Demon Blood

the Atlantic.
    Mina raised her brows.
    The maid blushed and bowed her head. “A gentleman asks to see you, my lady.”
    “Oh, she is not a lady,” Felicity said airily. “She is a detective inspector .”
    The mock gravity weighing down the last word seemed to confound the maid. She colored and fidgeted. Perhaps she worried that “inspector” was a bugger’s insult?
    Mina said, “What gentleman?”
    “A Constable Newberry, my lady. He’s brought with him a message to you.”
    Mina frowned and stood, but was brought around by Felicity’s exasperated, “Mina, you didn’t.”
    She could determine motives of opium-addled criminals, but what she couldn’t do was follow every jump of Felicity’s mind. “I didn’t what?”
    “Send a gram to your assistant so that you could escape.”
    Oh, she should have. It would be a simple thing; all of the bounders’ restored houses had wiregram lines installed.
    “You mistrustful cow! Of course I didn’t.” She lowered her voice and added, “I will at the next ball, however, now that you’ve given me the idea.” As Felicity smothered a laugh into her hand again, Mina continued. “Will you inform my father and mother that I’ve gone?”
    “Gone? It is only a message.”
    Newberry wouldn’t have come in person if it was only a message. “No.”
    “Oh.” Realization swept over her friend’s expression, brushing away her amusement. “Do not keep the poor bastard waiting, then.”
    The maid’s eyes widened before she turned to lead Mina out of the ballroom. She could imagine what the girl thought, but Newberry was not the poor bastard.
    Whoever had been murdered was.

    They’d put Newberry in a study in the east wing—probably so the guests weren’t made nervous by his size or his constable’s coat. Though he must have been alone in the room several minutes, he stood in the middle of the study, his bowler hat in his large-knuckled hands. Mina had to admire his fortitude. Small automata lined the study’s bookshelves. If given more than a few seconds to wait, she could not have stopped herself from winding them and seeing how they performed. She recognized a few of her mother’s more mundane creations— a dog that would wag his tail and flip; a singing mechanical nightingale—and felt more charitable toward her host. They might not have provided dessert, but they unknowingly had put food on her table.
    Newberry’s eyes widened briefly when he saw her attire. She’d never worn a skirt in his presence, let alone a yellow satin gown that exposed her collarbones and the few inches of skin between her cap sleeves and her long white gloves. His gaze flicked back up so fast she might have missed his surprise if she hadn’t taken that moment to look him over.
    Her coat, weapons, and armor draped over his left forearm. She could have no doubt they were leaving now, and he’d come in such a hurry he hadn’t taken time to shave. Evening stubble flanked the red mustache that drooped over the corners of his mouth and swept up the sides of his jaw to meet his sideburns. It offered the impression of a large, protective dog—an accurate impression. Newberry resembled a wolf-hound: friendly and loyal, until someone threatened. Then he was all teeth.
    Not every bounder who returned had a title and a bulging purse. Newberry had come so that his wife, suffering a consumptive lung condition, could be infected by the bugs and live.
    “Report, Newberry.” She accepted the sleeveless, close-fitting black tunic whose wire mesh protected her from throat to hips. Usually she wore the armor beneath her clothing, but she did not have that option now. She pulled it on and began fastening the buckles lining the front.
    “We’re to go to the Isle of Dogs, sir. Superintendent Hale assigned you specifically.”
    “Oh?” The dockyards east of London weren’t as rough as they’d once been, but she still visited often enough. Perhaps it touched another murder she had investigated. “Who is it this time?”
    “The Duke of Anglesey, sir.”
    Dear God. Her gaze skidded from a buckle up to Newberry’s serious face. “The Iron Duke’s been killed?”
    She had never met the man or seen him in person, and yet her heart kicked painfully against her ribs. Rhys Trahaearn, former pirate captain, recently titled Duke of Anglesey—and, after he’d destroyed the Horde’s tower, England’s most celebrated hero.
    “No.” Newberry glanced around, as if making certain that no