Maybelle exhaled on the scope, letting the coolness of London form a thin veil of mist over the glass. She wiped at the lens for the eighth time this hour. The timepiece hung at her side, its chain suspended by its lope by her shirt's small button. The silver thing ticked against her beating heart, tick-thrum, tock-thrum. She felt the two entities racing against each other.
It was almost nine, and by the looks of it, Jacob was nowhere in sight. She had peered into the darkness that loomed behind the wrecked border that separated her from inquisitive eyes. But the dark-clad man was nowhere to be seen. Either that he bailed on her, leaving her to deal with the men alone after pulling an especially filthy prank on her, or his clothing was black enough that his figure was swallowed into the void of shadow. Her only companion that kept her at ease was a miniature candle that was almost melted flat by constant use. But she was sure it was deliberate on Jacob's behalf. He might've snatched it from the sill of an unsuspecting family or two, depriving them of their right to see. Or maybe he planned ahead, keeping the small thing lit for days and days. The thread became almost-buried in the searing glaze. The flame began to fade.
She checked the watch again—three minutes to nine. She laid the muzzle atop a breach in the stone and looked through the lens. Not even the movement of his flowing tailcoat, not even the rustle of leaves or crisp grass under determined feet. There was nothing. He tricked her. He told her he'll be waiting for her at Nine sharp, did he slip and mean Ten? Did he mean tomorrow's Nine? No, it can't be this drastic. He back-stabbed her, as would anyone to a woman they did not trust. She came from the dungeons of men he loathed, from the bowels of an alliance she wasn't aware she was a part of. She lifted her eyes from the lens.
The flame took its last breath, and Maybelle was left in the darkness of the building, and the red-fury of her heart.
In the distance, Big Ben chimed Nine. Could the heartbeat of London be wrong? No, it was impossible. Rich and poor depended on that tower, both alike in their respect for it. It was nine, it was nine.
And what's next for her then? Betray the man that betrayed her. Take the map for herself. Search for the gauntlet alone. Could she do it? Could she rise above those that had immeasurable amounts of power and respect? Her knees ached as they pressed against the planks beneath her. Her fingers curled around the barrel of her rifle until her knuckles whitened. Leave. Her thoughts told her. Leave and don't look for the gauntlet again. Her stubbornness made her peer into the glass one last time.
The dead of night was drawn away by the longer days of spring. Under the soft gloom of a crescent moon and under a dark blue sky he crouched. Low against the short fence, his body seemingly vanishing against the railings. The distant lone lamppost lit the side of his face. His hazel eyes were marred with a similar sort of worry. The fear that she had abandoned him to search for the monster alone.
Through the haze of uncertainty, Maybelle lifted her hand against the biggest gap and let her fingers curl. She couldn't hazard a wave, since guards littered the area behind Jacob, and would notice the movement like a hawk searching for a skittering rat. Big Ben's chimes stopped, the echo still fresh in her memory.
She could've sworn she saw him nod, then he moved over the fence and into the bowls of the tangled, overgrown mess Blake called a garden. Maybelle readied her rifle and looked through the scope, following the gang leader as he tiptoed on the tall grass. Her finger was against the trigger. Her pulse rivaled the fleeting seconds.
She watched the black phantom as he moved behind a guard patrolling the east side of the premise, he was darkness incarnate. The man Jacob targeted was many inches taller than him, but he was in the way of his ultimate goal—the mansion that stood like a hulking mass, anchoring on the end of the grass, its brick walls as dark as the hearts that Jacob described with blind vehemence.
Jacob thrust his hands against the guard's back, as if he was congratulating him on honest success. The man crumbled to the ground, his fall slightly absorbed by the thickness of the grass and made but a whisper. His killer moved over the body, catlike, wrists dripping with blood. It was almost nonsensical. Magical. She witnessed the mist of that ghost, felt it through her fingers, flew with it, even. But it never changed the way she looked at him. She was brought back to a place and time she vowed to never return. She struggled against the desire to close her eyes.
Jacob flowed through the garden like a silent plague, adding corpses to the world of the dead in his wake. He became close to the lamppost, stalking his third kill, when his prey noticed him. Hunter became the hunted. The blonde, helmet-less guard raised the alarm with brief words that thrummed in Maybelle's chest. Intruder! Middlemost!
