A Dark Heart (5 page)

Percy gave him a droll look. "I was unaware eleven in the morning
was near daybreak."

He rolled his eyes, though inwardly he cringed. He'd shot himself full of
morphine at nightfall yesterday, which meant he'd been out cold some fifteen
hours. He was finding it harder and harder to wake up. "So I'm late. Who
the bloody hell cares?"

"Constable Matthews, apparently."

Elijah snorted and stalked to the head of his street, where it
intersected with George Street, which was wider and busier, but just as grim.
The crowd of gawkers was comprised of the usual denizens – whores, pimps,
thieves and even a handful of old Machinists, with their gruesome metal
appendages. Their attention shifted from the clanking police vehicle to
Elijah's approach, and just like that, the mood in the air shifted from
idle curiosity to suspicious antipathy. Elijah endured the collective intakes
of air, the hushed mutterings, the shifty-eyed glares. Everyone knew who he
was, and a few even suspected
what
he was. But no one liked him. He was
as welcome here as a venereal disease.

If the incidents of murder and rape had dropped off significantly since
his move to the neighborhood, and Black Market foot soldiers had begun to give this
area a wide berth because of his presence, no one seemed to have noticed or
cared.

Not that he wanted any thanks. He could just as easily snap one day and
consume the whole neighborhood. As far as he was concerned, they could hate him
all they wanted.

Elijah turned his glare over the crowd, and it was enough to send most of
them scattering, as if they could sense the monster inside of him just waiting
for an excuse to burst free. But Constable Matthews just quirked his brow at
Elijah's glare, unimpressed as always, and hopped up into the driver's seat of
the steamcart, kicking the vehicle into gear. It lurched forward on its large
metal wheels.

"I don't need a damned chaperone, Constable," Elijah said
tersely over the roar of the engine as he climbed into the passenger
compartment behind a simpering Parminter. "If I want a bloody ride, I'll
ask for it."

"If you say so, guv," Matthews said with a shrug, seemingly
acquiescent, though Elijah knew the man would do as he pleased. Matthews had
been with him from his early days on the force, when Elijah was still just a
half-crippled neophyte and Matthews was nothing more than a street-tough
ex-prizefighter looking for honest work. Matthews had been the brawn and Elijah
the brains, and their partnership had worked well.

As Elijah could rip out the constable's throat in less than three seconds
these days, Matthews' usefulness as a bodyguard was over. But Matthews had
remained his loyal lieutenant, God only knew why. Elijah had been trying to
drive him away for months now, without any success.

Matthews powered the steamcart forward at a reckless speed, plowing
through the thinning crowd with relish before making a sharp right onto another
dismal street. Elijah clutched the leather strap dangling from the roof of the
vehicle to keep from falling out and groaned, his head spinning. Damned
morphine.

Which reminded him. "Drop me off at St. Mary's, Constable, I've an
errand to run."

Both Parminter and Matthews gave him an exasperated look, knowing exactly
what he planned to do at the hospital. But mingled with their exasperation was
a worry with which he was becoming far too familiar. He wanted to scream at the
pair of them sometimes. They
knew
what he was, that he needed the drug.

They
knew
what his fate would soon be, and their bloody
concern
wouldn’t do a damned thing to stop it.

AFTER replenishing
his supply of morphine from the hospital – covertly and illegally, of
course – Elijah had Matthews drop Percy at Lord Montague's before continuing
on to Llewellyn House. When they arrived, Matthews deposited him on the
sidewalk and trundled back to Scotland Yard in the steamcart like the dutiful constable
he'd become.

Elijah himself had no time to stop by the Yard today, which would earn
him the usual hell from his superiors, but he'd ceased caring about his career
as an Inspector years ago. Before he'd been turned, though, solving cases and
rising up in the ranks had been
all
that he'd cared about. His late foster
father, Edmund Drexler, had been a Deputy Chief Inspector, and Elijah had tried
hard to follow in the man's footsteps. But it was difficult to remember those
days, and the young, driven, almost ordinary man he'd been. He’d not exactly been
happy, not with the dark past he’d carried inside him, but he’d not been quite
as hopeless as he was now.

Now he lived only for his revenge. He had no future for which to strive,
no need to impress anyone at the Yard, and no need to follow the rules, unless
it suited him to do so. The only reason he hadn't been sacked was because he
got results, when he bothered to show up to work.

It didn't hurt that he'd brought in the damned Ripper for them either. Of
course, it had been a corpse – a corpse with no head, since the Ripper
had turned out to be a vampire, as Elijah had learned the hard way. Most of his
colleagues, who were oblivious to the true forces haunting London’s slums after
dark, had been doubtful he'd even found the right man. The headless part had
been difficult to explain away as well, but when the murders had stopped, most
had accepted his story, albeit grudgingly.

He was still sliding by on the notoriety of that case, but only just. It
hardly mattered, though. He'd be dead before Scotland Yard decided they'd had
enough of him.

Elijah glared up at the familiar marble edifice of Llewellyn House,
dreading the upcoming interrogation. For he knew that was what it would be.

