Bronze Gods Read online

  He handed her the keys with an unsteady hand. “You need the practice.”

  “Obviously. I still can’t take it up on two wheels.” She skirted the remaining spectators, those ghouls who fed on tragedy, and led the way back to the cruiser, which had sustained some damage during the riot. Nothing that rendered it inoperable, just dents and scrapes.

  The ride back to HQ passed in a blur; he had too much on his mind, too many aches and pains to maintain a conversation. By the time they got in the lift, he needed some chemical relief. Oddly, the CID building seemed so quiet by comparison to the docks, eerily so, even though there were still normal noises, the usual number of officers going about their routines. Mikani would rather start a trash fire than do his paperwork, tonight of all nights.

  He paused at his desk, toying with the idea of writing the report and heading out for a drink or six. Not the best use of time, though. We need to get Toombs pinned down, and only Gunwood can help with that. But he had a quicker, quieter solution. While his partner was busy, he dug into his jacket pocket, produced a pair of Dreamers. This time, he downed them in one swallow. Chewing made them dissolve faster, but it was important not to fill the air with the scent of apples; Gunwood was angry enough without adding this to the list of complaints.

  Then Mikani beckoned Ritsuko with a weary gesture. “Let’s go make his evening, shall we?” Navigating the duty room required some care as he was compensating for the loss of depth perception from his swollen eye. He rapped the doorframe before barging in. “Commander. We ran into some trouble.”

  “I’d say that’s an understatement, wouldn’t you?” It was obviously a rhetorical question, as Gunwood didn’t wait for a response. “I gave you two this case with the full confidence you’d wrap things up before it turned into a big circus. But today, instead of a killer in custody, we have a second body, and the Summer Clan means to starve us to death. To say nothing of the riot!”

  “Sir,” Ritsuko began, but the old man held up a peremptory hand.

  “No. Earlier, I said forty-eight hours, but that was before . . . well. Circumstances are entirely different now. You’re off this case, effective immediately. I’m turning it over to Shelton and Cutler, and I pray they achieve better results.”

  “What?” Until that point, Mikani was only half paying attention, braced for the usual round of recriminations and maybe a writ. “You can’t do that. We’re closing in, Gunwood! Give us a day, some men, and we’ll have the bastard. You can’t just yank us off the case for those two idiots.”

  “The word came down from Council,” the commander said. “It’s out of my hands, so I’m ordering you both, go home. Take a few days off. You haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks. I’m sure by the time you report in, Shelton and Cutler will have Toombs in custody.”

  Mikani slammed his fist on the commander’s desk. “You’ll be lucky if they don’t drag in the first beggar they stumble over just to call it a night!”

  Gunwood stood, bellowing to match Mikani’s volume. “And you’ll be lucky if the Council doesn’t ship you off to Cliffside to guard the sheep!”

  “Sheep are smarter than those two!” He was just getting warmed up; he had a host of things to say about Shelton and Cutler, most of them four-lettered.

  “Very well, sir,” Ritsuko interjected. “Two days off.”

  Though someone who didn’t know her well might think that was a level tone, Mikani could tell she was about to explode, too. Her jaw was clenched tight, and she wrapped her fingers around his forearm. She didn’t offer a polite farewell as she dragged Mikani toward the door; he suspected it was beyond her.

  Gunwood snapped, “A week, no pay, after the crack about the sheep! Just get him out of here.”

  • • •

  IN RETROSPECT, RITSUKO wasn’t sure how it happened. But at HQ, it had made perfect sense to go back to Mikani’s place, for two reasons. One—she was afraid of what he’d do, left unsupervised, after the day he’d had, and two—somebody had to look at his injuries. The chances were slim to none that she could persuade him to see a doctor, particularly in this mood. So an hour after the blowup in Gunwood’s office, she was rummaging in Mikani’s bathroom for basic first-aid supplies.

  She filled a basin with warm water, located some towels and antiseptic. This wasn’t her usual purview, but it was better than going home to an empty flat.