I can see you. She held her breath and fired, and the man was silenced forever.
Jacob moved across the garden in his gliding crouch, hiding behind a particularly large bush that would drive any gardener bonkers. The leaves would offer him moments of solitude, but not a shield. She had to act. Several of those who heard the final call of a troubled man came to his aid ten seconds too late. They began to look for the blade-bearer and his helper. Maybelle had a woman in her sights. Short, young, whimsical. As she passed by the lamplight, Maybelle locked her sights and wasted no time to hazard another chance. The brunette's head spewed blood against the black lamppost. She fell back against a guard, and he failed to catch the dying body. She tumbled limply to the ground. Done for.
By the time the group recovered, Jacob had moved to a different hiding spot. A pang of realization made Maybelle quiver in fear—she would not tell the difference between friend or foe. Not even the bleak contrast in their clothing would indicate something to her mind, no, not in the heat of battle. Not when she has a rifle in her hands. When Maybelle found herself in a nest, there were two kinds of people—those that erased their plans of attacking, or those who were too mutilated to have an open casket funeral.
Maybelle sucked in a breath and chose a guard to focus on, one that wasn't tall enough to qualify as a certain hazel-eyed phantom. She found the lad and prepared to shoot, but before she did, her actions were interrupted by a deafening bullet that suddenly made her head numb. It took her a few blinks to realize her right ear was split at the top, and blood was cascading down her neck like warm wine. She swiped at her neck as her thoughts clamored to make sense of the situation. Jacob was down there, outnumbered and vastly under-equipped. He needed her. The puzzle was solved. It was another sniper. A mocking twin that mirrored her and wanted to see her dead. A damn good shot, since he fired through one of the gaps. Maybelle went prone and peered through the lowest hole with a bare eye, looking for her reflection.
He was on the roof, his features barely lit by the falling darkness, as if he was the sky itself. Maybelle reached for her rifle and grabbed the small box of ammunition. She lifted herself and almost attempted to reload, but the sniper took another shot into the unknown. Her instinct told her to duck, so she did. She lunged across the ground with sheer horror, her mind swarming and checking if she was still alive by inducing a rough shiver. The box fell from her grasp and over the edge of the broken ground. Down the hole that led to a certain death three storeys below. The box spewed the bullets out, letting them clink against various areas. Out of instinct, she crawled over and tried to save the box that might hold the fates of two souls within. Her hand extended, but her fingers touched nothingness.
She heard a crack.
Not a crack of the bone—no, she heard that when Stocker decided to teach a thieving maid a lesson in biology. It was the unmistakable crack of wood, like a tree leaving its precious roots. Like a cane snapping against her back when all she could shout was No. The crack echoed again, this time higher, larger. The ground snapped beneath her, taking her sliding downwards, into the mouth of a beast she feared for a long time. Its wooden teeth scrapped against her arm, snatching bits of thread and fabric to keep for its own. Her rifle fell out of the nest, plummeting into the depths. Her body left the planks that once formed her nest, and she fell onto the next story with a grunt that drew the breath out of her. She heard the cries of the homeless below, perhaps unfazed by the recent noises of bullets. Maybelle could do nothing but stare as the ceiling came crashing down around her, enveloping the second story in a nightmarish earthquake. She finally screamed, her petrified voice lost among the chaos of a falling building. The ground shook and collapsed to the story below. The building began to crumble after so many months of standing proudly over the slum. She refused to let it be her tomb.
She stood and dashed to the apparent exit—which was now a mere gap in the remainder of the wall that settled among the wake of dust. She coughed and crawled under the hole to the crisp air outside. Behind her she heard wood and stone clash with ear-splitting chaos, her hair stood on end. She stood and moved from the impending danger, dodging broken shards of wood and flying pieces of bricks. The chaos ceased, leaving the building a flat, burnt wreckage. It soon woke in fire again—the flames of the homeless who inhabited it, doused momentarily by the dust, only to rise once more.
"There, I see her!" A voice called in the distance, a man. She heard approaching footsteps, nimble, heavy, suggesting danger. She looked at the source. A guard was racing towards her, his eyes almost glowing with revenge for his fallen as they burned on her, his arms extending fully as he hurried towards the crumbling, dusty ruins that fell around the raven-haired woman.
