Page 92 of Immortal Rose

The past is only a backstory, unless you allow it to wield the quill.

I dug deep into myself, until I found that thread of resolve again, the pattern of the new life I was weaving.

I was born here, but I would not die here. I would never belong to it again.

“Second-guessing your decision, Lockwood?” Foxcourt asked lightly. Surrounded by the soft blue satin of Reddy’s carriage, the intensity of his focus conspired with his black clothing to give his air an edge of wicked intent. My eyes were drawn to him, even as he threatened to melt away into the darkness.

“No,” I lied. “Only playing through the story again to ensure I have it.”

The man had more than teeth in his head. I knew he wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t press the matter. As the wheels struggled and clattered against the rough road, the falsehood seemed to fester between us.

I fingered the velvety petals of the white rose in the posy, focusing my attention on its delicate scent and away from the looming river and its sprawling dockyard. The water teemed with the city’s filth and refuse and, as Arabella had once so eloquently put it, reeked like the Devil’s own piss.

Arabella. I closed my eyes briefly, fighting a sigh. In the rush of everything that had happened, I hadn’t had a moment to worry after her. The guilt ate at me now; Riverside had once been her home, too. She’d needed more than luck and a caring mother to survive it.

The coach stopped short of the gated entrance of the dockyard, cuing the one following at a distance to do the same. Reddy had hired several of his company’s lightermen to serve as eyes in the nearby warehouses and sheds, in the event of any trouble. I suspected that fact, and not any of the arguments Reddy and I had made, had persuaded Foxcourt it was safe to allow me to come.

“This must be the quietest wharf in the city,” Foxcourt noted, lifting the coach’s curtain.

“It’s been like this since the Stone Sloggers claimed it as part of their territory,” Reddy said with a dismissive wave.

I was so startled, there was no hope of guarding my expression. “Since when?”

“A month past,” Foxcourt replied, studying me. “Why? Have you had past dealings with them?”

I forced myself to swallow, willing my voice steady. “Not directly. But the Sloggers have managed to terrify even the Brickbats into obedience.”

They’d gotten their name from their leader, Greystone, and their proclivity for wearing spiked silver knuckles. But they fought with whatever vicious, cold bit of metal was available to them: steel-tipped boots, canes, knives, belt buckles. In ten years, they’d decimated or devoured the city’s other gangs and had claimed tens of thousands of pounds of stolen goods.

“Well, I have had dealings with Robert Greystone, and it’s not an experience I’d recommend, nor an acquaintance I’d wish to deepen,” Reddy said. “Thought the man would pluck the eyes right out of my head and eat them like grapes when I told him I wouldn’t smuggle guns for him.”

I swallowed. “I’ve heard it said he’s soulless. That he killed a thousand men last year.”

“How very industrious of him,” Foxcourt scoffed, deeply unimpressed. “He’s certainly been busy mythmaking, at the very least.”

“That’s half the battle in a street war,” Reddy pointed out. “But I wouldn’t take the quiet as a bad omen. Most of us are routing ships away from this dockyard, knowing the Sloggers skim a neat twenty percent off the top of everything that comes in under the guise of ‘protection.’ I suspect that’s why Glenmoor is still mooring his hired ships here—cheaper to bribe the Sloggers than the customs men, and the former has run the latter off.”

At the sound of the other coach pulling away, Foxcourt reached for the door, exchanging another speaking glance with Reddy. Turning to me, he paused. “If you feel at all uncomfortable,” he began, “do not hesitate to stay in the coach.”

“Oh, Fox,” Reddy said with a mocking swoon, “I didn’t know you cared.”

Foxcourt scowled at him, but that bit of humor had settled my nerves.

“How much time do you think you’ll need?” I asked instead.

His lips curved at the show of defiance. “An hour, if you can give it to me.”

“Anything of value is likely to be kept in the scarrow vault,” I told him, on the chance he didn’t know. “The walls are said to be as thick as a bull.”

Foxcourt’s brows rose. Apparently, he hadn’t known. “Noted.”

“If you’re caught, we’re leaving you for dead,” Reddy informed him. “And I’m not fishing you out of that godforsaken river.”

Foxcourt pulled the cowl over the lower half of his face, his eyes glinting with silver sparks. They seemed to burn through my cloak, falling over my skin like stardust.

As he opened the door and leapt out, even the moonlight appeared to bow to him, retreating behind a cloud and allowing him to disappear entirely into the night’s gloom.

“Dramatic bastard,” Reddy said fondly.