The Ouroboros Cycle, Book Two: A Cautionary Tale for Young Vampires. G.D. Falksen
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Va—” Luka caught himself, “Sauvage is away.”
If Constantine noticed the slip, he gave no indication. It was unlikely, though. From his manner and speech, Luka assessed him to be one of those tremendously intelligent people who understood little and noticed even less. The Shashavani had more than their fair share of them.
“Yes, yes,” Constantine said, “she told me she had a man to keep an eye on the place. Very good.”
He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and began wiping the head of his walking stick, lest contact with the ruffian’s face had soiled it. Luka looked over his shoulder and saw Bates hobbling toward them along the alley that connected Osborne Court to the street, followed by a couple of his fellows. They looked at the injured men who lay on the ground with wide eyes and open mouths.
Was it possible they had thought Luka could not manage the whole group alone? He was more than a little offended.
“Mister Luka,” Bates said, “we, uh…uh.…”
“Just in time, Bates,” Luka said. “Mind these troublemakers for me. I must get to work, and I’m certain the doctor here does not want these men discouraging his patients.”
“Yes, it would be most inconvenient,” Constantine said. He looked at Bates and extended his hand. “Bates is it?”
“Yessir,” Bates replied. He quickly doffed his hat with one hand while shaking with the other. “I work for Mister Luka.”
“Splendid!” Constantine said. “I could use a couple of door guards.”
“Aye,” Bates said. “’Swhy we’re ’ere.”
Bates snapped his fingers, and the two fellows with him took up positions on either side of the door, looking down at the ruffians and glowering. They carried large cudgels and looked more than ready to do violence.
Good, Luka thought.
One by one, the conscious ruffians got to their feet and began backing away toward the street.
“And…Mister Bates,” Constantine said, “why don’t you come inside. Let me look at your leg. Doctor Sauvage left some notes for me about her current patients, and she mentioned your injuries.”
“Much obliged, Doctor,” Bates said. “Very kind o’ you.”
“Nonsense, it’s my occupation,” Constantine replied. “Come along.” He looked at Luka and added, “And thank you very much for your assistance, Mister Luka.”
“My pleasure.” Luka smiled. It had been. Not quite the challenge he wanted, but it was good to be in a fight after so much time of inaction. “Good evening.”
He tipped his hat to Constantine, turned, and departed Osborne Court in search of more trouble and more prey.
* * * *
Luka spent a little while walking the streets around Osborne Court, surveying his new territory and taking note of the inhabitants. The whores were out, standing around the street corner or making a patrol of the area, searching for customers. The drunks of the day had been joined by the drunks of the evening, and in the growing darkness the population became more and more sinister.
He passed a pair of men robbing a third at knifepoint. Luka interrupted them and laid them out with a few blows each. He gave their victim the contents of their pockets as compensation and sent him on his way to spread the word. Luka knew nothing of the men nor of the details of the attack—for all he knew, the victim had done something to warrant the robbery. But that did not matter. From now on the people around Osborne Court would know that they were to be safe from violence, whether perpetrated by outsiders or by one another.
This was his domain, his fief. The people were his responsibility, though it would take some work building their loyalty. This was governance at its most primitive level. There were no laws or customs for him to call upon, no predecessors from whom he could inherit his authority. The Spitalfields were a wilderness, a place of mistrustful people, either under siege by men who wished to do them violence, or those very same violent men besieging others. Luka would become the lord here by protecting the weak from those violent men with an application of even greater violence.
At the corner of Burgess Row—a glorified alleyway that led between Perrott Street and Cooke Street—Luka heard a woman’s raised voice, shouting something that he could not quite make out. The tone was angry and more than a little frightened.
Luka moved to the corner and peeked around it. About halfway along the alley, a pale young woman with ginger-red hair stood, back pressed up against the wall, illuminated by a beam of light. She was skinny—probably half starved—and clothed in a fraying dress of green and blue plaid. The garment was just a little too small for her, the cuffs coming to mid-forearm and the hem of her skirt resting above her ankles. That spoke to her poverty as much as its condition and her appearance.
There were four men in the alley as well. One, a fat man in a bowler, stood right before the woman with a small knife gripped in his meaty hand. At his side was a taller, fitter fellow carrying the lantern that illuminated the girl. The other two men were staggered further back in the alleyway. One was smoking while he watched the spectacle. Luka noticed that he held a wooden club in his free hand. The last man stood at the very back. He was probably assigned to watch the road, but he was doing an especially poor job.
How very convenient, Luka thought. All in a row.
Luka stepped into the shadows of the alley and slowly crept toward the nearest man. Closer now, he could make out the conversation—if it could be called such—between the girl and the fat man.
“Give us the fuckin’ money, girl!” the man snapped, holding the knife up to the girl’s face and grabbing her by the shoulder.
The girl shoved him away and pressed herself against the wall even harder. She kept her head high and her shoulders back, presenting the men with a defiant stance that made her tower over the man with the knife.
“Get yer hands offa me!” she said, her voice betraying what Luka after a moment recognized as a Scottish brogue. “I donne owe ye nothin’! I pay Jones’s boys, an’ now they’re gone, I donne pay anyone. Least of all, ye lot! Now let me go—”
She tried to push her way past the two men in front of her, but the man with the knife backhanded her across the face, then grabbed her by the throat and shoved her hard into the wall. The girl let out a yelp and threw up her arms to ward off the next attack.
“Listen ta me, luv,” he said to her. “Ya calls me Mister ’Iggins from now on. Jones’s boys is gone an’ not comin’ back, so now ’ere’s my patch. An’ that means every fuckin’ ’ore ’round ’ere belongs ta me! An’ that’s includin’ you!”
The girl took a deep breath and quickly nodded. She put on a sweet smile and patted Higgins on the chest.
“Oh, yessir, Mister Higgins,” she said. “Sorry, I did’ne understand that ye was takin’ over. I thought Jones was comin’ back, an’ what would I tell him if’n I gave ye his share? But…but I understand now. H-how much I owe ye?” She bit her lip and looked down. “Only I ain’t made much tonight. ’Tis still early, ye see.”
“Oh, there, there,” Higgins said, grinning. He patted the girl’s cheek, though without any affection: each pat was like a soft slap to remind the girl of her place. “I ain’t an unfeelin’ man, luv. Why don’t I call it a miss this time, eh?”
“Ye’d do that?” the girl asked, fluttering her eyelids.
“Oh, aye,” Higgins said.
He placed a hand on the girl’s head and pushed her down. She resisted at first, but Higgins brandished the knife, and the girl slowly knelt on the ground.
“Good girl,” Higgins said. He stowed his knife and began unbuttoning his trousers. “Ya can start with me an’ then take care of my boys. Let’s see if you’re an ’ore