nineteen

Poppy

Poppy simply got up and left.

This was not a conscious decision she made: her legs simply decided to take her away from Hades and those words he had just said. She did not say anything, did not think anything. She did not feel anything.

She just left.

It seemed as if the coldness of the snow had seeped into her very soul and had replaced everything within her with ice.

She walked back into the club, ignoring Wilder's frantic questions about Hades. She must have left him behind, still laying on that snow, trying to kill himself, but she could not think about that right now. She could not think about anything.

She was incapable of thinking.

And thank God for that.

Some time passed. She walked.

At some point, she heard heavy, if somewhat unsteady footsteps behind her, and had the faint impression that Hades had peeled himself out of his icy would-be grave and was following her, but it might have only been her imagination.

Or it might have been someone else, not him.

She neither knew nor cared.

She did not turn her head to see.

Everything was a blur, and she preferred it this way.

She went straight to Rania's rooms, which Rania shared with two other dancers. At that moment, it was the only safe place Poppy could think of, the place where she had spent the only few fun, easy hours of the last five years, with girls her own age, who had been kind to her. There and Dante's rooms, but she did not want to go there, in case Dante was in. She did not want him to see her like this.

Rania's chambers were empty of people, of course, but they were filled with things. Dresses, paints, nettings, undergarments, patches and wigs were strewn about wildly, as if the rooms had been attacked by a pack of wild, albeit extremely fashionable, gazelles. A little serving maid approached her, but Poppy's ears must have popped, because she couldn't understand a word the girl was saying. She heard the maid speak as if from underwater, and it sounded like a blurry, indecipherable sound. The young girl finally bowed and left, and Poppy quickly stripped out of her silk gown, now thoroughly wet with snow. Then she chased down Rania's old, plain dress and put it on.

She had washed it herself yesterday, and Rania or one of the girls must have hung it up to dry. It was dark and plain, and now a little rumpled, but she did not care. She undid her braid, brushing the icicles out of her curls, and sat on the edge of the vanity, staring unseeingly at her own reflection in the mirror. She stayed like that, immobile, for an indeterminate amount of time, until the loud music coming from the upstairs rooms penetrated her consciousness. She got up, as if in a trance, to follow the sound.

She found it, eventually, in the great hall.

In the small hours of the morning, it had been transformed into a ballroom. Well, it did not look like one of society's ballrooms: It was all color, smoke and loud music instead of the usual pastels and genteel clinking of glasses. But it was teeming with people and there was dancing, among other things, so, a ballroom it was.

There were card tables set all around its perimeter, but the rest of it was revamped for dancing. The hall was resplendent with chandeliers and candelabras, and a large orchestra of violins and flutes played furiously the melody of every dance known to humanity. Members of the ton, curious card-players or regulars of the Hell Club had escaped their proper salons and Almack's, or had simply had enough of being proper for the night, and had congregated here to laugh, drink copious amounts of alcohol, and generally be as improper as they liked.

And oh, how they liked.

In the middle of the great room, a group of exotic dancers, Rania presiding over them like a queen, provided the club's guests with a beautiful, if a bit inappropriate, spectacle.

The entire affair looked to be only now beginning—it would no doubt last until morning, but these people had nothing to do until midday, where they would wake up bleary-eyed in their beds, sip hot cocoa, and pretend to sneer at Hades' establishment to their peers. The hypocrisy would be an affront if it wasn't a matter of course. The same people who were here today, had been reproaching the Hell Club and Hades' supposed lack of morals all over town these past five years.

It was enough to turn one's stomach.

Thankfully, Poppy couldn't concentrate enough to think any of this.

She sat in a gilded chair covered in damask velvet—there were several positioned about the room in a circle—and let the music and the pandemonium distract her from the darkness that was pressing into her skull, threatening to splinter it. She affixed her gaze on Rania, who was dancing gracefully with the other girls. She was draped in sheer silks and moved with mesmerizing grace and elegance, her earlobes and throat glittering with diamonds, her skin glowing in the garish light, her body toned, supple and mesmerizing.

Poppy watched her, her eyes following her every movement, until the dancers all blurred together, in a sea of color and music. Hopefully, she would be entirely numb by the end of this number, or the next one.

She sat absolutely still and focused on Rania's beautiful features and the swishing of her long, black hair, and how she—

Suddenly, as she was in the middle of a crouch, Rania turned to look directly at Poppy, and her face was transformed into a mask of horror. Abandoning the steps of the dance and the two dancers who were reaching out their arms elegantly to twirl her, Rania let her ribbons drift to the floor and started running towards Poppy, pushing through the bewildered crowd.

