Part 7: The Hellion Doesn’t Fall Far from the Tree

Given the nocturnal restrictions Malcolm shared with his entire crew, the logical approach to locating Reese Hershey was to hire runners to fan out and search for her during the day—forewarned, of course, that the quarry was unlikely to be found trying on bonnets at the milliner’s or sipping tea at a garden party, as well as adequately compensated for the likelihood that the unlucky bastard who found her would be gored, gutted, and left for the buzzards if she got wind of him.

At two in the morning in any city he had ever visited, men for hire for such dangerous tasks were thick as rats, and Baltimore proved no exception.

The exceptional thing was that the first half dozen candidates to whom he spoke abruptly lost interest in the job at the mention of the hellion’s name. The first broke into a sweat and left the negotiation table without another word. The second excused himself with a polite demurral of conflict of interest. The next three declined to jeopardize future employment opportunities with a woman who hired often and rewarded handsomely, and the last preferred not to be in her vicinity due to an unsettled debt of shocking magnitude resulting from a single hand of cards.

Malcolm rubbed his eyes, which stung from smoke and fumes from liquor and unwashed bodies. Coming to the inexorable conclusion that she’d had the foresight to secure the loyalty or fear of every miscreant from here to China would have been marginally easier to bear had she also enforced upon them even minimum standards of personal hygiene.

The chair across the table from him creaked as another body dropped into it. He peered through his fingers at the new arrival, an undernourished fellow with restless eyes and a grimy watchcap that made his own scalp itch with phantom lice.

“I know where to find her. What’s it worth to ya?”

When he began to be besieged by those who believed bathing was the sign of an easy mark, he knew he had exhausted that location’s viable leads. A quick hand signal to his men nearby indicated it was time to move on. “Finding her is worth quite a lot. Being sent on a wild goose chase by a random bottom feeder who couldn’t identify her if she were twisting his jewels off is worth nothing.”

“I know the bitch well enough to say she’d sooner attack a man’s dangly bits by way of greeting than smile at him.”

In Malcolm’s experience, she required slightly more provocation than a mere introduction, but perhaps she had been in an uncommonly cheerful mood at the time he made her acquaintance. Even if the man were guessing at her nature based on the hasty retreat beaten by others, too few alternatives existed to dismiss him outright. “I intuit you’ve no great love for Miss Hershey. That being the case, the dismay I promise she will feel at the sight of me is surely sufficiently reward for your assistance.”

The man’s dandruff-flecked brows pulled together. “Dismay ain’t what I was hoping for.”

Malcolm surrendered to the urge to scratch the back of his neck. “Bloodshed is on the agenda, as well.”

The man smiled, revealing approximately half a set of teeth with the uneven shape and hue of gravel. “That’s word of her I’ll be eager to hear all about. She’s sixty-five miles north of here.”

Guiley, seated near enough to overhear every word, vacated his seat. Another of his men took his place.

Malcolm cocked a brow. “Am I to count out my steps and find her waiting like the proverbial X marking the spot?”

“Aye,” the man across from him confirmed with the utmost seriousness. “If she ain’t right there, ask who is. They’ll point the way. And when that heartless bitch is bleeding before you, you tell her Tom Dooley’s father sent you.”

The utterance of five words seemed a steep price for the quality of information provided, but since he’d never get within biting range of Reese Hershey at this rate, there was no harm agreeing—particularly if it would hasten the departure of the man and the colonies of parasites he hosted. “I’ll be sure to mention you.”

The elder Dooley nodded his satisfaction and took his leave, slipping like an eel through narrow gaps between the milling bodies.

Guiley returned with a rolled-up paper in his fist. “I think you’ve been had, captain.”

“Really? He seemed such a trustworthy bloke.”

Guiley spread a map on the table. “Here we are.” He poked a finger at a spot labeled Baltimore. “And sixty-five miles north of here…”

Malcolm followed the trail of his finger to a much smaller dot with a much smaller label in the lower portion of Pennsylvania. Reese. “I’ll be damned.”