Maybelle reached for the dagger strapped to her thigh, hearing the leather of the sheath tear as she pulled out the blade. The panting guard aimed at her as he ran, firing a deadly shot that she miraculously dodged. They met in the midst of the empty street, Maybelle slashing at his neck and him taking another aim. He fired, and she grunted as she crouched to stab at his torso. He doubled over in pain, throwing his Colt across with a shaking hand. The weapon hit the cobblestone and fired a shot towards the unknown. Maybelle fought to seize it, her knees hitting the ground as she darted to the fallen weapon. The man fell with a thud behind her, but a hand grasped her ankle, pulling her away from the revolver with surprising strength. She yelped, kicking at guard's head, her gaze on his thick hand but her body stretching to take the prize. Maybelle's fingertips touched the still-smoking barrel, and with a choked yell, she gathered the revolver and twisted to fire at the guard's head. The grip on her ankle loosened.
She rose, an itch in her throat and dust in her nostrils. Her cheek was scratched by small bits of stone. She almost slipped on the gathering pool of blood as she hurried towards the garden, the revolver gleaming in one hand while the other held a dripping blade. Her silhouette glowed with the fire that slowly gnawed at the brick skeleton behind her. The sniper fired again, his bullet dizzyingly fast, echoing as it crossed the battlefield. The fence thwarted his attempts, the elongated bullet bouncing off. She crouched behind it, her composure waning as she tasted something bitter and smelled death and burning stone. She sucked in a breath and leaned over the low fence, one eye closing, her hand rising to aim at her doom. She fired, the gunman dropped his targeting stance and clutched his belly, leaning forward. He fell off the edge, roaring until his body splattered on the courtyard below. Maybelle looked away, her eyes wet with fear. She heard the pained groans of struggling men.
She forced herself to push on, stepping foot into the garden and looking for Jacob. He was battling with three guards on the west, the blood of his foes blending with the blackness of his coat, his own blood smeared on his face, coming from a dripping cut on his cheek. His hat was missing, revealing the brown hair underneath. Maybelle planted her feet and aimed the gun, her sights flitted from body to body, following them until she had a good shot. Once a man hesitated and stopped trying to hit Jacob with his metal knuckles, she fired. She heard a click. It came from between her hands.
"Shit!" She dropped the revolver and bolted to the man with a roar. He waited for her, almost beckoning, a smirk on his face.
They clashed, the hulk of a man attempting to feed her metallic punches, one connecting and bruising her jaw. She fell into a crouch and thrust the dagger into the guard's ribs, pulling it to watch the cut ooze blood. He lunged at her and they both fell on the grass. He punched and it connected with her cheekbone. She yelled, clenching her teeth. His weight took the breath out of her, she struggled to keep her eyes open. Maybelle squirmed against the man and heard him laugh. A hand wrapped around her throat, blocking her air. She felt her head go hot with blood. If she didn't act, he would choke her until he grew tired and snapped her neck with ease. She lifted her hand and plunged the dagger into his left eye. He fell onto her, and she wriggled to push him away. Jacob was finishing off the final guard, his face almost unrecognizable, concealed thickly behind gleaming blood.
Jacob stabbed his wrists into the guard's belly repeatedly, and he let his corpse go. It fell right next to Maybelle's panting form.
His hazel eyes were dark with frenzy. He wiped his face on his sleeve, "I told you not to leave your post!"
"Haven't you looked at the building, Frye?!" She stood and watched the orange smoke, people refused to gather around the wreck, afraid of the battlefield that raged near it.
"What happened?" He asked, eyes wild. The only thing that wasn't bloody about him was the whites of his eyes.
"The ground collapsed. I told you! I told you this would happen! You wouldn't listen!" She cried, pushing him. But the force barely moved him.
"Where would you like me to put you instead? Alongside me? You would like that? You would like being crushed to death by one of these?" He waved to the massacre of guards.
"I fared rather well. And without my help, you wouldn't be standing here."
"No, I wouldn't. I would already be on my way into the mansion instead of bickering with you." He shut his mouth and marched into the courtyard, leaving her in pools of blood the dirt refused to absorb.