"Why have you stopped?" Poppy tried to say, but there was something in her mouth and she couldn't quite speak.

She couldn't breathe either, now that she thought of it.

She appeared to be quite out of air; she tried to open her lips and draw in a breath, but that made things worse. There was something blocking her mouth, something liquid and thick, and she was drowning in it.

Something heavy was pressing down on her lungs, making them cave inwards, and everything was going dark. Poppy had never learned how to swim, but she had the sudden, desperate thought, as the last of the air left her lungs, that even if she had, she would still meet her death this way.

Suffocating on dry land, choking on pure air.

Her vision went away, completely, suddenly, and everything went dark.

Sadly, she could still hear.

And what she heard was Hades' voice, frantic, swearing a blue streak.

Then hands were on her throat, his hands, she would know those long, cool fingers anywhere, and he was saying:

"Jesus! Wyatt, can you hear me? Poppy? Dammit. Dammit!"

She had slipped under; his words were coming through a thick wall of water.

Hades cursed, then his hands were on her face, on her lips, opening them, wiping her brow, her chin.

What if there was a God for people like us? Poppy remembered a thought she'd had a few hours ago, as if in a dream. What if there was a God for someone like me?

But that was before Hades' revelation.

‘Your brother lost you to me in a game of cards.'

The answer to her question was evident now: There wasn't.

There was no God for someone like her.

What little faith she had left was shattered.

"Someone help me!" Hades was screaming.

Liquid dropped into her lips and she choked, gasping wetly for breath.

Hade's fingers were on her face, cupping her cheek, holding up her neck.

"Tilt your head up, love," his voice was saying, his voice tight, etched with fear. "Look at me, please, come on."

But that was the whole point, wasn't it? She couldn't.

Alexei

There was blood pouring down her face.

Alexei did not think. He moved.

He had been brooding in a corner, still shuddering from the cold and asking himself, quite brutally, what on earth had been going through his thick skull to let Poppy lie down on the snow next to him. They could both have died. Well, he himself was there with just that intention, but she…

You could have killed her, he screamed at himself. You absolute fool. You absolute bloody—

And then, before he could think up more abuse for himself, Poppy had entered the great hall.

What the hell is she doing here? Where's Dante?

It was the small hours before dawn, and half of the ton was crowded in the Underworld, pretending that they did not recognize each other, as they indulged themselves in watching beautiful women perform exotic dances, partook of copious amounts of drink, and competed in all kinds of debauchery in the club's private rooms and gaming tables.

It was the worst place in the whole of London for a girl like her to be in.

But Alexei took one look at her drawn features, chalk-like cheeks and bleary eyes, and kept his mouth shut. It took more self-restraint than he had thought himself capable of, not to rush over to her, snatch her to him and hold her until all her hurt was healed.

Or, at least, until that haunted, dead look was wiped from her lovely eyes.

But the urge was futile.

First of all, he had never voluntarily, outside of a good round of pugilism, held anyone. And secondly, he was the last person who should be comforting Miss Wyatt right now. On the contrary, he should stay as far away from her as he possibly could. He clutched a glass of port until his knuckles turned white and watched the dancers through unseeing eyes. His hair was still wet and dripping, and he had not bothered to change out of his wet shirt, even though Wilder had practically forced a coat on his shoulders.

It was myself I meant to destroy.

Instead, I almost killed her.

It would serve me right if I got an inflammation of the lungs.

I should not be allowed to breathe after what I did to her.

He looked around the room idly. Everything around him disgusted him. Everything—

His eyes met Rania's across the room and he froze.

She suddenly looked scared, frantic. He followed her gaze, and his lips parted in a silent scream. He was running before he knew what he was doing; he did not think. He moved.

Poppy was sitting on one of the gilded chairs at the very back of the room, as she had since the moment she entered it. Her hands were neatly folded on the skirt of the ugliest dress in Christendom, her hair curled in an adorable, disheveled way, her cheeks pale, her lips pink, her green eyes endless sad pools, inviting him to drown.

And blood was pouring down her face.

She kept staring straight ahead, not even noticing that she had gotten a nosebleed.

