Deamon's Daughter Part 9

"You don't smile at me anymore," he said impulsively.

"Rohn don't smile," the vendor a.s.serted.

"You used to, until the day you saw me walking with the Yamish doctor."

She met his gaze directly, doing nothing to obscure her alien silver eyes. Their color was precisely the same as Roxie's, though the rohn's had neither Roue's whites nor her delicate gold rim. She didn't deny she knew the man he meant, though whether she knew that he'd installed Adrian's implants he couldn't guess.

"He daimyo," the vendor said at last. "Very bad man."

"Do you think I'm a bad man?" Adrian didn't know why he was asking, only that he needed to.

The vendor c.o.c.ked her head slightly. Adrian had left his hands resting lightly on her wooden counter. Yama didn't normally touch humans, but now she turned his hands over and ran her thumbs across his wrists. An eerie p.r.i.c.kle jumped beneath the veins, as if his implants were about to activate. He fought an urge to s.n.a.t.c.h away from her hold.

"You human," she said with an infinitesimal shrug. "Good. Bad. Up to you." She nodded decisively, though he hadn't said anything. "You right. I not blame you for doctor. I smile at you again."

And she did, releasing his wrists and baring straight white teeth many humans would have envied.

"Thank you," Adrian said, unsure what had happened. "I'lla look forward to seeing you tomorrow."

"Good!" said the vendor with an odd, barking laugh.

Unnerved, but feeling as if he'd taken care of a piece of business he hadn't known he had, he turned back to his station. The windows silvered as the sun sank into oblivion, their panes mirror-blank. The only exceptions were the lights s.h.i.+ning through the gla.s.s on the top floor, where the superintendent would be working late, plus the two narrow lintel pieces beside the entrance, behind which the watch desk sat.

The familiar sight dissolved the last of his inner strangeness. He couldn't count the times he'd rushed up these stairs, buoyed by antic.i.p.ation at returning to a job that challenged him, that he did well.

Caught up in his relief, he didn't notice the slim blond figure who climbed the front steps behind him, who paused to read the bra.s.s plaques on the vestibule's duty roster, who jerked back at the sight of one particular name, then returned to the curb to collect a waiting cab.

So this was how it felt to get blind-sided.

Roxanne had been stretching canvas in the studio when Charles rushed in to break the news. Heart-weary from hearing it, she slumped on her high work stool, head bowed, hands dangling between her knees. In the darkness outside, rain fell, the first downpour since the night she'd found Adrian. Like a storm of regret, it drummed on the roof and poured off the overwhelmed downspouts.

"At least he's not married," she said, pus.h.i.+ng her fallen hair from her face.

"I have no idea whether he is or not. They don't put that on the door. 'Inspector Adrian Philips, married, two children.'"

She glowered at him. How could anyone that spiteful look angelic? "If you're so smart, why did you think he was a procurer?"

Charles shrugged and brushed an imaginary speck off his natty teal s.h.i.+rt. She'd made that s.h.i.+rt for him, every elegant pleat, every tidy st.i.tch. Now she could have ripped it off his back and trampled it without a qualm.

She growled and flung herself off the stool to pace. The paint-spattered floorboards creaked beneath her tread. "I can't believe what a fool I made of myself. A policeman! No wonder he blushed every time I said 'boo.'"

Charles studied his well-kept nails. "The fact mat you flaunted yourself at every opportunity may have had something to do with that."

"Oh, I see." She turned to poke his sternum. "Give a man a little encouragement, and suddenly I'm a tart."

"I didn't say that. I never even thought it."

Uncomforted, she covered her face. "Who am I fooling? I never thought I'd say this, but by G.o.d, I am my mother's daughtera"much good as it did me."

"Stop it. There's plenty of men who'd be interested in you besides that one. Good riddance, I say. He didn't deserve you. That's all I meant. That'sa""

To her astonishment, he gasped for breath and broke into tears. The outburst startled her from her gloom. She'd never, in all the time she'd known him, seen Charles cry. Frankly, this was the last thing she'd have guessed would set him off.

"Oh, Charlie," she crooned, pulling him stiff and resisting against her. "You were afraid, weren't you?"

"No, no, no," he said, but he went on crying anyway.

