The streets smelledof fear.
Mr. Bowler had made quick work carting Grey’s body away, but hours later, the lingering presence of death clung to the slums like permanent fog, coating every stone in a wet and vicious rot.
Camille hastened towards the Sally Saloon, the anxious energy dogging her steps. A dim lantern sent a yellowish glow upon a black door and silent streets. Worried the evening’s fight would be cancelled after a second body was found, she tracked through the near-deserted pub and into the back room, where rickety stairs led down into the Underground, just as rumors from the club claimed.
As she neared the bottom, the sounds of jeers and shouts grew deafening, telling her the fight would not only go on as scheduled, but she’d missed her chance to talk to Lucien without hundreds of ears around.
A liquor-soaked floor stuck to the bottoms of her boots, boots she tripped over when the Ring and its spectators came into view.
Bodies pressed together in a violent riot of bets and sport around a roped ring in center stage. Dozens of lit lanterns hung from beams in the ceiling, looking old and rusted enough to have been from the original tunnels when Parliament had forced excavation for sanitation’s sake.
Tunnels bisecting beneath the city for miles where no ‘bobbie’ would think to find illegal gambling, a fact that had served Lucien well in becoming the greatest bit of bloody show in town.
Camille tucked her shapeless coat around her and pulled her cap low. Her skirts were an unfortunate addition to her disguise that couldn’t be helped. Anyone looking her way would know she was a woman, but the rest of her worn and stained ensemble should deter all those but the most amorous or drunk.
She skirted around the edge of the crowd, aiming for the hidden stairs carved into the wall, which led up to a chamber she only knew was there because the same one-way mirror Madam used in the club ran along the upper edge of the cavern with a perfect view of the Ring. Whatever nameless patron supplied the Prodding Pony must have been in the pockets of all the Dockside leaders.
A collective gasp and cheer went up as one of the fighters made a particularly good strike to his opponent’s face. Curiosity turned her fully towards the Ring when a steely voice had her ripping her gaze back to the hidden crook in the wall.
“This staircase is off limits.”
The easily recognizable man sitting above her—glaring down with hard eyes and a harder jaw—had defined muscles that would have no problem silencing weak men like Grey and Flank. His hulking overcoat could neither hide nor deny his carriage-width frame, or the violent energy he wore like a second skin. He was also young, younger than any man who held the power of the Devil in his hands should have been.
Camille swallowed and removed her cap. “Mr. Greymore.”
The Devil’s brow rose, momentarily ruining his icy expression. “What’s this? A Pony in hell?” His mouth curved into a dangerous smile Camille didn’t believe for an instant was from amusement. “Did Madam send you, or did you arrive at my doorstep of your own volition?”
“I came on my own... for other reasons,” she clarified.
Thatseemed to amuse him. “Since when do messengers have such angelic faces?”
“I’m not a messenger, either.” Camille edged farther onto the staircase and out of the view of any curious crowd members who happened to glance their way. “My name is Camille Forthright. I am—”
“I know who you are,” Lucien Greymore said, eyeing her in a completely different and calculating manner. “Madam’s prized foal. Genius, she says, and off limits.” His tongue raked across his front teeth as his gaze raked down her body. “It’s not wise of you to enter a demon’s lair, no matter what threats the old woman throws around.”
Camille squared her shoulders at his thinly veiled threat. She was not here to be bullied or terrorized. If the man in front of her was indeed the demon hunting on the streets, then it was her duty to stop him for good.
“I came to ask if you had anything to do with Flank’s and Grey’s deaths.”
Those dark eyes blinked in seeming surprise, and a sound of real amusement crawled out of his throat. He leaned back on the stairs, that predatory gleam in his eyes replaced with utter indifference. “You are a bold one, I’ll give you that. Does Madam know you’re here? Does anyone?”
“I came alone... and for an answer, which you have yet to give me.”
He leaned forward, his gaze growing intense again at her challenging tone. “And if I say I killed them both, say I left their worthless corpses in the streets to send a message, what would you do?”
Camille blew out her breath, seeing exactly what she needed in his gaze—amusement but no triumph or gloating—though her relief was short-lived. “I’d say you weren’t responsible.” Which meant someone else was.
His smile was terrifying. “Seems Madam wasn’t exaggerating about you.”
“Do you know anyone else with a grudge against them?” Maybe it’d been a coincidence. Maybe there’d been a different connection between the two men. Lucien would know.
“Besides you?” he asked. “I’d say a woman scorned was a dangerous enemy indeed.”
Madam’s warnings about Lucien’s quick mind hadn’t been exaggerated, either.
“If I wanted them dead,” she said, “I’d have left them on Hawkins’s doorstep, not my own.”
He barked a laugh that had the closest spectators flinching and glancing around. “If you ever tire of the old church bell, you are welcome here. I’ve use for someone with your skills... and boldness.”
