Sweet Revenge Page 17

  She knew he spoke, but his murmured words were indistinguishable above the rain and the subsiding drumbeat of her heart.

  Boots said Torbel had the magic in his veins. Ancestral magic, she assumed. Whatever he meant, she understood one thing quite clearly. He had the magic for her.

  A tremor of remembered fear ran through her. She loved him. If it was the last thing she ever did, she was going to make him understand that. She only hoped she would have enough time to accomplish her task. Before the homicidal maniac after them closed in for the kill.

  THERE WAS NO POINT at all standing out here in the rain, no way to see into Torbel’s flat and spy on their lovemaking.

  Because that’s what they were doing, wan’t it? A good scare and bam, straight into his bed. She was a slut, as well as an accessory to murder. She should be dead. They should be picking up her bones even now, stacking them on the nearest rubbish heap with the rest of the waste.

  Torbel, too, but he was harder to nab. Maybe he did have the magic at that. People spoke of it down here, whispered it actually because they knew he had a temper and no one wanted to see it unleashed. Only Boots had the nerve to mention it out loud, but then, who ever listened to Boots?

  Listen to me, thought the disguised beggar with a spiteful mental thrust. Torbel is a murderer. Torbel and Victoria.

  But there was no one about on this rainy night to hear—and nothing to do while those two diddled away the hours upstairs. Nothing except wait and watch and think up a newer, surer way to get them both.

  The beggar crouched under the closed bakeshop eaves and dreamed of a threat fulfilled. A bloodred threat fulfilled. Old Goggy had better be pleased.

  “ROSIE!”

  Victoria sat up with a start. In her desire for Torbel, she’d forgotten about her dog. What a monster she was.

  The apartment stood in darkness, a steamy, wet den of angled shapes and shadows. The rain had stopped. Only the residue dripped from the eaves. The storm must have moved north while she slept.

  While they slept, she amended, laying a careful hand on the neck of the man beside her. He slept as he lived, without fuss or bother. His breathing was deep and even, his lithe body ready to spring should the need arise. Through a cloud of thought and emotion, Victoria found herself wondering yet again what had prompted him to leave Scotland Yard.

  She longed to wake him up, to make love to him all over again—although they’d done it three times already, twice in here and once in the shower, and it wasn’t even midnight. Her conscience, however, dictated that she take care of Rosie, then worry about satisfying her own needs.

  Slipping from the bed, she moved silently across the hardwood floor to the living room, pulling Torbel’s red jersey over her head as she went. It hung down to midthigh, and she had to shove back the sleeves to use the telephone, but it smelled clean and sexy like him, which was why she’d chosen to wear it.

  The answering machine picked up her call on the sixth ring. “Zoe?” she said into the receiver. “Are you there? Zoe, it’s Victoria. If you’re there, pick up the phone. It’s about Rosie.” She waited, but no one came on the line. “Damn.” Sighing, she depressed the button. “Now what?”

  She thought for a moment then dialed again.

  “Gooseberries, Ratz. We’re closed—”

  “Ratz, it’s Victoria,” she broke in. “I need a favor.”

  “If it’s about Boots, no one’s seen him. I’ve been asking all night. No one knows who those two are lurking around his usual hangouts, either. His name might be Dippy or Dudley or something. Don’t know about the woman.”

  Victoria made a mental note of the names. “Look, Rate,” she said. “I’m not…Well, let’s just say I’m out, and Zoe’s not home, and I forgot about Rosie. She had food and water when I left this morning, but I need someone to check on her.”

  Rate chuckled. “You got a real night owl for a roommate, Victoria. Good tenant, though. I hardly ever see her. Don’t worry, Keiran dropped by at closing. He’s still here. He’ll look in on your pooch.”

  “Thanks, Rate. Oh, and could you ask Keiran…” She heard a faint click and paused. “Rate? Are you there? Rate?”

  No answer. She considered redialing, then decided not to bother. As long as Rosie was all right, the rest could wait.

  Torbel showed no signs of waking up, so Victoria opened a bottle of Coke, pulled Sophie’s diary from her backpack, which Keiran had thoughtfully rescued from the rubbish heap earlier, and curled up in the chair beside the bookshelves.