Alexei found himself on one knee in front of her chair, cupping his one hand underneath Poppy's chin as her blood pooled onto his palm, and supporting her neck with the other

Her skin felt cold under his fingers, and he had the strange sensation of holding a rare and fragile flower as its petals drooped, dying in the snow. That was all he thought about as he pulled her to him and picked her up in his arms.

It did not occur to him to shudder or to remember the vile hands that had tried to kill him when he was a child as he clutched her to his chest. All he thought of was how he could carry her to safety without hurting her. How he could best cradle her body, hide her, protect her. Save her.

That, and the real possibility that she might bleed out before he had a chance to take her to his rooms. He tried not to say so out loud, but he was panicking and the words spilled out of him.

"Don't be silly, Alexei," Rania said, running beside him as he carried Poppy down the stairs, "she won't die of a nosebleed."

"Would you like one as well?" Alexei flung at her cruelly. "It can be arranged."

But Rania only swatted at him as if he were an insolent child.

He hadn't realized he had spoken out loud. And yes, it did feel as if Poppy was dying in his arms. She was barely breathing and she kept making these choking noises that tore his heart to shreds.

He knew what was happening to her: she was drowning in sorrow.

And yes, that could kill you. He knew that from personal experience.

…

He carried Poppy to his own chambers and tried to make her as comfortable as he could. Rania rang the bell for help, but no matter what she or the servants did, Poppy was unresponsive to their ministrations. She just sat there, perfectly still, not even making an attempt to stem the blood flow.

It was as if she was not really there and all that was left of her was a shell.

Alexei finally shooed the girls away and took to wiping the dried blood off Poppy's face himself.

They were left alone in the small parlor next to his bedroom.

The room was warm with fires blazing in two fireplaces, and the sudden silence as everyone left was more comforting than music. Alexei watched her; she was breathing somewhat more easily now and the nosebleed had stopped. Finally, he could stand the silence no longer.

"How are you feeling, love?" He tried to sound unconcerned, but a break in his voice betrayed him.

Poppy sat perfectly still, as if her mind was unattached to her body, but he saw her fingers begin to fidget and tremble and he couldn't bear it. Impulsively, he reached out and covered them with his hand.

As soon as his skin made contact with hers, the familiar burning panic surged, but Alexei breathed deeply and tried to tame it; to his surprise, it wasn't hard at all. There was something inside him that felt like a calmed child when he was in her presence. He was drawn to touch her as he had never been drawn to anything in a long time.

Something spilled onto the back of his hand, startling him out of his trance.

It was a drop of water.

A tear.

"No, don't," he murmured quickly.

Another followed and then another, her tears spilling onto their joined hands. He had never seen anyone cry like this: she cried in the same way she had bled, quietly and without moving a muscle, as if she did not realize she was doing it.

As if she had been taught not to bother anyone with her pain.

Alexei felt a revulsion so deep at that thought that his stomach rolled and he saw spots dance in front of him. He abruptly reached out and grabbed her shoulders, pulling her to him. He moved a bit more roughly than he would have liked, but he was not used to touching others, and his limbs felt awkward to him, foreign, but the emotion that was surging through him as he watched her fall apart in front of him was so violent, he did not have a choice.

He pulled her to his chest and let her cry against his shirt, feeling her heart thud against his own like a trapped, wounded little bird.

"Come here," he murmured, fitting his chin above the top of her head. Her hair was soft as a flower's petals and it smelled of soap. "I'm sorry," he said helplessly, for the hundredth time. "I am so sorry, Wyatt, I'm sorry."

Had he ever apologized so much in his life?

And it still was not enough. It would never be.

"Tell me everything, please." Her voice was calm and normal, which took him by surprise. He had not expected her to be so collected. She lifted her head from his chest and he let her step away and claim as much space away from him as she wanted. "Please."

Her eyes were swimming with tears, but they weren't spilling any more.

Alexei ran a hand through his hair, flexing the fingers that had touched hers, that had been wet with her tears. They tingled down to the bone.

How can one woman affect me so much?

"My dear, I cannot…'Tis not fit for a lady's ears."

Finally, those eyes found his. They were not dead or unfocused now. There was fury in them, fury and pain. Alexei's heart lurched.

"Tell me," Poppy repeated in a queenly tone. "I'll have the truth. All of it." She lowered her eyes, but they snapped back at his. "And I am not your dear," she added.

Alexei swallowed.

How had it come to pass that he was at the mercy, no, at the beck and call, of this girl?

