Warnings: graphic depictions of violence, referenced rape/non-con, and major character death.
True to form, he drove to the rec room early in the day, mulling over his plan of attack. The only lead he had was the squished bullet in his pocket, the one Leila insisted Harken hadn't fired.
Ursula and Jerme had an unenthusiastic game of billiards going when he got there. Matthew's eyes flickered to the couch, all too eager to see Leila again, especially after his dreams the night before….His cheeks grew hot at the thought, the image of her sweat-soaked body burned on the backs of his eyelids. To his surprise, she wasn't there, and at that hour, he couldn't imagine where else she could have gone off to. She wouldn't have stayed at the boarding house, after all.
"Hey, kid," Ursula said.
"Hey," he replied. "Anything new?"
"Angel of Death is finally back," she said, shrugging. She ignored the way Jerme's lip curled and asked, "How was your meeting with Isadora? Did you find anything useful?"
He made a face.
"She didn't have what Hurricane wanted. Speaking of which, have you seen him lately?"
"Not in a while, no. Why?"
"I thought he might have need of me, so I've been looking for him. It's nothing to worry about," Matthew replied with faux cheeriness. A stab of fear touched him. Legault was gone. Leila was gone. Uhai was still trying to get over a bullet in him…Could it all be the same person? One shadowy, vengeful person sniping Fang members one by one? His mind uneasily brought up the way Isadora had too quickly insisted that Legault couldn't know anything about the current situation.
Jerme cracked a savage grin.
"I think he did learn something from the police dog. Something he's got to pass on to that weasel, Hurricane," he said, his gun flickering into his hand like a bolt of lightning. He got in Matthew's face in an instant, breath like a vulture's, gun jabbing into the cabbie's stomach.
"I could feel his blood splatter, feed my weapon…" he growled, black eyes shining with a manic excitement. Matthew's throat went dry, goose pimples pouring over his skin.
"Death Kite! Desist! That's an order!" Ursula yelled, drawing her own weapon.
Jerme smiled wickedly, but he put up his gun.
"Give it time," he whispered, walking back to the table.
Matthew staggered back against the wall, his knees wobbling. Too late did he remember his own weapon. Instead, he'd just stood there like a terrified child, breath coming in short gasps.
Ursula glared daggers at Jerme.
"What do you think you're doing? Matthew is under our orders. He's no more a traitor than I am. Hurricane outranks you, if you don't remember."
Jerme snarled animalistically, but he said nothing.
"Hey, uh, have you seen Leila?" Matthew asked.
"Why do you care?"
"Hurricane's gone, Leila's gone, Soaring Hawk and Angel of Death are half dead…Can you blame a bloke for worrying?"
"She's with Sir Ephidel," Ursula said simply.
His heart contracted painfully as he imagined the fresh injuries that would be splattered across her skin like splotches of paint hurled wildly by a psychotic artist. He could plainly see the way she would bite her lip and look away, too proud to admit the pain that cut into her. Ephidel didn't deserve to order people around if he treated his own men like that! Matthew couldn't help but think of the same callousness he had observed earlier, the way his own so-called brothers in the Black Fang tossed each other aside so heartlessly.
For the first time since he joined the Fang, Matthew doubted them. Their cause was righteous, and they had been the closest to a family that he'd had, but he doubted them. He looked over at Jerme's crazed expression, insanity clear in his eyes, and wondered why they tolerated so many breaches of conduct from one like him. Jerme didn't care about his fellows, the government, or anything besides satisfying his sick thirst for blood and the oblivion of heroin. So few of them did care about those core ideals anymore.
It didn't matter, he reasoned. People like Nino and Lloyd and Legault still stood for what was right, and he would follow them until the end.
"So your mission isn't going too well?" Ursula asked.
"Unless you can tell me what type of gun fired this, no," he said, pulling out the crumpled bullet.
Ursula looked at it for a moment before handing it back.
"I can't say quite what that is, no. If you really want to know, you might want to take it to Farina. She'll help."
"Who?" Matthew asked.
"The storeowner of Murphy and Huey's. It's a munitions shop up in Ilia for those of us who need ammo outside the law," Ursula explained. "Farina's not cheap, but she might be able to tell you something."