  She skimmed the entries made in the diary the year prior to Robbie’s birth. One, scribbled with more apparent haste than its predecessors, caught her eye.

  April 3

  He should have been born with wings, Diary, dragon, not angel. He talks of fairness, of playing by the rules, but he means his own personal rules and his weird concept of fairness. What a two-faced liar he is…

  The following entries spoke of traveling north to visit old friends. It wasn’t until she returned to London that Sophie mentioned “him” again.

  April 16

  I think I hate him, Diary, I really do. If there’s a woman under sixty in all of the British Isles that he hasn’t at least propositioned, I’d be very surprised. And he has the nerve to tell me that he senses an indiscretion on my part. I cling to the word “senses,” for I am confident that he cannot know…

  Victoria scanned farther, curious to know what Augustus apparently did not.

  April 23

  My poor, dearest love, Diary, he looks like a powdery ghost. And all old Goggy can do is chortle and tell him he shouldn’t have trod in poison ivy. The man has the perception of a clay turtle. Poison ivy indeed. The only thing old Goggy’s allergic to is feeling. And yet there are times when he can be altogether too discerning. Yes, he can surely be a cunning old fox, but his cunning is no match for my darling love’s. My love says that with caution we will not be caught. I hope I can believe him…

  Victoria searched the next few pages for names, but discovered none. Obviously Sophie wanted to believe that her diary would remain private, just as she realized there was a good chance it would not. She continued.

  May 17

  I do wish Father would leave me alone, stick to his own “affairs,” as it were. Why does he have to butt in to every part of my life? Mr. Fix-it, Mother Blanche sarcastically calls him. One wave of his magic judge’s wand and, poof, crimes vanish. Exit a lawbreaker, enter a police officer. I shudder to think what kind of dirty deal brought that switch about. I’m convinced Father knows the truth, and that’s why he fixed things, but my even foxier friend assures me that old Goggy is well off the scent. I am pleased in one way, but not in another. Difficult always to soothe ruffled feathers. I wish I could know what my love really thinks of Father’s misguided interference…

  “Interference,” Victoria repeated, pausing to stare out over the sodden rooftops leading down to the river. Mr. Fix-it, the crime fixer. Whose crimes had he caused to disappear? Oliver Fox’s? There was no surprise in that revelation; they’d already guessed as much about Fox and Judge Hollyburn, but why should Sophie refer to the matter in her diary?

  The word “affair” sprang to mind, although Victoria had a difficult time conjuring up the image. She wouldn’t have taken Oliver Fox on a dare. Then again, Sophie’d been her own woman, with her own peculiar taste in men.

  Victoria was flipping through the later pages when the overhead light flickered. A moment later, it went out completely.

  Frowning, she stuck the diary into her backpack and made her way to the window. It was late; many people were in bed. However, lights continued to burn in the neighboring buildings, and the storm was long gone.

  A prickly sensation crawled over her skin. Lights everywhere but here. No storm. Something felt very wrong.

  Backing up, she started for the bedroom and Torbel. She stubbed her toe en route and had to stifle a cry of pain. The bedroom doorway had the look of a cavern entrance until she tur
ned the corner. Then the city lights guided her to the bed.

  “Torbel.” She reached down to shake him, but wound up shaking a quilt. Perplexed, she leaned closer, “Torbel?”

  “Here.”

  He startled her so badly she almost jumped onto the bed. Fist pressed to her racing heart, she demanded, “Why are you sneaking around?”

  “I’m getting dressed. Here, put on your shorts. I heard a noise.”

  The room was bathed in sooty shadows. She saw his profile, a grim silhouette that did nothing to bolster her confidence. Something was definitely not right.

  He zipped his fly quickly, his eyes scanning the huddled shops in the lane below. “When did the lights go out?”

  He must have tried the bedside lamp. “About two minutes ago. I was coming to wake you up. Damn, where are they?” She’d dragged on her shorts but couldn’t locate her sneakers. “Is someone out there?”

  “No. That’s what worries me.”

