Page 21 of Hexbound
"Let me see that," Guthrie snapped and there was a brief tussle over the ledger, which Verity won.
She needed to know who Murphy—and she—had been meeting with the night of the commission.
A closer look at the name listed in the register stole her breath. "Noah Guthrie," she whispered, meeting Daniel Guthrie's eyes.
He snatched the register out of her hand. "Noah was here?"
"Noah was involved," she said, suddenly certain. "He was the one who met with Murphy to commission the theft." And swirling behind her eyes was the memory of Noah's face, smiling at her across a table she didn't recognize, as though the words had unlocked some key in her mind.
Verity blinked. Her head began to throb. The memory vanished. Noah might be Daniel's younger brother, but he'd always been kind to her. She couldn't equate the image of his sneering smile with the Noah that she'd known.
But she had other problems. "Date, time of meeting, and record of it." Verity forced her voice to harden. "Clearly I wasn't lying."
"Only says Noah was 'ere and wanted the job. But Noah ain't no master of memory hexes," Guthrie pointed out.
"Who knows what Noah is master of?" As much as she missed him, Noah had been a troubled soul, drawn to drinking and finally to the opium dens that ruled the East End. Murphy had been forced to throw him out of the Crows, and Noah had simply vanished one foggy morning. "It's been years since he graced the Dials. We all knew he ran with a bad crowd. Perhaps they taught him more of his magic?"
"Noah didn't have the capacity for it," Betsy said. "His mind was rotted from the opium. Even if he had the strength to perform such hex work, he wouldn't have had the will. Noah ain't your culprit."
"And ain't no sign of what Murphy were paying." Guthrie snapped the book shut. "Which means you still owe fifty quid."
Verity's fingernails bit into her palms, but she knew the way the game was played. "You'll have your fifty quid. As soon as I can get a chance to work it off, but until then I need to focus on Murphy's murderer. I want a stall on the interest."
"Denied." Guthrie looked smug.
"Denied," Conrad echoed, and then Betsy and Nigel. The three of them hovered around the desk, making it clear whose lead they followed.
Damn them. Verity glared back. If it weren't for her, Conrad wouldn't still have both hands, and Nigel owed her for that little job she'd kept quiet about five years ago.
A couple of twenty-pound notes landed on the desk. Bishop plucked several more from his pocketbook, then counted them out. "One hundred pounds, which is all I'm carrying at the moment. That's more than enough to pay out Verity's debt to the Crows, and to make a good start on the other young lady's debt. Yes?"
"What?" Verity's jaw dropped open. "You don't have to give them money!"
"Yes." Bishop gave her that look, the one that said she might as well save her breath. "I do."
"So I can be beholden to you instead?"
A shocked look met her words, then he turned toward the Crows.
"The debt is paid," Bishop said, and taking her arm, he linked it through his. "Verity is free and I'm of a mind to see you write it down in your precious little ledger."
Guthrie stared at the money. "And if I refuse?"
He suddenly gasped, staggering against the desk. Betsy whipped around, knife in hand again, but Bishop merely clenched his fist and she went to her knees too, clutching at her chest.
"I have kept my tongue throughout this entire proceeding," Bishop said, and turned those flat eyes on Conrad when the big man took a step toward him, as if in warning. "I have watched you try to force this young woman into a corner, treating her like a criminal, and I have not yet taken umbrage. Because she asked me not to."
Guthrie choked on nothing, his eyeballs flaring in fear and his hands scrabbling at the papers on the desk.
"I have paid you the money that she owes." Bishop stepped forward and even Nigel scrambled out of his way as he placed his gloved hands on the desk and leaned over it to stare into Guthrie's face. "If you refuse to take it and clear her debt, then I shall treat you as the miserable pox you are, and wipe you from the face of this earth. It's as easy to me as simply... seizing the breath in your lungs."
Guthrie's face turned a particular shade of red.
"In fact," Bishop warned, his voice lowering, becoming almost hypnotic, as if he hungered for it. "The thought of your death pleases me... very much."
Something was wrong.
"I would like to kill you," Bishop crooned. "I can feel the blood rushing through your veins, right now. I can hear your heart racing." He closed his eyes, like a man listening to a symphony composed by the masters. "That little shudder as it pulses for oxygen...."
