Tenfold More Wicked (13 page)

Don't get me wrong, it ain't my trade. But it ain't a bad life compared to dropping dead from overwork in a coal-burning plant or rotting your jaw off in a phossy match factory. Sometimes a girl lasts a good couple o' years, fed and sheltered with all the gin she can swill, and now and again she gulps the old Romany crone's sour herb drink and a glob of bleeding flesh spits from her insides and she carries on. Until she gets the clap or the pox or the flesh-crawling gripe once too often and wastes away, sores splitting her lips and a rotting itch inside what won't never heal.

Them's the lucky ones. In the shadows, darker shapes shift. Girls too old, too
weird,
or just not flash enough at the
act. Starving, homeless, desperate. Any foul thing for pennies, be it banal or beastly, and when a bangtail turns up at dawnlight with her neck askew or her face battered in, it'll more often than not be one of these sad sisters.

Just things to be used, and not good for much. Old meat, tossed into the gutter when a fellow's gnawed his fill—and it ain't them fine gents getting spat at in the street and called vermin, oh no. Them girls is like Lizzie Hyde. Fun while she lasts, but shunned for a shameful secret when Eliza's done.

I ducks alongside a gin palace, where the big window shows a riot of drunken fools, dancing girls, life-or-death card games and punch-ups. My blood hisses, eager for gin's gritty pleasure. But time enough for drunken foolery when work's done.

The noise fades as I stride into a muddy yard. A plump Chinaman sits cross-legged on a mat by a hessian curtain. I toss him a silver crown. He nods gravely, speaks in his twanging language.

“Ni-how,”
agrees I, and skips by into the den.

Smoke unfurls at eye level, a fug of uneasy dreams. Tasseled cushions pile the dirt floor. A square-rigged cove lies a-faint on a couch, entranced by spirits only he can see, a pipe dangling from limp fingers. From his pocket drops a gold watch, and a tiny girl snatches it with webbed hands. A woman sprawls face-down, drooling into the dirt. Maybe sleeping. Maybe dead.

A crooked wicker door beckons. I rattle it. “Open up, ratbrain!”

A sniggering green face with rodent teeth pokes out. “You again. He said to say he ain't here.”

“Brilliant, you is.” I shove the green door-keeper aside. Inside, a fire pit stains the room bloody. Fearsome heat dizzies me, only a tiny hole kicked in one wall letting out the dream-smoke. A bearded cove in a dented top hat giggles, gnawing stubby fingers to the bone.

And here's Remy Lafayette. Out of twig in a dirty brown coat, and deep in whispered palaver with a trio of shady coves at a wooden table. Pewter cups, a platter of suspicious-looking stew, a bottle holding a scant inch of emerald absinthe. I twist my ears but can't make 'em out . . . then one laughs, his voice lifts, and it's a language I recognize but don't understand.

My palms itch. Holding court with dirty Froggies? All banished from London, so I heard, a pointless exercise seeing as only the law-abiding ones will obey.

A plump coin purse squats on the table. One fat Froggie with a purple beetroot mark across his face tests its weight, makes it disappear, and the three mooch away, hats pulled low. Business—whatever it be—is done.

Remy devours what's left of the food, like he's not eaten for a month. Polishes off the absinthe, neat. Ouch. Then slouches into a corner, alone.

A cauldron bubbles over the fire, tended by a shirtless raw-ribbed lad. Fleshy abortions of wings flop down his back. He stirs the pot, tentacled fingers wrapping twice around his wooden stick. He dips in a straw, thumbs the end, and splashes a drop of evil-eye green into the packed bulb of a tobacco pipe.

I choke, swamped by black memories of the night I overindulged on some ugly-arse fey brew and about got
eaten
for my trouble. They cook it from tears and heartache and dark
fire dreams, and it'll rot your wits and warp your wants to moldy horror. Malicious magic, no mistake.

Remy's lounging on a tattered red velvet couch, now, pipe in hand. Dusty coat shrugged off, shirt open in the heat. Firelight gilds his skin, jewels of sweat glittering in his hair.

He draws smoke, ash flaring. Lets his head fall back, and exhales. Green smoke hisses upwards, a tricksy demon.