"Hey, really? Sounds great. You're a lifesaver, Ursula," he said, doffing his hat.
"I'm coming," Jerme cut in. "I need more ammo."
Cold, sick fear settled in Matthew's gut. He could still feel that gun pressed against him, hard and unrelenting, see the wild gleam of excitement in Jerme's eyes. He looked calm enough, as if he'd forgotten his attack, and he'd probably shrug and claim he'd just been playing. Matthew knew Jerme didn't dare disobey Ursula, yet he couldn't quite bring his tremulous body to accept that, to slough off his anxiousness.
"…I've got somewhere to go first. My flatmate—"
"Bullshit."
Matthew clenched his jaw, fingers closing around the knife in his pocket. He wasn't fool enough to pull steel on Jerme, knew he would die before he could, but it offered some smidgeon of comfort.
Death Kite's eyes followed the movement, and he bared his teeth in a silent laugh, their bases dark and rotted from tobacco and Elimine only knew what else. That gun danced into his hand again, tarnished metal flowing through his long fingers like quicksilver, and those eyes dared him to move.
"…Really, I need to pick up a spot of beer and do the washing."
"Matthew," Ursula started, rolling her eyes. "With the cops so twitchy, we need everyone armed. If he fucks with you, trust me, we'll give him hell."
Her eyes narrowed, a silent warning, and she held eye contact with Jerme until he looked away.
"C'mon," Matthew muttered discontentedly, stalking out. Jerme followed on his heels like a ghast, eyes darting with nervous energy.
Matthew flicked on his tape player on the way down to Ilia. Xane Chaney's jarringly peppy voice crackled through the static, while Jerme cleaned his yellowed nails with his flick knife. They carried on the drive in utter silence besides that staticky music. It was a tense, awkward silence, but preferable to the cutting remarks Jerme usually made.
Bern slipped into Ilia without any official demarcation, but the buildings reflected the change; they grew even more rundown and low to the ground, the roofs patched a dozen times over and the paving-stones cracked and torn up. The taxi shook and thumped as it traversed potholes and bare patches of ground. Despite how broken it was, however, no homeless bums and wayward pickpockets waited on the streets. Ilia was a starving, desperate land, barely contained by its honor and sense of sisterhood. Hungry eyes watched them from the doorways as they rolled up the narrow alley that Jerme had indicated.
The munitions shop was a nondescript little building nestled between two others that looked just like it. Weather and time had peeled and chipped the paint, and the faded sign in the window that said MURPHY & HUEY'S in bold letters served as the only indicator that Matthew had even found the right place. Matthew parked right outside, close enough that he could watch his car through the window, and swung out of the seat.
The woman at the counter watched him with a cocky smirk as he walked in, a pistol in her hand. Farina stood lightly on her feet, her short hair tangled and messy. He would've bet money that she'd beaten up or killed unruly customers before; she had the same easy combativeness as Leila did. The boxes of ammo and the weapons on the shelves, which crowded close and scraped the low ceiling, made her trade apparent. The flickering light failed to illuminate the cavelike room with any modicum of decency.
Matthew walked across the room, flashing his best smile.
"Afternoon," he began.
"Same to you. What business've you got in Murphy and Huey's? Need a few weapons? Got everything from peashooter to hand cannon, though with a Fang bloke like you, I'd reckon you want something a bit more specialized."
"Who said we were with the Black Fang?" he demanded.
"I know most of your crowd, and I know Death Kite over there," she said, nodding at Jerme. "Haven't seen your face before, but it's all same to me. So what do you want?"
"Death Kite here needs some bullets, but I'm in the market for something a little different."
He leaned casually against the counter.
"I'm looking for information."
"Pity. I deal in arms," she said, propping up her head with one hand, short hair curling around her fingers.
Matthew fished in his pocket for the bullet. The woman's gun was trained on him, her eyes suspicious, narrowed, but he only placed the squashed slug on the counter.
"Lemme rephrase—I need to know what kind of gun could fire this," he said.
She picked it up, twirled it between her fingers, and looked back at him.
