The Clockwork Wolf (17 page)

Something about the place grated on my every nerve.

The mounted trophies all seemed to be glaring at me as I noticed more animal symbols round me. Crude lions and tigers had been worked into the Turkish carpets covering the floors, and the twisted handles of the brass urns looked very much like snakes. Every door sported a handle shaped like a bear or a fox; the chandelier overhead sported no less than a dozen hawks worked in bronze, their wings seeming almost to move with the shadow play from the bulbs of lighted keroseel.

No lambs or rabbits for the manly members of the White Lupine, I thought, feeling a bit contemptuous—men were so enamored of things that killed. I stiffened as the thought made plain what bothered me so about the place.

Every animal rendered in the decor was a predator—a creature that attacked and devoured others to survive. Was that his lordship's secret? Had he agreed to the Wolfman transformation to indulge his love of hunting—to become the ultimate killer?

Laughter erupted again from the corridor, and then was abruptly cut off, as if a door had opened and closed. Shortly thereafter a young gentleman in a rumpled suit
appeared in front of me, weaving slightly as he tried unsuccessfully not to spill the drink in his hand.

“Hallo,” he said, breathing the fumes of very good whiskey in my face. “Who are you?”

“Courier, sir.” I remembered to touch the rim of my hat. “Waiting to deliver an urgent message.”

“Well, then, what are you standing about here for? Come on.” He grabbed my arm and hauled me into the corridor opposite the one the butler had taken. When we reached the end of it, he yanked open the door and pushed me inside as he sang out, “Messenger, lads.”

Smoke fogged the room, but not enough to hide its occupants or what they were doing to the half-naked women presently entertaining them. Champagne sparkled and red mouths laughed as the gentlemen drank from slippers and gobbled canapés perched on the slopes of bare breasts. In one corner a pair was coupling; in another a brass-haired harlot bobbed her head over her companion's open trousers.

The young man who'd dragged me in nudged me with an elbow. “Like a bit of that, wouldn't you, boy?”

I hardly knew to blink, much less speak. I began moving backward toward what I hoped was the door. I missed it and bumped into something hanging on a wall that stabbed through my jacket and into my back with tearing pain. I stumbled forward, biting my tongue to keep from crying out, and glanced back. I'd walked into some sort of fetish fashioned from a mass of talons embedded in a circular weaving of red and black fibers round a great skull with a fanged muzzle. Scarlet gleamed
on several of the sharp claw tips, and I felt sick as I realized it was my own blood.

“Really, John,” a silky voice said from the door I'd missed. “The child probably doesn't comprehend what he's seeing.”

Never had I been so relieved to turn my back on a roomful of nobs. “I've a . . . a message.”

The gent who'd spoken wore a bronze smoking jacket over his immaculate evening dress. Large topaz studs twinkled in his lobes, and more bejeweled pins studded his lapels. He had a well-groomed helmet of caramel-colored curls framing his angelic features, and altogether presented a respectable if somewhat casual appearance. Looking into his light brown eyes made my spine go to ice, for they had the same focused malevolence that I'd encountered in my tram dream.

“I am Louis Lykaon, the club manager,” he said. “You may give your message to me.”

“Yes, sir.” He was the Aramanthan, I was sure of it. “I mean, no sir, I can't.” I felt something trickle down my back and swallowed. “I was paid to deliver it directly to Lord Dredmore.”

“Dredmore.” His smooth, toffee-colored brows drew together. “His lordship is not a member of the club. Who sent this message?”

“A lady from the Hill, sir. I don't know her name.” I began inching toward the door. “Since his lordship's not here, I'll just be on me way.”

I almost made it before a strong hand seized my collar, lifted me off my feet, and swung me round.

Lykaon looked me up and down before setting me down. “What is your name, boy?”

I went blank on all but one. “Harry, sir.”

The sound of two men shouting outside in the corridor drew his attention, and when he released me and went out to investigate I followed. There I saw the butler blustering at a beater, who was giving it right back to him while tapping his trunch against his palm. As soon as I emerged the beater shoved past the servant and seized my shoulder.

“I told you he was in here,” the beater said to the butler, and glared down at me. “Chief inspector wants to talk to you, lad, and he'll not wait all day.”

