“Aye.”

“About twelve, was she? Big eyes, a bit tearful? Lost her mum in the dark?”

“Her grandmother,” Stephen said and cast a baleful glance behind him. “Fast wee thing she was, too. Her and her friends.”

“It helps to know the streets,” said Mina. She patted Stephen’s arm, the fabric of his coat soft and thick beneath her gloveless hand. “Don’t feel bad. You’re hardly the first, and I can probably get us a cab.”

Sixteen

Thirty-nine Hunter Street was a squat and unwelcoming place: sturdy, square brick walls, white shutters, and the general impression of dour respectability. The woman who answered the door was as dour as the house itself, and gave Stephen and Mina a squinting, suspicious look.

“We only rent single rooms here,” she began, a prune-like cast to her mouth, and added, “sir,” as if it was more of an insult.

“I’m not here to rent,” said Stephen. He tried to ignore the implication, but it did make him more aware of Mina’s presence at his side. She’d turned toward him slightly, probably to put him between her and the wind. He wanted to put an arm around her and hold her against his chest—his people’s abnormal warmth should serve some purpose—but this wasn’t the time or the place. He wasn’t sure either one existed. “I’m inquiring after one of your lodgers. A Mister Smith.”

“What’s your business with him?”

“It’s a private matter. He does stay here?”

“He might,” said the landlady, “and then he might not. It’s a bit late to be paying a call.”

“I’m not here for social reasons,” Stephen began.

Then Mina put her hand on his arm. “It’s all right,” she said, when Stephen peered down at her. “I’ll tell her.”

“Tell me what?” asked the landlady, thrusting her chin forward.

As Stephen tried not to look as if he’d no idea what was going on, Mina looked down at her feet, gulped, and then looked back up into the landlady’s eyes. “He’s my brother. He’s…he’s in trouble”—her voice fell, implying all sorts of elements to the trouble that no decent girl would say aloud—“and…well, I don’t want to go up there myself. He’d never forgive me if I saw—”

The landlady’s face softened, a transformation almost as incredible as any Stephen had been through. “Well, well—” she began and cleared her throat. “Who’s your friend, then?”

“Mister Smith served with me in the army,” Stephen said, “some years ago. In happier days,” he added, with a moment of pride for thinking of the phrase. “He spoke to me often of his sister, and any service I can do her—”

The landlady deflated the rest of the way. “All right, then,” she said. “You can go on up. It’s the second door on the right. And you’ll come inside, miss. It’s no weather to be out in.”

Victorious, if dishonest, Stephen followed Mina into the boardinghouse’s front hall, then climbed a narrow, white-painted staircase, dimly lit and smelling faintly of cabbage. The stairs creaked beneath him on every step; so did half of the boards in the upstairs hall, despite its runners of fabric.

Light came from underneath the second door on the right. All the others were dark. The other boarders either slept early, stayed out late, or didn’t exist.

Stephen walked as lightly as he could to the lit door, grasped the doorknob, then broke the lock with one swift, brutal motion. He shoved the door open, removing his revolver from his coat pocket before he stepped inside.

The lamp inside illuminated a sparse, scrubbed room with a narrow bed, no belongings that Stephen could see, and a man in gray cotton sitting on the edge of the bed. He looked up when the door opened, saw the revolver, and froze. There was no panic about him, neither in motion nor in expression. Something had happened. That was all.

“This is my room,” he said without passion. “What are you doing here?”

“You’re John Smith?”

Stephen held the revolver steady and considered the picture before him. The man wasn’t Ward. He was too short, his hair was almost colorless, and the structure of his face was too even, too round. Also, he looked up at Stephen with neither alarm nor hate.

“I am John Smith,” he said. “What do you want?”

“Have you been hiring men down at the Dog and Moon?”

Smith blinked once. “No.”

It was the wrong question, Stephen realized. The men he’d spoken to had described Ward, or someone like him. In truth, he wouldn’t trust Smith to hire anyone himself.

“Do you receive the messages the barman sends?” he asked. That was the right question, if there was a right question.

Indeed, Smith nodded. Something about him shifted, too. Stephen wasn’t sure what. He couldn’t have placed it in the man’s stance, or even in his eyes. The difference was like the faint smell of smoke on the wind or a sudden chill in the air. It roused the hunting instinct in his blood, the primitive awareness that the moment for action was fast approaching.

