The agents demon, p.22
The Agent's Demon, page 22
“How long have you lived here?” I ask, putting that comment aside, for now.
“A while,” the woman replies. “Long enough.”
Perhaps I’m going about this the wrong way. “I apologise for jumping to conclusions,” I say, starting again. “I’m Locke and this is Steel. What is your name?”
“You don’t know much about demons,” she says, “if that’s your question. Names ain’t something we’ll give out on a whim.”
I acknowledge her point. “Very well. We believe the demon who lived here may know something about the Whitechapel murders. We desperately need to find them.”
“Desperate, is it?” Her voice is mocking, delighted.
I swallow and raise my chin. I hadn’t meant to give that much away. But I am desperate. Every day it feels as though we take one step forward only to be pushed back three. Now we might have lost this lead, too.
“Desperate enough to bring the rest of the agency here,” I reply. “And my fellow agents are not as merciful as I am.”
The woman sucks her teeth, and then laughs. “Now that’s more like what I expected.” She shrugs. “I’ve been ’ere near on forty years. I’ve seen some things.”
I step forward. “What things?”
“Well, there was a demon. Kept to ’erself for the most part, but I could tell what she was. Diamond class age half as quick as you ’umans. That and…” She glances at Steel and flicks her fingers against the arms of her chair. “Well,” she says, again. “I could tell. You don’t often see a Wraith round these parts.”
Steel makes some kind of movement, but when I look at him, he’s still. “A Wraith?” I ask. “What was her name? Where is she now?”
“She left twenty, thirty years ago. Disappeared, one night. I thought someone found out who she was. Folk round ’ere are a superstitious lot.”
“So, you have no idea where she could be?”
“I ain’t seen ’er. If she’s still alive, you won’t find her ’ere.” The demon gestures to her chair. “Then again, I ain’t the most mobile, am I?”
Great. How are we going to find this demon, now?
“If that’s it, you can leave,” the woman says. “I got to eat, soon. And I don’t think you wanna see that.”
I sketch a shallow curtsy. “Thank you for your help.”
“Perhaps we’ll meet again, luv.” She rocks back and forth, her filmy eyes flashing like mirrors in the dim light. A shudder crawls up my spine and I hastily make my way out of the cottage.
In the open air, I snort out the scent of bone marrow and rotten meat lingering in my nostrils. “A Wraith demon,” I say to Steel. “What is that?”
“It’s a breed of diamond-class demon.” His gaze seems distant, unfocused, although the tinted spectacles make him difficult to read. “They come from House Beelzebub. They used to come from House Beleth, too, when it existed. Wraiths are a distant cousin to Phantom demons; weak in physical combat, but they can turn invisible and they’re excellent spellcasters—better than any human warlock.”
“A candidate for our murderer, then,” I muse. “If they can turn invisible, that would explain why no one’s been able to see them leave.”
“That does seem plausible,” he admits, but his voice is slow, reluctant.
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Why would a demon of that level be concerned about working girls in the East End? House Beelzebub is strong enough to take whatever it wants, whether that’s money or influence or human organs. Why bother with all this?” He sweeps his arm to encompass the tightly knitted buildings around them. “The Houses exist alongside humans, hidden in plain sight. Drawing attention to them—to demons—will only risk what they have. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Could she be a member of this Beelzebub House?”
He tucks his hands into his pockets. “If she was a member of a House, I’d say she’s Beleth. Thirty years ago was when that House fell and its last Wraiths died—or became classless.” His throat bobs and he falls silent.
Classless. “Are there any other destroyed Houses?” I ask, casually, watching him from the corner of my eye.
“Not many.”
I suck my lip between my teeth. Steel has never turned invisible, so he can’t be a Wraith. Unless he’s hiding that ability from me, maintaining this illusion that he’s a Hound. And it must be an illusion. The Blood Drinker had been surprised at the strength of his nose, and that’s a simple thing for a Hound.