I knew it. He still ain't given it up, not these three weeks. Can't, for want of aught else to fight his affliction. I want to punch his handsome face. But my jaded throat parches. He's mesmerizing, a dangerous fallen prince from a dark fairy-tale.

Which is why, ten seconds later, I'm still staring like a gobstruck idiot when Remy's bloodshot glance trips up on my face.

Our gazes lock, unspoken words of loss.

He resumes his ceiling study. “Go away, Lizzie.”

I march up and twist the pipe from his hand, just as he's sucked in another lungful. Remy just exhales, evilsweet smoke tingling my face. I toss the pipe away, though that smoke waters my mouth with want. I yank him up, expecting a fight, but he lets me drag him out, and stumbles only a little as we march by the fat Chinaman and into the dark-lit street.

My arms prickle in the chill. But I'm too busy hurling Remy against the wall to care. “Bleeding Christ. It's been what, an hour? Two? And already you're up to your gills in it.”

“Told you before. S'medicinal.” Furtively, he searches the sky for any hint of moonglow. “I'm starving. Are you hungry? Let's eat.”

I go right ahead and pretend the way that damp shirt licks his body—the way his lip quivers, for God's sake, on the
brink of wild beauty—ain't of no interest to me. “Think you can
cure
your curse with a pipe of green? You're crazier than I thought.”
Cure
comes out bitter as dead fish. He loathes his creature. What does that make me?

“Nothing else works.” A shadow of his stunning grin. “I can't hold it in. I don't sleep for days when it's like this. The pipe, well . . . it calms
the thing,
for a while. I learned that in India, when it first started.” Crazy laughter, as if the very notion of
calm
is lunacy. “She kissed me, Lizzie. It's three days early and she kissed me and
it woke up
.”

The thing.
As if it ain't part of him, and if he could, he'd wield a blade and carve it out, like the spoiled portion of a joint.

I try to stuff my indignation back down. There's things more important than my bruised pride. I've seen what happens to him. It's beautiful, the way a wild beast is beautiful. But it's also hungry, bristling with blind animal rage. It
bleeds
. What if he starts
changing
without the moon?

But I can't help it. “Are you even listening to the tripe you're spouting? How can you
lie
to her?”

It's out before I understand my own words. Not
lie to me.
He's keeping secrets from Eliza. And that hurts, a keen ache in my heart that won't ease.

For sure, I keep secrets from Eliza, too. When she wakes, she won't recall what I done tonight, and if she does, she'll laugh it off as a frightful dream.

But Lizzie's
supposed
to be the bad egg in this sordid little pie. I'm
meant
to lie, to snigger with satisfaction at my despicable deeds.

He ain't.

God's bleeding innards. It's
me
what knows the truth. Me what
sees
him, in all his tragic splendor. And still he wants
her
.

My skin stings green like poison ivy. It ain't fair. Fuck me, if I could cut
her
out . . .

Remy shakes his head, mutinous. “This affliction? It's not her world. She doesn't belong here.”

I want to rake bloodied nails down my cheeks.
I'm a person, too! Why can't you SEE me?
“So that's all I am? An
affliction
?”

“You know I don't mean that. Please, Lizzie, go. It's not safe here.”

“Oh, aye? Why's you here, then? Thought them Froggies was kicked out o' London like plague dogs.”

Fog swirls, parting. Light from that swaggering moon slants silver onto his face. His hands shake, not so much you'd notice, but I'm standing right close, close enough to feel he's trembling, feverish, losing control. I can taste that green absinthe fairy dancing on his breath. The air around us shimmers, a bubble about to pop.

“It's official business,” he mutters. “Nothing I can share with either of you.”

Oho. My cunning twinkles bright. Wheedle it out of him, so we will. “Secret-squirrel tricks for the Royal, then? That metal-arsed countess got you trawling the pubs for sorcerers and runaway fey folk?”

“Lizzie, don't ask questions. Please. I can't answer them.”

“But—”

“It's for your protection.” He cuts me off, flat and final. “I've already failed to save one woman I cared for. I shan't fail again.”

My stomach hollows. Ouch. He means his wife. The dead one. At his own unwitting hand. Exit Lizzie, stage left.