“What happens to the letters?” he asked, concentrating on his aim.

“I inform my master of their arrival,” said Smith, as if stating the answer to a mathematical problem. “I take them to our meeting place.”

Master, he’d said. Not employer, not commander. Master. On the back of Stephen’s neck, every hair stood on end.

“How long have you been at this?”

“Forty-eight days.”

Now there was a smell. Faint but sharp, it stung the inside of Stephen’s nose. “What’s that?”

Smith gave him a truly blank look.

Then, a sound. Sizzling. It came from somewhere near Smith’s boots. Stephen took a hasty step backwards. “What in the world is wrong with you, man?”

“Nothing,” said Smith. The sizzling sound was louder now, and the smell was stronger. “I am functioning exactly as designed. Good-bye.”

Stephen lunged toward Smith just before he shattered.

There was no explosion, no grotesque rain of flesh. Instead, cracks ran up and down Smith’s body, covering his hands and face within seconds. Another second widened them. Then there was no more Smith, only a small pile of bits that looked like a thicker eggshell—and a burning cloud of orange gas.

Stephen’s free hand closed around one of the bits of shell. He stuffed it into his coat pocket without thinking, then bolted for the window. The butt of his revolver broke through the glass easily, and cold air rushed inside.

The window was small, though. The wall it faced was high, and the wind coming in blew the gas toward the open door. With every inhalation, the orange cloud poured into Stephen’s lungs, scorching them like no fire ever had. As he ran forward, hand over his face, he felt blood begin pouring from his nose.

Even he wouldn’t survive very long in the building. A mortal man would have been dead already.

Mina was downstairs.

“Fire!” Stephen yelled, and his throat screamed raw agony with the word. He drew a painful breath and shouted again. “Get out of the house!”

None of the doors along the hallway opened; no light came on underneath them. Stephen ran down the hall anyhow, trying one knob after another and getting no answer.

Then, from the bottom of the stairs, he heard Mina calling his name.

He turned from the final door and ran for the stairs. The mist was hazier now, diluted with the extra space. Still reeling from the initial cloud, he wasn’t sure how deadly it remained. Halfway down the stairs, he had to stop and hold on to the banister while he coughed.

“Stephen!” He looked up through the mist to see Mina, holding a handkerchief over her face and ascending the stairs toward him.

“No!” The word came out bloody. Stephen reached forward, half-blind, and grabbed Mina by the shoulder. “You’ll die. Get out.”

“You too,” she said, and now she’d grabbed him, her hand tight on his wrist. Without so much as a by-your-leave, she turned and began pulling him down the stairs. “Mrs. Grant’s next door. She’s called the police.”

“Anyone else?” he managed.

“No. Move.”

Mina dragged him, with considerably more strength than he’d have thought she had, and Stephen aided her as much as his pain-wracked body would allow. Keeping his eyes on her made it easier to stumble onward. He watched the strands of hair that hung down her back and the determined set of her shoulders, and he almost forgot how much effort it took just to put one foot in front of the other.

Then the doorway was in front of them; then Mina was through it, and Stephen staggered through after her, just sensible enough to slam the door shut behind him. He closed his eyes and leaned against the wall.

“My God,” someone said, “what’s happened to him?”

“Was it a fight?” another voice asked.

And then Mina, blessedly calm and steady and close at hand. “Can’t I take you anywhere?”

* * *

They got back home. Stephen wasn’t entirely sure how. Most of his attention was focused on drawing breath into lungs that felt lined with broken glass.

The voices swirled around his head, exclaiming and questioning. Mina’s rose above them. They faded. Mina spoke again, sharply but unsteadily, with tears in her voice. Stephen tightened his arm around her, squeezing her shoulder with one hand. She was shaking. No wonder. He should do something, he thought. He should at least say something, but the coughing took over again.

“…get a doctor,” said Mina.

Stephen shook his head. “Won’t help. I’ll be all right. Home.”

He saw the carriage as a large, almost formless black shape. He thought briefly and uneasily of legends—the black coach on the Royal Mile, foretelling death or taking souls to Hell—but the elderly dapple-gray horse and the talkative cab driver dispelled that impression quickly enough. Inside, the seats were cracked and badly sprung. Stephen let himself fall back into his as if it had been a featherbed.