  His cottage, in all areas but the kitchen, had a cheerfully careless atmosphere. Things remained wherever he dropped them, and she fought the urge to tidy up. He was sprawled in the armchair before the window, staring moodily out at the dark sky. It was a breathtaking view, though more rustic than she would’ve imagined. Not that she’d ever spent any time wondering where Mikani lived.

  “I think I’m ready,” she said, after assembling the supplies on a nearby table.

  “We can’t let the trail go cold.” He sat up with evident effort and gave her medical preparations a dubious look. “I’ll be fine. Just need some rest. And maybe some ice. And a drink to go with that ice.”

  She folded her arms. “Have you ever known me to lose an argument once I made up my mind?”

  He frowned and met her gaze. “I figured this would be more a matter of your agreeing with me than an argument, really.”

  “This isn’t about the case. It’s about your face. Which is quite bad enough already.”

  His undamaged eyebrow shot up. “What the hells is wrong with my face?”

  “Nothing, provided you let me attend to it. Otherwise . . .” She trailed off, wondering if he was really that vain.

  He opened his mouth and shut it again. Sullenly, he touched the swelling and cuts along his jaw and cheek. “Fine, fine. If it’ll stop your fretting.”

  “You’re doing me a tremendous service.” Ritsuko dipped the cloth in warm water and blotted away the blood on each wound, her touch gentle.

  Then she cupped his chin, leaning close to inspect the damage. The split over his cheekbone likely needed stitches, but she didn’t imagine he’d heed her advice, difficult man. So she opened the antiseptic and folded a clean linen square. “This might sting.”

  “I swear, you’re enjoying this.”

  “Yes, I’ve always wanted to have you at my mercy.”

  He flinched at the first burn of antiseptic on open wounds. “I knew you had nefarious designs on my virtue, Ritsuko, from the first night they threw us together.”

  His tone was lighter, teasing, and that was a relief. Mikani in a rage was impressive, but fairly hard to handle. But his words made her heart give an unruly kick . . . because they weren’t as far off the mark as he imagined. She offered what she hoped was an inscrutable smile.

  “No, it wasn’t the first night. I’ve only had designs for a little while.”

  Let him make of that what he would.

  She opened the pot of salve, which was supposed to minimize soreness, swelling, and bruising, at least according to the bold-printed claims on the side. Ritsuko bent her head, sniffed; it wasn’t disagreeable, just green-smelling, as if from a mixture of herbs. At least it lacked the raw medicinal stink of the astringent.

  Mikani was watching her with a puzzled expression, as if trying to untangle her last comment. “Why, Ritsuko. If I’d known you wanted to rub ointments on me, I might have promised you in marriage to some lout long ago.”

  “Don’t be absurd. You’d go mad five minutes after the groom carried me off.”

  He looked away, murmuring. “So would he, I’d wager.”

  “Only in the most delightful ways.” She wanted to laugh when his chin jerked up, as her attempt to distract him was apparently working rather well.

  Ritsuko dipped into the pot with her fingertips, then bent so she could see the worst of the damage. With delicate strokes, she painted the area, feathering across his cut brow and around to his cheekbone. Then she smoothed lower, his jaw, his swollen mouth. With a gentle thumb, she grazed his lower lip, though making sure not to get the salve where he
could taste it.

  “How’s that?”

  He looked up at her, blue eyes dark in the gaslight. “Better,” he admitted. “So, we should—” He tried to shift back, and winced.

  “Shirt off. You can do it, or I will.”

  “Gods, woman, you’re so demanding. I’m fine.” He did, however, unbutton his shirt, his bruised knuckles making the process awkward and somewhat unsteady.

  “I prefer to think of myself as thorough.” She slipped the linen from his shoulders so it pooled on the chair behind.

  This wasn’t the first time she’d seen his bare chest, but it had even more impact this time. Perhaps it was because it was dark, the lamp throwing interesting shadows on his skin, or it might just be because she was about to touch him. Different than a cheek or a jaw, or a wrist, different, even, than the soft underside of his lip. Her pulse skittered, and she hoped her reaction wasn’t noticeable.

