its hollow body. Perfect for killing leeches.

  "I don't think so," she answered. "I’m not that out of practice. I have a feeling he'll return to Lord Montague’s, though. He didn’t like having to abandon his take."

  "I’m sure he didn't like having to return to O’Connor empty-handed full-stop,” he said. “O’Connor is holding something over the thief's head to get him to steal. He'll come back tonight, or sometime very soon. O’Connor will make it impossible for him not to. Lord Montague has the best diamonds in the city, and for some reason O’Connor wants them. I'll go there tonight."

  "There's something about this thief," Percy began hesitantly. "He's not at all like O’Connor’s usual associates."

  "It's our best lead we've had in years. Do you mean to give up the hunt because you feel sorry for this thief?"

  Percy glared at him over her spectacles. "Just don't forget to feed, Drexler. I wouldn't want you to lose control before we even interrogate the lad.” She extracted a thick calling card from her waistcoat pocket. "Oh, and I found this pushed under your door."

  Elijah snatched the card from Percy's hand and groaned at the short, terse note, and the single name embossed in glossy sepia typeface beneath it.

  Llewellyn House. Noon. Brightlingsea.

  He crushed the card in his hand and sent it flying across the room. Couldn't the man use a bloody wireless tickertext like the rest of the modern world?

  Percy quirked her brow at his show of temper. "Care to tell me why the Duke of Brightlingsea is sliding calling cards under your door?"

  "No," he said tersely.

  "Surely it's not the Duke of Brightlingsea. The famed Hero of Sevastopol himself. Didn't he die years ago?" she asked, undeterred, trailing him towards the door to his flat.

  "It's a son or nephew or something," he answered. Though it wasn't. It was the Duke of Brightlingsea. Who also happened to be the damned leader of the Elders, and the scariest, craziest son of a bitch Elijah had ever encountered. Whatever had brought the immortal leader back to London from his Welsh lair couldn't be good.

  Elijah just prayed that the Duke hadn't found out that Lady Christiana had been the one to turn him. Brightlingsea had let Elijah live when they'd parted ways over half a year ago, after they'd both helped track and kill the psychopath who'd kidnapped Romanov's wife. The Duke had seen the value in having Elijah under his thumb, cleaning out the nest of feral vampires – O’Connor’s cast-offs – infesting London's streets. It meant the Duke didn't have to lift a finger himself.

  Lazy git.

  But Brightlingsea had made it more than clear that the Bonded who'd betrayed the Council's sacred vows and turned Elijah would have to die, so Elijah had said his maker was already dead. Rowan hadn’t contradicted this. But that didn't mean Rowan, who'd always been scrupulous to a fault, hadn't decided to come clean to his cousin and blood brother, despite his bond with Lady Christiana.

  "Well, are you going to tell me what the Duke wants, and why you're meeting him at Llewellyn House?" Percy demanded.

  "No. It's nothing to do with you."

  "It never is when you visit your nob friends," she muttered.

  "They aren't my friends," he growled. What was Percy's problem this morning?

  "Not even her Ladyship?" Percy inquired in a too innocent voice.

  Elijah stopped at the door to his flat, gripping the doorknob so tightly he could feel the brass warping under his fingers. "What are you implying, Percy?"

  "I'm not implying anything. I've just seen the way you look at each other."

  "Have you been spying on me again?" he demanded.

  Percy shrugged nonchalantly, though her turbulent silver-gray eyes betrayed her. Why Percy should be so obsessed with a woman she'd never even met was beyond his powers of deduction.

  He threw open the door to his flat and made the long, steep descent through the squalid, half-abandoned building in the darkest corner of eastern Whitechapel. Percy followed behind him, careful not to touch the grimy walls with her pristine clothes.

  They had to step over something dead at the ground level before reaching the front entrance. Percy wretched in a perfumed handkerchief ... or, rather, Percival Parminter did. Percy always went into character the moment she stepped out into the world, even
if there was no one around to appreciate the act. Her reasoning was that one never knew who was watching or listening ... which was probably one of the reasons why she'd fooled the world for so long. She never let down her guard.

  "Lud, but you live in a pit. No wonder you're so broody," Percy remarked in her gentleman's lazy drawl once they reached the street, which was not much of an improvement over the hovel they'd left behind.

  Elijah's choice of neighborhood was as sordid as London got. The narrow, mud-packed, and nameless side street he called home was lined with tall, cheap wood and brick buildings as timeworn and disreputable as the one Elijah lived in. A few hollow-eyed pedestrians picked their way around the slops that had been tossed from chamber pots through paper-covered windows at dawn. Large fetid puddles of unidentifiable liquids had gathered in deep ruts gouged in the packed earth from the traffic that had once rolled down this street – decades ago. It had remained virtually untouched by the Steam Revolution and modern sanitation. It smelled like a sewer and looked like a sewer.

  "Did you just call me broody, Percy?" he growled.

  "Don't try and deny it. You should move. You wouldn't feel so broody in less ... er, rustic accommodations."

  He grunted. Why should he move, when he belonged here? He'd been born in a shite-filled hole just like this one. He fully expected to die in one. And at least this shite-filled hole was so disgusting even the meanest beggars steered clear of it if they could help it. The few who peopled the sad, dilapidated hovels on this street were as near to ghosts as he was.

  Here, he had far less of a chance of hurting someone if something went wrong.

  "You are full of advice this morning, Percy,” he muttered.

  "Just protecting my investment. Ah, our ride is still here," she said, waving her handkerchief towards the top of the street.