Guiley rolled up the map. “So much wild goose, you could smell it from here.”

Under different circumstances, he might have thought it a prank, but men seldom lied about a desire for vengeance, and really, he didn’t think it so farfetched that she would have the audacity—or the influence—to name a town after herself. He imagined the population of such a place consisted entirely of thieves, murderers, drunkards, and whores, over whom she reigned like their disreputable queen. “I have nothing better to do than go have a look around. The rest of you stay here and do whatever it takes to find her.”

The filthy little man reached the exit.

The conflict of interest fellow pursued like a hostile shadow.

“Maybe a couple of us should come with,” Guiley suggested, “to guard your back against all the friends you haven’t made here.”

Though Malcolm found it vastly amusing to find himself in the heart of Reese, it proved to be an ordinary town populated by ordinary butchers and bakers and candlestick makers and the like.

Nor had Queen Reese christened it in her own name; she was, in fact, named after it.

And while she was not, in fact, waiting for him at the sixty-fifth mile marker, a considerate local volunteered directions to the Hershey residence after Malcolm confirmed that he was indeed one of Miss Valentina’s—God rest her soul—European relations come to call.

His luck ended there. Apart from a rat in the cellar, the place was deserted. He roamed the oddly barren house, touched clothes he’d seen her wear, sat on the bed in the room where he found them. He rubbed her red brocade bodice between his fingers. She had been here, obviously, but not long enough to disturb much of the dust coating every surface. Where had she gone in such a hurry, and why?

From the look of the place, she didn’t intend to return anytime soon, so it was pointless to linger. He returned to the curving staircase that descended to what had once been a grand foyer.

The third step from the top sank a hair’s breadth beneath his boot, whereas the ones above had been firm as stone. In any other home, he would have thought nothing of it. In Reese’s, he thought trap.

When a scythe didn’t swing from the wall to cleave him in two, he thought again. He ran the tip of his knife around the edge of the step, seeking a gap. He found one, and metal chimed against metal. No amount of pressure would budge the obstruction. Probably a nail, but he inserted the blade on the other side of it and tried from that angle.

A latch released, and the back of the step popped up just enough that he could work a finger under the edge and open it the rest of the way. The tread folded toward him, affixed to the riser in front with a piano hinge. A tiny knob on the underside provided something for a simple hook latch to grab onto. The hook coming free relieved the pressure on a tightly compressed spring, which raised the secret door.

Impressed though he was with her ingenuity, his curiosity about what she had hidden in the compartment exceeded his admiration. He placed the dark velvet bundle on the stair above and unrolled it like a scroll, then lifted the overlying fold of toward him, much as he had with the step.

The pirate in him shuddered with the same lust the vampire felt for blood and the man felt for a woman.

Some time later—too long, not nearly long enough—Guiley found him in that spot. “Billy’s been to town and back. They saw her come through. As far as they know, she’s still here.”

“At least we won’t leave empty handed.” Malcolm held up what was probably the least valuable piece in the collection, a necklace of the finest strands of silver forming a web that held two hundred and forty tiny diamonds.

He’d counted them five times, but he hadn’t named them as he had some of the larger gems.

The diamonds caught the scant moonlight trapped in the foyer and reflected it on the domed ceiling as hundreds of shifting stars. “I want this entire house and its outbuildings searched for hidden compartments. Floors, walls, ceilings, stairs, every inch, keeping in mind the one hiding things is at least as cunning as any of us.”

Guiley released a sad little sigh as the jewels were covered and rolled away. “She’ll have your head for stealing from her.”

Malcolm tucked the pouch inside his jacket. “When she discovers I have, she’ll have to come to me to get it, thus resolving my present dilemma.” To guarantee she hunted down the correct culprit, he used his knife to carve his name on the underside of the stair before fastening it back in place. “I’m taking Billy back to town, since these people seem to like talking to him.”

“They think he has an honest face.” They both scoffed at that failure of judgment. Guiley followed him down to the door. “What do you expect to learn?”

“Someone knows where she is. The missing household staff. Her henchmen. The town busybody. That someone has to be easier to find.”