But he don't edge away. Don't cease
looking
at me, even as his monster growls for my blood.

What would happen if his wolf erupted right now? Compelled by some dark magnetic force, I touch his jaw with one fingertip. His throat, that tender pulse. Find his collarbone, slip inside his open shirt . . .

He pulls my hand away. But his fingers crush mine, demented with wolf-fever, the drug, that greedy moon.

Guilt stings me, needle-sharp. I'm taking advantage . . . but hell, that ain't never held me back before. “Remy, this is crackers. Why are we pretending? I want you, and I ain't afraid.”

“I've noticed.” An intoxicated chuckle. “Believe me.”

“Then let me in.” Let me taste that wolf on your tongue, feel his dark jolt in my bones. Let's put our unwanted halves together and make
one
.

His glower darkens. “I can't.”

“What, because I ain't no fancy lady?”

“Don't be ridiculous. You're a smart and beautiful woman, Lizzie, and I'm proud to know you.”

A damn fool grin pastes itself across my face like a wet pancake. I can't help it. His golden brilliance pierces my soul, and all my vaunted wiles make like piss-scared rabbits and scarper.

He's stripped me bare, sure as if he'd shredded my gown and left me standing naked. I can't lie. I can't joke. I can't even flirt like a two-penny whore, not with this man. I can only be me.

So I sink my hands into that glorious chestnut hair, and
kiss him. Like I've wanted to for weeks. His mouth is hot, he tastes of smoke and tears and delicious dark dreams . . .

He shoves me away, and for a second, his teeth flash bright, an instinctive snarl of
fuck off.

I stumble, numb. I can't feel my fingers, my skin. As if my vitality's been sucked away.

“Lizzie. Good God. Forgive me.” Remy swipes a hand across his mouth, muffling a curse. His eyes gleam, an edge of wild wolfish gold that stirs dark mischief in my blood. His wolf-eyes was always blue, till tonight. Lucid. Human.

Now
should I be afraid?

“Don't want your ‘sorry,'” I blurt out. “Just tell me why.” But I'm already cowering inside. Christ, I want to hit the dirt and beg. I'll go. I'll stay. I'll do whatever you ask. Just leave it unsaid, my heart unflayed.

But he's steadfast, without a flinch. Nary a crack in his ironclad courage. He don't even need to speak it.

You're not her.

My stupid ears ring as if he's punched me in the skull. The world shudders and
grows,
lurching into the yonder, and like Lizzie in fucking Wonderland, I'm three inches tall.

So pitilessly honest with me, as if he don't know no other way. And yet he'll lie to
her
. Kick his precious principles to the dust in an instant, if it means
she'll
be safe. For
her,
he'll sacrifice his own self.

But not for me.

God's bleeding innards. I stare at my hands, my skirts, my muddied boots. I half expect me to be transparent. Fading, a ghost searching in vain for its long-decayed corpse.

Never really here at all.

“I mean it, Lizzie. I'm proud to know you.” He's quiet. Gentle. Brutal as they come. “But I gave her my word, and it's a promise I must keep.”

And how in God's green hell do I argue with that?

My vision blurs, and a raw and rotting ache chews my heart. It'd hurt less, if I didn't believe him. If I thought he were brushing me off for a lark, 'cause his habit's to love girls and leave 'em.

If his god-rotted
decency
weren't the reason I like him, for fuck's sake.

I wipe a bland smile over my pain, and stumble away.

I
N THE STREET, THE CROWD SWALLOWS THE MARVELOUS
Invisible Lizzie without a burp. Remy don't follow. I don't look back. Wouldn't see a damn thing anyhow, not through these tears. God rot it, I never cry.

I trip over unseen feet, and pick meself up. Someone shoves me, a black-coated blur. I shove him back, spitting a curse, and then we're swept asunder by the crush, evil swirling melodies, the stink of sex and drugged breath, and all the fun other folks is having.

I wipe my face, fury and shame smearing like rank sweat. Remy's rejection rips me raw. He's just a man. Why'd I give a pigeon's runny poop what he thinks? I've always been the lesser half, wallowing in dirt and decadence while Eliza keeps pure . . . but now a poxy itch plagues my flesh, this diseased notion that no, Miss Lizzie, you
ain't
half a person after all.

