Transmuted by Karina Cooper Page A

enough as to make no difference,” she sniffed. “The Underground’s got fists and shanks, but the dogs have tooth and claw and a madness runs deep. Don’t count on people around to save you from one if they get your scent.”
    Of course, we didn’t expect the dogs to know we were coming. As a rule, the gangs stayed out of the Underground—nasty as the Ferrymen were, even without the serum that had twisted them, there were them Underground what made a gang’s shankers look like children playing with sticks.
    I nodded solemnly. “And that’s something to consider,” I said. Ashmore’s gaze sharpened on me. “If the gangs usually stay out of the Underground, then who among them is sheltering the Ferrymen? Are they hoping none will take note?”
    “A good question,” Hawke acknowledged. Damn my internals for shivering all delighted at what I heard as a compliment.
    “What’s to keep them from turning against you?” Zylphia asked.
    I assumed she meant the general populace of the Underground. “Ashmore will have to refrain from his ever so educated dialect,” I replied, smiling when his gaze turned to the ceiling in a display of exasperation. “But all in all, collectors come and go when they’ve guides and reason.” I patted my hands together, as though I’d done a job well. True enough that I had, even though it were done in years past. “I’ve never been accosted once, coming or going. If we obey the parlance of the Underground, little should change.”
    “Nevertheless,” Hawke cut in, “we’ll go prepared for a fight.”
    “Of course,” I agreed. “How else does one enter the Underground?”
    “Dead,” Zylphia volunteered.
    A muscle jumped in Hawke’s jaw; surprising me, for I’d done nothing to get his goat this time.
    “Or snatched,” Ashmore added.
    Hawke drained the last of his glass. “Or lured to a trap,” he finished, a harsh rasp. Well. Not even I could argue with that.

Chapter Eight
    The entrance to the Thames Tunnel was a dual arch carved into a leveled facing, with stairs leading down to the shafts. According to the schedule, the Wapping train had already left for Rotherhithe. We would be free to traverse the tunnel for some time.
    Come evening, the trains ferrying passengers rather than stock slowed. It was as good a time to brave the tunnel as any.
    So it was that four souls stole into the Thames Tunnel, not much more to make of us than a hunched guide with a blackened smile, two taller blokes of confident stride and the shorter urchin that was all I passed for. While there was no real reason for Ashmore and Hawke to hide their features, we all agreed to go with as little overt distinction as possible.
    I’d once more taken my hair black with a thick coating of soot from the fireplace, and pinned it into a crown I could fit under my street boy’s cap. My togs were plain and patchy, and the bit of chill to the spring night seemed oddly heavy when caught by the fog that swirled around us.
    Strapped to my thighs, out in the open where any might see, I carried two blades. Ashmore was not quite so obvious, but I knew his coat masked a brace of pistols.
    If Hawke carried any weapons, he did not share that knowledge with me.
    Given the strength with which I had seen him act, I doubted that he would need any. Still, the fine tenets of control he exerted over the thing within him could not possibly respond well to violence. A weapon—a pistol, perhaps—might be better for him than any acts of physical prowess.
    It was too late to consider this now.
    Our guide went by the name of Saltlick Sims—a moniker earned whilst manning a sailing ship in his youth. He’d developed a habit of licking blocks of the stuff, as though it were sugar.
    Of my three guides, he was the only who still lingered about. As I’d expected, one of my past guides had gone toes-up. The other had not been at her usuals.
    He strode into the yawning mouth of the Thames River Tunnel without halt or hitch. He