Читать книгу The Ouroboros Cycle, Book Two: A Cautionary Tale for Young Vampires - G.D. Falksen - Страница 9

Chapter Five

The next day brimmed with excitement. Though Varanus was confined to the house until dusk, she dispatched Luka to make discreet inquiries in the East End while she and Ekaterine made plans for the journey to Blackmoor. Though by all accounts the Village of Blackmoor was a small country affair, it had a railway line connecting it with York. Varanus found it peculiar but useful for their purposes. She and Ekaterine would be able to travel there directly from London.

Luka returned a little before evening and reported on his investigation. There was indeed a pub called the “Old Jago” on Parrott Street, a particularly low establishment from Luka’s description. He was unable to confirm the presence of a Mister Jones, but the clientele did suggest the possibility of a gang lurking on the premises. Of course, so did the entire neighborhood.

As the shadows lengthened, Varanus and Ekaterine changed into simpler clothes, dresses that were respectable but would attract slightly less attention in the slums. Again, Ekaterine refused to wear a corset, much to Varanus’s chagrin. Varanus made a comment about it, and Ekaterine replied by bending at the waist and touching her toes. Varanus had little to say on the matter after that.

They made their way to the East End in silence, having little else to discuss. They exited the cab a few streets away from their destination and walked the remainder of the distance in the growing darkness. Parrott Street was like the remainder of Spitalfields: grimy, worn, and hopeless. Men in the street pushed past them with no concern for civility. But the beggars largely ignored them. What a difference a simple change of clothes could make.

The Old Jago was exactly as Luka had described it. The paint around the door was peeling, the boards were splintering from wear and lack of care, and cracks in the windows had been stuffed with bits of rag or newspaper to keep out the cold. The taproom was dark and cramped, a little smoky, and smelled distinctly of cheap beer. A dozen or so men in shabby suits sat around the room drinking from half-cleaned glasses and speaking in low tones. A few women were there as well: prostitutes looking for customers or readying themselves with drink before venturing outside in search of them. A man with dull brown hair and a greasy beard tended bar. He looked toward them as they entered.

Varanus walked directly to the bar, Ekaterine at her side. Luka hung back, leaning against a wooden pillar and keeping an eye on the room.

“What can I do for you ladies?” the barman asked, studying them skeptically. Doubtless they looked little like his normal patrons, even in disguise.

“We are a looking for a man,” Ekaterine said.

The barman shrugged and motioned to the room with the flick of his hand.

“Take your pick, love,” he said. “Plenty’a customers. Mind you, the regular ladies might not like it.”

Varanus looked at him disdainfully and cleared her throat.

“A specific man,” she said. “Mister Jones.”

“Can’t ’elp, miss,” the barman said. “We probably ’ave three or four Joneses in ’ere.

“You know who I mean,” Varanus said. She stared into the barman’s eyes until he was forced to look away and added, “You may tell him that we have information regarding the four men that went missing the night before last.”

“I don’t know—” the barman began, his tone evasive.

“Tell him,” Varanus snapped. “Now.”

The barman looked at her and his face went pale. He slowly set down the rag he was using to clean the glasses and edged away before dashing into the back room. He was back only a minute or two later, looking even paler than before.

“This way,” he said, jerking his head toward the back room.

Varanus turned to Luka and said, “Stay here. Keep an eye on things for me.”

“What?” Luka asked. “Out of the—” He stopped and shook his head. “Very well. Kindly remain alive.”

“Don’t be dull, Luka,” Ekaterine said. She took Varanus by the arm and began walking toward the back. “Come along,” she said. “Let’s go meet nice Mister Jones.”

“Sounds delightful,” Varanus said, her tone flat. “I’m simply brimming with excitement.”

Ekaterine laughed and said, “Perhaps he will give us some ice cream.”

* * * *

Luka watched them depart, still uncertain about letting them go off alone. Varanus was Shashavani—living Shashavani—and Ekaterine had decades of training. But it was Luka’s job to worry about people under his charge. They were scholars like Lord Iosef. Luka was a soldier. It felt wrong to let them go off into uncertain danger alone.

When the barman had returned, Luka went to the bar and rapped his knuckles against the wood to get his attention. The barman, distracted, looked at him quickly. The man’s face was pale. Varanus had frightened him.

No surprise there.

“A pint of lager,” Luka said. Might as well try to blend in, he thought.

When it was brought, he took his glass and drank while he waited. As the minutes wore on, he cast about for something to do to relieve the monotony. He saw a group of men playing cards at a nearby table. Crossing to them, he pulled over an empty chair and asked:

“Room for another?”

The men looked up at him and gave him a looking over. Shrugging, the dealer said, “If y’ave money, sit.”

Luka sat and tossed a purse full of coins onto the table. The other men looked at one another and exchanged shrugs. One of the men next to Luka—a big fellow with noticeably bad teeth—leered at him unpleasantly, but said nothing.

As the cards were dealt, Luka took out his pipe and began packing it with tobacco. He struck a match against his boot heel and lit the pipe, enjoying the flavor of the smoke. If there was one thing that could keep him company in a strange place, it was a good pipe.

