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“I don’t think we finished our conversation, Corporal.”
Rastus’s eyes slid over him, his face revealing nothing. “Thought you’d found Nirvana with Molly Cabot’s newest slag.”
“What’s going on, Rastus? And no more song and story. You know more than you’re saying.”
Rastus dug his hands deep into his coat pockets. Shrugged. “I’ve told ya he’s been hard to keep track of. I’ve done my best, but he’s better. There’s something more than man about him. Devilry. Witchcraft. He reeks of ’em both, Sin.”
Cam felt the press of fear Rastus worked under. The old reprobate was scared. “You’ve discovered something. What is it?”
Rastus stopped dead in the middle of the street, his eyes raking Cam up and down as if seeing him for the first time, his jaw working, his gaze hesitant. Finally, giving his neck a decisive, bone-grinding crack, he motioned with a jerk of his head. “Come on, then. You won’t believe me otherwise.”
They walked in silence, dusk and fog casting the streets in deepening gloom. But even that wasn’t enough to dampen the surge of pedestrians pushing past. Or the constant stream of chaises, hackney cabs, drays, and coaches all making slow progress through the streets.
At a narrow tenement, its soot-covered facade and broken roof giving it a derelict air, Rastus stopped, grating a key into the lock at the door. Up and up, they climbed, their steps echoing off the bare plastered walls. Another door and another key and they entered a low garret. The only furnishings, a rough pallet on the floor, humped with blankets. A chair. A ewer and basin on a low table. And the musky sweet scent of recent death souring the air.
Cam’s hand fumbled for his knife, but in no other way did he reveal his caution.
Rastus ushered him in. “I’d have called the Watch, but what could I say? They’d not believe me and with good reason. I’m not sure I believe it myself.” He pointed toward the bundle of rough blankets. “He’s here.”
Not blankets, but the curled figure of an old man. Wisps of gray hair barely covered a freckled scalp, a face lined with at least eighty years of worries. Or so it would seem to someone who hadn’t seen a similar old man before. Though one who’d escaped this poor bastard’s fate.
“Who is he?”
“Name’s Samuel Lester. Sergeant Samuel Lester. Or it was.” Rastus’s fear was palpable. His voice shook with it. “You’ll not believe me, but that man’s thirty-two. Or was till Doran got him.”
“A sword through the heart?”
Rastus’s whole body went still. “How’d you know that?”
“Why do you think I’m looking for Buchanan? I know what he’s doing. Lester’s not the first of his victims. And unless I find him fast, he won’t be the last.”
Rastus crossed himself. “This ain’t for the likes of normal people, Sin. This is devil’s work. I’ve heard tales of these creatures. Even seen one once when I was naught but a lad. They dragged her by the cart tail. Stoned her and burned her cottage for practicin’ such witchcraft.”
To you we’re freaks. Monsters. The devil’s spawn. If Doran’s found to be one of us, the hunt will begin again.
Rastus’s fears brought Morgan’s words to mind. Would things really come to such a pass? Neighbor turning upon neighbor? Brother on brother? He had only to glance at the misshapen hulk of the ravaged sergeant to know the answer. Who would feel safe knowing humans existed with that kind of power at their command? Even if they chose not to use it, they still posed a threat. Or that would be the argument.
“Tell me everything you know, Rastus. Leave nothing out.”
Cam pulled off his knife belt. Let it fall to the floor. Wished he could drop the memories that went with it as easily. He’d walked for hours and for miles. Chewing over Rastus’s revelations. And more importantly, what he hadn’t revealed. Plotting and abandoning half-formed plans. All until the churning, blast of rage eased and wore away. Until once again, he was Cam. Exhausted. Hollowed. Alone within his own body.
No longer sharing it with the assassin that enjoyed the hunt, thrilled to the kill.
No longer Sin.
He shrugged off his shirt, the chill of the room barely touching him. His body numb, his blood cold and sluggish, his mind slow.
Tomorrow he’d begin again. Relate everything to Morgan. Begin to piece some kind of idea together. Tomorrow he’d be better. Tomorrow he could face her without worrying that she’d look into his eyes and see every life-ending action he’d taken today.
“Are you coming to bed or not? You’ll catch your death of cold standing there like that.”
So much for tomorrow.
He closed his eyes, wishing for the power to turn and leave. He couldn’t see her tonight. He didn’t trust himself. He still hung too close to the edge. But he made no move to walk away. Like a coward, he stayed, knowing what would happen. And knowing he wanted it more than anything in the world right now.
He tried to make himself sound as close to normal as he could. “I didn’t know you were there.”
“You weren’t supposed to.” Amusement colored her words. “I have skill enough to be silent, if nothing else.” For a moment, amusement faded to bitterness. He wondered at it, but didn’t have the energy to ask.
