Page 9 of The Devil in Oxford
CHAPTERFIVEA Penchant for Peril
THEbody of Julius Harker had been awkwardly crammed into the great stone funerary box. His mouth gaped open, dark blood pooling around his head like a garish halo. Something about the sight put me in mind of that German film that Mr. Owen had been going on about before we set off for Oxford. Something to do with vampires. I’d not paid much attention at the time, thinking it another silly picture I didn’t care to watch, but perhaps I ought to have, considering my recent experiences with the inexplicable and arcane. I certainly couldn’t discount the notion of such things as easily now as I once had, as Mr. Owen’sotherworldwas far more a part ofourworld than I’d ever imagined.
Harker’s legs were unnaturally contorted, as the box was not long enough for him to fully extend inside this temporary grave. His hands were scraped and cut; nails broken below the quick with dried blood on them indicating he’d been wounded, then entombed alive, left to bleed out or suffocate—whichever came first.
Wrinkling my nose, I leaned down with half a mind to adjust his jaw to see if he still possessed a tongue. Itappearedto my untrained eye that the thing had been excised entirely. I grimaced at the thought. Who would take a man’s tongue… and why?
But before I could get any closer to the body to prove my hypothesis, a rough pair of hands grabbed me hard about the waist, pulling me down from the dais and into the crowd.
I yelped, elbowing my assailant in the ribs, fully prepared to shove my hip into his groin, when my mind registered what my body somehow already knew. I’d been struck with a familiar green scent. Calendula, feverfew, rosemary. Angelica.
Either I’d gone utterly mad—not an impossible situation—or Ruan Kivell hadactuallycome to Oxford.
My pulse raced as I spun around and found myself looking up into his green eyes. Pale in color, except for the dark gray cloud in one that stretched across to the iris. I wasn’t mad. Not at all.
I swallowed hard, as he let go of my waist and glowered down at me before taking me by the shoulders and turning me away from him. “Why is it that dead bodies follow you around like kittens?” Ruan began marching me through the crowd away from the funerary box and into one of the darkened alcoves near the towering mahogany curiosity cases.
How was hehere? I glanced over my shoulder, greedily drinking in his familiar features in the darkened museum. He’d lost that dreadful beard he’d had in Scotland and his dark hair was longer now. Though the deep divot of worry remained etched between his brows. My fingers longed to smooth it, but his worries weren’t mine to ease. Not after the way I left things.
I sniffed indignantly, folding my arms tight. “I don’t find that imagery amusing. Not one bit. What are you doing here anyway?”
“What amIdoing here? What areyoudoing running toward the first dead man you see?”
I opened my mouth, then snapped it back shut. “I did not run. I walked. And I ask again, what are you doing here?”
“Youare the one who invited me to join you in Oxford. Though had I realized that the very evening I arrived there would be yetanother corpse at your feet, I might have reconsidered boarding the bloody train to begin with.”
I huffed, peering past him out into the exhibit room. It was easier to be annoyed with Ruan if I didn’t have to look at him. The man was a weakness I did not need. Not with my own frayed emotions. I couldn’t be this near him or else I’d cut myself on the jagged edges I’d left behind.
He grunted, before again taking me roughly by the shoulders and pushing us deeper into the shadows of the museum, behind that same ammonite case I’d noticed earlier. Suddenly I knew precisely who Mr. Owen’s friends had been talking to with such animation. Ruan had been here the whole time.
“What do you want?”
“To speak with you.”
Liar. If he meant that, he’d have come to me straightaway. “You’ve come to torment me, that’s what you’ve done. Flaunt your—” I gestured at the substantial width of his shoulders and made another very Mr. Owen–sounding sound in the back of my throat.
“I called on you earlier, but you were out. Mrs. Penrose said I could find you here.”
Fabulous, my own housekeeper betrayed me,andhe was eavesdropping on my private thoughts again. I’d not quite gotten used to the fact he could do that—a part of me felt violated by his ability tohearmy thoughts, though it wasn’t as if he could control it. Our peculiar connection made certain of that. “You still didn’t answer my letter.”
He stepped closer, reaching out to touch my hand but then caught himself, shoving his gloved fist into his pocket instead. “I did write you.”
“Two words, Ruan Kivell. You wrote two words. Besides, this isn’t the time for this conversation. In case you’ve forgotten, there is adead manin a box on the other side of this cabinet.” I tapped the glass with two fingers.
Ruan peered through the edge of the panel to where he could get a better view of the crowd still huddled around the box. “I’d say it’s the perfect time to settle this between us. The police are on their way, and you know as well as I do that neither of us will be leaving the museum until they’ve talked to each and every one of us.”
He was correct on that score. I’d first met Ruan in Cornwall, where we’d investigated the death of Tamsyn’s dreadful husband, Sir Edward. Then again, we came together in Scotland to investigate the death of a medium. “Fine.” Best to get it over with. “Why could you not at least answer me? I laid myself bare in that letter and you—”
He let out a strangled sound, hand resting oddly over his jacket pocket as he watched me. “I would like to remind you that you are not the only person in the world capable of feelings, Ruby Vaughn. What was I to say to that absurdthingyou penned me? I still am not certain what itmeant, let alone how to respond.” He pulled a well-worn piece of paper from his pocket and held it up in the light before beginning to read. “‘Ruan, I will not apologize for how we left things in Scotland. Nor will I apologize for not knowing how to respond to yourunseemly’”—his emphasis, not mine—“‘show of emotion. As you ought to know, I live my life with no regrets and few entanglements. Unfortunately, you have dug your way beneath my skin, and I do not know what to make of the situation. You certainly should have known better than to encourage my affections.’”
I glanced over my shoulder to see the police had finally arrived. “You truly do not have to read it to me. I recall what I said. I wrote the damn thing.” Ididn’tactually, as I’d had the better part of a bottle of gin when I’d finally worked up the nerve to write it. But he didn’t need to know that. I stretched up on my toes, scanning the crowd for Mr. Owen. Wherewasthe old man? Surely he was around here somewhere. “I think that’s quite clear how I feel on the matter.”
“Of course you do.” He let out a hoarse laugh. “I, for one, couldn’t quite tell if you were throwing me over or asking me to tea. I am your friend—I will always be your friend, Ruby, you must know that by now. But you are going to have to decide what you want because I will not throw myself at your feet again.”
“Ruan…” My stomach twisted at the bitterness in his words.
“Despite what the people in Lothlel Green believe… despite whatyoumight believe, I am not made of stone.”