"Sold a box of these last week. I'd recognize 'em anywhere. Sure, I could tell you…For a price," she said, grinning. "Four gold ought to do it."
"Four?" he yelped. "That's a month's rent! Four copper, maybe!"
Farina laughed, mocking and sharp.
"You're asking for stuff you Fang brats won't find anywhere else. I'm Farina Bellerophon. I'm the best in the market. We're talking at least a gold for our, heh, noble information. And that's being real generous."
"A gold? You'd better tell me who was buying, for that kind of price," Matthew said, feigning disinterest.
"I don't always cooperate with the law, kid. You think I'm going to sell out a very, very high-paying customer to whoever tosses a scrap of food my way? Ilians are poor, but we ain't that poor, you fool. You pay a premium here for good weapons and security. One gold and I'll say what make of gun fired this. Take it or leave it."
Matthew grudgingly dug out a coin. He and Guy really didn't have the money to spare, but with the promotion Legault promised, he'd make it back. He set the coin on the counter, palm over it.
"Information first."
"No guarantee that you'll keep your side of the bargain. Money first, then we'll talk."
The cabbie slowly dropped his hand to the side. He wasn't in much of a position to bargain hard. Farina snatched up the coin and pocketed it in a second. She dug under her counter for a moment and pulled out a musty magazine, flipping it open to display a long-barreled revolver.
"All right. This here's from an Exaccus M17. Old Bernese military revolver that hasn't been used in the force since, oh, fifty years ago. Can't even buy them most places anymore. I only keep the ammo for a nice person with a spot of coin."
Matthew thought for a moment.
"Do you think any other ammo shops would carry these?"
"Hell if I know. Maybe a place out in Bern, maybe some specialty dealer, but probably not many," she said. "That's all I've got for you, so if you aren't buying, scram."
She twirled her little handgun and grinned. Matthew, in turn, nodded curtly and walked out. He loitered outside while he waited for Jerme to finish his purchases.
So it was a rare gun. Bernese military, Farina had said, and certainly Bern's desperate people would have motivation to kidnap or kill the police chief. A military vet might also be marksman enough to snipe Jaffar. On top of that, as the home of the Black Fang, Bern was even a hotbed of discord and civil unrest. But all the same, the Fang prowled Bern's streets, and they knew nearly everything that occurred. Maybe the old owner of the gun had sold it, or someone seized it, or stole it, or lost it. He didn't have the time to knock on every door looking for an antique gun, not when all of the police's searches and seizures failed to even locate Harken!
"Excuse me!" a voice said. "Loitering isn't legal out here.
The dreadfully familiar purple-and-gold Lycian police uniform was right in front of him. Matthew's heartrate skyrocketed, and he looked nervously from the brunette man on the left to the timid woman to the right.
"I'm just waiting on a chap to finish his shopping, then we'll be off. No worries," he replied. "Say, what're a pair of Lycian cops doing out in Ilia?"
"We're investigating a—"
Jerme burst through the doors, his eyes narrowed to slits, cutting off his words.
"You little rat!" he snarled, seizing Matthew by the shoulder.
With strangled cries of "Death Kite!", the cops drew their weapons.
Before Matthew could blink, Jerme's gun jumped into his hand. With three deafening cracks, a blur of motion, and the smell of gunpowder, the officers crumpled to the ground.
"Holy fuck, Jerme!" he shouted, staring at the bleeding, ghostly figures, their faces contorted in weak grimaces. The man clutched his chest, eyes glassy, unfocused, not a sound emerging from his lips. The woman made a low whimpering sound, her gun lying mere feet from her, blood pouring from her leg, her chest. They wouldn't last five minutes.
Matthew ran. He didn't care if Jerme was on his heels or not, but the gunshots would surely draw attention, the dying police would draw attention. His heart hammered a vicious staccato against his ribcage, harsh and powerful, and the foggy Ilian skyline swam in his vision, spun, storefronts blurring and footfalls loud and—
He slammed into the side of his cab, numb fingers fumbling over the icy door handle. His keys slipped out of his hands once, twice, and then he threw the door open and tumbled into the familiar embrace of warm cloth seats and the smell of smoke and cologne. Jerme had already gotten in, his smile like a knife-edge.