Ignoring his attempts to push her off, Roxanne stroked his fair silky head. He seemed so strong and self-possessed most of the time, she tended to forget he was still a boya"and a vulnerable boy at that.

"That's right," she said when his arms finally moved to hold her, awkwardly at first and then with a fierce strength. "Cry it out. I understand. But I'd never put you out. If somebody wants me, I don't care how handsome they are. They have to take you and Max, too."

Of course, there wasn't much chance of that being an issue in this instance. A policeman. She'd almost rather he were a thief. She wondered how she was going to face him now that she knew. As to that, she wondered if she'd have to face him at all.

"So, Adrian. Been slumming, have we?"

Superintendent Atkinson sat behind a glossy mahogany desk. He was a small man, no higher than Adrian's shoulder. Blessed with a n.o.ble brow and a pair of brilliant brown eyes, whicha"according to station rumora"rendered him irresistible to grieving widows, he was older than Adrian by a few years. To offset the retreat of his hairline, he'd cultivated an extravagant auburn mustache. He'd been Adrian's superior for a year now. Though the superintendent was gentle born and a more political creature than Adrian, they viewed the world with a kindred mixture of cynicism and compa.s.sion. Despite the formality required by their respective positions, they'd developed a rapport.

Of all the people in this station, he probably understood the ambition that drove Adrian the best.

"Sir?" Adrian responded, his collar tightening uncomfortably around his neck.

The superintendent smiled sardonically. He had a knack for making his men feel like errant schoolboys, even the veterans. "Hear you spent your vacation poking around Harborside. Not my idea of fun."

"It is my time," Adrian pointed out.

"Oh, quite." The superintendent creaked back in his chair and steepled his hands in front of his mouth. "And a laudable way to spend it. Picked up a few bruises, I see. On behalf of the Bainbridge boy?"

Adrian didn't bother to deny the a.s.sumption. Though his superior sat behind a desk, he did have eyes and ears on the street. Hopefully not too sharp.

"I know we don't have the personnel to handle missing children cases," Adrian said. "And you know I hate giving up before I've exhausted every avenue."

"Indeed, I do. You're my favorite terrier." Atkinson blew through his mustache. He looked tired. Adrian realized his acerbity might be due in part to wis.h.i.+ng he could do more officially. His next words confirmed the guess. "Any leads?"

Adrian grimaced. "A nibble. He was seen alive two weeks ago."

"Did you notify his folks?"

"Not yet. I've got a doctor putting the word out at the local morgues. If nothing turns up therea"

"Yes. No use getting their hopes up for nothing."

"I did accomplish one thing. You know the shopkeeper whose car Tommy Bainbridge smashed before he ran off? I convinced him to drop his suit against the family."

"That must have taken some doing."

"Some. But he had left the vehicle unattended with the engine running. I suggested the Bainbridges might want to take him before the magistrate."

The superintendent's eyes sparkled. "Quick thinking. Not to mention sly." Abruptly changing mood, he gnawed his upper lip and tapped the cracked green linoleum with his shoe. "Adrian."

"Yes, sir?"

"You're one of my best officers. More than that. You and I get on. Enough that I could make what could be construed as a personal observation without you taking offense."

Here it came. Had a street constable seen him in the window at Roxie's? With all that electrification, her place was a neighborhood landmark.

"Sir?" he said aloud.

Atkinson fingered his silk cravat, tucked smooth and neat into the V of his waistcoat. "According to your files, you haven't taken a holiday in two years, so I imagine you had a bit of steam to blow off. Lord knows, I'm not one to demand that my men inform me every time they take a p.i.s.s. You're a senior officer, and I trust you."

"Is there a point here, sir?"

"I'm working up to it." His grin flashed beneath his mustache, but it was not entirely friendly. "The thing isa"I want to make sure you're not in danger of going native on us."

"Sir?" He hoped the embarra.s.sment heating his cheeks wasn't visible. Was that how his superior viewed a liaison with a woman like Roxie? As going native?

To his dismay, Atkinson spied the blush. "Lord, Adrian, you can be such a daisy. I'd have thought the time you spend policing those demons would have cured your maidenly ways."

Adrian forced a laugh, as his superior no doubt intended.

Atkinson's tone turned more expansive. "It's all right. I've had a few Harborside flings myself. Earthy girls, out there. Makes a nice change as long as you don't take them too seriously. A sharp man like you is bound to go places, maybe into this very chair. I'd hate to see anything catch you up short."