Maybelle groaned and hurried behind him, her hand going to touch her raw cheek. Even the wind made it pulse with pain.
"Do you think he ran?" She asked as they ascended the front steps.
He wiped his hands at his sides to clean them, getting them filthier instead, "If he did, I'll chase him, don't worry."
"And what if there's more guards inside?" She asked, but she was too late. He kicked the front door open and walked inside. She followed hesitantly.
The mansion looked and felt empty. A chandelier lit the entrance with only a third of its candles. The wax dripped down the golden handles and joined the drying pool on the tiles. A grand staircase was in front of them leading left and right to the mansion's facilities. Two corridors waited on the left and right. Both of them cold and deserted, the light of the chandelier not reaching them.
"Where is everyone?" She asked.
Jacob smirked, his vision scanning the second level, "They're afraid of us, kitten. They ran."
She grumbled, folding her arms, "Great, that's what we needed. What do you propose we do now, Frye? Chase him until we end up in Scotland?"
"I would rather visit Wales. But yes, I'll chase him into whatever." He began walking into the corridor on the right, reaching into his coat to pull brass knuckles out and sliding them down his fingers. The hem of his coat dripped blood on the beige tiles.
"Do you think Blake has maids, Frye? I think they'd be furious once they see their little guest ravaging the mansion." She pointed at his coat. The bloodstains smeared under her boots as she walked.
"On the contrary, I think he cleans the mansion himself. I mean, look at this mess," He waved to the dusty furniture, "I would not choose to live here."
She snorted, putting her hands in her pockets.
They searched the whole corridor, which led to a kitchen and a small room with a lone table. They found their way back, forlorn. Jacob stared up the staircase for the second time.
He scratched the dry blood from the side of his lip, "I don't think the other corridor has anything of interest. Let's just climb up."
"Whatever you say, Frye."
They made their way to the second story, which was unlit and smelled of mold. Jacob took a left and began to explore the corridor. Maybelle stood at the railings and searched the other side with keen interest. Did the man really disappear? That would be highly likely. His men provided a commotion while he fled from the backdoor and took a carriage out of London. That would be a reasonable plan to anyone who feared for their life. She licked her lips and tasted the bloody remnants of the guards. Maybelle gagged.
Jacob noticed her absence, and he called from a room, "What are you looking for? He wouldn't be hanging from the ceiling, kitten."
"I'm just checking if anyone's really in here." She walked away from the railings and followed the bloodstains through the hallway. She arrived as Jacob exited a bedroom with an irritated vibe to him.
"I won't leave until we search the entire area." He said and brushed by her, leaving the hallway and going into another.
A gigantic mansion like this would take hours to fully explore, but Jacob was brisk. Giving each room a quick glance before slamming the door with an annoyed moan. She followed behind, eyes stinging with exhaustion and the bite of failure. They reached the other side of the staircase and Jacob took to the nearest hallway. Three rooms were within, an empty, small bedroom, and a room housing variously coloured bolts of clothing and a dozen baskets. Jacob stood at the last door, his hand going to the handle. But before he touched it, he stopped.
Maybelle noticed his scowl, "What is it?"
"I feel..." He paused, touching the golden handle, "Can you feel something warm coming out of this room? A wind…"
Her body instantly bristled as it felt heat radiate from the door, "What? Do you think there's someone in there? Oh, shit. He's in there."
Jacob hushed her and reached for his revolver, she heard him suck in a breath, and he breached into the room.
Inside, a small boy jumped from his slumber, drawing red blankets to his shivering face. He was barely seven, his features were further softened by the faint glow of the fireplace. How did he sleep through the fight?
Maybelle's eyes widened, her lip quivering as her eyes met the boy's gaze. Jacob was covered from head to two in dry blood and dirt, while dust stuck to her clothing and the caked injuries on her face. They looked like two demons out of a horror tale, come steal the boy from the embrace of his mother. Maybelle put a hand on Jacob's shoulder, pulling slightly. The kid began to cry silently.
"Jacob, let's leave." She said, pulling him back again. He remained rigid, his jade eyes never leaving the boy. He slowly nodded.
