The Raven Spell (Conspiracy of Magic #1)(31)
“Aye, in my line of work, it’s sometimes required.” He knew it made him sound more hostile than he was, but he decided to leave it hanging between them as he pressed her again. “Haven’t you ever used that unique voice of yours to influence a mortal? I was surprised when you didn’t run those lads off with one of your songs.”
“The voice doesn’t work like that for me. I can’t affect a group, only an individual. I think the spell gets diluted by trying to spread it too far otherwise.”
“So you’ve tried before?”
She kept her shawl drawn over her head, even pulling it a wee bit tighter, refusing to incriminate herself with anything more than a shrug. By necessity, he’d had to become a keen observer of human nature, of behaviors and tics that gave away emotions, even when the person’s words clearly indicated otherwise. Edwina, he noted, had tensed when he referred to using spells on the lads again. It could be fear or even embarrassment at having used her magic in the open, but he suspected there was more to her reaction. Her reluctance wasn’t about the ethics of using magic against mortals. He rather thought it had more to do with wanting to avoid any attention on herself. Fair enough, he thought.
“What will you do now?” she asked. “With your investigation, I mean.”
Deflection or genuine interest?
“Start over again,” Ian said. “Begin where I would have on day one, when I arrived in the city. Though, actually, I’m in a bit of a spot, thanks to you and your sister.” She looked him full in the face then, her hazel eyes blinking with worry. He pointed to his temple. “I canna seem to remember which hotel I was staying at. Which means I dinna have my case file, a change of clothes”—he drew a hand over his noticeably stubbled cheeks—“or even a razor.”
She started to speak, but he held his hand up to stop her from apologizing. “It’s all right. I’ll find new lodging. I have a little coin left. Enough to rent a cot for a few nights, anyway.”
“But you’re quite recovered now?” she asked.
He’d lost four days, and probably more. Hob couldn’t have restored everything. The old fellow had done his best, of course, but there were things he simply couldn’t know. Hob seemed to think the body held on to memories as much as the mind, but that hadn’t borne out by Ian’s experience. He’d tried from every angle while on the foreshore to remember what had happened, how he’d come to be there and get hit over the head, but the only thing that felt vaguely familiar was the stench of the mud and fish and brine, as if the scent had gotten in his nostrils and wouldn’t leave. That and the sensation that he’d also choked on his own blood after his throat had been slit, though he clearly hadn’t been murdered. Which meant whoever’s memory she’d mistakenly given him had. Which left an altogether different taste in his mouth.
“Yes, for the most part,” he answered.
“So all you need is to start at the beginning.” Edwina stood and shook out the hem of her skirt, which had finally stopped dripping with river water. “We should get going, then.”
“We?”
“Yes. We need to find your hotel and reunite you with your belongings.”
“Miss Blackwood, that’s hardly something for you to concern yourself with,” he said, standing to meet her.
“Oh, but it is. If not for my sister’s interference, you wouldn’t currently be without your possessions. Luckily that’s something I believe I can help you with.”
“And how exactly do you propose to do that?”
“Where would your investigation begin, Mr. Cameron?” She straightened her back and clasped her hands together in front of her, all business. “Assuming you just arrived in the city?”
Instead of trying to remember, he answered as a matter of protocol. “My only lead was the missing man’s place of employment. The Wilshire Music Hall on Concord Street in the East End. That’s where I’d start. But how does that help me find my lodging place?”
He couldn’t say he was sorry he’d asked, though he wasn’t quite prepared for her abrupt determination to assist. After offering up that charming smile of hers, she took off walking at a brisk pace, returned the coffee mug to its grateful monger, then demanded he follow to the nearest headhouse to purchase a third-class ticket for the underground railway. He wasn’t sure he’d have used the newfangled system when he’d arrived in the city from the north on the train. The idea of zooming in the dark beneath the decaying earth, with only an oil lamp to light the train’s way—and where at least a small population of the dead were known to lie dormant in disturbed plague pits—raised his discomfort level to somewhere north of teeth grinding. She seemed to surmise his reluctance yet dropped the necessary coins at the ticket window for their journey.
“Are you sure about this?” Ian said as she collected the tickets.
Edwina cocked her head in the direction of the stairs leading down to the platform. “Call it witch’s intuition,” she whispered. “Besides, this is the quickest way.” He half suspected she’d used that voice of hers to bewitch him into following along without his noticing. How else could he explain why he did as she asked?
The train tunnel went even deeper in the earth than he’d imagined. The stairs descended to a depth of a hundred feet or more by the time they reached the underground platform. The colorful posters on the opposite wall advertising milk and flour, with their rosy-cheeked cherubs, did little to ease his discomfort. Not so long as the gaping black hole of a tunnel yawned at him from either side of where he stood. It was one thing to explore a cave or burrow. Those spaces were condoned by nature and were only occasionally occupied by spirits that meant no harm. But this deliberate digging through the earth, disturbing eons-buried ground to build tunnels for human transportation, was asking for trouble.