He clamped his hand on Guiley’s shoulder, right at the base of his neck. The pulse leapt beneath his thumb and resumed at a frantic pace. Of the two of them, Guiley was taller, broader, with a brawler’s craggy face, an older man when he’d been turned… but he was not an older vampire. He lacked the hardness that centuries bestowed upon those that survived them, and so he trembled and averted his eyes like a frightened puppy. If he had a tail, it would be tucked between his legs.

None of Malcolm’s men followed him out of loyalty or greed or a sense of adventure. They followed him out of fear—of him, and of the things that made him scream in his sleep. The weak allied themselves with the scariest monster they could bear to be in the same room with and prayed for protection from the slightly less scary monsters capable of eating them alive.

He allowed them to follow because he found them useful, but he didn’t need them. More to the point, he didn’t care. He couldn’t remember the last time he had.

Sometime before he’d tied his brother to a mast, whipped him bloodless, and left him to burn.

From time to time, he found it advantageous to remind them they existed only because he hadn’t yet found a compelling motivation to kill them all. This was one of those times. “Make certain the others understand that everything they take from here belongs to me, and of the consequences of my displeasure should it ever come to my attention they’ve stolen what’s mine.”

Guiley’s throat bulged as he swallowed. “Every trinket will be accounted for, captain. I’ll see to it personally.”

Malcolm released his grip and walked out the door, satisfied the message had been conveyed. As was always the case when he indulged in a display of dominance, he had become oversensitive. The cool night air felt like water flowing against his skin. The moonlight stung his eyes so that he had to squint. The vibrating screech of cricket song and the rapid-beating hearts of dozens of small creatures burrowed beneath the earth swelled in a cacophony that made his head ache.

He bit his tongue. The pain was exquisite, the blood souring within him less so. The acuteness of taste retreated, and his other senses followed suit.

In the absence of overwhelming distractions, he became aware of Billy trailing at least twenty feet behind and making no effort to catch up. He stopped walking, and so did the boy. “Why aren’t you scampering around under my feet as usual, pup?”

“Sir, I prefer not to be within hitting distance, sir, when you’re like this, sir.”

He speared the boy with a glance. “When I’m like what?”

Billy ducked his head. “Charming, debonair, and a pleasure to be near. Sir.”

Malcolm raised his face to the moon and released a long breath. “You are worried about my reunion with Miss Hershey.”

The words bombarded him in a rush. “You fancy she’s like you, but you get so caught up in playing human, you forget this is what you are!”

“I never forget,” he whispered to the moon. “I simply play very well.”

* * *

Two nights later, Malcolm stalked into a smoky tavern similar to the one in which he had begun his search. This time, however, he found what he was looking for.

He pulled a chair over to a table occupied by two familiar men and one strange boy and cut straight to the chase. “Save time by telling me up front whether you’ll respond more favorably to bribes or violence.”

The Russian’s customary glower intensified. “How much money do you have with you now?”

Malcolm’s eyebrow rose. “Mercenaries to the core, I see.”

Incredulity scrunched the Scot’s face into a maze of wrinkles. “You’re not thinking to… He canna get in. It’s by invite only.”

“Greed does not stand on ceremony,” was the Russian’s stoic response. “Gold is all the invitation he will need.”

The boy leaned over the table and waved a hand between them to get their attention. “Are you seriously talking about sending somebody else in there to buy Reese? Are we rescuing her or driving the bidding higher?” A face as smooth as Billy’s twisted into a snarl at Malcolm’s chuckle. “What’s funny, you… mincing… fop?”

He smothered another laugh, lest he be the recipient of another withering insult, such as prancing dandy. “Forgive me. I thought for a moment you had implied Reese Hershey, terror of the high seas, who spits flaming bullets laced with poison at her most civil, required rescuing. Clearly I mistook your meaning.”

The boy lunged across the table. “Don’t you talk about her like that! She does what she has to do to take care of her own!”

The Scot shoved him back into his seat. “Easy, lad. She’s needing allies, not enemies.” He cast a wary eye upon Malcolm. “Though I have my doubts on which side of the scale this one falls.”