  Had she left them by the door? She began crawling in that direction—then swallowed a scream as something dark and human covered her and sent her hurtling sideways into the wall.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Stay down,” Torbel ordered.

  Her head swam. It took several seconds for her to realize that he’d tackled her and they were now on the floor behind the door.

  As the shock of impact wore off, she heard a tiny click that sounded suspiciously like a lock being picked.

  “Someone’s here,” Torbel said in a low voice. “He must have cut the power lines. We’ll have to climb once we get out the window.”

  Climb onto a narrow ledge, five floors above the ground? Victoria’s palms went clammy; her heart slammed into her ribs. “I can’t, Torbel,” she protested. “It’s too high.”

  “You have to. I’ll be right behind you, and it’s a solid ledge.”

  “But…”

  The door to his flat creaked open. A stealthy footfall sounded on the wooden floor.

  Victoria controlled the knot of panic in her stomach. She had to do it. She’d die—they’d both die—if she didn’t.

  With Torbel close behind her, she forced her trembling legs to carry her to the window. Breath held, she crawled out.

  A shadow fell across the bedroom threshold. A quick glance backward revealed quite clearly the outline of a gun.

  “Torbel,” she whispered urgently. Precariously balanced on the ledge, she tugged on the shoulder of his red shirt to hurry him.

  As if galvanized, the intruder whipped the gun up and fired. Luckily he missed. Or she. Victoria couldn’t make out a definite shape beneath the baggy layers of clothing. They looked like beggar’s clothes, though, from the brief glimpse she caught.

  Torbel pushed her against the outer wall with his wrist, then hoisted himself over the sill. Another shot flew past, zinging off the frame and causing him to jerk sideways.

  He nodded to her right. “That way.”

  She followed his eyes to a metal ladder some twenty feet away. She’d never make that without falling.

  Yes, she would, she told herself. She had to.

  Her legs trembled. It was a long way, and there was no time to inch along. She moved as quickly as possible, clinging like a limpet to the old bricks, on a gritty stone ledge that, although strong enough to support them, had a wet, powdery substance on the surface, which made maneuvering in bare feet tricky at best.

  “I’d make a lousy goat,” she mumbled as she went.

  “You’re doing fine,” Torbel prompted from behind. “Keep going.”

  A bullet whizzed past her ear. “Where—?” she began, but Torbel cut her off.

  “Hanging out the window.”

  She was within stretching distance of the ladder. Her fingers clawed for and caught the rim. Close behind her, Torbel swore as a fourth shot almost nicked her hand.

  “Up or down?” Victoria’s arms and legs felt like rubber.

  He winced at a shot that just missed his shoulder. “Up.”

  “What’s he—? Oh, damn!” A fearful backward glance revealed that the shooter was moving along the ledge, seemingly unimpeded by his baggy clothes.

  Victoria forced herself to climb. One, two, three rungs. She tipped her head back. Ten to go, at least. It looked like ten thousand.

  Questions whirled through her brain. What if Torbel got hit? What if the ladder broke? Who was this crazy killer? Connected to Robbie Hollyburn, how? Where was Boots? What had Sergeant Peacock wanted to tell them? Was Torbel all right? Did he care about her? Did he love her?…

  She lost her grip, but he steadied her, reaching up and placing her slippery hand back on the metal rung. “We’re almost there,” he promised. “Five more steps.”

  Their attacker fired again. How many bullets did he have? How many did he need, she reflected darkly?

  Her fingers grasped the final rung. Adrenaline pumping, she hauled herself up and onto the roof.

  It would be cinders, she thought, wincing at the prickly surface underfoot. Sharp, wet and sticky in bare feet.

  Torbel appeared beside her. “This way.” Grabbing her hand, he took off, across a narrow gap and onto a roof made of rough shingles.

  He pushed, prompted and once even bullied her through the rooftop maze of lower Stepney, past crooked chimneys, along impossible ledges and finally over a stone archway.

  Shots flew past at odd intervals, presumably whenever their attacker caught a glimpse of them.

  Finally Victoria collapsed against a stone chimney. “I…can’t…I have…to stop,” she gasped.