Maybelle glanced at the weeping boy as he cowered in his bed, "It's alright, we won't hurt you. I promise you." She tugged at Jacob again, and he finally budged. He slammed the door, his stare practically burning a gap into the wood.
"Jacob, let's go."
His breathing was loud, "I almost fired…"
"You didn't, let's move." She said softly.
He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, then he continued his search with a permanent frown.
"If he's here, then his father is most definitely here." He said, exiting the hallway and mindlessly picking the next area to search. He walked into the middlemost hallway.
At the end of the darkness was a lone door, larger than the rest, its grandness surely promising in his eyes. Maybelle waited and watched him fiddle with the lock eagerly.
"If his father's here, do you think this is an ambush?"
He shook his head, "It's too silent, I can't hear anything."
She grunted, "You haven't heard the boy either."
He snapped the lockpick, his breathing went rigid, "Do you think I would hear his breathing, May? I barely noticed that he was a kid when we walked in."
She almost parted her lips to offer him help with the lock, but suddenly, she felt the barrel of a gun touch the back of her skull.
The silent scuffle of what felt like a dozen men reverberated behind the pair. Jacob froze in his crouch, his fingers pausing as he listened. Maybelle swallowed, eyes wide.
"Don't move, kids. But I'll be glad if you give my men an excuse to shoot you." It was said with authority, control. The voice reminded her of Hayward Willis for a fleeting moment. Maybelle knew at once that it was Blake.
"Here's what we're going to do," He said, coming into Maybelle's view. His face looked young, but his hair was peppered with greying strands, "You're going to put your hands on your head, and my men will confiscate your weapons. We got a deal? Yes, we do. And if we don't, my men will kill you. And if they couldn't, the police will. They're on their way." He finished his speech with a satisfied chuckle.
Two men moved around her and stood behind Jacob, tearing him from the door and taking his hands to lace around his head. They patted down his bloody coat, extracting weapons and other objects whenever they found a suspicious bump. The barrel at her head shifted and inquisitive hands slid down her waist almost sensually, the guard tore the dagger out of its sheath, she heard its clank upon wood. The two men kept examining Jacob for hazards.
"May, hold your breath." It was a whisper from Jacob, but Maybelle couldn't process his command quickly enough, and because of that, she lost all control.
Jacob punched at the men holding him, freeing himself. A man behind Maybelle tried to shoot him, but his bullet lodged itself into the door. With almost undetectable speed, Jacob released a small, metallic ball from his hand, and the hallway filled with orange mist. Maybelle breathed in, tasting the tanginess in the air that she remembered from an incident nights ago. Everyone but Jacob fell, some against the walls, some on the floor, all screaming from an unseen threat, an undiscovered injury. Maybelle was with them, seeing visions of the crystal tower, her blood draining as her foot slid down the spike. She closed her eyes, her cries joining the others until the noise merged into one. Not again, not the vision, not again.
The shrieking men were silenced, one by one, until she was the only one squirming against the faux pain. Someone put his hands under her arms, pulling her away from the hallway. She writhed, her arms flailing to strike at the menace.
"May, it's okay. It's Jacob." He was gentle, his hand under her chin and another in her hair as her head laid on his thigh. She opened her eyes and saw his face, but behind him was a figure. The physique of the woman was made from pure, blinding light. White and glowing, chasing the endless darkness until everything was bleached. She looked at Maybelle with her hollow eyes, her featureless face, her flowing robes. Her snowy hand reached up with an arm, a stump. Black blood was dripping from the still open wound. The world faded from Maybelle's vision, and when it came back, she found Jacob's gaze.
"I told you to hold your breath, you stubborn little cat." He purred, a smile appearing on his dirtied face.
She wanted to answer him, but she was shaking. A cry escaped her lips with every breath, her chest heaved.
"The police are coming, we need to go. Come on, kitten." Jacob lifted the shivering girl to her feet, but she refused to stand on her own. Jacob groaned impatiently.
She gripped at his shoulder, her knees shaking. She felt his breath on her face, he was far too near. She parted her quivering lips, "What was that?"
"That was Blake's corpse spilling the entirety of its bladder on the wood. Poor maids. You could say he's pissed that I killed him."
She couldn't find the power to roll her eyes, "What you unleashed, what was that?"