As he studied his hand of cards, he noticed the big fellow looking at him. Luka eyed the man.

“What?” he asked.

“Give us a smoke,” the man said, his words slurring in his mouth.

Luka looked at him and gave a firm “No” before returning to his cards.

Without another word, the big man reached out and pulled the pipe from Luka’s mouth. Luka’s first instinct was to lash out, but he kept his temper reined in and turned to face the man, eyes alight with anger.

“Give that back to me,” he said.

“No,” the man said. He grinned and placed the end of the pipe in his mouth. “What you gonna do about it?”

Luka took a deep breath and smiled.

* * * *

Varanus followed the barman into a small office at the back of the pub. There was a table facing the door, cluttered with glasses and mugs and all manner of papers. An inkwell and a collection of pens sat beside a large ledger. There were even a few books on law and finance sitting on a little shelf. This was the abode of a serious businessman, not some common footpad. The fellow seated behind the desk was certainly a man of the streets, dressed in weathered clothes, his nose broken, scars on his hands and face. But his eyes were keen. He knew his business, and it was more than burglary and pimping.

There were four other men in the room: big fellows with hard expressions and meaty hands. One was cleaning his fingernails with a knife. Another drank some sort of homemade alcohol from a glass beaker. None of them looked pleased at the interruption.

“Boss,” the barman said, “these ’ere ladies say they know—”

“We know what happened to your missing men,” Varanus said, cutting him off.

The man behind the desk eyed her for a moment and nodded to the barman. Exhaling quickly, the barman retreated from the room and closed the door behind him. One of the ruffians in the room stood and crossed to it, standing behind Varanus and Ekaterine, barring their retreat.

“Well,” the man behind the desk said. “Ain’t this interestin’?”

“I take it you are Mister Jones,” Varanus said.

“Aye, that’s me.” The man behind the desk—Jones—smirked a little. “And who are you, miss?”

Varanus approached the desk and said, “I am Doctor Hippolyta Sauvage. I—”

“You’re the one that runs that hospital over in Osborne Court,” he said.

“Clinic,” Varanus corrected.

“Whichever,” Jones said. “I don’t care. What I do care ’bout is what happened to my boys. So you say you know?”

Varanus looked back at Ekaterine, who smiled brightly and nodded. Varanus turned back toward Jones and said:

“Yes. I killed them.”

The men all stopped what they were doing and stared at her. The man with the knife began laughing, but his voice slowly died out when Varanus’s expression did not change.

“You killed ’em?” Jones asked, speaking each word in turn as if uncertain which one to emphasize. “You?”

Varanus knew that it would be wrong of her to take all the credit.

“My friend helped,” she said, nodding to Ekaterine.

The men all exchanged looks. They appeared uncertain as to whether they should believe her or not. Certainly, the suggestion was absurd, but Varanus’s tone and expression.…

The man with the knife began to laugh again. Ekaterine shot him a look and snapped:

“Stop that! It’s becoming irritating.”

Jones chuckled a little. His voice sounded bitter and uncertain, but his eyes kept their hard stare.

“Why’d you kill ’em?” he asked.

“They assaulted one of my patients,” Varanus said. “A prostitute. A girl named Sally.” She saw Jones’s eyes widen a little. Because Sally was in the London Hospital, it must have seemed that she had vanished like the ruffians. “I believe that she was formerly in your employ.”

“Formerly?” Jones demanded. “What you mean ‘formerly’?”

“Sally will not be serving you anymore,” Varanus said. “Nor will any of your prostitutes. What is more, I expect you and your gang to depart Spitalfields at once. You have two days to clear out.”

Jones’s face went red with anger. He cleared his throat and rose from his seat. His mouth was twisted in a scowl, and his eyes studied Varanus’s with uncertainty.

“I don’t know if you’re tellin’ me the truth,” he finally said. “I know I don’t believe it. But I don’t like you comin’ in here and tellin’ me my business.”

“I expect you wish me to leave,” Varanus said, unable to conceal the disdain in her voice.

“You ain’t leavin’,” Jones said. “You never should’ve come.”

Jones nodded to the other men, who stood and slowly approached the two women. The man with the knife grinned at Varanus and gave his weapon a little flourish.

Ekaterine leaned down and murmured in her ear, “I do believe this is about to get violent.”

“This is not the time for levity,” Varanus replied. She looked at Jones and said, “You are making a mistake, Monsieur Jones. And against my better judgment, I will give you a chance to call off your dogs.”

She placed her fists on the table and leaned forward. Had she been taller, she would have loomed over Jones. As it was, she was forced to stand on tiptoes, and she suspected the end result was more comical than intimidating.

No matter. Intimidation was unnecessary when the threat behind it was real.

“Kill them,” Jones said.

Varanus stood up and turned toward Jones’s thugs. The man with the knife was closest, and he came at her first, leisurely, like he didn’t expect her to be a problem, a reasonable assumption on his part.

As the man reached out for her with his free hand, Varanus grabbed him by the wrist and gave his arm a sharp tug. The man swore loudly as he was taken by surprise. Losing his balance, he tumbled forward toward her, and Varanus politely stepped aside and allowed him to fall face-first onto the floor.