Difficult as it was to believe, they were serious—Reese was in trouble, and not the kind he meant to bring to her. Not a game, not a battle of wits and wills, but genuine peril of sufficient severity she couldn’t get herself out of it and her confederates would consider enlisting someone they knew had threatened, blackmailed, and attempted to seduce her to lend assistance.

He folded his arms on the table. “One of you had better tell me precisely what she’s gotten herself into.”

An hour later, he slipped undetected through a side entrance of a riverside warehouse. Gold granted entry to most events, but as MacDougal demonstrated, a leaded club often served the same purpose far more economically. He’d assigned them the chore of dragging bodies down to the water while he went in alone. Until Reese was out of harm’s way, he didn’t want anyone swinging, shooting, or, as suggested by that delightful child who refused to be left behind like a good little nuisance, burning the shit hole to the ground.

The warehouse was conspicuously devoid of wares, but the empty space accommodated plenty of people. A head count gave him four dozen, give or take a handful to account for movement. A large percentage of those heads appeared to be orbiting others—hired muscle—so the guest list was a bit more exclusive than suggested by first appearances. With that in mind, a second count came closer to fifteen, plus entourage.

He wondered if there would have been a better turnout if Alvin Hershey had taken more time to coordinate this disgusting spectacle.

A man stepped onto the platform erected in the center of the warehouse. An expectant hush fell over the crowd, confirming Malcolm’s suspicion that this must be the worthless bastard of the hour. He took visual stock of the man. Hair the color of weak urine. Ruddy skin. The sort of mass associated with formerly rough men who had let themselves go soft with age.

Either Reese took entirely after her mother, or the fellow everyone considered her father had been absent at her conception.

Hershey launched into a speech. Malcolm tuned out his voice after Thank you for coming. Listening to the man play the gracious host to a room full of men to whom he planned to sell his child would likely provoke an episode of inhuman incivility to which Reese need not bear witness.

She appeared on the platform as if his thought had summoned her. One glimpse caused a possessive tug in his guts, forcing him to look away before he acted rashly. His gaze flicked back to her over and over again, greedily collecting one detail at a time. They composed a picture that threatened to turn his already mean mood ugly in a hurry.

She wore a pink satin gown, too girlish, too tight, and utterly unsuited to her. She wobbled on her feet, the man pinning her hands behind her back more concerned with restraining than steadying her. She placidly accepted the restriction, glass-eyed as a doll, obviously drugged into a stupor. There were no visible signs of abuse, but much of her was covered by the ridiculous dress.

“Many of you have met my daughter, but you may not recognize her when she’s not hissing and clawing at your eyes.”

A murmur of laughter swept through the crowd.

Malcolm was not at all amused. They had clipped the bird’s wings, rendered her unable to do more than sit in her cage and look pretty. She exhibited no fire, no heat, not even a spark of herself—just the pretty shell.

Judging by the flushed cheeks and heavy breathing around him, the shell remained immensely appealing to many.

“She’s promised to behave herself for the occasion to demonstrate the sort of prize you could win for the right price.”

By way of another demonstration, the man behind her squeezed her arms together, thrusting out her chest. The gown squeezed across her breasts, forcing them to swell over the bustline.

The display earned a round of applause and a piercing whistle of approval.

Malcolm wondered who had stuffed her into that hideous frock and what other offenses had been visited upon her while she was in no condition to resist.

His own intentions were less than noble, but at least he would let her fight back. He meant to play fair, inasmuch as they would both be free to lie and cheat their way to victory.

And victory meant winning her, not forcing her to submit.

An identical grotesque gleam shone in every eye he saw. They liked her this way. But of course they did—under no other circumstances could the weaklings stand a chance against her.

The bidding began. After the first two offers, Malcolm gave up the notion of buying her outright, as he didn’t happen to be carrying a king’s ransom with him that evening.

The man next to him cursed following the next offer.

Malcolm contemplated letting him live if he departed immediately. “Decided she’s not worth the price?”