He hummed, "Fear bomb, like that spike you pricked yourself with. Very powerful. And don't blame me for getting you poisoned along with them."
She held her breath, "I'm poisoned?!"
He sighed, "Just for a few moments. I killed them all while you were screaming your lungs off, can we go now?" He took her arm and put it around his neck, letting her lean on him. He began walking towards the staircase.
"What are we going to do? He said the police are coming." She said.
"They already came."
She remembered, "Wait! The room!" She let go of him and limped towards the hallway. She awkwardly stepped over the corpses and almost tripped and fell against the door.
"May, we don't have time!" Jacob came behind her.
"If Blake watched us as we explored his mansion and only released his ambush here, it means there's something highly secretive behind this door." She said and searched for her lockpicks, but they weren't on her. They must have fell when she was trying to survive the wreckage.
She looked back at him, "Got any?"
He rolled his eyes and moved her aside like an insolent child, he attacked the door with his side, a grunt escaping him, but it remained closed. Running his fingers through his hair, he fished for a couple lockpicks and thrust them in Maybelle's hand.
Maybelle bent and picked up her dagger, she fiddled with the door for a few seconds until it unlocked. She opened the door and walked inside, braving against whatever waited for her. It was Blake's office, poorly lit and incredibly under-furnished. The desk in the midst of the room was almost clear of any juicy documents about the Order. But a few letters did sit in the corner, weighed down with an unlit candlestick to forbid the open window from blowing them away. She moved the golden ornament and gathered the letters in her hands, pocketing them.
"Are we done here?" Jacob asked behind her.
"The desk-"
"No time." He took her hand and hurried out the office.
He practically towed her behind him until they reached the front door, but Jacob ignored it and marched to the unexplored hallway instead. His prays of finding a backdoor there were answered. He pushed through and pulled Maybelle out of the mansion, sweat mingling with dried blood, making it congeal into a black muck. He took her to the end of the garden, in the shadow of the mansion. If the grass was a little untrimmed in the front, here it formed a forest. The green tendrils almost reached their knees, it would be very possible to hide inside the vegetation like rats, until the looming threat disappeared and they could flee, leaving no trace. But Jacob had different ideas. He hurried to the low fence, vaulting over it and waiting as Maybelle did the same. She tried to shake the haziness away by slapping her forehead continuously, but all she earned was a headache. She heard the whistles of policemen come from somewhere in the garden—perhaps to the west side where Jacob once hid. They must have noticed their handiwork by now, and wrote them onto the list of most wanted.
The pair rushed across the road silently, the only sounds they heard were their footsteps and the cries of the sick inside the alleys. Jacob stopped at the sidewalk and looked around, seemingly lost and itching to find a way out. He cast his eyes to the roofs, but then realized May was with him. He looked at the closed windows of the rookeries, but knew the startled families will give them away, and he hadn't the heart to threaten them at gunpoint, May knew that. A wagon appeared in the corner, a round, sleepy man driving a lone white horse. Jacob immediately attacked the wagon. Throwing the bloke onto the cobblestone and ignoring his feeble protests. Well, he did have the heart to do that. He waited for Maybelle to quit staring at the fleeing man and climb on.
She slid next to him, looking back at the man until he disappeared. Jacob spooked the living soul out of the poor bastard—the man escaped like a deer in a hunting tournament.
"Did you have to steal it from him?" She said as Jacob urged the horse into a gallop.
"No, I should have told him—sir, oh kind sir, why don't you take us to Whitechapel as we sit in the back and sample some of your beer while police is on our tail?" He glowered and nodded to the barrels full of unidentified contents.
"Maybe we could have just… walked, or lost them in some alleyway."
He clicked his tongue, but the horse thought the sound was for it, so it hurried, "Too much trouble."
As Jacob drove out the street, the mansion disappearing behind the rookeries and the closed shops, Maybelle thought they were clear. But as Jacob drove across Finsbury, Maybelle heard a commotion over the rhythmic strides of the horse. She dared to look back, and noticed the brightness of a lantern that lit the frame of an approaching wagon. It was still distant, but the two horses worked hard to get it to catch up.
"Jacob! They're chasing us!" She poked his arm as if he wasn't paying attention.