Bloody toffs. Bloody Elders. Sometimes he wished anyone but the old Earl
had been the one to take him in after the fire. So much would have been
different. He wouldn't be bound to this place and the people under its roof in
so many complicated and unwelcome ways.

Llewellyn House was located in the toniest street on Mayfair and took up
nearly half a city block, not counting the massive enclosed gardens stretching
behind it. The marble façade was built nearly a century ago in the bombastic
Baroque style meant to cow the lower classes into submission by its display of
wealth. And unlike many aristocratic families these days, the outward splendor
wasn't just a veneer. The House of Llewellyn had managed to retain its fortunes
through the social and economic upheavals that had rocked the Empire for the
past four decades.

The earldom's survival was in large part due to the fact that its
patriarch was immortal. Rowan had maintained the family coffers of his descendants
from a distance for centuries. Now that Rowan had discreetly stepped back into
the role of Earl, the House of Llewellyn gleamed brighter than ever.

And Elijah hated it. Even as a young lad, when he'd lived at Llewellyn
House for a year after the fire, before the old Earl had turned him over to the
Drexlers, he'd never grown accustomed to his aristocratic surroundings, so
clean and rich and alien after a life lived in squalor. He had indeed been
cowed by the wealth, just as had been intended by the original architects. And
as he'd grown up and continued to visit the old Earl, who'd insisted on
mentoring him, his feelings of inadequacy and alienation had never faded.

They still hadn't. But now his rage and resentment overshadowed these old
insecurities when he was forced to visit. The secrets of its residents had cost
Elijah too much.

At least Lady Christiana wasn't in town. He wouldn't have been able to
heed the Duke's summons had she
been there, consequences be damned. It
had simply become unbearable to be anywhere near her, the temptation of her
blood – her
body
– too much to withstand, even when his
veins were coursing with morphine.

After being greeted at the door by the butler, he took a moment to scent
the air, just in case she'd returned early, but he could find nothing but
months' old traces of her unique perfume in the air. Even that was enough to
send an unwelcome spike of lust through his body. Damn her.

He followed the butler across the vast Italian marble floor of the entry
hall, done in a black and white checkerboard pattern, and into the bowels of
the residence. Eventually they arrived at the rear of the house's ground floor,
where the Earl's study overlooked the massive back gardens.

The butler opened the heavy, ancient door but didn't accompany him
further, and Elijah couldn't help but feel jealous of the man’s easy escape.
He'd rather be in hell than have to deal with the two men who lounged inside.

Well,
Rowan
was lounging behind his desk, nursing a drink, but the
Duke wasn't. Brightlingsea didn't seem capable of lounging. His massive,
towering body, clothed in rumpled black from head to toe, stood near a bay
window, surveying the gardens. And though most people would have assumed he was
relaxed, they would have been very wrong. The coiled tension in every muscle of
Brightlingsea's body was so palpable Elijah could feel it clear across the
room.

When the Duke turned towards him, Elijah noticed the black circles under
his eyes, the growth of black beard on his chin, and the black scowl that
seemed permanently etched on his face. The scowl wasn't anything new, but the
clear signs of bone-deep fatigue were. Something huge was troubling the Duke,
for even his perfect Da Vinci heart couldn't erase the signs of strain.

And Percy thought
Elijah
was broody.
Ha
. Percy had never
met the Duke.

Brightlingsea's ancient, intelligent, and infinitely horrible amber eyes
studied him until his skin crawled. Even though every Elder had those eyes
– and he had inherited one of his own – the Duke’s were
distinctive. Darker. Scarier. As if they had witnessed things even Elijah would
find harrowing.

The Duke came forward, and Elijah tried not to tense up. Tried to keep
his fangs and his eyes from betraying his unease. But it was hard. The man was
unsettling.

"You look terrible," the Duke said at last.

"Pot, kettle, black," he muttered.

"Let me see your arms," Brightlingsea demanded.

Elijah glanced at Rowan, who scowled at the Duke's back but said nothing
to interfere. Bleeding coward.

Sighing, Elijah complied, baring his ruined arms for inspection. It was
easier to just go along with the Duke’s demands. He had nothing to hide about
his condition, so when the Duke asked how much morphine he went through a day,
Elijah told him the truth.

He saw Rowan flinch at the amount out of the corner of his eye, but
Brightlingsea just grunted a little, his expression never shifting as he
assessed Elijah's rotten arms.

"You have a few months left, maybe less," the Duke, who knew
far too much about such things, said at last.

Elijah tried to shake off the Duke's words. It wasn't like this was news.
He'd known his time was short. He'd felt it.

But a hollow in the pit of his stomach opened up and wouldn't go away.
Having his suspicions officially confirmed gave his fate a finality that was
not entirely welcome, which was not at all how he'd expected to feel.

He glanced at Rowan, who had risen from the desk and was staring at his
black-veined, scabrous arms with a tight jaw and pursed lips.

"Are you certain?" Rowan demanded. "Can nothing be
done?"

The Duke cast an annoyed glance in his cousin's direction. "You say
his maker has been dead for nearly nine years. I've not seen a leech live
beyond a decade without a maker's blood. With the Inspector's ...
habit
,
his end has come faster."