“Too rich for your blood, too, I noticed.” The man produced a handkerchief and blotted his face, which bore a strong resemblance to a lump of sweaty dough. “In theory, she’s worth a thousand times that, what with the family business and the fortune and property, but these fools don’t know Alvin Hershey the way I do. If he’s getting rid of the girl, she’s the last asset he has left. If they’re after the marriage contract that splits her inheritance down the middle with him, they’ll be left with half of nothing when he’s long gone with their money.”

He now had a better understanding of why she’d forfeit a game of truth rather than discuss that rotted limb of her family tree. “Then why are you here?”

The dough cracked into a grin. “I’ve had my eye on that pretty thing for a decade. Fortune or not, I was willing to take her off Hershey’s hands, but no whore is worth these prices.”

A decade? Good god, had her age even reached double digits at that time? Malcolm fingered the hilt of his knife and mourned the lack of an inconspicuous manner in which to slit the slimy bastard’s throat.

A woman’s voice chimed above the others. Preoccupied with thoughts of murder, Malcolm heard only the word thousand, but the number preceding it silenced the room and made Alvin Hershey’s face go slack for an instant before breaking into a wide, toothy smile. “I believe we have a winner. Going once. Going twice. Sold to the lady with the pearl necklace.”

A hand sparkling with jewels rose above the crowd and waved idly toward the trio on the platform. “Pay the man and bring me my property.”

Two men mounted the platform. One shoved a small chest at Alvin Hershey with enough force to cause him to stagger backward. The other claimed Reese’s arm from her jailer.

A dissatisfied grumble circled the room.

“Now, now, gentlemen. Don’t be spoilsports.”

The crowd broke apart, allowing Malcolm a clear view of the woman at the front. She was petite, slender, liberally sprinkled with jewels, and fashionably clad in a peacock blue gown. Shiny copper hair was topped by a little black hat with an abbreviated veil that shadowed her eyes.

The slimy bastard snickered. “On the bright side, we can all have her now.”

“Most of you know where my new pet will be, and those who don’t probably can’t afford to visit.” The woman smiled at Malcolm, a demure curve of her lips that stopped short of exposing teeth. “Although I do from time to time extend special invitations to interesting gentlemen.”

Her men escorted Reese from the platform.

“I know you’re all bitterly disappointed, but before making any hasty decisions, do bear in mind that if anyone impedes our departure, Vernon will snap her neck like a chicken wing.” She snapped her fingers in front of Reese’s nose and didn’t get even a blink in response. “Judging by your enthusiasm for her in this appalling state, some of you might even prefer her that way, but do bear in mind such odd proclivities cost extra.”

Malcolm faded toward the door through which he had entered. Two temperamental mercenaries and a bulldog of a stable boy required corralling before they attempted an ambush and got Reese killed.

He reached the corner of the warehouse and stopped short when Not-Vernon stepped into his path. He managed not to flinch at a white flash in front of his face and accepted the calling card, along with the title of interesting gentleman bestowed therewith.

Not-Vernon left without a word or any other sound, possessed of eery stealth.

Vampiric stealth, even. 

The boy flew out of the shadows, fists swinging. “What the hell did you do? You were supposed to save her!”

An arm around the boy’s neck subdued him quickly. There was no time for his nonsense nor to be gentle in quelling it.

Malcolm’s thoughts raced, crashing into each other, breaking apart, and plunging into his churning stomach. He had been within twenty feet of at least one vampire for the duration of the auction and not sensed it. Vampires capable of masking their nature were either very good students of a very old master or… worse.

He had a sudden, fierce longing for a rolling deck beneath his feet and the salt breeze in his face, where the only other bloodsucking fiends could be found cowering in his shadow.

But it wasn’t his nature to flee. Nothing so admirable as courage, of course, just plain stubbornness and not knowing when to quit, accompanied this time by the added incentive of rescuing a beautiful damsel in distress—and telling her in no uncertain terms what a tremendous pain in the ass she’d become.

Part 8: A Stoned Heiress Gathers No Moss

 

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