“Will he recover?” The thought shouldn’t have bothered her. One less blue blood for the world to worry about.
Lynch’s dark lashes shuttered his eyes. “Garrett’s stronger than he appears, but he’s lost a lot of blood. Perry had to give him some of hers.”
He strode through the doors ahead of him. Rosalind followed, a fistful of skirts in her hand. He might not have cared, she thought. Truly, for all the emotion he showed, Garrett could have been any man off the street.
“Here,” he said, gesturing to the dining room. Two bodies lay beneath the bloodied linens of the tablecloth. “This is where he was dining.”
Rosalind stumbled on the doorstep, her gaze narrowing on the small shapes beneath the table cloth. So small… Her throat tightened, the blood draining out of her face. Shards of porcelain littered the floor, a spilled decanter flooding the mahogany tabletop with a pool of spreading red wine. It dripped from the edge in a steady, monotonous plummet.
“It smells like…a bakery,” she murmured, swallowing hard against the flood of bile in the back of her throat. She couldn’t look at them again. How could anyone slaughter their own children? What manner of monster could do that?
Lynch stared at the scene as though absorbing it. “So it does. As did Falcone.” He turned to her to speak, then paused. “Rosa?”
She looked up and saw something that almost looked like concern on his face. “I’m—” The words dried up and she clapped a gloved hand to her lips. She wasn’t all right. All she could see were those tiny, twisted shapes beneath the bloodied linen.
Movement blurred. A hand wrapped around her elbow, Lynch’s large body stepping between her and the bodies. Then he was pushing her through the door, into the blinding light of well-lit corridor. The walls staggered by, a door opening in front of her. She moved like a puppet in his grasp, acid burning her throat.
Lynch pushed a window up and shoved her toward it. Fresh air swept that sickly sweet scent out of her nostrils and she clutched the window ledge, sucking in a choked breath. His hand settled in the small of her back tentatively, as if he wasn’t sure how welcome his touch would be.
“I shouldn’t have taken you in there.” Soft words. “My apologies.”
Rosalind shook her head, swallowing hard. “I’m sorry.” No matter how much she tried to shove the image away—into that small dark recess of her mind where lurked unimaginable memories—she couldn’t. It was tattooed on the back of her eyelids, burning its way into her stomach and throat.
A cool hand rubbed small circles against the curve of her spine. Rosalind gripped the sill and leaned out, drawing the coal-laden air of London into her lungs. Anything to rid herself of that bakery scent.
As if to distract herself, she focused on his touch. Her breath caught.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he replied, his cool exhale stirring the curls at the nape of her neck.
For the first time Rosalind realized how closely he stood, his legs pressing against her bustle and skirts. Nervousness etched its way down her spine. She hadn’t forgotten the look in his eyes when he killed Falcone—he’d enjoyed it, licking the taste of blood from his lips. It should have sickened her further, yet she found she couldn’t quite equate that monster with the man who stood behind her, his hand rubbing soothing circles against her skin.
Rosalind’s body responded to his nearness, but not with lust, not with the way the previous scene still haunted her. Instead, she relaxed back into his touch, her head bowing low as she took some small, guilty comfort from his closeness. She didn’t want to think about why his presence made her feel…
She’d stood alone for so long, walling herself off from others after her husband’s death. She didn’t need the softening of a man’s touch or his presence to comfort her. She was strong enough without it.
Rosalind stiffened. He had to stop touching her. She didn’t like it. “I’m fine, sir.”
His touch hesitated, his fingertips skating over the smooth taffeta of her gown. “Very well.”
The sudden screaming absence of his touch made her feel almost cold. But no, that was nothing more than the chill breeze through the window. A shiver worked its way across her skin and she looked for anything to take her mind off the frozen melee of emotion that stirred her.
“What shall you tell the crowd?” she asked, examining the assembled blue bloods below.
“That we are investigating.” His voice was hard again. “They don’t need to be made aware of the full facts of the case.”
Rosalind’s fingers tightened on the windowsill. “If you don’t tell them, they’ll suspect worse. They’re already crying ‘vampire.’” She shook her head. “There’ve been too many people through the house: the Coldrush Guards, Lord Barrons, the physicians… You cannot keep all of them quiet. I would imagine it would be better to give the press some details, enough to still the fear.”
“You’re right,” he murmured. “Very wise of you, Rosa.”
“People fear what they don’t understand,” she said with a glance over her shoulder, then abruptly regretted the words.
Lynch stared back at her, his hands clasped behind his back. His gaze was hauntingly intense in the chill afternoon light. “So they do.” Slowly he bowed his head. “Take your time. I shall wait for you in the foyer when I’m done speaking to the journalists.”
She waited until she heard the door click behind her before letting out the breath she’d been holding. A glance outside showed the crowd baying at the iron-scrolled fence, fury and fear etched in stark emotion across their faces. For a moment they looked almost human, then she pursed her lips, her eyes narrowing.
There was nothing human about a blue blood, nothing at all. No matter what she thought of Lynch, she could never forget that.
As she turned away, her eye caught on a solitary figure leaning against the corner across the street, his arms crossed over his chest.
With his cap pulled low over his face and a heavy coat obscuring his throat and jaw, she shouldn’t have recognized him but she did. Mordecai. The leader of the mechs who’d tried to bomb the tower.
The satisfaction curling over his lips was unmistakably his—the smug grin that had always made her hackles rise. What was he doing here? Surveying his handiwork? Or simply enjoying the sight of the blue blood’s distress?
Her iron fingers jerked inside her glove unconsciously. He’d done something, she was certain of it. Somehow he’d been the cause of this, the reason those two small bodies lay still and silent beneath the white table cloth.
The reason she couldn’t find her brother Jeremy.
Rosalind was moving before she thought about it, the house a blur around her as she darted down the stairs to the foyer, her boot heels ringing on the polished tiles as she shoved the front door open.
Stopping on the edge of the portico, Rosalind caught her skirts in her hand in frustration. He was gone. The corner was empty, the crowd swallowing up any sign of him and trapping her here. There was no way she could push through them and the thought of being surrounded by so many of the enemy made her throat tighten.
Fog lingered in the alleyways, seeming to lurk in the still corners and doorways where no breeze stirred. Rosalind dragged her shawl tight around her shoulders and moved swiftly through the evening crowd. The hairs on the back of her neck lifted. It was the silence, she decided, the way everybody’s voices were muted and nobody would meet each other’s gaze. Martial law had choked the city since the bombing, with metaljackets on every corner and rumors of humanists in every whisper. The unease was universal. Even she felt it, despite nerves that should have turned to steel long ago.
