Darkwalker (28 page)

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Lenoir drew his horse up outside the forbidding gate of Castle Warrick. He glanced up at the sky. A dark belly of clouds was gathering, threatening snow. He hoped his errand would be through before the storm broke, for he had no desire to ride all the way across town in the wet. Of course, his errand might be through before it began; there was a good chance he would not be admitted to the duke’s sight at all. Perhaps that would not even be such a bad thing. He risked the chief’s wrath by being here. If he were turned away, through no fault of his own—surely the mere attempt would be enough to satisfy his conscience? Then again, perhaps not. Lenoir scarcely knew what to expect of his own conscience anymore. They had been strangers for so long.

A single guard manned the gatehouse—the same man Lenoir had met on his previous visit.
The would-be hound,
he recalled. It gave him an idea.

“Afternoon, Inspector,” the guard called as he stepped out onto the drive. “Is His Grace expecting you?”

“I sincerely doubt it. And I would appreciate it if you could show me in without announcing me.”

The guard’s eyebrows flew up, and he gave a nervous little titter. “It, uh, doesn’t quite work like that, Inspector. His Grace always insists on his visitors being announced.”

“I’m sure. But these are exceptional circumstances.” He leaned down over his horse’s neck. Taking the cue, the guard approached warily, on the pretext of taking Lenoir’s bridle. “Make this happen, and I can promise you a position at the Metropolitan Police.” As a clerk, most likely, but Lenoir did not feel compelled to go into details.

The guard eyed him skeptically. “Yeah? How do I know you’ll follow through? Because if I do what you ask, I’ll be needing a new job, right enough.”

“I can only offer you my word. Whether that is enough for you depends on how badly you want to be a hound.”

The guard hesitated. He glanced back at the manor. “All right,” he said in a low voice, “but if this doesn’t work, I’ll still hold you to that promise.”

“Fair enough.” Lenoir dismounted.

The guard showed him to the same study as before, murmuring into the ear of the butler as they walked. The servant frowned, but before he could object, the guard beat a hasty retreat. The butler muttered to himself and left.

Lenoir waited. A few minutes later, he heard a familiar voice on the other side of the door.

“What do you mean, you don’t know who he is? This is absurd!”

“I’m sorry, Your Grace. He wouldn’t give his name.”

“Then why in the flaming below did you let him in?”

“It wasn’t . . . that is, I didn’t . . . Let me just fetch the guard. . . .”

“Durian’s blood! I don’t have time for this!”

The door burst open, and the Duke of Warrick charged in. He drew up short when he saw Lenoir, his eyes narrowing in fury. “You.”

“Good afternoon, Your Grace. I am terribly sorry for the subterfuge, but I thought it unlikely that you would admit me.”

“You were clever enough to realize that, but not clever enough to realize that I’d just have you thrown out?”

Lenoir glanced at the butler, who hovered uncertainly behind Warrick. At a word, he would fetch the guards. Lenoir had to be quick. “I will spare you the trouble, Your Grace. What I have to say will only take a moment. You need not even respond, if you do not wish.”

Warrick snorted incredulously. “Why, thank you.” He made a peremptory gesture with his hand, and the butler disappeared. “You have nerve, Inspector, I will give you that.”

I have faced far worse than you, Your Grace.
Aloud, Lenoir said, “Lady Zera is dead.”

“Indeed?” Warrick replied blandly. Either he already knew or he genuinely did not care. Perhaps both.

“So are her followers. Her designs are undone.”

Warrick flicked an impatient glance at the ceiling. “Your moment is almost up, Inspector. What has this to do with me?”

“We both know the answer to that. You agreed to provide Los’s clan with a significant parcel of land, in exchange for his efforts to resurrect your dead son. Zera was the go-between. Whether she came to you first, or the other way around, it does not matter.”

Warrick folded his arms, regarding Lenoir with a bored look. “You came here merely to repeat your absurd allegations? You waste my time and your own.”

“I came here to tell you that I
know
.” Lenoir paused, wrestling with the anger that threatened to spill over into his voice. “I know you conspired with Zera, and I strongly suspect you have other designs that are every bit as shadowy. The signs are everywhere, for anyone who cares to see them. Your business dealings are highly profitable, yet invisible. No friends, no business associates, yet you protest how busy you are. Anyone who has met you can see you are not a man of leisure, but no one can say how you occupy your time. It is all highly suspicious, Your Grace.”

“And yet you are the only one to remark upon it.”

“I doubt that. Perhaps I am just the only one who is making an issue of it.”

“And where does that leave you, I wonder?” Warrick asked, his eyes glittering dangerously.

Lenoir shrugged. “I cannot prove anything, as you well know, but the moment I can . . .”

Warrick laughed. It was a harsh, gravelly sound, as though his throat were unaccustomed to it. “Is that meant to be a threat?”

“Certainly not. I am in no position to threaten you. But you are not as untouchable as you believe, and one day, I intend to prove it.”

Warrick’s smile did not waver. “How very heroic. It reminds me of the time my young son informed me that he wanted to be a dragon slayer when he grew up. Let me tell you what I told him, Inspector: be very careful you don’t get burned.”

Lenoir inclined his head gravely. “That sounds like good advice, Your Grace.”

Warrick picked up a small bell and rang for the butler. The servant appeared almost immediately; Lenoir hoped for his sake he had not overheard anything. “I bid you good afternoon, Inspector,” Warrick said, “and the very best of luck in your quest.”

Lenoir followed the butler out of the manor and down the drive, ignoring the sharp looks the man directed his way. It had begun to snow. Thin, hard beads of ice pelted Lenoir from above, freezing the thinly covered crown of his head. A dark sky hunkered just above the rooftops, settling in for a siege. It would be a long, cold ride.

Lenoir turned up his collar and thanked God he had a good coat.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

E. L. Tettensor
likes her stories the way she likes her chocolate: dark, exotic, and with a hint of bitterness. She has visited fifty countries on five continents, and brought a little something back from each of them to press inside the pages of her books. She lives with her husband in Brooklyn, New York.