The Duke didn't sound the least bit bothered by this, which suited Elijah
just fine. Brightlingsea's valuation of Elijah's kind was near the same level
as that of vermin. Which was wise. But Rowan continued to look troubled. It was
almost as if he cared whether Elijah lived or died.

Well, Elijah was damned if he would let him. They'd not been friends in
years. He pulled his shirtsleeves back in place and frowned at Rowan.

"I'm not dead yet," he said. "Why the hell am I
here?"

"Good day to you too, Elijah," Rowan murmured sarcastically.
"After avoiding me for half a year. It’s lovely to see you're still alive
...
marginally
."

"What's it to you?" he bit out.

Rowan just shook his head with the same look on his face that Percy and
Matthews wore these days. It was enough to make Elijah want to gnash his teeth.
Once, when Rowan had first returned to London as the long-lost heir, they’d
formed a tentative friendship, fostered by the old Earl. But that friendship
had slowly waned since Elijah’s turning and his discovery of Rowan’s true
identity.

"Get on with it, then," he said, gripping his cane until his
knuckles were white.

"This one doesn't mince words, does he?" the Duke said archly.

Never mind that Brightlingsea was doubtless the most powerful man on
earth. He was probably the most irritating as well. Elijah had forgotten just
how
irritating until now.

"No, I don't
mince
words. Nor do I have time to waste bowing
and scraping to Your Fucking Grace. Tell me what you want,” he snapped.

The Duke’s mouth turned up at one corner in a sneer. "Far from me to
keep you from your date with a needle, Inspector. I'll try to accommodate your
busy schedule."

But the damned man took his time anyway, crossing to Rowan's desk and
leaning against it, as if settling in for a long discussion.

Brilliant.

"I need your services," the Duke began.

Elijah spread a hand at his side impatiently. "You have my
services." The man had him by the ballocks, and they both knew it.
Immortals were the one species who could easily overpower vampires, which made
sense, since immortals and their Bonded companions were responsible for their
existence in the first place. But while vampires could be made in limitless
numbers from a drop or two of a Bonded’s corrupted blood, only thirteen true immortals
existed in the world. Twelve of them were part of an ancient cabal of knights
from the fifteenth century who called themselves the Elders, made immortal by
the automaton hearts Da Vinci had given them. They were stronger and faster
than vampires. And even more dangerous.

Elijah had once watched Sasha Romanov, the thirteenth immortal, literally
rip the head from a leech’s body with his bare hands, a feat no vampire could ever
imitate.

Though Elijah suspected Elders had their weaknesses, he wasn’t prepared
to find out what those weaknesses were. If he only had two months left, he had a
lot to accomplish. His plans did
not
include getting his head pulled off
by an annoyed Duke.

Brightlingsea shook his head. "This is a bit different than hunting
leeches. And far more urgent."

He wondered what could be more urgent than killing feral vampires. Not a
whole hell of a lot. "Well?"

"About six months ago, a document was stolen from my home. I need
you to retrieve it quickly and discreetly."

When the Duke seemed reluctant to continue, Elijah crossed his arms over
his chest and narrowed his eyes. "I'm going to need more information than
that."

The Duke sighed. Actually sighed, as if he were capable of human emotion.
"It is a long story."

"It usually is, with you lot," Elijah muttered.

"I have been working on a ... device for some years now."

Elijah raised a brow. "A device? You? I thought you just went around
lopping off heads and barking out orders."

"Brightlingsea's a man of science, Elijah. He was Da Vinci's
apprentice, years ago. Hell, he invented the wireless tickertext," Rowan
said.

"Among other things," the Duke muttered.

All of this was news to Elijah. But he didn't betray his surprise. He
snorted instead. "If you invented the thing, why don't you use it, instead
of shoving cards under the door like it's eighteen bloody forty-nine?"

"Wireless transmissions can be intercepted by the wrong
people," the Duke said darkly. "I prefer not to leave a trail for my
enemies to follow."

"And
you
must have a lot of enemies."

The Duke curled both sides of his lips this time in a chilling parody of
a smile. "You've no idea."

"Oh, I think I can guess," he murmured. "But please, Your
Grace,
do
continue."

"Of
course
, Inspector. As I said, I have been working on a
device and made the mistake of writing blueprints for it. They were stolen
– from a safe I thought impregnable, by the by. And I fear whoever took
them might be planning to use them."

"So a thief stole some blueprints. They're not the bleeding Crown
Jewels. Why are you so concerned?"

The Duke steadied his gaze on him. "Because the device in the
blueprints could level most of this city, Inspector. And that’s a conservative
assessment."

He should have known. It was always something catastrophic when it came
to the Elders. "A bomb?" he demanded.

The Duke shook his head. "No, it's not a bomb. But the device is
volatile. The power it generates is nearly immeasurable. Without proper
containment, it could be turned into a weapon. And I fear that is what it will
be used for – if the thieves manage to construct the thing."

Elijah gave him a flat look. "So it
is
a bomb," he
insisted. "And you've known about this for six months?"