  The sight of a bulky, metal-worked police steamcart in his pre-1850's slum of a neighborhood was a jarring sight and attracted attention. Unwanted attention. A crowd of wide-eyed indigents had started to gather and gawk, though at a distance. No one wanted to get too close to a police vehicle, or Constable Matthews, whose massive size, Welding arms, and belligerent stance could intimidate even a vampire.

  So much for keeping a low profile in the neighborhood.

  Elijah glared at Percy, who just shrugged. "The Constable was good enough to give me a lift across town. He is as worried about you as I am,” she said.

  "Why the hell is Matthews so worried?" he grumbled.

  "Perhaps because you've been late to work every day for the past two months. If you manage to show up at all."

  "Well, I'm not fucking late today," he growled. "It's barely past daybreak."

  Percy gave him a droll look. "I was unaware eleven in the morning was near daybreak."

  He rolled his eyes, though inwardly he cringed. He'd shot himself full of morphine at nightfall yesterday, which meant he'd been out cold some fifteen hours. He was finding it harder and harder to wake up. "So I'm late. Who the bloody hell cares?"

  "Constable Matthews, apparently."

  Elijah snorted and stalked to the head of his street, where it intersected with George Street, which was wider and busier, but just as grim. The crowd of gawkers was comprised of the usual denizens – whores, pimps, thieves and even a handful of old Machinists, with their gruesome metal appendages. Their attention shifted from the clanking police vehicle to Elijah's approach, and just like that, the mood in the air shifted from idle curiosity to suspicious antipathy. Elijah endured the collective intakes of air, the hushed mutterings, the shifty-eyed glares. Everyone knew who he was, and a few even suspected what he was. But no one liked him. He was as welcome here as a venereal disease.

  If the incidents of murder and rape had dropped off significantly since his move to the neighborhood, and Black Market foot soldiers had begun to give this area a wide berth because of his presence, no one seemed to have noticed or cared.

  Not that he wanted any thanks. He could just as easily snap one day and consume the whole neighborhood. As far as he was concerned, they could hate him all they wanted.

  Elijah turned his glare over the crowd, and it was enough to send most of them scattering, as if they could sense the monster inside of him just waiting for an excuse to burst free. But Constable Matthews just quirked his brow at Elijah's glare, unimpressed as always, and hopped up into the driver's seat of the steamcart, kicking the vehicle into gear. It lurched forward on its large metal wheels.

  "I don't need a damned chaperone, Constable," Elijah said tersely over the roar of the engine as he climbed into the passenger compartment behind a simpering Parminter. "If I want a bloody ride, I'll ask for it."

  "If you say so, guv," Matthews said with a shrug, seemingly acquiescent, though Elijah knew the man would do as he pleased. Matthews had been with him from his early days on the force, when Elijah was still just a half-crippled neophyte and Matthews was nothing more than a street-tough ex-prizefighter looking for honest work. Matthews had been the brawn and Elijah the brains, and their partnership had worked well.

  As Elijah could rip out the constable's throat in less than three seconds these days, Matthews' usefulness as a bodyguard was over. But Matthews had remained his loyal lieutenant, God only knew why. Elijah had been trying to drive him away for months now, without any success.

  Matthews powered the steamcart forward at a reckless speed, plowing through the thinning crowd with relish before making a sharp right onto another dismal street. Elijah clutched the leather strap dangling from the roof of the vehicle to keep from falling out and groaned, his head spinning. Damned morphine.

  Which reminded him. "Drop me off at St. Mary's, Constable, I've an errand to run."

  Both Parminter and Matthews gave him an exasperated look, knowing exactly what he planned to do at the hospital. But mingled with their exasperation was a worry with which he was becoming far too familiar. He wanted to scream at the pair of them sometimes. They knew what he was, that he needed the drug.

  They knew what his fate would soon be, and their bloody concern wouldn’t do a damned thing to stop it.

  2

  AFTER replenishing his supply of morphine from the hospital – covertly and illegally, of course – Elijah had Matthews drop Percy at Lord Montague's before continuing on to Llewellyn House. When they arrived, Matthews deposited him on the sidewalk and trundled back to Scotland Yard in the steamcart like the dutiful constable he'd become.

  Elijah himself had no time to stop by the Yard today, which would earn him the usual hell from his superiors, but he'd ceased caring about his career as an Inspector years ago. Before he'd been turned, though, solving cases and rising up in the ranks had been all that he'd cared about. His late foster father, Edmund Drexler, had been a Deputy Chief Inspector, and Elijah had tried hard to follow in the man's footsteps. But it was difficult to remember those days, and the young, driven, almost ordinary man he'd been. He’d not exactly been happy, not with the dark past he’d carried inside him, but he’d not been quite as hopeless as he was now.

  Now he lived only for his revenge. He had no future for which to strive, no need to impress anyone at the Yard, and no need to follow the rules, unless it suited him to do so. The only reason he hadn't been sacked was because he got results, when he bothered to show up to work.

  It didn't hurt that he'd brought in the damned Ripper for them either. Of course, it had been a corpse – a corpse with no head, since the Ripper had turned out to be a vampire, as Elijah had learned the hard way. Most of his colleagues, who were oblivious to the true forces haunting London’s slums after dark, had been doubtful he'd even found the right man. The headless part had been difficult to explain away as well, but when the murders had stopped, most had accepted his story, albeit grudgingly.

  He was still sliding by on the notoriety of that case, but only just. It hardly mattered, though. He'd be dead before Scotland Yard decided they'd had enough of him.

  Elijah glared up at the familiar marble edifice of Llewellyn House, dreading the upcoming interrogation. For he knew that was what it would be.

  Bloody toffs. Bloody Elders. Sometimes he wished anyone but the old Earl had been the one to take him in after the fire. So much would have been different. He wouldn't be bound to this place and the people under its roof in so many complicated and unwelcome ways.