You're no person.

A shadow. An empty cipher. A figment of some ugly dream she's having while tucked safely in bed. Come morning, she'll recall fragments—my voice, liquor's dark flavor, the starlit
shock of a caress—and a shiver will rack her spine . . . then she'll turn her face to the sun, and forget me.

And I'll vanish. Ashes on the breeze. Like that shit-spitting letter to Todd what I stupidly forgot to burn.

Devil's moldy guts,
I'm part of her.
Why does she
HATE
me so much?

Bodies bump me, I lurch left and right, stumble into a doorstep, and grab it to keep from falling. I'm tearing my hair in hanks. I'm wheezing, a gritty groaning sound that hacks my lungs to bleeding. Fuck me, I need a drink. A disgusting burnt coffee smell scratches my nose, and on its fur-spiked back rides another, deeply luscious aroma what waters my mouth: that sly seducer named
gin
.

I screw hot palms into my eyes, and when I let go, a sign lurches from fading stars: a yellow-painted sun on a black horizon.

T
HE
R
ISING
S
UN
.

Now, where'd I hear that before?

Ding-ding!
The boxing bell rings in my head. Curiosity versus self-pity, a swift but brutal to-do that leaves self-pity groaning on the floor in a pile of bloody teeth. So this night never turned out as I planned? Don't mean I have to pissfart about, weeping into my porridge like a jilted dolly.

I dust off my skirts, light a saucy twinkle in my eye, and stride in.

Promptly, I trip over a chair, and by a scant inch miss braining myself on the bar. All class, me.

Undeterred, I shakes meself off. Christ, is this really the joint them posh artists frequent? Talk about rough trade. I can barely move in here. Dark, smoky, tables jammed tight.
Greasy low-lifes hunch over steaming bowls of that loathsome coffee. From shadowy corners ooze grunts, sighs, drunken moans. A few bolder ones is actually going at it where all can behold. “Jesus,” I mutter, “put that thing away.”

A fuck-ugly cuckoo clock on the wall goes off like a chirpy bomb and chimes eleven. Wrong, you witless crank. Must be way past midnight already. I collide with some liquor-reeking cove, and career into the zinc-topped bar. “Your pardon, miss,” he mumbles. Then he spies my chest, and does a drunken double-take.

Minus the gin, so do I.

Long chocolaty hair in a ribbon, ice-carven chin, dark eyes a-shimmer with much drink and little sleep. His rainbow waistcoat's a mite crumpled, his necktie charmingly crooked.

Oho. Seems Remy ain't the only one seeking solace after a rough night in a monkey suit, clambering over piles of money and kissing the wrong girl. This is Sheridan Lightwood. Eliza's artist. The gang's all here.

I cast a critical eye. A looker, some girls might say, but sommat's up I don't like. He's too slick. Too glossy, a painted icon not quite real . . . and still he's goggling at my chest, as if he ain't never seen boobs before.

My crafty self cackles, a witch crooking her finger. Come into my gingerbread house, little boy. What say I ferret some good oil on Eliza's murder case? Perhaps a certain uppity Royal Society captain might be interested.

A grin swaggers onto my lips and crouches there. Not that I'm undermining poor Eliza, oh no. Not that I'd steal Remy from her in a heartbeat, if only I could figure how.

For shame. Ain't that at all.

I dip this Sheridan a wink, fingering my velvet skirts as if he makes me want to
touch.
“I say, sir,” I purr, “ain't you that artist?”

He's got the grace to laugh. Tipsy and pleasant, or a man accustomed to harmless fakement. “Astonishing, how far my fame has spread these last few days.” His tones are pure West End, a gentleman's gentleman, but with a bitter, cynical edge.

I play with my hair. “Could you paint me? I'd like that.” His eyes are shot, his face puffy. I'd bet gold he's been weeping tonight. The working girls' glances slide over him, seeking trade elsewhere. Hmm. Too proud, is he? Or just more trouble than he pays for?

“Miss, I'd strip you bare and paint you until you screamed my name, if I weren't so drunk I'm about to topple.” He frowns. “Or be sick. Just so you're fully informed.”

