House of Corruption by Erik Tavares Page A

burden?”
    “No,” she said.
    “Then why not wait until his death?” Reynard asked. “If we are all that remains of Basta’s blood...” He picked at his teeth with a fingernail. “Seems a waste to have devoted his life when celibacy would have done the trick.”
    “You are wrong,” she said. “The affliction stains our blood, regardless. It is arbitrary. My father cares for his family line. He thinks of those not yet born. I do not think your sister wishes such a burden.”
    Reynard stiffened. How does she know about her?
    “Does she wish to forgo love and family?” Kiria asked.
    “She is none of your concern,” Reynard breathed.
    “Then I do not want such a life,” Kiria said. “If my blood can be purified then we Carlovecs can flourish again...” She looked to her hands, her face all but hidden in the shadow of her crimson hood. “Instead of ending with me.”
    Reynard lifted the drapes of his window, catching the vague shapes of apartment buildings with their closed shutters, the night ripe with cold and moisture. Despite his doubt and the coiled anxiety in his chest, her could not help but look at her. The shadows played across her throat and face inside her hood until her complexion seemed to radiate. There was something oriental in the shape of her eyes. He liked that. He liked that she wore her hair down off her shoulders. He fancied the turn of her lower lip, that she did not wear too much—or too little—color.
    Perhaps that was her game. To intrigue him.
    With a turn of her head and a renewed whiff from her perfume, he realized it had been a long time since he enjoyed a private moment with a beautiful woman. He would never admit it, but he found her audacity charming. He watched her lips as she spoke, catching the breathy sound of an accent not quite British, not quite anything he recognized. When she glanced in his direction and locked gazes she turned away, never to look at him for long.
    S he is shy , he considered, or coy, or polite .
    Ask about her route .
    He shook off Savoy’s presumptions. What did the old man know? He assumed everything involved a ghost or goblin or whatnot. He spent far too much time lurking in alleys and digging through people’s rubbish and sticking his nose in news articles not worth the paper it was printed on. How could such a woman be any threat?
    Her valet arrived mere hours after Bill’s death. On my doorstep .
    Savoy’s accusations percolated. Blazes, but that man could be tiresome! Perhaps it was best if he asked her a few questions. Settle the matter once and for all, then see if the coach might take them someplace warmer with fine wine and candles.
    “It was an effort,” he asked, “to find me?”
    “An understatement,” she said.
    Just a dreadful misunderstanding .
    “How was the Gulf this time of year?” he asked.
    “We arrived by train. My ship is docked up north.”
    “New York?”
    “Boston. We had little information as to your current whereabouts, but we followed a lead and learned you lived in Montreal. When we discovered you had moved, we were soon directed to LaCroix Brokerage. I traveled from rail office to rail office for two months. None of your employees were helpful. You do a superb job keeping inconsequential.”
    “I do what I can,” Reynard said. “How did you find Baltimore this time of year?”
    “Charming.”
    “You must have visited Pensacola’s waterfront.”
    “We only spent a day there.” She smiled suspiciously. “Were you aware of my inquiries?”
    Reynard expelled a long breath. Boston to Baltimore. Baltimore to Pensacola and now to his doorstep—the very route Savoy had predicted, littered with brutalized victims too horrible to contemplate.
    Coincidence.
    You don’t believe that, do you ?
    He felt sick, cursing his interest in her, reviling the growing duplicity that now seemed so obvious. He hated duplicities, hated them all. Beyond the curtains he saw, beyond another tall, iron fence, numerous burial