Marcus blinked and shook his head. I’m hallucinating.
His secretary hurried towards him, stark naked.
Marcus leveled the pistol.
Albin brushed the weapon aside. “You’re bleeding, sir!”
“I’m fine.” His voice sounded normal, but nothing else was. What the hell had just happened?
“No, you’re not.” Albin ripped Marcus’s neckcloth off. “Let me see how bad it is.”
“I’m fine!” His view of the Smiths—one huddled whimpering in the corner, the other slumped half-dazed on the floor—was obscured by Albin’s shoulder. Marcus rose to his knees, raising the pistol.
Albin pushed him down to sit and pressed the wadded-up neckcloth to Marcus’s throat. “Hold this, sir.”
“Damn it, I told you—”
Abel Smith crossed the room at a lumbering run. He wrestled with the latch, jerked the door open, and lurched out into the corridor. His brother followed, stumbling, cradling an arm to his chest, his face a scarlet mask of blood. The door slammed shut.
“God damn it!” Marcus shoved Albin aside. He scrambled over the tipped-up table and wrenched open the door, pistol in hand. The corridor was empty in both directions.
He ran left, plunging down the stairs to emerge in the busy taproom. There was no sign of the Smiths, no stir as if two injured men had pushed their way through the patrons.
A dog yipped behind him.
He looked back.
A brown dog stood at the top of the stairs. It uttered another yip and trotted out of sight.
Marcus ran back up the stairs.
The dog was at the other end of the corridor. It scratched a door. This one, it seemed to say.
Marcus tightened his grip on the dueling pistol. He flung open the door. A flight of steep, uncarpeted stairs led downwards.
He took the stairs three at a time, thrust open the door at the bottom so hard it smacked the wall with a loud crack of sound, and emerged into the inn’s backyard. The dog bounded past him, nose to the ground.
Marcus followed at a run—through the yard, along an alley, out into High Holborn Street. He saw pedestrians and street hawkers and carriages, but no Smiths.
The dog led him half a dozen yards along the street. It sniffed, cast around in a circle, then sat and looked up at him and whined.
Marcus halted. He knew the dog was Albin, and he knew what Albin was trying to tell him. The trail ended here. The Smiths had entered a carriage, most likely a hackney.
He hissed between his teeth. God damn it.
Marcus became aware of the sight he presented, wild-eyed and unkempt, clutching a pistol. He retreated, back along the alley, through the yard. Now that he wasn’t running, he saw scarlet splashes on the ground. Jeremiah Smith’s blood.
He climbed the back staircase, let the dog into the private parlor, and latched the door again. The overturned table lay in the middle of the room, one leg snapped off. His armchair was on its back by the fireplace. Banknotes littered the rug.
Alongside the table was a pile of shredded clothes and an upturned hat.
“Albin.”
The dog cringed at his tone and tucked its tail between its legs. It backed two steps away from him. Between the space of one heartbeat and the next, it became Albin.
Marcus blinked, and shook his head, and gripped the pistol more tightly.
Albin swallowed nervously, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. He picked up the torn remains of his coat and held it awkwardly in front of himself, hiding his nudity. “Sir.”
“What the devil is going on?”
“I . . . uh . . .” Albin swallowed again, his expression slightly desperate, as if he hunted for a believable excuse. Marcus could have told him there was none. Nothing—nothing—could explain what he’d just witnessed.
The silence lengthened. Albin’s expression became more desperate. He shifted his weight. Finally he blurted: “They were going to kill you, sir! I had to do something!”
“A bear?” Anger vibrated in his voice. “How?”
Albin’s toes curled under, as if he wanted to dig himself a hole to hide in. “It’s difficult to explain, sir. It’s . . . it’s to do with my mother.”
“She could turn into animals too?” Marcus said, with heavy sarcasm.
Albin flushed. “No, sir. She, um . . . she could fly.”
The absurdity of the answer made him even more furious. Marcus shoved the pistol into his pocket. Shards of wood crunched beneath his boots as he strode across to the armchair. He snatched up the banknotes.
“Sir,” Albin said timidly. “You’re bleeding.”
Marcus looked down at himself. Blood soaked the front of his shirt and waistcoat. No wonder he’d drawn so many stares on the street.
“Here.” Albin offered his own torn neckcloth, a tentative gesture, as if he expected to be rebuffed. “There’s a cut on your throat.”
Marcus’s anger evaporated, leaving him feeling ashamed of himself. “Thank you.” He shoved the banknotes in his pocket and accepted the strip of muslin.
“Sir . . . you’re cut here, too.” Albin indicated his own chest.
“I am?”
The lad was correct. His shirt, waistcoat, and the left lapel of his coat had been sliced by Jeremiah Smith’s knife. Marcus pulled the edges of fabric apart. A shallow cut ran from his collarbone to his ribs, passing over his heart.
“He almost killed you, sir.”
“Yes.” Marcus turned and surveyed the wreckage of the room. It made no sense. No sense at all. Why had the Smiths chosen to murder him rather than be bribed?
A knock sounded on the door. “Sir? Mr. Black?”
“Who is it?” Marcus asked loudly.
“Mr. Nutley, owner of this tavern.”
Marcus glanced at Albin. The lad was as naked as the day he was born. “What do you want?” he called.
“I’ve had reports of a disturbance, sir. I must request admittance.”
Marcus looked at Albin again. “Fuck.”
Albin blinked, clearly not understanding the word. “Sir?”
“Half of London thinks I drove Lavinia to suicide. I’ll be damned if I’ll be known for a back door usher too!”
Albin’s expression became bewildered. “A what?”
“He’ll take you for my lover.” And once arrested, he wouldn’t be Mr. Black for long. His identity would be exposed. Lord Cosgrove, sodomite.
London would fall upon it with glee.
Albin’s face cleared. “Oh. I’ll leave.” He hurried to the window and flung it open. One instant, he was standing naked, the next a sparrow hopped up on the windowsill and flew out.
Every hair on Marcus’s body stood on end. He took an involuntary step backwards.
Fresh knocking came from the door. “Mr. Black?”
“One moment!” Marcus snatched up Albin’s ruined clothes—coat and shirt, breeches, waistcoat, boots—crossed to the window in long strides and shoved them out. He heard the sound of a key in the lock. He slammed the window shut and swung round.
The door opened. A man stood framed in the doorway, an apron tied around his ample stomach. Behind him were two waiters.
Mr. Nutley stepped into the parlor. He surveyed the damage: the broken table, the upturned chairs, the puddles of spilled ale. His face reddened, swelling with rage. “Sir! This is a respectable establishment—”
“I apologize.” Marcus pulled a banknote from his pocket. Five pounds. He crossed to the man. “This should cover the damage.”
The landlord’s eyes widened. His outrage abruptly vanished. He plucked the note from Marcus’s fingers. “Yes. It will suffice.”
Marcus glanced around for his hat. There, on the floor. He picked it up, brushed it off, put it on. Over by the broken table, was a second hat: Albin’s. He picked that up, too. It was the only item of clothing that Albin’s transformation hadn’t destroyed.
A metallic gleam on the floor caught his eye. A silver pocket watch. Marcus picked it up and flipped open the lid. Charles Appleby, Esq. He frowned, trying to place the name.
Albin’s former employer.
“Er . . . do you require the services of a doctor, Mr. Black?”
“No.” Marcus slid the watch into his pocket. What he needed was to talk with Albin.