The landlady’s face softened, a transformation almost as incredible as any Stephen had been through. “Well, well—” she began and cleared her throat. “Who’s your friend, then?”
“Mister Smith served with me in the army,” Stephen said, “some years ago. In happier days,” he added, with a moment of pride for thinking of the phrase. “He spoke to me often of his sister, and any service I can do her—”
The landlady deflated the rest of the way. “All right, then,” she said. “You can go on up. It’s the second door on the right. And you’ll come inside, miss. It’s no weather to be out in.”
Victorious, if dishonest, Stephen followed Mina into the boardinghouse’s front hall, then climbed a narrow, white-painted staircase, dimly lit and smelling faintly of cabbage. The stairs creaked beneath him on every step; so did half of the boards in the upstairs hall, despite its runners of fabric.
Light came from underneath the second door on the right. All the others were dark. The other boarders either slept early, stayed out late, or didn’t exist.
Stephen walked as lightly as he could to the lit door, grasped the doorknob, then broke the lock with one swift, brutal motion. He shoved the door open, removing his revolver from his coat pocket before he stepped inside.
The lamp inside illuminated a sparse, scrubbed room with a narrow bed, no belongings that Stephen could see, and a man in gray cotton sitting on the edge of the bed. He looked up when the door opened, saw the revolver, and froze. There was no panic about him, neither in motion nor in expression. Something had happened. That was all.
“This is my room,” he said without passion. “What are you doing here?”
“You’re John Smith?”
Stephen held the revolver steady and considered the picture before him. The man wasn’t Ward. He was too short, his hair was almost colorless, and the structure of his face was too even, too round. Also, he looked up at Stephen with neither alarm nor hate.
“I am John Smith,” he said. “What do you want?”
“Have you been hiring men down at the Dog and Moon?”
Smith blinked once. “No.”
It was the wrong question, Stephen realized. The men he’d spoken to had described Ward, or someone like him. In truth, he wouldn’t trust Smith to hire anyone himself.
“Do you receive the messages the barman sends?” he asked. That was the right question, if therewasa right question.
Indeed, Smith nodded. Something about him shifted, too. Stephen wasn’t sure what. He couldn’t have placed it in the man’s stance, or even in his eyes. The difference was like the faint smell of smoke on the wind or a sudden chill in the air. It roused the hunting instinct in his blood, the primitive awareness that the moment for action was fast approaching.
“What happens to the letters?” he asked, concentrating on his aim.
“I inform my master of their arrival,” said Smith, as if stating the answer to a mathematical problem. “I take them to our meeting place.”
Master, he’d said. Notemployer, notcommander.Master.On the back of Stephen’s neck, every hair stood on end.
“How long have you been at this?”
“Forty-eight days.”
Now therewasa smell. Faint but sharp, it stung the inside of Stephen’s nose. “What’s that?”
Smith gave him a truly blank look.
Then, a sound. Sizzling. It came from somewhere near Smith’s boots. Stephen took a hasty step backwards. “What in the world is wrong with you, man?”
“Nothing,” said Smith. The sizzling sound was louder now, and the smell was stronger. “I am functioning exactly as designed. Good-bye.”
Stephen lunged toward Smith just before he shattered.
There was no explosion, no grotesque rain of flesh. Instead, cracks ran up and down Smith’s body, covering his hands and face within seconds. Another second widened them. Then there was no more Smith, only a small pile of bits that looked like a thicker eggshell—and a burning cloud of orange gas.
Stephen’s free hand closed around one of the bits of shell. He stuffed it into his coat pocket without thinking, then bolted for the window. The butt of his revolver broke through the glass easily, and cold air rushed inside.
The window was small, though. The wall it faced was high, and the wind coming in blew the gas toward the open door. With every inhalation, the orange cloud poured into Stephen’s lungs, scorching them like no fire ever had. As he ran forward, hand over his face, he felt blood begin pouring from his nose.
Even he wouldn’t survive very long in the building. A mortal man would have been dead already.