The man by the door grabbed Ekaterine while the other men came at Varanus. Varanus took a moment to stomp on the head of the man who had fallen to the floor—best to ensure that he was out of the fight. A moment later the two men were on her. They grabbed her by the arms and hauled her away from the desk. They were as strong as their size suggested, lifting her between them with ease so that her feet dangled above the floor.

Varanus saw Korbinian leaning against the wall in front of her, his arms folded. He smiled at her.

“Having a good time, liebchen?” he asked. “It’s all rather exciting, isn’t it?”

Varanus smiled at him. What an irreverent fellow he was. Here these men were planning to brutally murder her, and he thought it fitting to make jokes.

Using the strength of the men carrying her, Varanus pulled her body up and planted her feet against one of the men’s legs.

“’Ere, what’s this?” the man shouted, shaking her violently to dislodge her.

It did not matter. Varanus had obtained the leverage she required. She kicked out and launched herself toward the other man, while at the same time both pushing the first man away from her and pulling him along with her by the arm. She collided with her target, smashing her forehead into his nose. The man cried out in pain, dropped her, and clutched at his face. The other man, pulled by the force of Varanus’s leap, tumbled forward into her. She crouched and flipped him over her shoulder. He hit the ground hard and was still.

Across the room, Ekaterine relaxed into the grasp of the man behind her, lulling him into complacency before snapping her head back into his chin. The man shuddered, crying out in pain and confusion, but he did not release her. After two more blows, he finally let go. Ekaterine turned in place and struck him twice in the stomach. When the man doubled over, Ekaterine threw him into the table and then onto the floor.

Attentive to her own problems, Varanus grabbed the leg of the man who remained standing and pulled it up, tripping him and making him fall backward. She kicked him in the side of the head for good measure before turning toward Ekaterine and nodding.

Together, they approached the table. Jones, the blood gone from his face, his eyes wide with panic, scrambled out of his seat and huddled into the corner of the room. He grabbed at the walls as if searching for some means of escape.

“What in God’s name…?” he began.

“Sit down, Monsieur Jones,” Varanus said. “Do not embarrass yourself.”

Jones stammered a little before he regained control of himself. He set his face firmly, but his voice still quivered a little as he asked, “How the Hell did you do that?”

“That is not important, Monsieur Jones,” Varanus said.

“Ain’t possible,” Jones said, shaking his head. “Ain’t possible.”

“I assure you, it is,” Varanus answered. “But that is immaterial. Believe me, Monsieur Jones, if I wished to, I could kill you. Your men are in no position to stop me.”

Jones worked his tongue around the inside of his mouth for a few moments, watching Varanus and Ekaterine carefully.

“What do you want?” he finally asked.

“It’s very simple, Monsieur Jones,” Varanus said, walking to the edge of the table. “I want you and your gang out of my territory. Gone, never to return. And once you are gone, I expect you to spread the word to all of your associates. Two streets in every direction around Osborne Court are forbidden to you and your kind. No gangs, no thieves, no pimps, no burglars. Any member of the criminal element who violates my territory will die.”

To better emphasize her point, Varanus climbed onto the table so that she could properly loom over Jones.

“Any man who robs someone in the street,” she continued, “or picks a pocket, or burgles a house, or extorts money from a shopkeeper…will die. And I should like to dispel any illusions you or your associates may have about the women of the streets. They are not your property. Any man who lays a hand on one of those unfortunates or presumes to take her money will be struck down as if by the hand of God.”

Varanus leaned over and stared into Jones’s eyes, forcing him to look away.

“You and the other gangs have two days to leave. After that time, I will see to it that vengeance is exacted against anyone who harms the people under my watch. Do you understand?”

“You’re mad,” Jones said.

“Two days,” Varanus repeated. She cocked her head as the faint sound of something breaking drifted past her ears. She looked at Ekaterine and asked, “Did you hear something?”

“Possibly,” Ekaterine said.

She opened the door, and Varanus followed her out into the hallway and back to the taproom. Varanus found the room in something of a mess. There was broken glass on the floor, more spilled drinks than when they had arrived, a table that had been upended, and two smashed chairs. A number of men lay dazed or unconscious on the dirty floor. There was more than a little blood, but none of them had been seriously wounded, only battered and bruised. Luka sat by himself at a table in the center of the room, smoking his pipe and playing a solitary card game.

“Luka,” Varanus said, walking toward him, “what is the meaning of this?”

“A disagreement,” Luka replied. “A man wanted to share my pipe. I did not want him to. Some friends of his became involved in the discussion.”

“I am pleased to see that your argument won out,” Ekaterine said, patting Luka on the shoulder.

Luka smiled for a moment. Standing, he asked, “How went your meeting with the gentleman?”

“He was given instructions,” Varanus said. “If he carries them out, it will be well. If he does not.…”

“It will be war,” Luka finished for her. He smiled again. “Good.” He looked around with disdain and said, “Let us depart this place. It disagrees with me.”

“Oh what a shame,” Ekaterine said, stepping gingerly over one of the fallen men. “And just when I was starting to enjoy the atmosphere.”