Page 13 of Hexbound
"She threatened to skin me alive," Verity muttered, snagging a handful of skirts and following him.
"That's only because she likes me, and you stole my Chalice."
The broad planes of his back met her gaze.Or, because she's worried I'm going to get my "hooks" into you.Which was precisely what the old witch had muttered as she'd snagged Verity's arm whilst Bishop exited the room first.
The sundial that portrayed the heart of Seven Dials loomed in the gloomy afternoon sunshine. The rain had stopped, though heavy clouds threatened another shower sometime in the near future. Seven roads scythed out from the sundial, leading to a variety of paths—and fortunes. There was a pub on each corner of the roads, and outside each sat a man or woman on a stool. Some were reading the paper and surreptitiously watching the streets. Some leaned against the walls, picking their nails or fiddling with a straight razor, as if to proclaim an aura of danger. One stared at her directly, his fingers twitching as if to reach for the weapon tucked in his belt, no doubt a hex-thrower. Every single one of the them wore only one glove, and there was a tattoo on the back of each of their ungloved left hands proclaiming their allegiance to their gang: a scorpion, a black cat, a one-eyed crow, a white rabbit's foot, a clock face, a bat, and a four-leaf clover.
"This way," Verity said, leading Bishop down the only road that was safe for her. The Hex had distinct rules that they referred to as the Code. Step outside the rules and you were considered easy prey, with no consequences from the Hex Society leaders.
Bishop looked around with seeming interest at the distilleries and gin sellers along the street. No sewers or dustbins here. The Seven Dials rookery of St. Giles was a sprawl of filth, and the pair of them stood out like sore thumbs. It had been cleaned up somewhat when the Hex took over the Dials, but signs of gang warfare revealed itself in sooty scorch marks against brick walls. A shop window had been smashed out and hastily boarded over, a pentagram within a circle painted on the boards.
"You grew up here?" he finally asked.
"I wasn't born here," she admitted, stepping lively and looking as if she knew exactly where she was going. "My mother died when I was seven, and I ended up in the workhouse. Colin Murphy offered me a position in the One-Eyed Crows when I was twelve."
A vastly abbreviated version of her history, one that sounded almost sanitary. How could a man like Bishop even begin to understand what life had been like for a young girl of twelve who knew what the alternatives were if she didn't accept Murphy's offer? Twelve was a dangerous age, after all, for a girl.
Verity's gaze slid over a pair of whores prowling their particular corners. A very dangerous age.
"You don't sound anything at all like I'd expect for these parts," he replied. "Unless you're cursing at me."
Heat found her cheeks. "My mother was a serving maid, once upon a time. When Murphy took me in, my dialect was good enough, but he insisted upon me learning how to pass in the West End."
"Why?"
"Why do you think?" she retorted. "I'm the decoy when he's got a bit of breaking and entering on the mind, or a better-racket planned. I spent hours on Bond and Oxford Streets, mimicking mybettersand dipping pockets. It's strange, but a rum cove will let any girl get close enough to pluck the very eyes from his sockets if he can see halfway down her dress and she sounds all polite and fancy-like." Verity rolled her eyes. "If I knew my numbers and letters and how to speak, then it meant I didn't have to lift skirt. Gives a girl a little incentive to learn."
The look he gave her fired her anger.
"Why?" she demanded, feeling the urge to prick at him. "Not quite like the silk sheets you were born on, my lord?"
"Silk sheets?" he replied in an unimpressed tone. "I thought you said you'd studied me?" He hesitated. "And I wasn't sneering at you. It sounds horrible. I can't... blame you for doing what was necessary to escape these circumstances."
"Does that include stealing your Chalice?"
He shot her a look that melted her all the way through. "I wouldn't go that far."
"Yes, well." She stared straight along the streets. "What do you mean you weren't born on silk sheets?"
All of the easiness fled from his expression. "Just that. I'm illegitimate, Miss Hawkins."
With that, he strode ahead of her, one hand sliding to his belt as a pair of youths took a step in their direction then thought better of it.
He handled threats well. Confidence was its own armor here and Bishop somehow made it seem like he was the predator, not the prey. The fact that he towered over most of the street lads, and looked big enough to fight "Diamond" Jim Purcell in fisticuffs also gave them all pause.
You've fallen in with a dangerous man, Verity Anne.
One who didn't quite fit the mold that she'd expected of him. "If not silk sheets, then where?" she muttered to herself as she followed him.
Bishop paused in the next intersection.
"What's going on?" Verity stood on her tiptoes, but the street was clearly blocked. Men were arguing up ahead and some sighed under their breath, as if this had been going on for some time. There were children about, hands held palm up, which she always hated to see. And her without a single coin on her.
Verity caught a glimpse of the obstruction; a dray carrying coal was wedged sideways in the street, blocking traffic. Someone had obviously tried to turn it around, and now the horses were stuck in their traces and clearly weary of it.
"This way," Bishop said, gesturing her down an alley.
"If we go down there, we enter neutral territory," she protested, then added to clarify, "It means we're going to have to be careful of other gangs."