Adrian took this statement as an expression of concern, though it might as easily have been a threat. "I understand, sir. I a.s.sure you everything is under control."

"Good, good. Kept me up a few nights, you know, trying to decide how to handle it. Upset the missus. Hate when that happens." As though it were a ward against further confidences, he yanked the chain of his banker's lamp off and on. As of six months ago, the station had been electrified. The plumbing, sadly, was as unpredictable as ever. "Everyone's ent.i.tled to go off the deep end now and then. Suppose you were due."

"I appreciate your tolerance, sir." Despite his respect for the superintendent, Adrian could barely get the words out. He felt disloyal in ways he couldn't explain. Roxanne wasn't a person anyone had to tolerate.

The fact that his superior was berating him and didn't even know the worst made him want to grind his teeth. It shouldn't be this way, he thought. It shouldn't be.

Atkinson stopped flicking the lamp. Something of Adrian's feelings must have shown in his face. "It doesn't matter if you liked her," he said. "Politics rule here. You know that."

"Yes, sir," Adrian conceded. "I know that well."

Chapter 11.

From the earliest age, Yamish children learn the value of subterfuge. An efficient network of spies has prevented more than one untimely youthful death. When vast fortunes lie at stake among the great families, not to mention powerful hereditary t.i.tles, how can it be otherwise? That Victoria herself was nearly the victim of such a plot at the hands of her duplicitous cousin, Mary, created a bond of sympathy between the human queen and her new allies. Without this sense of kins.h.i.+p, who knows how the future would have turned out?

a"The True and Irreverent History of Awar Despite Adrian's claim that he had everything under control, the next day found him sitting in his cramped fourth-floor office, blinking sightlessly at backed-up paperwork, his mind going in circles around all the things he and Roxanne had done in bed. He remembered the places her skin could change texture at the lightest touch, places that might have been beneath his fingers or lips, so clear was his memory.

Worse than the things they'd done were the things they had not.

Memories of her agile hands tormented him, her mouth, her tonguea He wanted her all over him. He wanted her doing things he'd been too shy to ask for. Just thinking about the possibilities sent waves of heat p.r.i.c.kling over him. He'd hung his jacket on the back of the door and rolled his s.h.i.+rtsleeves to his elbows. Even with that, his waistcoat felt unbearably confining.

It's just physical pleasure, he told himself, undoing a b.u.t.ton. No more important than scratching an itch. She was a nice woman and very uninhibited, but it wasn't the end of the world. He'd get over leaving her behind.

His body begged to differ. That morning on the electric tram he'd caught two charwomen staring at his half-swollen crotch, the result of an imprudent erotic daydream. He'd covered himself with his coat, but the reaction still mortified. Short of binding himself in place, he didn't know how to prevent it from happening again.

He blew out his breath and rose. He couldn't think about anything but her. If he continued as he was, he'd go stark raving mad. A stroll to Bow Street was in order. Maybe a runner could discover something he had not.

A decade earlier, the Earl of Rutherford had established the Bow Street Runners to cure a screaming case of ennui. Since then, the private investigative firm had become a byword among the upper cla.s.ses for discreet surveillance of straying mistresses and wives, and for clearing up problems Security's ill-paid employees couldn't always be trusted to keep quiet. More surprisingly perhaps, the Earl's independent breed of agents had earned a reputation for exemplary thoroughness.

Adrian believed they'd have no trouble digging up answers to questions he hadn't been prepared to press Roxie on before. He'd have to find a way to ask that didn't give the game away, but he wanted to know if there was positive proof that Herrington was her father. If so, perhaps the other aspect of her unsuitabilitya"her irregular single lifestylea"was not as bad as it seemed. Maybe the runner would find evidence of especially good citizens.h.i.+p, or the endors.e.m.e.nt of someone important in the artistic world. Geniuses, if Roxie was considered one, were expected to lead eccentric lives.

Adrian suspected he was grasping at strawsa"anything to justify the risk of seeing her again. He couldn't help it. He didn't want the last six days to have been nothing more than a memorable interlude.

One week after engaging him, Adrian met the private investigator in a seedy, signless pub a dozen blocks from the station.

