Time of Blood. Robin Jarvis

      Grace squirmed in his grasp. ‘I must get on home!’ she protested. ‘It’s not safe out here. Let go, he’ll be after me!’

      ‘Who, lass?’

      ‘The master!’ she cried. ‘They’re killers, her an’ him! They murdered Esme – butchered her! And there’s another out here, back that way – with a gun. Mercy save me! They cut her head clean off !’

      The baker stared at her in disbelief.

      ‘What are you saying?’ he asked, and the bantering tone was gone from his voice. ‘Tell me. Be quick!’

      Before she could answer, a shrill mewling sounded in the sky.

      ‘God’s teeth!’ he declared, scanning the heavens as a black shape flew across the stars. ‘What in thunderation was that?’

      ‘It’s what were in the cage,’ Grace muttered.

      ‘Cage? Where is this cage? Tell me, child!’

      Grace shook her head in confusion. The baker was no longer speaking in a Yorkshire accent.

      Two shots rang out. The noise ricocheted through the cramped lanes, seeming to come from every direction.

      Rufus Brodribb whirled about and gave a snort of annoyance.

      ‘What is the blessed fool doing?’ he snapped. ‘I told him no wild shooting tonight!’

      Grace grabbed her chance. She pulled herself free and raced into the mist, towards the quayside. Brodribb was about to give chase when another shot blasted into the night, followed by a man’s bellowing yell. This time there was no doubt: it came from somewhere near Bagdale.

      ‘By God’s eyelid!’ he declared impatiently.

      It was too late to pursue the frightened girl. The billowing vapour had swallowed her. He would never find her in that. Taking a small pistol from his waistcoat pocket he hurried back along Baxtergate.

      Grace was lost in a fog bank. This close to the river it was thicker than ever and she could barely see her hands in front of her face. Finding a wall, she warily edged her way alongside it until she reached a corner. There was nothing she could do but follow it round. Soon she encountered a row of barrels and heard the clank and rattle of rigging close by. Grace realised she was perilously near the quayside and would have to take care not to step off the edge and plunge into the water.

      Cautiously, she continued on her way. The Scottish herring fleet had departed early this year and more barrels than usual crowded the quay. It was slow work, picking her way along, but a breath of wind moved over the waters and the mist began to thin until Grace could get her bearings. She was dismayed to discover she was only behind Collier’s, the chandler’s and ironmonger’s, and that the bridge was still a little distance away. Hurrying forward she was astonished to see a small, familiar figure standing upon one of the barrels ahead.

      It was a boy in his nightshirt; in his hands he held a beautiful round object made from shining gold.

      ‘Master Verne!’ exclaimed Grace. ‘Thanks be! How did you escape? What are you doing here and what have you there? Don’t say you stole it from the master!’

      There was no recognition in his wide, staring eyes and no answer came from his lips.

      ‘It’s Grace,’ she told him. ‘You know me. Come, take my hand. We’ll both get out of this nasty fret and put my dad’s stout door ’tween us and the horrors of Bagdale Hall. Get you fed as well. You’re fair starved, poor lad.’

      Still no reply, but the boy’s dark pupils drifted from her anxious face to a tall shape that jumped down from the barrels behind her.

      ‘He knows you best as Flossy surely?’ came the unmistakable snarl of the marquess. ‘Do not confuse my ward any more than he already is. His young mind is as befogged as these streets. Mrs Axmill is a most efficient housekeeper and has many superior qualities for a female of her time and station, but she founders in the management of young boys. The laudanum bottle is a poor substitute for a governess. However, it and a spartan diet keep him subdued and biddable. He used to be so defiant and mutinous.’

      Grace turned slowly.

      Cloaked with curling mist, the Marquess Darqueller towered before her. An ugly sneer twisted his handsome face and cruelty beyond measure beat from those pitiless eyes.

      Grace felt faint. She sensed his domineering will strike at her spirit, trying to subjugate and crush her personality, to control her thoughts. But she refused to be cowed and turned her fear to anger.

      ‘Don’t you come near me!’ she shouted. ‘I’ll scream this town out of their beds, telling everyone what you done – and scratch such a mark on you you’ll never be rid of it.’

      ‘Don’t show your claws to me, kitten,’ he said with a foul laugh. ‘I have sharper barbs.’

      Reaching into the pocket of his tailcoat he brought out a lozenge-shaped leather case, from which he took a syringe.

      ‘Blood is the bridge,’ he told her. ‘I had planned to wait a few weeks more before this intimate moment, but your incurable inquisitiveness, coupled with the inebriate tendencies of my unseen house guest, have advanced matters.’

      Grace shrank back.

      ‘You’re mad!’ she cried. ‘But they’ll hang you anyways – you and Axmill. You’ll both twitch at the end of ropes. Keep that needle away from me.’

      ‘I do not fear the gallows. I have already danced that jig.’

      Grace threw back her head to scream, but terror killed her voice. Leathery wings swooped down out of the fog. Razor claws dug into her scalp and a ferocious feline face spat into her eyes.

      Grace whirled around wildly, trying to drag the creature from her head.

      ‘Play dainty, Catesby,’ the marquess said. ‘Don’t spoil its beauty. I want the corpse to be a comely one, not riven with scars and stitches like your own patched and lumpen carcass.’

      Striding up to the girl, he raised his hand.

      A tear carved a path down Verne’s cheek as he watched Grace lose her frantic battle and fall to the ground.

      Smirking, the marquess knelt beside her and brushed the auburn tresses away from her throat. Blue sparks crackled between his thumb and forefinger as he rubbed them together and by their bouncing light he admired the exposed neck.

      ‘Such a pretty one,’ he observed as he set about filling the syringe with blood.

      Moments later he held the scarlet fluid aloft. ‘Behold, Catesby. The first of our dowries, the bonniest of bride prices.’

      Before he could say more, the mist echoed with urgent, running footsteps.

      ‘You certain you saw it fly this way?’ a panting voice asked.

      ‘I’d swear to that,’ came the insistent reply.

      Returning the syringe to its case, the marquess gazed down at Grace’s body. For the present he had what he needed. Stepping over to Verne, he snapped his fingers at Catesby.

      ‘Divert them,’ he instructed.

      The large sable creature spread its wide bat wings and pounced into the air. Soaring up, it skimmed the ironmonger’s chimney and zigzagged over the road beyond, screeching its unearthly cry.

      ‘There!’ one of the voices called.

      A gunshot split the night.

      ‘You’ll never hit it,’ the other man declared. ‘And even if you did, would a mere bullet have any effect? God’s teeth, what misshapen devils plague this little town? What malignant canker has taken root?’

      Hearing them, the marquess laughed softly to himself. Standing behind Verne, he gripped the boy’s shoulders.