People poked their heads onto the street, and Matthew gunned it, tires squealing as if they were in pain.
"Talking with your buddies, were you?" Jerme asked pleasantly.
"I don't know or care about the council dogs," he replied. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and his gut was liquid, cold and tumultuous. He felt like his heart was trying to tear a hole in his flesh so his blood and bone and soul could spill out.
"You should be glad Blue Crow is looking out for you, otherwise, well. There might be an accident. Your skin would make a good rug."
"Can you just shut up?" Matthew demanded. "I was right there with you, fighting them, okay? If you think I wouldn't make the government pay, watch the chief consul dying at my hands, well...You're wrong."
He dropped Jerme off as soon as he could, then he stalled in the heart of Fang territory, the radio jarring, his arms wrapped around himself and his knees drawn up to his chest.
His companions had all killed before; some, like Lloyd, dealt almost exclusively in murder. The thoughts couldn't make the pounding of his head and the pounding of his heart subside, though. He knew in that moment that the Black Fang shouldn't have condoned that. Killing didn't bother him, but killing indiscriminately, without purpose? That wasn't their way. That had never been their way. The cabbie let out a rattling breath. His car felt freezing, the mist outside fogging his windows and sending fingers of frost scratching at the glass.
Someone's knuckles rapped on the window, the sound sharp and clear. Matthew's head snapped up, breath cutting the air.
A shock of wine-red hair and bloodless, pale skin showed through the fogged window. Matthew threw open the door, the frigid damp rushing in to overtake him. Leila's eyes were dark, haunted, the mirror to his.
"Hey," she said, voice hoarse. Her eyeliner smudged her cheekbones and cast a disheveled, ghastly aura over her. She looked like she'd been crying.
"Hey," he said. Matthew swallowed the lump of doubt that caught in his throat, and found he choked on it, the feeling lodging painfully in his chest. "What're you doing out here?"
Leila let herself in the passenger side, slamming the door shut. She huddled into her jacket and into the seat, her frame compressed so she seemed like a wounded cat, small and miserable. She numbly adjusted his heater.
"I saw your car and thought you might have needed a hand," she replied, eyes like dying souls beneath lids too heavy to lift all the way.
"What are you talking about? I'm fine," he said tightly.
"I saw Jerme."
He slumped against the window, the glass like ice under his cheek. Matthew's eyes wandered to the dingy cityscape outside the windscreen.
"He's forsaken the Black Fang way. Hell, maybe everyone else has, too, and I'm just hanging off of Hurricane's stories, but...White Wolf would never gun down a pair of innocent police in the middle of the street just for existing."
Leila stared ahead, jaw clenched.
"Have you ever killed someone, Leila?"
She mutely shook her head in short, jerky movements. Matthew slowly licked his lips and nodded. He tipped the brim of his hat so that it hid his eyes, hid her bruised body and haunted look, and pulled his jacket a little closer.
"I can't do this anymore," she said, voice high and pained. "Ephidel, the Black Fang….Matthew, I can't do it."
"...We don't have much of a choice. Anyone in this city would kill us in a second if it would improve their own shitty existence. We've got to stay with them."
"What about Guy?"
"Mocked, hated for being Sacaen in this city?"
"He's your family, though. I've only got…"
She cut herself off, jaw clenched proudly. Matthew couldn't help but notice the marks on her skin, the way her shoulders shook. He wanted to put his hand on her arm, but he thought better of it.
"I know they haven't been the best to you…but maybe we can fix things?"
"I don't know," Leila whispered. For a moment, her eyes were liquid, hurt, then she snapped her gaze away.
"Leila?"
"I have to go," she said, fumbling with the door handle. Matthew hurried out of the car, heading her off as she tried to round the bonnet. He gently grabbed her by the wrist.
He wasn't prepared for Leila to twist his arm behind his back like a trained martial artist. He yelped. She pushed him against the car, tense as a bowstring, before her mind seemed to catch up with the situation and she let him go. He massaged his shoulder and stepped back.