His eyes are glazing. Swiftly, I ease him around to face the bar, in case he does either. Seems only the direct approach will profit. “What's you so sad about, then? Your dog die?”

He sucks smoke from a pipe. “My pitiful life is over, that's what. For what it was worth.”

“Oh. Well, least you're still breathing,” I offer, cheerful-like. “Word is, one of your lot got bumped off. Could be worse, eh? Unless you done it, I suppose.”

A sidelong glance. “And what if I did?”

I signal to the snaggle-toothed house keeper for gin. He brings coffee. I glare up his pox-rotted nose in disgust. “Could be to your profit, is all.”

“Ah.” Sheridan offers me his pipe. “The part where you swindle me. Sell it, then, whatever it is. I'm all ears.”

I suck in a twist of smoke, a shady opium dream. I exhale,
hoarse, and pass the pipe back. “What'd you say your name was?”

A sharp smile. “Not so famous after all. Sheridan, to you.”

“Well,
Sheridan,
what if we was to go somewhere together?” I flash an ankle and a cheeky wink. “If I thought you could be dangerous, I'd be all wet and breathless, wouldn't I? Maybe you'll cut me up, or squeeze my throat till I choke a little.” I chew a speculative fingertip. “A girl might enjoy that.”

He clicks his tongue, mock outrage. “The whims of modern young ladies.”

“I hate being bored. You arty coves? Bloody crooks, the lot o' you. Wouldn't shock me one inch if you was a killer. Or a thief, neither. D'you know that
Eve and the Snake
? I heard that Italian never painted it at all. Stole it and wrote his name on it.”

Sheridan chuckles, but his face goes dark. Not surprised. More like angry. “Seek no further for your homicidal excitement, then. Clearly the talentless runt is a born criminal.”

“Your murdered friend what's-'is-name? A sorcerer, s'what I heard. Ooga booga round a bonfire, black cats on broomsticks, rogering the Devil up the arse, or some such.”

“Stupid rumors.” He swallows more smoke. “That man made me famous. He'd have made me rich, too, if he'd lived. I owed him more than any man should owe another.” A cracked laugh. “I just wanted to be good at something. Is that so much to ask?”

That loony cuckoo clock goes off again, clucking like a moonstruck hen. Four o'clock this time. Jesus, the cursed thing's only got one job. “As it happens, I were jawing 'bout the murder with a girl called Penny—”

“What a curious coincidence. I knew that pretty doctor had to be a plant. Friend of yours?”

“—and Penny said them coppers reckoned
she
must've done for 'im.”

“Not that it's your concern”—another drag on the pipe—“but that isn't true. The Watt bitch was indulging her disgusting pleasures in this fine establishment that night.” He drinks his coffee, pulling a face. “Bertie, this is fabulously grotesque. Even filthier than usual. I congratulate you. Oh,” he added, “be a good fellow and tell me where I was, night before last.”

Hunchbacked Bertie leers, his snaggle tooth shining. “In 'ere from two till dawn. You an' that bronze-haired floozy, what went upstairs with that stinkin' sailor and 'is parrot.”

I snicker. “And he'd know what bloody time it was, with that crack-brained cuckoo sounding off as it pleases. You're a watch-maker, ain't you? Fix it.”

Sheridan just scowls.

“If I recalls right,” Bertie adds, “you whiled away the hours beneath a pair o' local ladies yerself.”

“I see. That explains the sorry state of my trousers. Business must truly have been desperate. I heard a rumor that I pissed in the coffee. Any truth?”

A cackle. “Tasted no worse if you done so.”

“There you are, then,” says Sheridan loftily. “Gambling, whores, intoxicated oblivion. Sorry to disappoint.” A quizzical frown. “Do I really look like a man who'd strangle you for a lark?”

“Everyone's a killer, sweetheart. Most folks is just too scared to act on it.” I smile, crooked. Maybe he'll keep talking, if I play him right. “Are you?”

He critiques me with an ungentlemanly eye. “What I am is tired, miserable, and too damned drunk to play games. Shall we cut to the chase?”

“Suits me.”

