The hackney carriage rattled over Covent Garden's cobbles like a coffin on wheels, the predawn fog muffling the cries of early vendors hawking wilted violets and yesterday's broadsheets. Elowen Thorne huddled in the shadows of the squabs, her midnight gown torn at the hem from the garden's thorns, the filigreed mask discarded in favor of a plain domino pilfered from a costermonger's stall. Her lips still tingled from Ashford's kiss—a brand more potent than any siren's compulsion, searing through her defenses like lightning over the waves. How? The question looped in her mind, a siren's lament: no man resisted her voice, yet he had not only withstood it but heard the secrets it dragged from Hargrove's lips. And that touch—firm, unyielding—had silenced her gift entirely, as if his blood carried some ancestral ward against the drowned.
The Blue Anchor loomed ahead: a sagging tavern of weathered oak and leaded glass, its sign creaking in the mist like a hanged man's sigh. Duval's drop— the bookseller's haunt, where cabal couriers exchanged treason in the guise of literary trades. Elowen slipped a coin to the jarvey, alighting with the grace of a shadow, her dagger sheathed in her fan, the siren's scar on her throat pulsing faint warning. The streets stirred—milkmaids with pails, apprentices yawning toward their masters—but eyes followed her: Hargrove's men? Or Ashford's spies? The duke's parting words echoed: Follow the courier. I'll handle the hounds. Aid or ambush? In the game of crowns and cabals, trust was a luxury drowned long ago.
The Anchor's door yielded to her push, hinges groaning like a drunkard's complaint, spilling her into a haze of pipe smoke and sour ale. Dawnlight filtered through grimy panes, illuminating a motley dawn crowd: sailors nursing hangovers, a card-sharp fleecing a greenhorn, and behind the scarred bar, Jacques Duval—mousy bookseller by day, French whisperer by night. His spectacles perched on a beak-nose, fingers ink-stained as he tallied ledgers, but his eyes—sharp as quills—flicked to her, assessing.
"A volume of Shelley, perhaps?" Elowen ventured, voice pitched to mundane lilt, sliding onto a stool. No song yet; the tavern's din masked subtleties, and her throat ached from the night's strain—the kiss's echo lingering like salt on the tongue.
Duval's smile was a thin blade. "Prometheus Unbound, milady? Or something... bound for the continent?" He poured her a gin without asking, the glass sweating condensation like nervous sweat.
She sipped, the burn steadying her. "The latter. A friend seeks discretion—codes in the margins, gold in the spine."
His gaze sharpened, ledger forgotten. "Discretion costs, as does haste. The drop's not till noon— but for a lady's urgency..." He leaned in, voice dropping to conspirator's hush. "The courier's delayed. Winds from Calais rough. But the ledger? Yours, if the price sings."
Elowen leaned closer, the siren's gift uncoiling tentative—a soft hum beneath her words, the melody of compulsion weaving through the tavern's murmur. "The price is truth, Monsieur Duval. Who holds the leash on this courier? The viscount's hand, or another's?"
Duval's eyes glazed, the song taking hold, his mouth parting unbidden. "Hargrove pulls strings, but the puppeteer... Lady Vespera Blackwood. Her salons hide the cabal's heart—tomorrow's rout at Blackwood House. The ledger names the powder masters, the Thames saboteurs. Take it—take—"
A crash from the door—boots on boards, three thugs in rough wool bursting in, cudgels gleaming. Hargrove's hounds, faces scarred from dockside brawls, eyes locking on Duval. "The witch! Grab the Frog and the book!"
Elowen surged up, fan-dagger flashing— the blade slicing the first thug's forearm in a spray of arterial red, his cudgel clattering. The song shattered on the din, her voice raw, but instinct guided: a low note hummed sharp, compelling the second to freeze mid-swing, eyes wide as he confessed the boss wants her tongue. The third lunged, fist connecting with her ribs in a crack of pain that expelled her breath, sending her sprawling over the bar.
Duval yelped, ledger tumbling into her grasp—leather-bound, heavy with secrets—but the compelled thug shook free, roaring as he backhanded his mate, chaos erupting in a tangle of fists and curses. Elowen scrambled, ledger tucked under her arm, bursting through the back door into the mews—stables reeking of hay and horse-sweat, fog cloaking her flight.
Hooves thundered behind— the thugs mounting stolen hacks, pistols barking lead that splintered crates. A ball grazed her shoulder, burning linen and flesh, but she vaulted a fence into a warren of alleys, heart pounding in time with the siren's scar. Vespera Blackwood. The name slithered like eel in oil: widowed countess, hostess of literary salons that masked cabal conclaves, her Blackwood House a nest of vipers in Mayfair. Tomorrow's rout— the perfect veil for the powder handover.
The alley twisted toward the Thames, Elowen's breath ragged, the ledger's weight a leaden anchor. Footsteps echoed— not thugs, but elegant: polished Hessians on stone, a figure materializing from the mist like a specter from her garden chase.
Ashford.
He caught her arm, steadying her spin, his coat swirling like a cape. "Running from hounds, siren? Or to them?" His voice was velvet over steel, eyes scanning her wound—the graze seeping red through her sleeve. From his pocket, a handkerchief—fine lawn, monogrammed A.H.—pressed to the injury, his touch gentle as contradiction.
Elowen jerked back, dagger to his throat, the ledger clutched like a shield. "You! Spying for the Regent, or the cabal? How did you—?"
A pistol-crack echoed, ball whizzing past his ear into the fog. Ashford didn't flinch, hand closing over hers on the blade, guiding it down as he drew his own rapier—cane discarded in the mews. "Questions later. Hounds first." He spun her behind him, rapier flashing to parry the lead thug's cudgel, steel ringing like a toast to folly. The fight blurred—Ashford a whirlwind of precision thrusts, disarming one with a flick, tripping another into a midden heap with a boot-sweep.
Elowen joined, song surging despite the ache—a compelling note that turned the third thug's pistol on his mates, confusion twisting to fratricide. The alley fell silent, broken only by groans and the Thames' lap. Ashford sheathed his blade, turning to her, handkerchief still in hand. "Let me see the wound."
She hesitated, the siren's voice testing: a soft lilt, tell me your game. But it washed over him like rain on oil, his gray eyes unmoved, that half-smile curling. "Won't work, Elowen. Family curse—or gift. The Hale blood repels... suggestions." He bound her shoulder deft, fingers lingering, the contact sparking again—that dangerous heat, pulling her closer than wisdom allowed.
"The ledger," she said, voice steadying, stepping back. "Vespera Blackwood's rout. Powder for the Thames."
Ashford's jaw tightened, eyes storm-dark. "The countess—cabbalist queen. I've trailed her whispers for months, but her salons are warded, her guests enthralled. Your song could crack them." He glanced at the fog-shrouded alley, dawn gilding the spires. "Ally? Or adversary?"
Elowen weighed him: duke by title, devil by deed, his immunity a puzzle and peril. But the hounds bayed distant, and the game demanded gambits. "Ally. For now. But betray me, Ashford, and my voice will find a way to drown you yet."
His laugh was low, intimate. "Drown me? I'd welcome the depths, siren." He offered his arm, the contact electric. "To my carriage. Blackwood House awaits—and with it, the rout where empires fall."
They slipped into the mist, arm-in-arm like illicit lovers, the ledger heavy between them. But as the carriage bore them toward Mayfair, Elowen's scar burned— the siren's ancestress whispering beware the one who silences the sea.
Ashford's hand brushed hers, unbidden. And in that touch, she wondered: savior, or the deepest current yet?
The gambit deepened. And the tide turned treacherous.
To be continued...
End of Chapter 2