"Cripes, you nearly ripped my arm off! What the hell?"
"In my old line of work, if someone got their hands on you, you were dead. Sorry," she said. She didn't sound terribly apologetic, but she managed a stiff smile. "Why are you—a gangster—so torn up over Jerme killing someone?"
"I…What? I'm a thief, Leila. That's what I did before joining the Fang. A petty thief with revolutionary dreams. I don't care if we have to kill someone to achieve those dreams, but...The Fang doesn't hurt innocents. That's what Mad Dog has always said. To see such a blatant violation of that..."
He shook his head, looking away.
"I don't need the council or their worthless police to tell me that's wrong."
"Then why did you join the Fang at all?"
"As I said, they're family…They watch out for me, they care about their people. We can stand strong in the face of the oppression and wrongness of the king and the council," he replied, standing a little straighter. "Or, well...We used to. Maybe things have changed."
Leila's lips parted slightly, her eyes wide.
"You're an odd one, Matthew. You keep surprising me."
He cocked his head to the side, a hesitant smile on his lips.
"Do you like surprises?"
"Sometimes," she said, looking up at him. Her eyes were luminous, the light from the streetlamps casting a dazzling glow in them and bringing out every little shade of wine-brown-gold-rust-fulvous-chestnut that streaked them. She took a step, and then she leaned against him, slipping her arms around his waist. Matthew felt his heartbeat quicken.
"But then, there must be a better way to go about it," she whispered, voice barely audible, her breath hot on his face. "Crime, terrorism…We just have the people scared. Are we really helping?"
He leaned forward a hair, and his forehead bumped against hers, her arms looped around his neck. Matthew's blood tingled, his eyes unfocused to try and get a clear picture of her.
"I don't know anymore. But the Reed brothers, Soaring Hawk, Hurricane...Blue Crow, maybe...they'd die for this city."
"Would you?" she breathed.
"I don't know," he said, shivering. He could feel every breath that she took, her chest rising and falling against his.
"Me, either," Leila admitted. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips slightly parted, and he unconsciously mimicked her. The dark bruises on her skin jumped out at him, red-and-purple.
He almost let her go with nothing more than a smile and a farewell. It would have been the right thing to do, he thought. Enough people had taken advantage of her already; he couldn't bring himself to do the same. The choice was taken away from him when she leaned in, her lips brushing against his, and he stopped questioning it.
Leila slipped back out of his grip, her breathing heavy and her eyes wide. She smiled, flashing her teeth in a way she hadn't before, hands slipping down his arms to hold his wrists. He grinned, sloppy and out of breath.
"If it ever comes down to it, Matthew...I trust you," she said.
He nodded solemnly.
"I'll try not to let you down," he murmured. "Do you still think you'll leave the Fang?"
"I would be killed," Leila said matter-of-factly, meeting his gaze with fierce, fearless eyes. "The cleaner would hunt me like a dog and I would die."
"Given your circumstances, I can't think of anyone who'd call you a turncoat," he soothed. "Most would sympathize."
"Like they sympathize now? No, Matthew. I would be denounced, decried, destroyed. I'm here until the end."
"What do you mean, the end?" he asked, surprised.
She hesitated, a pained expression coming to her face. For an instant, it looked like she was about to say something, then she cut herself off and mutely shook her head.
"Leila, what's going on? What's going to happen?"
She slid her arms around him, resting her head on his chest.
"I don't know. It just feels like this mess with Angel of Death, with Chief Griflet, is going to end badly. I can't seem to catch my breath whenever I think about it."
"Don't you worry! I'll find the answer," he insisted, squeezing her tighter.
She laughed, amused and biting and reassuring.
"Of course you will. …Thank you, Matthew."
Leila slipped out of his arms and headed back to the Fang house without another word. He looked after her with a small smile, the weight of his impending deadline poised over him like a boulder. She needed him to find Jaffar's shooter. The Fang needed him. He had one more day until Legault swooped in and snatched the case from him…presuming Legault was even still alive.
