Page 15 of Angel of Vengeance
“Room 101?” Leng’s brow knitted. “I have no idea what nonsense you speak of.”
She detected, for the first time, a note of uncertainty.
“That ‘nonsense’ will be your doom. Labere in gladio tuo.” And with this, she walked toward the exit. At the doorway to the library, she turned back. “Give Augustus Spragg, of the Natural History Museum’s Ornithology Department, my condolences—I understand the poor man hasn’t long to live.”
Before Leng could respond, Constance walked quickly across the rotunda and through the passage lined with armor. She pushed open the front door, stepped into the chill night, and—tightening the wrap more closely around her shoulders—descended the steps.
The young woman named Decla approached. “Lord blind me, it’s her ladyship!” she said. “You shouldn’t frown at your betters like that—you’ll be after a spanking, I reckon.” She looked around. “Line up for a spanking, boys—I get first go.”
Constance merely put out her hand, ignoring the ripple of mocking laughter that came from the darkness. “I’ll have my weapon back now.”
Decla looked at her in mock surprise. “You mean this?” She withdrew the handle of the stiletto from a vest pocket, so that the worked gold was visible. “It’s mine now—I’ve taken quite a fancy to the little rib-tickler.”
Constance did not reply. Her hand remained outstretched, unmoving. Slowly, Decla’s eyes moved up to hers. For a minute, perhaps more, the two women took the measure of each other. Then Decla broke eye contact. With a smirk, she drew the weapon out from her vest and, palming it, slowly reached out, turned her hand over, and let it drop into the waiting fingers of Constance.
“You can borrow it for a spell,” she said. “I’ll take it back when I’m ready.”
“In that case,” Constance said, “here’s a memento—until you’re ready.” She released the blade and at the same time, with a flick of her wrist, sliced open Decla’s outstretched palm.
The blade was so sharp that, for a moment, there was no blood—and, likely, no pain. As the surprised Decla looked down, however, a long, narrow line of crimson began welling up.
“Now you have a matching set,” Constance said.
There was a rustling sound. Within seconds, she found herself surrounded by the entire gang, weapons at the ready. They moved quickly, expertly tightening the circle. Constance’s eyes remained on Decla’s. For the briefest moment, she saw the woman glance over Constance’s shoulder. That would be the first attack: a stab in the back.
Instantly, she pivoted to find that a hulking gang member had crept up close behind her, knife arm raised. She lunged without hesitation, her blade catching him just below the cage of his larynx. It seemed the weapon, having just tasted blood, was now hungry for more: her hand swept earthward as if directed by it, the dagger point tracing a line of death from the trachea shallowly down the sternum and then plunging into his guts below the xiphoid process before slipping out again on encountering the buckle of his belt. The man made a wheezing, gargling sound, and Constance immediately turned to the youth beside him—armed with a heavy cobbler’s hammer—preparing to kill again.
There was a sudden, sharp clap from the door of the mansion. “Enough!” Leng cried, framed once again in the lighted doorway.
The gang hesitated—even as one of their own collapsed to the ground in ghastly slow motion.
“No more!” Leng continued sharply. “Allow her to pass.”
Decla’s eyes remained on Constance—a searing, feral stare. Constance glanced around at them all, frozen in various attitudes of fear and anger. Then she turned her gaze back to Leng and, raising her blade, placed her thumb and index finger against its finial; slid their tips quickly along from ricasso to point, flicking the accumulated blood from it with a quick, practiced gesture; then licked the two fingers, one after the other, while she sheathed the weapon. She spat in Leng’s direction, then turned and walked into the enveloping night, back to the carriage where Murphy waited impatiently.
11
WHEN CONSTANCE RETURNED TO the parlor of her Fifth Avenue mansion, the clocks were just striking ten. A fire was blazing on the hearth, its flickering light lending a cruel coziness to the room. Diogenes sat in a wing chair, beside a table holding snifters and a bottle of brandy, idly leafing through a book. Pendergast, meanwhile, was pacing the room, his face a mask of agitation.
Diogenes looked over at the sound of her approach. Then he glanced at his brother.
“You’re back,” Pendergast said, relief evident in his voice.
Constance stepped into the parlor and stood there, without removing her coat. Her fury at Leng had not subsided during the ride back—but it had settled into a cold, calculating rage.
“You gave him the Arcanum?” Pendergast asked, coming forward. “The true formula, with no alteration?”
“Yes.”
“And what of Binky?”
“He would not release her. Not until he’s tested it—or so he says. However, he showed her to me. Briefly.”
“So she’s at the mansion,” Pendergast went on.
Constance nodded. “At least temporarily—those were his words.”
“He wouldn’t put her back in his subterranean works,” Diogenes said. “The Five Points would be too obvious a move. But I’ve no doubt he has other places of concealment.”