He who held state secrets in the palm of his hand; he who decided the fates of nations by an invitation for a game of hazard; he who hid Greek princes in his club?

But a man should know when he was defeated.

And Alexei was utterly, completely destroyed. By her.

So he started talking, although the very telling of the story gave him so much pain he could almost feel its physical effects.

"It was like this, Miss Wyatt," he said. "Your brother is—was—a regular at the Hell Club." He felt her go still beside him, but she did not say anything; she just let him talk. "That night, he…He lost heavily at cards. He always did, but that night, he lost everything, Poppy. I am so sorry. He lost the house, his post, his inheritance, the tithes from the parish, everything he could think of. He gambled it all away, insisting that his luck would turn. But instead, he kept losing and drinking, and losing, and he could not be stopped. Finally, when there was nothing else left to gamble, he…"

Alexei stopped.

"I'm sorry," he said stupidly.

"Yes, you said," Poppy replied. Waiting.

"He gambled his sister. That was when I stepped in," Alexei continued, bringing a fist to his mouth. "I had no idea who his sister was, you understand, but even I, depraved as I am, realized that what was happening was beyond vile. At that point, incidentally, it had been about a week since I had met you, in your boy's clothes. It had struck me as so strange then, the way you had reacted at the card room's door. You had fallen to the ground, barely able to breathe…"

"I had seen him," Poppy said quickly, as if she wanted to be done with this subject sooner rather than later. "I had seen my brother through the open door. I had seen him at the gamblers' table, and I knew that he was a liar and a hypocrite. That's why I had fallen to the ground, gasping for air like a fish out of water. I had not…I had thought him to be quite a different person, you see, and seeing him here, like that…He had looked comfortable, as if he belonged here. As if he came often. It nearly killed me."

Alexei brought a finger to his collar. He was the one who couldn't breathe now.

"It still does," Poppy whispered.

"Well," Alexei said slowly. "I don't know if you remember, but I caught you in my arms that night. You were not alone."

"I remember."

"And that was when I realized what a colossal fool I'd been. Right away, when I touched you, I knew this was no boy I was holding in my arms."

"Took you long enough," Poppy murmured.

"I am, after all, a fool," Alexei agreed. She stayed silent and Alexei took a deep breath. "So anyway, that night when your brother was gambling everything away, when he finally came to…to you, I stepped in and said that I would pay all his debts, if he played against me and won. He didn't. He lost you to me, instead."

He licked his dry lips.

"You should have refused the bet," Poppy said, pain making her voice harsh.

"I almost did," Alexei replied at once. "But…There were five men in the room, all eagerly awaiting for me to step down so that they could win the vicar's sister for themselves. It seemed to hold a certain appeal to them, as a vicar's sister is generally considered pure and—"

He took one look at her face and thought it wise to stop.

"What did he do?" Poppy asked. "What did my brother say to them?"

"Nothing," Alexei replied. "He waited for the best offer."

Poppy was shuddering so violently her teeth were chattering.

"Hey hey…" Alexei said, helplessly, and then she was crying.

It was not like before.

Her body folded in on itself and she slipped from her chair to the floor, weeping in great, heart-wrenching sobs, as if her heart was breaking. Alexei completely lost his self-control then. This was unendurable. He leapt up from his chair, and ran to the mantelpiece, suppressing sobs of his own.

He put his hand over his mouth.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry."

But it was too late. His father's voice was already in his head.

‘Do not cry, you little fool. Don't you dare cry, whore's son. You will never be a true man.'

He had been five years old at the time, and right now he felt as if not a day had passed since. He fought with himself, fought against his own, ugly emotions, while Poppy wept behind him on the rug, left alone. It would be impossible to find a man who loathed himself more than Alexei did at that moment.

And he hated himself with a passion.

It took him several moments to compose himself, and even then, his throat hurt as if he had been screaming at the top of his lungs and his eyes felt swollen and aching, even though he had not shed one tear.

He went next to Poppy, who, spent with weeping, was crouched in a little ball, whimpering. He touched her back and she tried to straighten up, but she was too weak. Alexei bent at the knee and supported her waist with an arm around her, trying to help her lift herself back onto the chair opposite him.

He brushed the wet, matted hair from her brow.

"Shall I continue?" he murmured, lost inside her eyes.

"Is there more?" she asked in a broken voice. His hand was still in her hair; he hadn't realized. He reached out and wiped the wetness from her eyes with his thumb.

"I would rather die than hurt you," he breathed.