“I ain't done nothing,” I protested, mostly for show, as I was marched down the corridor. I could feel Lykaon and his butler staring after us, and held my breath until we were outside. “Thank you, Officer.”

“Shut it,” he said pleasantly, hauling me down the steps to a waiting carri. Before I was shoved in I darted a look across the street, but Harry was gone.

I stumbled against the seat, groping to steady myself, and planted my hand on a hard chest. “Sorry.” I shifted to the opposite bench and collapsed as my back throbbed. Once I'd caught my breath I looked at the inspector. “Afternoon, Tommy. You wanted a word?”

“Several.” He leaned forward. “Why are you dressed like that?”

“I had to deliver a message to that gentlemen's club.” I made a show of removing my hat and fluffing my matted hair. “They don't let you in if you're wearing skirts.”

“What message, and for whom?” he persisted.

“It was for Lord Dredmore. Something about his laundry—I think someone may have used too much starch on his shirts.” I glanced out the window before I gave him a cheery smile. “Could you drop me at the goldstone? I would like to change out of these trousers. Very scratchy, tweed.” I could feel the wet stickiness of blood soaking through my shirt now. “I don't know how you men endure it in the summer.”

He made a disgusted sound. “I should simply arrest you.”

“For what? Dressing in men's garms isn't a crime.” I thought for a moment. “Is it?”

“There is a law against impersonating a courier to gain access to private property.” He smiled back at me. “It's called trespassing.”

“Only if the club owner presses charges,” I countered. “Which he won't because he's deceased and his estate has yet to be transferred. Come on, Tommy. It was only a bit of a lark.”

“This time you larked your way into the middle of an official investigation,” he said tightly. “So you'll tell me the real reason you went in that club, who you spoke with, and what you saw, or I'll toss you in the lockup until you do.”

He would, too; I could see all the righteous resolve glittering in his eyes. “I went to find an acquaintance of Lord Bestly's whose name I have yet to learn. I spoke to the butler, a drunken man, and the manager, but nothing we said was of any consequence. As for the general debauchery, licentiousness, and heresy I saw in practice, I believe that the White Lupine is not a
gentlemen's club but one of the lower levels of hell itself.”

“Hellfire,” he muttered, his features tightening with dislike. “They're called hellfire clubs.”

“There's more than one in Rumsen?” When he didn't answer me I decided to press the issue. “I did recognize some faces well enough to put names to them. Perhaps I should call on their wives and share with them the details of what I witnessed.”

“Issuing a threat to an officer of the court will earn you ninety days at a labor farm,” he said. “Where you will
not
be growing flowers.”

“To think you wanted to place me in protective custody only yesterday.” From the corner of my eye I saw we were approaching Rumsen Main. “Why don't we agree to an even exchange of information on the way to my home, Inspector? You answer a question honestly, and in return I'll answer one of yours, and so forth until we reach the goldstone.”

“You'll answer truthfully?” When I nodded, he said, “I ask first.”

If he didn't hurry I was fairly certain I'd bleed through my jacket and all over the seat. “We can begin as soon as you give your driver my address.”

Doyle instructed his man to take us to my home and then started in on me. “Why are you poking into Bestly's affairs?”

“His widow hired me to investigate the circumstances surrounding his death.” I folded my hands. “What are you investigating at the White Lupine?”

His jaw tightened. “Some of the men who disappeared from the Hill were members of the club.”

“Some?” I echoed. “Not all of them?”

“It's not your turn,” he told me. “Where did you go last night?”

I made a face. “I stayed with a former client of mine who lives in the sewers.”

“You slept in the sewers.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “You
should
be locked up.”

“No one came after me, did they? And just so you know, that wasn't my next question.” I felt my jacket clinging and shifted forward from the seat back. “Are any of the servants at the club natives?”

“No, none of them are.” He peered at me. “Why are you interested in native servants? The truth, Charmian, or I turn the carri back to the station.”

“If I tell you this, it has to remain strictly confidential. Agreed?” When he inclined his head, I said, “I think the mage who is making the Wolfmen is using native magic.”