He glanced away from the road, and at the wagon behind them. He scowled, but was generally unfazed, "They caught up, take the reins." He threw them in her hands.
"What? Where to?" She struggled to keep her focus on the road. The horse veered to the side, she tugged left until the wagon righted.
"Wherever, just give me time." He hopped to the back of the wagon, leaving her driving towards an unknown destination. Her back was exposed to whoever wanted to shoot it. She cursed under her breath, she wasn't sure she was allowed to look back.
She heard gunshots, and the neighs of a startled horse. Their own white galloped faster, racing the wind. The road was ending in a turn, Maybelle pulled slightly and made the horse take a left.
"Hurry up!" She shouted, careful not to bump into a lamppost and ruin everyone's night. She heard another gunshot.
"Alright, if that's the way you want to play. You prick." Jacob said. Maybelle could hear the slightest whisper of something sharp, like the sting of a bee, or the hiss of a needle as it cut the air. She heard a horse whinny, and the police's wagon crash into stone. Jacob hopped back beside her, stealing the reins.
"What did you do?" She looked back immediately, noting the destruction the startled horse caused. The wagon was thrown upside-down, the wheel still turning.
"I put something in the horse's bloodstream, that's all." He said blandly.
"What? From this distance?"
"I'll explain later." He stopped talking, his eyebrows furrowed. He looked into space and let the horse drive wherever it wanted, "I'm thinking the flat is too dangerous, since we have the police after us. They could only ask around to find the flat."
"What? You bought the flat in your name, why?" She thought a gang leader would be more secretive.
"Because I want my sister to find me when she comes home." His voice was laced with longing, but his expression gave away nothing.
Maybelle bit her lip, straightening herself, "Do you miss her?"
He narrowed his eyes at the road, his chest heaving, "I think anyone would miss their sibling when they leave them, don't you?" He asked, turning to look at her pointedly when he reached the question.
She blinked. Yes, she missed her sister dearly, no matter how much the older woman hated her—and she knew her sister hated her—she still ached to see her. She laid awake at night, thinking of her round face, her grey eyes that reminded her of a cloudy day, of silver pearls. She missed her.
"I'm sorry for asking, it was stupid." She peered at the moving landscape.
His voice was calmer, "No, it was not stupid. It was just a bit intrusive, I don't like that. I try to keep everything about my personal life secret."
She dared to ask, "Is it just about me?"
He lightly shook his head, "No, I don't wear my heart on my sleeve. But I would be especially careful when I'm with you." He refused to look at her.
Maybelle's nostrils flared, "Are you joking?! I put my life in danger out there, to protect you, to make sure you're not dead!"
"No, you were looking for the artifact. And it's not in there, remember that. Remember that we have a long way to go before you get some insufferable jewellery to match your personality."
She laughed humorlessly, "Every time I look at you, the appeal of taking that road alone becomes better and better."
He wheeled at her, shouting above the wind, "Then jump off! Jump of right now and go look for the damn thing alone! I'll give you a couple of days before a Rook carries your battered, lifeless body back to me."
"Would you have killed Blake without my help in the garden, Frye? I don't think so."
"You were more of a liability than anything. Inhaling the bomb's smoke like cannabis when I told you to keep your breath held." He was visibly annoyed, and his hands gripped the reins tight.
"Oh, I wasn't aware that you were going to unleash one of your murderous instruments, you lout." She scooted to the edge of the seat, away from his aura.
"Of course, that is what I should expect of a woman that pricks her damn self with a dangerous-looking spike…"
He was speaking as if she wasn't there. She hated that. At least Stocker was subtle, with his vague, seething comments that were clearly aimed at her when the ruse of generalization faded.
She tried to calm her tone, "Once again, I didn't know I was dealing with a snake."
"You better mean my liking for poisoned tips, and not myself," He glared, then swallowed, "You speak of the stuff as if it isn't the best weapon you've ever seen." He smirked.
"I'm not much of a fan for weapons."
"You're only a fan of gold." He pulled the stolen watch out of his coat, glancing at it then getting back to the road, "Since it's dark, and its Saturday, we'll find them lurking in the Strand."
"Who are you talking about?" She asked, her voice weak.
"You'll see."