  Ritsuko slicked her fingers with the salve and knelt beside him, perched on her heels to better see his side, which was mottled with bruises. No time like the present. Afraid of hurting him, her fingers danced in butterfly strokes down his rib cage, barely grazing his warm skin. But each touch felt like a lick of heat swirling up her palms to her wrists until her elbows actually tingled. He shifted, shoulders tense and head tilted forward. He laced his fingers together when he rested his elbows on his knees, turning to let her get to the darkening bruises on his back and sides.

  “I’m sorry I got you into this mess.” Stark sincerity rang in his tone.

  “I’m not the one who looks like he got run over by a hansom. I’ve done all I can, though you may want to see a physician as well.”

  She went into the kitchen then, poured him a drink; and the lull gave her a chance to recover her equilibrium. I should probably leave soon. He seemed quieter, less likely to do something rash. When she returned, she carried a glass of whiskey in one hand and ice in the other, wrapped in a towel.

  “Here. Your two fondest desires.”

  He took the towel and pressed it gingerly to the side of his face. Then he reached for the glass, his fingers brushing hers, not quite taking it from her hand. “What, are you going to just leave me half-dressed and helpless, then?”

  She couldn’t decide if that was a tease, an opening, or an invitation. It had been a hell of a day, and what she really wanted was to curl up against his legs and close her eyes for a few seconds. Some fingers in her hair would be lovely, too. But such contact rarely stopped in innocence. Soft touches would lead to more, provided he was feeling this way, too. It was possible he was just too beat-up to recognize anything but pain.

  The moment stretched on, until she decided on a response. “Of course not. Just tell me what you need.”

  He squeezed her fingers lightly. “Stay awhile.”

  A long sigh eased out of her, release of the day’s tensions and failures, then for once, she followed her impulses and folded to the floor beside his chair, facing the night beyond the window. She leaned against his legs, just a little, and ached because the closeness felt that good. It seemed like ages since she’d slept. Tilting her head back, she offered Mikani the whiskey again.

  He smiled at her and took the glass. After he set the tumbler on the windowsill, his hand drifted down to settle on her shoulder.

  CHAPTER 16

  AURELIA HAD LIED TO THERON WHEN SHE CLAIMED SHE MIGHT let him catch her.

  In fact, the converse was true. Even after years in exile, she was still the Architect’s daughter, unable to walk away from intrigue. His mystery demanded a solution. So after a surreptitious visit to a seedy shop sandwiched between Chen the tattooist and Sad Sue’s pharmaceutical emporium, she had the means to discover Theron’s true agenda. Her own skills weren’t up to spying on such a powerful man; hence the nondescript charm hanging around her neck. It wasn’t the same as invisibility, more . . . misdirection, channeling her blood’s power to a new purpose. People’s attention slid away from her, registering her as part of the environment. In this part of town, she supposed she looked like a beggar.

  The southern wards had long since abandoned hope of recapturing the prosperity that once lined the streets in figurative gold. The warehouses and industrial sprawl of Iron Cross formed a stark skyline to the east, defying the spires and glimmering lights of the Central District, invisible but for their reflected glow on the clouds from this distance. Leaving the eternal bustle of the Summer’s Gate District, she wandered into a maze of tenements. It had been thus for as long as she could remember; only the old Craven District farther north along the eastern shore of the bay rivaled the Patchwork in decrepitude. The stench was horrific; pollutants from nearby Iron Cross, rotten wood and garbage, as well as the lingering smell of unwashed bodies.

  No hansoms operated here, so she walked the last mile, careful not to draw too near her prey. She slipped through the darkness behind Theron. The cut of his suit and his gold watch fob marked him as a target, but a whisper of glamour sent lesser predators scurrying away. His power made the air tingle as she followed, raising the hair on her forearms. Nobody paid her any attention; she was just another impoverished waif.

  Aurelia watched as he stood gazing at a wreck of a building, two walls tipping drunkenly inward. His expression revealed distaste, a hint of anger, perhaps; the reading of people wasn’t her forte. Moment of introspection set aside, he pushed through the front door; she waited to a count of ten, then followed. Limelights cast sharp shadows and painful glare on the open area within, spotlighting guards, who didn’t stir as Aurelia hovered in the doorway. Theron ignored them, making his way to the rear staircase.

