Chapter Fourteen

They walked together out of the house into the baking sunshine as the clocks struck noon.

"Hammersmith, then?" Stephen said.

"Let's drop in at the Traders first. It's on the way, and we can get his direction without having to guess the house number. Well. Peyton. The little shit."

"It sounds like he has reason. Mr. Cryer clearly liked Miss Peyton very much. Did you know her?"

"I didn't mix with the mission people. For obvious reasons. Can you do the silent thing as we walk? So we can talk?"

Stephen hesitated, then gave a twitch of his fingers and the noise of the road dropped away sharply. He was still wearing the Magpie Lord's ring, Crane noted, and felt a pulse of hope.

He took a deep breath. "Listen. I feel—it's a day for painful truths—I need to say something."

"What?" Stephen's voice was wary.

Crane's throat felt uncomfortably dry, and for once, the words didn't come. He had no idea, now, precisely what to say or how, no rehearsed phrases; he simply knew what had to be said.

The hell with it, Vaudrey. Talk.

" Look. I am quite sure I've told you how remarkable you are. I know I have. Magical, and infinitely fuckable, and extraordinarily brave. I'm also well aware that you're a better man than I will ever be. I'm fairly sure you have no idea just how glorious you are, which is fortunate for me, because the more time I have with you, the more aware I am of my own very obvious flaws. And I realise you don't entirely trust me—no, let me say this," he insisted as Stephen tried to interrupt. "I realise that and I don't blame you, but I want—I would like—you to give me a chance to demonstrate that you can. I'm not going back to Shanghai while you will have me here. In fact, I'm not leaving this damned country at all unless you're on the boat with me. I seem to be peculiarly inept at understanding your needs when we're not in bed, and I know I've got a hell of a lot wrong to date, but…don't run away from me, please. Don't disappear."

He looked up at the clear, cloudless sky to avoid Stephen's face. "I recall when Tom first met Leo. Not first , but she had gone almost overnight from a gawky schoolgirl to a beauty, and we went to a party at her father's compound. She was quite wonderful, and afterwards Tom was silent for what felt like hours, and then he said to me, ‘My life changed tonight.' Well, he had more sense than me, or saw things more clearly. My life changed four months ago, and I utterly failed to understand that until just recently, and therefore…I may have omitted to tell you that I love you." He took a breath. "That's all."

They walked through the crowded streets, side by side, Crane limiting his stride to Stephen's, in silence for a few seconds. When Stephen spoke, his voice was strangled. "Is there a reason you did that in public, when I can't even touch you, let alone—let alone say anything properly?"

"Well, yes. I already know what your cock thinks. I'd like to hear from your head as well. Or your heart."

Stephen kept walking, head down, hands in pockets. Crane could feel his tension, pacing by his side. "Oh God," he said at last. "I'm pathetic. You know perfectly well that I'm all yours, Lucien, or you should. I've got your tattoo, for heaven's sake. I'm marked for life. And I'm scared by that, I'm terrified. I have no idea why you think I'm brave, I'm an abject coward. I'm too frightened to believe this, you and I, can last because if it doesn't, I don't think I can bear it, so it would be easier not to start, but it's too late now." He swallowed. "And it's not that I don't trust you. I just…struggle to believe that someone like you could really want someone like me. No, it's my turn, let me finish. You're an extremely attractive and eligible man, and I'm not. And I seem to do nothing but take from you—"

"No, I can't let that pass, that is objectively horseshit. For heaven's sake, man, I can barely give you the time of day without a fight. Merrick says you're held together by spit and pride."

"Thank him for me." Stephen pushed a hand through his hair. "In any case, that's not the point. I'm not sure what the point was. Oh, hellfire. I love you, Lucien. It wouldn't be so nerve-wracking if I didn't."

Crane took two more paces, feeling the illuminating joy spread through him, and had to control his voice as he observed, "No, you're right, it was a terrible idea to do this in public. I don't suppose you could make us invisible?"

"You must be joking," Stephen said. "Look up."

Crane looked and groaned aloud as he registered the magpies. They were clustered on gas lamps and roof edges and railings, circling in the skies looking for roosts, a few of them landing in front of him on the pavement, staring with bright, beady eyes. "Oh for— Can't you make them go away?"

"Don't blame me, I didn't call them." Stephen was grinning up at him with that familiar snag-toothed tweak in his top lip, and a light in his golden eyes that made Crane's heart lurch. "And I suspect that anything I attempt to do will light up the street like a bonfire and summon practitioners from miles around. I'm feeling somewhat explosive right now."

"You and me both. I would very much like to get my hands on you."

"I want to get my mouth on you," said Stephen, astonishingly forward considering they weren't in bed, and now it wasn't only Crane's heart that was thumping. "When this is over, could we go away? Your shooting place again?"