The floor stuck to his shoes when he stepped inside, despite the sawdust some earnest soul had spread across the floor. Considering the place's ground-in patina of filth, the absence of Yamish patrons came as no surprise. The runner was a pale, sharp-faced man with teeth like a rat. He slouched in a booth in the back corner, one long boot propped on the bench and one long hand dipping a salted chip in his beer. Adrian didn't think he knew he was meeting a policeman, but his grin betrayed his enjoyment at having someone like him for a client.

The upper cla.s.ses accepted the runners as a necessary evil. Less secure in their superiority, Adrian's peers tended to turn up their noses.

Ignoring the supposed threat to his status, Adrian took the seat opposite the agent, gestured for the tired-looking, pregnant waitress, and ordered corn beef and slaw sandwiches for them both. He wasn't hungry, but he didn't want to lose the ground Charles's cooking had gained him. Surprised by the courtesya"which a toff would have omitteda"the runner recovered quickly enough to tell the waitress to put another pint on the tab.

"This one's flat," he said, winking with red-rimmed eyes.

By mutual consent, they held off talking while they ate. The sandwich was good. Adrian was amazed at how easily he got it down. Not finicky himself, the runner wiped his mouth on his sleeve, elbowed his plate aside, and tossed a thick vellum file onto the table.

"Got a good bit o' stuff," he said with professional pride. "Nothing for sure on who fathered her yet. That opera singer, La Belle Yvonne, must have had a dozen lovers in the same month. Kept a bloomin' harem. Not picky, neither. Gossip columns had her doin' the dirty witha"as they put ita"very foreign types."

"A list of possibilities will be sufficient," Adrian said, holding out his hand. "I can rule them in or out on my own."

"Your call," the runner said indifferently, though he seemed disappointed he wasn't going to be paid to pursue this salacious trail to its end. "Why don't I give you an overview o' the rest."

The "rest" was impressive, considering the brief time the runner had been on the case. Most of it was material Adrian knew already or had guessed: Yvonne's profligacy, the lack of proper oversight for the young Roxanne, two inquiries on her behalf by the Children's Ministrya"both dismissed. The later of the two had resulted in Roxanne being taken into the Ministry's care, though she'd been released shortly thereafter. He wondered if Yvonne had bribed someone or asked one of her high-born admirers to intervene.

For Roxie's sake, he hoped the dismissals meant Yvonne had wanted her daughter, not that there hadn't been enough evidence to warrant fostering her out. Even giving the Great One the benefit of the doubt, the sheer weight of detail staggered him. He hadn't expected quite so many examples of moral turpitude.

The thing that really rocked him, however, that made him regret every tangy, dripping bite he'd eaten, was discovering how Roxanne had earned the money for her gallery.

"She was a p.o.r.nographer?" he asked, too shocked to hide his dismay.

"Please." The runner swigged ale and foam. "An erotic artiste. Top drawer, too. Toffs snapped her up like n.o.body's business. Her early stuff's worth a bundle now that she's switched to drawin' room fair. Here, I sc.r.a.ped these up for you, but don't bend 'em. They're on loan."

He removed a stack of wax-coated cards from his folder. Adrian shuffled through them. Double the size of playing cards, the pictures were not the worst he'd seen but definitely more graphic than her popular Scenes from History series.

One in particular burned itself on his retinas. Two men faced each other across the body of a naked woman. Seeming to writhe on the satin sheets, the woman clutched her breast with one hand, while the other tweaked the swollen bud between her legs. The engraving was so fine, Adrian could distinguish the folds of the tiny hood.

The strangest aspect of the picture was that the men seemed oblivious to the lush little voluptuary. They'd reached across her body to fondle each other's genitals, their touch hesitant, their expressions that of horrified fascination. The gloss of high s.e.xual arousal could be seen on each rampant phallus, one of which was long and arched, the other thick and uncirc.u.mcised. The details were so individual, and the emotion so sensitively rendered, it was hard to believe this encounter had not occurred, and that Roxie had not witnessed it.

Had she witnessed it? Or had this peculiar scene sprung from her imagination, fleshed out by her knowledge of human nature and the courage to expose it? Whatever the answer, the tableau made his blood rush more heavily in his veins. Nothing was forbidden to her. Nothing.

"Cla.s.sy, huh?" The runner sounded genuinely admiring. "Wonder how she got the models to do that in front of her."