If Wraiths come from House Beelzebub and Beleth, then what kind of demon comes from House Leviathan? What class of demon is my partner?
Chapter thirty-nine
I lie awake most of the night, turning the Blood Drinker’s words over and over in my head. Turner was searching for this Wraith. Now, it’s down to me. I have to find this demon before she murders someone else.
First, I need to know everything the agency knows about Wraiths. Their abilities, their weaknesses—everything.
When morning finally comes, Steel greets me with raised eyebrows. “You haven’t slept,” he comments, and for a second I’m startled. Even Maia can’t tell that quickly.
“My mind doesn’t switch off.” Even on a day without a case, I rarely find sleep when I bend my head to the pillow. Not straight away, and never for long.
We breakfast in the kitchen. Then, for lack of another option, I lead Steel to the library. To my surprise, he closes the door behind us. His expression is pensive.
I sit at my desk and consider him. “Have you thought of something?”
“Yes.” He looks at me, a straight clear gaze. My muscles tense, and his next words confirm my unease. “I don’t think you’re going to like it.”
“What do you mean? Why not?”
“I think the Wraith is here. At the agency.”
“What?”
“Turner hid that folder from the agency,” he points out, “from the people who needed it the most. Doesn’t that seem odd?”
He’s serious. I rise and walk to the window. “All that means is that she may have hidden some demons from us,” I reply. “She adored Lavender; maybe she was trying to protect them.”
“Or she was investigating someone at the agency.”
“You’re jumping to conclusions.” I stalk back to my chair, unable to stand still. “No one here would do anything like what’s happening in Whitechapel.”
“I’m not saying they would,” he replies, calmly. “All I’m saying is that one of them might be hiding their true identity.”
“We would know.”
“Would you? Has the agency encountered a diamond-class demon before? Do you even know what to look for?”
I fist my hand in the soft fabric of the chair. “We have no evidence that she suspected anyone here,” I say, doing my best to keep my voice even. “Everything we have is coincidental.”
“Can you rule out the possibility?” he counters.
No. Thinking the word is like being drenched in ice. I can’t rule it out. “No,” I admit, with more gritted teeth than I intend.
He doesn’t push the point, just waits for me to realise that his conclusion has merit. I would prefer that he push it, that he rile me into snapping so I can dismiss the preposterous theory. But he doesn’t. And I can’t dismiss it.
If a Wraith has hidden themselves within the agency, then nowhere is safe. No one can be trusted.
I bite my cheek, hard, let the pain still the ripples of my mind. It’s a case. It’s a problem that must be solved. That’s all.
Calmer, I return to my seat. Steel watches me and I clasp my hands on my lap, return his stare. “If that is true,” I begin, “then one of our demons is diamond class.”
He does not bat an eye at my acceptance of his theory. Of course he doesn’t. “It may not be a demon.”
I frown. “What else, then?”
“Wraiths are better than any other demon at imitating others,” he replies. “They could be disguised as human.”
“No,” I say, more instinct than measured response. “That’s not possible.”
“Are you certain?” My stare is glacial. “Are you?” he repeats, unintimidated.
“If there is a Wraith here,” I reply, turning the conversation away from that path, “how do we find it? How do we identify it?”
He sits back, crossing one leg over the other as though he has all the time in the world. “Diamond classes heal faster than others. A wound that might injure another demon for a couple of hours would leave a mark on them for mere minutes.”
“And if a diamond-class demon was stabbed through the shoulder?” I ask, snidely. “How long would that take to heal?”
His mouth tilts up in a crooked smile. “It’s difficult to say,” he replies, not missing a beat. “Perhaps overnight. Perhaps days, if the wound was deep and the sword was blessed. “
Khurana is Sikh; perhaps she had her weapons blessed by a holy member of her order. But then, Steel never actually showed me the wound, after that first night. He could have been lying about how long it took to heal.
“So,” I say, “what you’re saying is we need to wait until they’re injured, and see how fast they heal?”