His encounter with Isadora rose unbidden to mind. Guy trusted her, and so did Ursula…but she seemed almost too familiar with Legault, too sure that he was uninvolved. Uhai had been gunned down when poking around her fiancé. Matthew believed she'd told the truth about not knowing where Harken was; her worry was so genuine that he couldn't disbelieve it so easily. But Legault's mysterious vanishing? He could have come in with another of his information-gathering false tip-offs and been beaten, sedated, arrested, interrogated. He could imagine his confident mentor lying broken in a jail cell, despair creeping over him and sapping the strength from him. Legault would hold his tongue until his life was taken, but Matthew would not wish that on anyone.
A half-baked idea floated on the outskirts of his mind. He couldn't well break into the police station, but Isadora's manse couldn't be that well guarded. He could easily tread through the halls, investigate, see if any clues could point him towards Legault…or towards Jaffar's gunner. He wouldn't be surprised if he found an old Bernese gun in her safe; a rich woman like Isadora could likely afford whatever sort of weapon she wanted.
The thought of the dead policemen in the Ilian streets twisted his gut and made him wonder if Isadora wouldn't be a little justified in hunting the Black Fang. Jerme, Ephidel…they would deserve that sort of slaughter. Perhaps Nino had been wrong. Perhaps Jaffar deserved it, too. They were little more than monsters, animals armed with guns and knives….
He shook his head. Legault wasn't part of that, nor was noble Uhai, and no matter how justified Isadora or anyone else might feel, it was his job to keep his family safe. He couldn't let his doubts come between him and the Fang honor he still stood for. Matthew would need to get his preparations in order to make some kind of an effort. He had quite a few hours to go before it would be late enough to risk a break-in, after all.
The cabbie headed down to The Lion and Owl. He didn't really feel up to dealing with Raven, but he couldn't let down his best customer. His car idled as he thought of what he'd do.
He didn't have a floor plan of Isadora's manse, but he had gotten a good look at the security already. Locks on all of the windows, deadbolts on the doors, and the doorman, Wil, not to mention whatever sort of private security she might keep. He had absolutely zero chance of getting into her gun safe, to boot. He would have to park a few blocks away, walk over, and work out some kind of break in. There would have to be a quiet way to break open a window. He would need to take a screwdriver from his toolkit up in the kitchen closet to open the house, then try to paw through Isadora's basement, her papers, wherever she might keep her gun, as any ammunition left out might point towards the weapon in question.
The sound of his back door opening broke off his musings.
"Afternoon," Raven muttered as he settled in.
"Hey," Matthew replied.
"You look like you forgot to drink your morning tea."
"Today's really kind of awful. I'd rather not talk about it."
"I wasn't going to ask," he said.
"Oh, well, that's great, then...Hey, Raven? I feel like I should warn you that I might not be around to pick you up anymore," he said suddenly.
Raven arched an eyebrow.
"I hope I didn't scare you off after all this time. It'd be a shame to have to find a new bloke to drive me around. I was starting to like you."
"Nah, it's not you. I'm...well, I'm involved in something dangerous. It just didn't feel fair to abandon you without warning. You're a pretty decent fellow, yourself."
In that moment, Matthew felt closer to him than he had in the weeks he'd been picking the redhead up. He regretted telling Guy that he'd never want to be friends with Raven. Maybe he'd misjudged him.
"If I were you, I wouldn't get caught up in anything big," Raven said. "I did that myself, once. I know I don't know you, but my advice is to get out while you can. Elibe stomps on people who try to do dangerous things."
"Thanks. I'll try to remember that. I...guess I won't be able to contact you if I can't make it."
"Yeah, I guess not. You know I'll still be at The Lion and Owl, and you know when, so I figure you'll find me if you ever want to," he replied with a shrug.
Matthew smiled as he pulled into Araphen.
"I'll see you around," he said. Raven nodded and handed him his usual fare. He raised one hand in a wave as he walked away, and Matthew's grin widened.
He couldn't afford to feel sentimental for long, though; he had work to do. Matthew drove to a convenience store and purchased a sandwich, a six-pack, and a pair of thin gloves. The cashier didn't ask questions, and Matthew didn't offer a response. He ate in his car, music on low, a quiet sad tape characteristic of the Macedonia Whitewings. The sky shattered, a fine spider-silk drizzle ticking off the taxi roof, cloaking Bern in a damp dark misery.