She nodded. "I know."

She did? It had been news to him until right now, when it came blurting out of his mouth.

"Well, the only thing that's left to say is that I decided to stage it as a cruel kidnapping," he said, "in order to spare your feelings. I thought…I thought it would be more believable—more preferable."

"To be kidnapped by a man known as ‘Hades', rather than sold like a piece of furniture by my brother, the righteous vicar," Poppy said.

Her vehemence jarred him.

"Precisely," he replied. "Did I succeed?"

"Failed," Poppy answered, without needing to think about her answer for a moment, "quite miserably." Alexei found himself blinking rapidly, for there was that damned wetness behind his eyes again. "You see, my lord Hades, my brother has presented himself to the community as quite the saint, both in the parish and at home. He regularly starves, punishes and hurts me, in word, look and deed, at the slightest provocation. If there is any misdemeanor, real or perceived, it is unacceptable, and I have to pay the price. Sin appears to be whatever does not suit him at the time, like for instance, me laughing or having an opinion. And all this time, while he was pressuring me to be a saint, he himself was nothing but a liar, a gambler and a lout."

Alexei opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it.

"And an abuser," Poppy added, possibly reading his mind. "A bully, at the very least."

"A murderer," Alexei couldn't contain himself any longer, "if the state of your knees and your malnutrition are anything to go by. When I took you, you were close to…You were in a bad way."

"You on the other hand," Poppy said, "have done me nothing but kindnesses since I have known you."

"What?" Alexei's voice was a screech. I don't screech. "Forgive me," he added quickly, as her eyebrows shot up in surprise, "but to me, that sounded like an insult."

She tried to smile, but her mouth would not oblige her, still trembling with more unshed tears.

"You shall have to bear it, I am afraid," she said. "You, sir, are nothing but a rescuer. Since I have known you, I find that you do little more than rescue others all day long. Cats, broken boys with a taste for opium, and girls dressed as men, about to be drowned in the Thames."

Alexei shuddered at the memory.

"That I did despite myself, I should remind you."

Poppy shrugged. "You did it anyway. And Rania told me how you saved her as well, and I am guessing, countless others. I have a sudden vision of you visiting every whorehouse in London, and taking with you any girl that you found beaten, starved or struggling in any other way, to bring her here to your club to be fed and paid and dressed in silks."

Alexei stayed silent.

"I think I am right," Poppy said, "and that that is exactly what you did. Your silence condemns you, my lord. And now I find that you rescued me, as well."

Alexei spread his arm around the room.

"You call this rescuing?"

Poppy looked him straight in the eyes, and his breath caught. He had looked at those clear, big eyes so many times, but he hadn't realized it until now: they had rarely looked back. But now they did, and there was defiance in them, as if Poppy had to win some sort of internal battle in order to be brave enough to look directly at him.

The result was so beautiful, he couldn't draw breath.

"I found my voice here," she said, not taking those eyes off him. "I found a friend; two friends, actually. Rania and Dante. No one punished me or screamed at me here—well, you did, a few times, but it was not in anger. No one made me kneel on—"

"Please don't say it," Alexei cut her off, his stomach rolling again.

"Well, no one did that. My knees are being healed. I found freedom here and good things. How long had it been since something good happened to me? I cannot even remember. And I don't know if this is supposed to be hell or not; all I know is that this is the place where I smiled again after years. This is the place where I found kindness; and, more importantly, this is the place where I found food."

Alexei stood up abruptly, almost fainting in the process, and walked to the fireplace again. He had suddenly gotten lightheaded. Would the girl ever stop making him almost cry? It was embarrassing, annoying, and really quite rude.

One did not go around to people's houses making them weep like little boys without a word of warning.

Well, Miss Wyatt hadn't come around to his house: for one, he did not have a house, and for another, he had taken her away from hers.

The idea that this might have been a good thing was more than he could process at this time.

I need to get out of here. Now.

‘I find that you have rescued me too.'

I do not rescue people.

I harm people.

I am Hades, harbinger of doom.

I am by nature a disaster. I am rotten to my core. I am—

"Excuse me for a moment, my dear, will you?" was all he could say, before his voice betrayed him.

He practically ran out of his own rooms, as if the very devil was chasing him. He had barely reached the hallway and closed the door behind him, when he bent at the waist, and fell on the floor in a near-swoon, gasping for breath.

There, he thought, before darkness overcame him, at least you didn't faint in front of her. Now, that was graceful.