“Why wait?” He shifts his gaze to a display case against the wall. It’s filled with Celtic tribal jewellery, and half a dozen sturdy bone knives.
“You want us to stab the agency’s demons?” I have to laugh at the absurdity of it.
“Not just demons,” he reminds me. “And I’m forbidden from hurting the human agents, so you’ll have to take care of them. Why don’t we start with the Phantom agent?”
Sighing, I rub my face. “Just because you don’t like Rayne doesn’t mean he’s hiding something.”
“Everyone is hiding something. Our job is to figure out what.”
“‘Our’?” I repeat, and he shrugs.
“We have a deal. I aim to fulfil my end of the bargain.” His level gaze is a heavy reminder of the promise I made.
I drop my head back against the armchair. “I can’t go around hurting people just to see how long they bleed.”
“Then what? What are you willing to do to solve this case?”
How dare he ask me that? “We search,” I answer, crisply. “We find evidence, and we act on it. Not on some half-baked theory.”
“Fully baked. I’ve been thinking about this for some time.”
“You hate us. Why should I believe you?”
“I don’t trust you,” he corrects. “There’s a difference. Are you that shocked, given how you brought me here?”
“No.” My reply seems to catch him by surprise. He pauses, his lips still parted. “But I have to weigh the risks,” I continue. “London—Britain—needs the agency. I can’t put it in a position where it might fail.”
If Pemberton and the Home Office thought that I’d turned against the agency, that I was acting in league with a demon, we’d be shut down. And I’d…I don’t know what they’d do to me, but it wouldn’t be anything good.
“We go back to Whitechapel this weekend,” I decide. “We look for evidence. And we find the Wraith—whoever it is.”
“Why are you so resistant to this?”
“Because they’re my family,” I snap. “Not that you would know anything about that.”
There’s a long silence. “No,” Steel says, eventually. “I would not.” He stretches his arms along the back of the sofa, his mouth twisted and his gaze icy. “Very well. We’ll do it your way. But when this all comes crashing down around your head, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Chapter forty
I stare into my wardrobe. Walking with Steel in Whitechapel last time had drawn the suspicion of the Vigilance Committee—perhaps if I go dressed as a man, we might draw less attention. I don’t want to leave more unconscious bodies in our wake.
I braid my hair into a single plait that reaches the bottom of my shoulder blades, and pin it to the crown of my head. Then I slip out of my skirt and bodice, and into the man’s suit Maia made for me. I keep my corset on—if we have to run through the streets of Whitechapel, I’ll need the support—and the end result is curvier than I’d intended, but the loose lines of the jacket are enough to disguise my shape. I add a wide-brimmed hat over my hair. Luckily, I suppose, my face is broad enough that I could be mistaken for a young man at first glance. I straighten my lapel and emerge into the corridor, holding my breath.
Steel regards me for a moment, his face expressionless. The words of our argument yesterday linger between us. “Your collar should be buttoned,” he says finally, pointing at the stiff white collar I’d left undone.
“It’s too tight.”
“Suit yourself.”
Sighing, I do it up, wincing at the pressure on my throat. “It’s very uncomfortable.” My protest disguises the relief in my chest. I had imagined a much worse reaction.
“We all suffer for fashion,” he replies, but the smirk that usually accompanies that mocking tone is gone.
I lead the way downstairs. The space between us yawns, regardless of the magic that sits there. I wanted to bring him closer, earn his trust. Instead we’re further away than ever.
At the entrance, I don my coat in silence. I’m reaching for my hat when Rayne and Cassius descend into the hall. Rayne stops and stares at me. “What are you wearing?” he demands.
My cheeks go hot, and I get angry at my own reaction. “You said yourself, venturing into Whitechapel at night was too dangerous for a woman,” I reply. “I thought this would be safer.”
“This is not the stage, Miss Locke. You are not here to make a spectacle out of yourself.”