“I've two observations. The first is that if you're a police informer, they've definitely raised their standards for nosy lying tarts.” He cuts me that edged smile. “But I didn't do it, and that sick whore Penny didn't do it, so go fuck yourself.”

“Fair's fair,” agrees I. “And the second?”

“The second is that yours is far and away the most spectacular attire I've witnessed this evening, and I've been squinting at rich bitches' finery since six o'clock.” He drains his coffee and slides a sovereign onto the counter. Deft fingers, stained with red paint. “This appears to have your name on it. I won't be gentle, but I pay accordingly. Yes or no?”

His redshot gaze meets mine. Such weary, defeated eyes, for a youngster, and sharp sympathy needles my heart. Smart, handsome, career on the rise. Yet he drinks and whores to forget. Dives willingly into his darkest places, because drowning slowly down there is easier to bear than the glaring light of day . . . and I halt my fingers in the sordid treachery of creeping towards that coin, if only to cheer the tragic bastard up for an hour or two.

I swallow hot bile. I always swore no man'll use me like that. Not Lizzie Hyde. I ain't no bloody pet, without purpose but to please whatever master should stagger by.

So what the fuck
is
my purpose, then?

“Keep your gold, sir,” I mutter, and stalk out.

Outside, the crowd carries me along, sweeping me almost off my feet in the crush. Music clangs, rough-tuned and
raucous like my thoughts. I'm aimless, barely watching where I'm headed.

It should bother me. Inattention's a killer around here. But I'm too damned angry at myself for the mess I've made tonight. Is this Carmine really the killer? Or is Sheridan winding me up? Eliza'd figure it in an instant, o' course. God rot her.
She's
smart enough to pick it when a man's lying through his teeth.

Just one more reason she's better than me.

The party sounds of Soho fade, and I melt back into the rookery, dissolving like an evil spirit into hell. Naked green-haired children splat about playing catch-me in the muck, and fairy fire flickers at my feet. Ahh. Already, I'm relaxing into myself, relief groaning through muscle and bone.

My stiletto thrums between my breasts, singing edgy harmony. Even my skin fits better, not someone else's baggy flesh-suit but
mine,
taut and succulent as it ought to be. Down here, in the mud-strewn alleys and broken streets, no one can spy me . . . but it's a good, welcoming hide.

I'm home.

Screw it. I ain't Eliza, and thank bleeding Christ for that. It's the Cockatrice for Lizzie Hyde, gin and laughter and illicit good times. And if Eliza don't like it—if she whines and belly-aches, her skull pounding jealously with what it's like to be unfettered and free?

She deserves it. I don't give a fuck.

On the Broad Street corner, the usual crowd of drunkards and fools carouse merry hell in torchlight, a faded rainbow of second-hand rigs. Shouts and laughter clang. A lump-shouldered
dwarf fumbles at my skirts, but he's too damned drunk to pick my pocket, and trips face-first into a dung pile.

“Serve you right,” I mutter. Shorty just pisses himself. At least it's warm.

The Cockatrice looms from the fog, a tall narrow lurk jammed between a rotting tenement and a brick-walled brewery. Firelight bleeds from cracked shutters. Already I smell gin, rich and treacherous as a lover's promise, and that warm creature inside me murmurs, eager for oblivion.

I blow a kiss to the namesake figurine winking at me from the lintel, lion's head and scaly dragon's body. “How do, you handsome cad?” Then giddy heat rinses me, smoke and sweat and every sweet flavor of sin.

The fire's bright, stoked afresh with coal and refuse. Crooked card games, drinking, guffaws and snatches of bellowed song. From darker corners, sighs and muffled squeals. The night's no longer young, and men already slump snoring on the floor, lucky to keep their duds in this den of thieves and scoundrels, what rings with the patter flash.

Boingg!
A screeching thing slaps me in the face.

I stumble back, pulse a-gallop . . . and curse at mad Jacky Spring-Heels, the stringy lice-haired cove in the dirty white union suit what just leapt out at me from behind a barrel. He capers triumphantly. “Lizzie git! Lizzie git!”

“Christ, Jacky, you frightened me tripe out.” I swat his scrawny buttoned backside. Jacky just giggles, cross-eyed, and stuffs the ends of ragged white hair into his mouth.