  A towering figure stood at its base, bristling with blades. Theron said, “Tell Erebos I’m here.” The sentry’s eyes widened before he scurried upstairs.

  I knew he was a dark horse, but this . . . this is worse than I suspected. She wondered if Theron was some lord of the underworld, responsible for all manner of criminal enterprise. If so, he might have an ominous purpose in mind for her. His courtship could conceal all kinds of dire intent. She’d expected the usual political machinations, a desire for her father’s support or access to the Architect’s pipeline to new technologies.

  Not this.

  Once the footsteps quieted overhead, she slipped up the stairs. A woman with more innate caution would have turned and run by now, but it wasn’t caution that led her to surrender her family name and forge a life outside her House. She had chosen Wright, many years ago, as it implied one who crafts, as she had done her own path. But once, once I was an Olrik. And we do not flee the field before battle is joined. Her family was better known for cunning than bravery, laying traps for the unwary, and there was nothing so effective as foreknowledge.

  The stairs ended in a metal platform, beyond which lay an office. If there had been guards, Theron must’ve sent them away. She stilled in the shadows, watching, listening. Theron stood before a pretentiously sized desk with a squalid man, and a slattern cowered in the far corner. The smaller man pushed himself out of his chair, making an effort to restore order to his hair. There was inherent grime about him that no scrubbing could scour away. Dun hair, sallow skin, and murky eyes could not be enlivened by any number of bright garments or well-tailored coats.

  “Theron. It has been too long.”

  That’s a lie. Seldom had her truth-sense rung so hard, vibrating like a bell. She felt certain that this man would be happier if Theron’s head parted company with his body.

  “Not long enough for you to change, Erebos. Sit. Then we’ll talk.”

  “What about?” The fellow looked as if he might wet his pants.

  “I’m searching for . . . someone special. You know exactly what I’m looking for.” Theron leaned across the desk with a menacing air, and Aurelia fought a shiver. “And you hear what goes on in the streets.”

  “You give me too much credit. I have ears to the ground, but . . . one soul in a city this size? That’s impossible.” Fear laced the man’s ton
e, edging toward visceral terror.

  Aurelia couldn’t sort the nuances, whether it was Theron the man feared or the object of his search. She had no doubt that Erebos knew precisely who Theron’s quarry was, and he believed the man to be a ruthless killer.

  Her throat felt so dry, it hurt to swallow. Please don’t let the charm wear off. Some measure of self-preservation kicked in then, and she backed toward the edge of the landing, toward some stacked crates and barrels.

  “You will not disappoint me. I’ll turn your warehouse into a killing floor if you cross me. See you again soon.” The words were loud enough to reach her though she couldn’t hear Erebos’s reply.

  Theron glided past her, but he froze on the stairs, his head snapping up. Muted noise came from buildings all around. She had no words for what happened next, but his face went hard and predatory, a wolf offered a chance to hunt. He loped down the steps, his anticipation so fierce she could taste it in the night air. Her heart pounded like a kettledrum as she left the warehouse, a few moments later. Aurelia had no intention of continuing after what she’d seen—she was sufficiently scared—but the scene playing out wouldn’t permit her to escape.

  Two shadows slipped into the street from the alley beyond, keeping to the walls and piles of debris. Clad in black, they bore no lights and were geared for death. She saw the faint glimmer of starlight on blades and the barrels of their guns and nearly called out a warning, but if she did, the magic of the charm would be broken. She didn’t know him well enough to risk her own life, particularly when she thought he might pose a danger. Two more men slithered down, clad and armed as their companions, from a roof to the left.

  If I see them, surely he senses them. Theron appeared oblivious, tinkering with his gold watch. They can’t credit that he’s so unwary. Erebos must have warned them.

  In the wavering darkness, Aurelia rubbed her eyes, doubting her vision. Tendrils slid along his fingers, edging them in talons sharp enough to slice the first assassin’s throat. He lashed out with lightning speed. Ignoring the dying man’s feeble clutch, he forced him to his knees, black blood pooling at their feet as he faced the others.