"As soon as you like. How long can you take?"

"How long do you want?"

"The rest of your life." Crane watched Stephen's eyes widen. "For now, how about a fortnight?"

"Done," Stephen said. "And…done."

"God, sweet boy. I love you. I think I need to say that quite a lot."

"Any time." Stephen's voice was a little shaky, his eyes bright.

There was a flurry of wings as a group of magpies caught up with them, five landing in a row on the railings, four right in front of them on the pavement. Crane counted automatically and couldn't help grinning. "Look at that. Do the damned things know the rhymes?"

"I hope not. It's nine for a funeral, isn't it?"

Crane let the back of his hand brush Stephen's arm. "Try, ‘Nine for a lover as true as can be'."

"Oh. I like your version better." Stephen bumped gently back against him, a little touch, nothing to which an observer could object. "Here's the Traders."

Crane slowed his pace as they approached the square brick building. "I want this business over. I think I could feel sorry for Peyton, you know, and that's not something I'd often say."

"So could I. But I bet Mr. Trotter couldn't. Lucien, I want you to come to Hammersmith with me. You don't have to talk to Peyton, or even witness the conversation, since I doubt it'll be pretty, but I want you to stay close. And you can wipe that smirk off. I meant , in case of rats."

"Rats? Me?"

Stephen shrugged. "You were Hart's friend. I don't know how far this will go. Humour me."

Crane lifted an acknowledging hand. "If you insist on me not dying horribly, I suppose I'll have to indulge you." He led the way into the relative cool of the entrance hall and nodded to the porter. "Hello, Arthurs. Can you whistle up Mr. Peyton's direction for me?"

"Certainly, my lord, but do you want to speak to him? He's lunching upstairs."

Crane glanced at Stephen. "Really? That's a stroke of luck. Yes, we'll go up, never mind the direction."

"What would you like to do now?" Stephen asked quietly. "Stay down here if it's too close to home."

"No, I'll come with you. It might be easier to get a word in private that way."

They headed up the stairs together, Crane torn between a flinching distaste for the job ahead and the temptation to head for the bar and order champagne. It had doubtless been a crashingly inappropriate time to raise the subject of their relationship, but now… He didn't have to watch that look of pain and loneliness come back to Stephen's eyes. He could take away the money worries, the fear of arrest, the quiet, constant fretting about a lonely future. He could treat Stephen as he deserved, and what was for certain, he would find a way to make sure the little sod was curled up in his bed every night, returning home to him, instead of vanishing wordlessly off to unexplained dangers. My little witch. Mine. He suppressed the urge to whistle.

"You look like the cat that swallowed the cream," Stephen said softly.

"That comes later. Here's the dining room."

The small-windowed room with its dark wood furnishings looked particularly dingy against the bright sunshine outside. Peyton was sitting alone with a newspaper. He didn't look happy to see Crane as they walked up to his table.

"Vaudrey. Oh, I beg your pardon, Lord Crane." He gave the usual sneer. "And your little friend."

"Can we have a word with you?"

Peyton shrugged. "If you must. What is it?"

"In private, please," Stephen said.

"I don't particularly want to speak to you in private." Peyton rustled his paper pointedly. "I'm waiting for my luncheon."

Stephen put a hand on Peyton's. "Listen to me. Get up and come with us now."

Peyton got up immediately and followed as Crane led them to one of the small studies. Stephen came last, shutting the door, as Peyton blinked in surprise to find himself there.

"Mr. Peyton. Tell me about Arabella."

Peyton stared. "Who?"

"Your relative Arabella."

"What about her?"

"When did you find out she was dead?"

Peyton's brow furrowed. "Well, when my sister wrote to me, of course."

"Your sister," repeated Stephen.

"Yes. Maria. Great-Aunt Belle lived with her, till she dropped off her perch. What the devil does my family have to do with you?"

"Family?" said Crane.

Stephen held Peyton's gaze. "I want to know about your female relative from the Baptist mission in Shanghai."

"We're Anglicans," Peyton said. "I don't have any relatives in Shanghai. Never did. And—"

"Have you many here?"

"Four sisters and their children. Look here, I don't—"

"Shit," said Crane. " Shit . Stephen…"

"I know. Mr. Peyton, were you in Shanghai when Xan Ji-yin disappeared?"

"What?"

" Answer me! " Stephen shouted, making both the other men jump.

"Yes, I—" Peyton began in wounded tones.

"Do you remember a girl who went missing from the Baptist mission?"