He broke in that night. His tools made short work of Isadora's antique windows, and he tumbled silently into her parlor-room. Matthew didn't dally there, heading to the next room, then the next, trying the doors. Darkness cloaked everything like a velvet blanket, but he didn't dare turn on his torch without good cause. Not a sound stirred in the manse beyond the faint noise of his own breathing and quiet footfalls.
He faced disappointment with every new turn. Matthew kept a wide berth between him and the servants' quarters, but most rooms he pushed through were dining rooms, powder rooms, closets and cupboards and a wide wealth of uselessness. At every turn, he found more photographs, more knickknacks, more potted plants and tea-table books. His only comfort was that he found no sign of Legault, no silver hairs caught in the rugs, no bloodstains splattered on the walls, no cries for help echoing from the basement. Hell, even his trademark trilby with its stupid purple ribbon was absent from the hatrack.
The cabbie found the stairs and took them, stepping on the edges so they wouldn't creak, as slow and quiet as a wraith. The basement was carpeted and paneled, nothing like the creepy cobwebbed storage that constituted the only other basements he'd ever seen. Matthew padded through the rooms, seeing pool tables and tellies, armchairs and bookshelves, but no sign of Legault, or even a gun safe. Irritation growing, he prowled back up the stairs and wandered straight into the study across the hall.
The desk was neat and orderly, with few papers sitting out. His eyes could barely make out the text on them, so after a moment's deliberation, he lit his torch. He combed the papers over with his eyes, seeing a pair of letters drafted to people he'd never heard of, a couple pay stubs and clock-out tickets, and, under a planner, a letter addressed to her in a familiar flowing hand. He swallowed thickly and picked it up.
Dame Isadora,
I am dreadfully sorry to hear about Sir Harken, and I send my condolences. While I am fully confident in your department, I have taken the liberty to look into it myself. Nothing outside the law, I assure you! Thusfar, I only know a little, maybe nothing more than you do. Only that he is still alive.
I know that's vague, and probably does not provide much in the way of comfort at this time. There isn't anything more I can say, though. The trail ran cold at that point, and my…informant, if I may, won't speak anymore on the subject. I promise you that it will be all right in the end, though, and that I will do my best to set your heart at ease.
I know it must be hard to think of anything besides your fiancé at the moment, but you must remember that he wouldn't want you to worry yourself to death over him. Stay strong, Dame Isadora. I'll keep a sharp eye out.
Legault DeVere
171 Fifth Street
Apartment #7
Candler, Ilia
Matthew grit his teeth and stared. There was no way Legault was telling the truth. He had to be pulling a fast one on the police, someway, somehow. He probably tried to learn some secrets from Isadora, or lead her on false trails away from the Fang. The alternative was too grim to think of. If Legault went rogue…
Well, at least Matthew would have his address, he thought. He would have to stop in and pay a visit, one way or another, tomorrow. He just never expected he might have to go in armed.
…no, that couldn't be right. The Black Fang's ideals coursed through Legault's veins, and their symbols colored his back black. He had fought and killed for them for as long as they'd existed. No way in hell he would betray him.
The part about the informant bothered him, though. Was there someone else working on the job? Did Legault not trust him? Damn it, it was supposed to be his big break, his chance to prove himself to the Four Fangs!
Matthew borrowed a pen from the desk and jotted down Harken and Legault's addresses on his arm. He longed to ask Leila what he should do, but he tamped the thought down. He didn't need her to figure himself out. Matthew could handle that on his own. What he needed to do was go take a look for himself. The police had likely already ransacked Harken's house searching for clues, but it could still be worth taking a look, especially since he was fresh out of leads.
He crept out of Isadora's house the same way he came in, and then he walked four blocks to where he'd parked his car. The hour was late enough that most barflies and panhandlers had long since left the streets—too late for Matthew to warrant heading to Harken's house. Instead, he made his way back to his flat, thoughts chasing each other in his head.