I resist the urge to hug myself. “Turner used to—”
“Turner was a law unto herself, much to the detriment of the agency.” Rayne glances over my suit and quickly looks away, as though the sight disgusts him. “Besides, clothing yourself in…dressing thusly does not change the fact that you are a woman, and the East End is no safe place for a woman. I will have your word that you won’t go out at night.”
“I—I don’t think that’s for you to decide, Agent Rayne,” I stammer, struggling to recover my composure.
“Your word, Miss Locke.” His gaze bores into mine as he waits.
I collect myself. I am not a child, to be reproved thus. “I will endeavour not to disappoint the agency, Mr. Rayne,” I reply, injecting ice into my tone. “That will have to be enough to satisfy you.” A downside to the suit is that I can’t affect a dramatic sweep of my skirt and not-so-accidentally hit him with it as I leave.
My legs carry me for nearly a mile before I calm enough to slow down. “That was a mistake,” I mutter.
“An entertaining one.” I’d almost forgotten Steel was with me. “I’m looking forward to your next meeting with Agent Rayne,” he says, his eyes glittering with a hard, cold light behind his spectacles.
“He’s a fellow agent. I shouldn’t be arguing with him.”
“Another member of the family?”
“You don’t understand—”
“You’ve made that quite obvious.”
“Steel.” I stop, remove my felt hat and run my hand over my hair. “I’m sorry. For what I said. I didn’t mean it like that.”
His expression doesn’t flicker. “Are you going to listen to me?”
“That’s beside the point.” I resettle the hat firmly. “I am listening to you. I’m just choosing a different path.”
“You’re the agent. That’s your prerogative.” He says this in clipped, hard tones. Sighing, I resume walking.
The trousers feel odd against my skin, but warm. I can’t help but glance at the people around me, checking my walk in windows as we pass to ensure I’m not moving oddly. No one looks twice at me. As a woman, my height is unusual if not downright strange, but as a man I’m commonplace.
The East End brims with policemen and members of the Vigilance Committee, all moving on a fresh surge of vengeance injected into the city’s bloodstream by the two recent murders. I ignore them, hoping no one takes us for suspicious characters. The last thing we need is to end up in the station.
Night falls quickly, bringing a chill autumn wind. I’m grateful for my thick collar, now, and I dig my hands into my pockets for added warmth. Tonight, The Ten Bells churns with people; Committee members carrying black truncheons, labourers in leather aprons—my gaze lingers on them the longest—and a few small groups of women. The women cling to well-lit areas, chatting but glancing around every now and again, alert.
“What do you sense?” I ask Steel.
He scents the air. All I can smell is the foul stink of the slaughterhouses, brought to our corner on an unlucky wind. “Trying to track a demon in this city is like trying to sift for a fleck of gold in a river of filth.”
Immersed in the stench of blood and death, I can’t disagree. Two policemen march past us, lanterns in one hand and truncheons in the other. A clump of well-dressed young men follow them, craning their necks to peer into dark alleys. Tourists. To them, these dead women are just entertainment.
“Maybe we shouldn’t have come.” My outfit makes me practically invisible, but among all these people, so is the killer. “He would be an idiot to act tonight, in all this.”
“Especially if he just saw you leave to patrol.”
I stare at him. “Are you saying you think it’s—you think the killer is Rayne?”
He tugs down the brim of his hat, hiding his eyes. “What I’m saying is, do not close yourself off to a possibility just because you don’t want to face it.”
That stings. “I’ve known Rayne for seven years,” I reply, evenly. “He’s a lot of things, but he is not a murderer.”
Steel looks back at the pub. “You know him better than I do.”
“I do.” None of the agents can be the Wraith. None of them are capable of what we’ve seen.
A tendril of doubt winds through me.
“Do you want to stay?” Steel asks, with disinterest. “I doubt we’re needed here.”
“Yes. Just in case.” Even if the likelihood that this ‘Ripper’ will kill tonight is slim, I can’t leave. I can’t take the chance, no matter how small.