"Is that what this is about? Town's sister? Lord, yes, she ran off with some man, didn't she? At least, I heard—"

Stephen turned and bolted for the door, Crane at his heels. They took the stairs two at a time, and Crane nearly tripped over Stephen as he stopped at the bottom. "Send a note to Esther at the surgery," he said shortly. "Tell them all to meet us at Cryer's lodgings. Catch me up."

"Take a cab." Crane fumbled for a handful of change. "I'm sorry, Stephen."

"My responsibility." Stephen grabbed the money and darted outside.

Crane scrawled the note and paid a messenger lavishly to get it there as fast as possible, then hailed a hackney himself, cursing foully. It hadn't occurred to him to doubt Town: the man had always been part of the scenery, a reliable gossip, something of a joke. He observed and relayed events; he didn't take part in them.

But he had sent them off on a wild-goose chase after a man he knew Crane disliked. And Crane should have known there was something wrong with his tale of the solitary man and his only relative because he'd bloody met Peyton's bloody nephew—at this point he banged his head, hard, against the side of the carriage—and now he had comprehensively let Stephen down. Fuck.

He believed part of Town's story though. The beloved sister, the lifetime of bitterness. That had rung very true. He could imagine how it would feel to have someone you love vanish forever—he had imagined it, he realised, that time Stephen had gone off after a warlock and not come back for four days without a word. And to have men like Peyton cast casual aspersions on a loved sister's honour must have been gall in the wound, even before Town knew she was dead.

Who had told him?

The cab stopped, and Crane hurried up the steps to Town's lodgings. The housekeeper let him in without argument, a blank look in her eyes. Stephen was using fluence with abandon, it seemed.

Town's door was open.

"Don't come in," called Stephen from within as Crane strode up. "He's long gone. I'm trying to ascertain where. Not very good at it, I need Esther's nose. Can you stay outside? You play hob with everything."

That, discretion aside, meant that Stephen was interrogating the ether for traces of Town. He had occasionally mentioned that Crane's etheric presence was extremely strong, pulling the imperceptible currents towards him. Yu Len, a Chinese shaman, had always said Crane had powerful ch'i , but it had never actually caused a problem before.

Feeling that he'd done enough damage for one day, Crane retreated obediently outside and stood, waiting, estimating how long it would take the other justiciars to arrive, wondering what they would do with Leonora. What he really wanted to think about was whether Stephen would agree to move his home to Crane's rooms in the Strand, but under the circumstances that felt like tempting fate.

He was staring out into the road when a cab pulled up further down and Monk Humphris got out.

Monk seemed fretful and worried, as he had for weeks. He marched up towards Town's lodgings, brows close. Crane lifted a hand in greeting, and, since that failed to catch the man's eye, called, "Hoi, Monk!"

Monk looked up and saw him. His whole face changed to a mask of horror as he registered Crane outside Town's building. Then he turned and fled down the street.

Crane was after him before he had time to think. It wasn't a rational decision. He saw the running man, and he chased, his mind catching up with his body as he ran.

This was probably stupid. Probably pointless. But Stephen could follow him if he had to, and better he should chase down Monk and find him irrelevant than let another lead go.

And it wasn't pointless. Why would Monk run if he didn't have to? The heat thundered on the back of Crane's neck and beat down on his light grey suit, rapidly getting sweat-soaked. Merrick would murder him. Stephen had told him, long ago, "no Savile Row" when they faced running for their lives; as his expensive shoes slithered on the paving stones, he recalled the truth of that.

Monk was tiring now, shoulders heaving, steps slowing. He cornered desperately into an alley. Crane put on a burst of speed, long legs giving him an advantage as ever, swung round the corner, hurdled a pile of rubbish that Monk had knocked across the way, and grabbed the man by his shoulder.

Monk, gasping, turned. He was trying to fight but he looked exhausted.

"Pack it in," Crane panted. "What the hell, Monk?"

"Go away," Monk managed, between heaving breaths. "In God's name, go, man. Run. Run! "

"Why?"

Monk stared at him, wide eyed. He took a single sucking breath. Then his pupils contracted, vanishing to pinpoints, so that his eyes were blank and staring. Something dreadful, fear and pain, swept across his face and vanished, leaving only a featureless acceptance. He focused his unseeing gaze on Crane, and hissed, " Shaman ."

"What?" said Crane. "I'm not."

"Shaman," repeated Monk, sniffing, his nose wriggling with hideous mobility, greed blossoming in his dead eyes.

"No." Crane took a step back, wanting to run, suddenly realising what a bad mistake this had been. "Monk?"

"Power." Monk spoke in Shanghainese. "Strength and joy and ch'i . So much. Yes, this will do."

He reached out a clawed hand. Crane took another step back, then finally obeyed his screaming instincts, turned, and bolted, right into Town Cryer, who grabbed him by the arm.

"You stupid bloody fool," said Town, and everything went black.