He went very still. “You believe a shaman is responsible?”

“It's possible but unlikely, as the magic is being used incorrectly. And that's two questions.” I felt the carri slowing and looked out to see my block. “You'll have to owe me the answers. Thank you for seeing me home, Inspector.” I opened the door as soon as the carri stopped.

“Not so fast.” Doyle pulled it shut again. “This is my case, Kit. You're to stay away from the White Lupine and anything to do with these Wolfmen. You may also tell your widow that the Yard will handle the investigation from here.”

“Not hardly.” When I saw how serious he was I sputtered. “Tommy, this is my job—my living. You can't
order me off the case now. I'm too close to uncovering the truth.”

“If you interfere in my investigation again, I will arrest you.” He opened the door for me. “Good day, Miss Kittredge.”

I stomped into the goldstone and slammed the door. I was just beginning to shed my jacket when Dredmore emerged from my sitting room, accompanied by Connell.

“Lucien. How prompt you are.” I glanced at his driver, who looked almost as angry at me and his master. “Mr. Connell, I hope my brief sojourn didn't greatly inconvenience you.”

“He knows I'm in possession, Charm,” my grandfather said, giving Dredmore a filthy look. “Caught me outside the club, but I didn't tell him anything.”

“He didn't have to,” Dredmore said, eyeing my suit. “You went inside that cesspit. I can smell it on you. When you agreed to wait here for me.”

I didn't care for his tone. “I said I would meet you here at four. Inspector Doyle delayed me only a few minutes.”

Dredmore pointed to the stairs. “Go and change out of those clothes, immediately. When you do, burn them.”

I had no intention of destroying a perfectly good disguise, although telling him that would only further provoke him. “The Yard is also investigating the club. Doyle told me that some of the missing men are members. Excuse me.” I left him to chew on that and went to stoke up my coal boiler so I wouldn't have an ice-cold bathe.

Coaxing the old blackpot to produce enough steam
to heat my water gave me a few minutes to consider how to placate Dredmore. Admitting I was entirely in the wrong might right things, if I could convince him I meant it. Yet as I came back in, I saw no sign of Dredmore, and Connell sat snoring in my favorite armchair by the fire.

“Really, Harry,” I muttered as I passed him. “If you want to nap, don't use that poor sod as a bed.” As he mumbled something and turned onto his side I continued on to my dressing room so I could change out of the offensive garms and wash up before my next round with Dredmore.

I'd just stripped out of my jacket when the door opened and closed. “Well, it's about time you stopped lolling about, Harry. I'll be out in a few moments, so try to . . .” I smelled dark spice and anger and stopped unbuttoning my shirt. When I glanced over my shoulder at Dredmore, I thought of Harry, whom I'd never known to fall asleep while actively possessing a mortal. “What did you do to my grandfather?”

“Far less than I desired.” Dredmore loomed over me. “Your back is bleeding. Take off the shirt.”

All my thoughts of apologizing fled. “I can look after—”

“Take it off, Charmian,” he said, very quietly. “Or I will.”

I kept my back to him as I finished unfastening the placket and the cuffs. He eased it down from my shoulders and let it fall to the floor as he used something soft to blot my skin.

“It was my fault,” I murmured. “I bumped into a mass
of claws surrounding some skull in the club. They went through my clothes.”

“Some of the wounds have reopened. Be still,” he added when I tried to look over my shoulder. “The White Lupine is a hellfire club.”

“Doyle told me that, too.”

He held my shoulder as he pressed a cloth firmly against my spine. “Did he advise you of what they do to women at such places?”

“He didn't have to,” I admitted. “But I know who the Aramanthan is. He's possessed Louis Lykaon, the club manager. I recognized his eyes from my nightmare.”

His hand tightened. “Did he touch you?”

“He grabbed me by the collar when I tried to leave, but that was all. The only thing that was molested was my opinion of certain gentlemen.” I gathered up the shirt to cover my chemise before I faced him. “He wouldn't be creating the Wolfmen at the White Lupine; there's too much chance of discovery. If we watch the club and follow him when he leaves, he'll lead us to where he's keeping the men.” When he said nothing, I looked up and saw his expression. “What?”