  Torbel didn’t argue. Pulling her low, he let his gaze sift through the shadows. “We’re almost at the storehouse. Gooseberries is on our right.”

  Victoria was sorely tempted to slither down the nearest ladder and into Zoe’s flat. “Did we lose him?” she asked instead.

  “No.” She felt his eyes on her face, his thumb absently massaging her upper arm. “Can you run now?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then let’s—” He stood, then halted abruptly, a look of horror and fury invading his dark features. A man had just appeared on the side of the roof. “Keiran!” Torbel shouted as a shot echoed through the darkness. He lunged, a feral growl on his lips. Five more shots followed in rapid succession.

  Checking his forward momentum, he spun to face her. “Don’t move,” he ordered in such a fierce tone that she felt herself nodding automatically.

  “Keiran?” she whispered. She’d seen him, too, but only for a moment. “Is he…?”

  The expression on Torbel’s face said it all. His features hardened to stone. “I don’t know. He came over the edge of the roof, then dropped. Stay right here, Victoria. You’ll be safe if you stay here.”

  She believed him, shouldn’t have but did.

  Seconds passed like hours while she huddled next to the chimney. She heard nothing, saw nothing in the darkness. She was alone and too terrified to move.

  When sixty seconds ticked by and Torbel still did not return, she risked a peek around the charred bricks to the place where Keiran had fallen.

  Two shots ricocheted off the bricks beside her. Without warning, a pair of hands clamped themselves to her shoulders and snatched her backward. Only the memory of his touch kept the scream from emerging.

  “I said stay put,” Torbel hissed in her ear. “Whoever he is, he’s not ready to give up.”

  Her heart rate slowed somewhat as her initial panic subsided. “Where’s Keiran?”

  “Next roof. He’s been hit.”

  The words came out like tiny whips, sharp and biting. Vengeful. Victoria shuddered. “Is he…hurt?”

  “I couldn’t tell.”

  “Then we have to—Torbel, look!” She clutched at his shirt, pointing. “That’s the person over there. His arm’s caught on something.”

  “Not for long.” Torbel’s eyes glittered with a predatory light. “Get to Keiran. If he needs help, there’s another ladder. Find Rate. He’ll be at the pub.”<
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  Arguing was pointless; she knew that, so she simply nodded. And in that nod lay an unspoken warning: be careful. Then he was gone, and it was her turn to exercise caution.

  Keeping the chimney between herself and Keiran, she offered a brief prayer and, bending low, ran for the adjoining roof.

  When no shots blasted past, she risked a look behind her. But a dozen other chimneys blocked her view.

  Torbel would be all right, she promised herself. He was a cat, wary and smart, and he had nine lives, to boot. He could handle a psychopath with a gun.

  She fought the chill that rippled along her backbone and set her sights on Keiran. He wasn’t moving.

  The three-foot gap between roofs was a piece of cake after the obstacle course she and Torbel had just run. She jumped across and went down on her knees at Keiran’s side.

  His chest rose slightly. “Keiran?” she whispered. “Can you hear me?”

  His hazel eyes cracked open, but they were bleary and unfocused. Blood flowed from a spot on his right shoulder. She breathed a shaky sigh of relief. Better the right side than the left.

  “Keiran, listen to me. I’m going to find Ratz. Don’t try to move. Torbel’s gone after the person who shot you.”

  A ghost of a smile played on Keiran’s lips. “Knife…” he whispered. “Missed him…”

  Victoria recalled the image of their attacker, caught on…something. Pinned by Keiran’s knife, now seemed the answer.

  “Don’t move,” she said again, simultaneously pushing the hair from his forehead and sweeping her own away. “I’ll be right back.”

  Standing, she twisted her head around. Where was the ladder Torbel had mentioned? She spied it twenty yards ahead and ran.

  Her knees were shaking again by the time she hopped off the last rung. As predicted, Ratz was still in the pub, disinclined to respond to her pounding fists, but he finally relented and gave the door a belligerent yank.

  The next hour passed in a blur of activity. Victoria was so tired she could have slept for a week on any spot where she happened to drop. But getting Keiran to the ground posed a number of problems, and his refusal to have anything to do with a hospital only made matters worse.