The Scarlet Deep
Page 40
“Besides his and mine? Six foreigners. All water vampires except the Americans.”
Tywyll took a drink. “But they’re watermen, nonetheless. The Americans, I mean.”
“You’re familiar with the O’Briens?”
He chuckled. “There’s no one on the river I don’t know, lad. I know the O’Briens. Don’t particularly like them. No manners, that lot. I suppose that’s to be expected with the sire they had.”
“Jean Desmarais from France is already here, I believe. Jetta from Scandinavia—”
“Ah, now that’s a woman. I do like that Jetta.”
Murphy tried not to cringe at the blatant appreciation in Tywyll’s eyes. Apparently the tiny waterman preferred the statuesque, frightening type.
He cleared his throat. “Yes, well… She’ll be arriving tomorrow night. Along with Leonor from Spain—”
“Watch that one.”
“And Rens Anker from the Netherlands.”
Tywyll’s eyes took on a calculating gleam. “One of the Anker boys, eh?”
“Know them?”
“Know they’re trying to put me out of business in the information trade, not that they will. At least not around these parts.”
“I was wondering about that.”
Tywyll looked up sharply. “That’s not all yer wondering about, is it?”
Murphy paused but decided that Tywyll’s loyalty to family was likely greater than to whoever happened to be running London in the current century. And since Murphy considered Anne family, he might just qualify.
“Ramsay,” Murphy said, almost silently. “Is he involved in this business?”
“In the drug business?”
“Yes.”
“Not likely. He’s an up-front bastard. He took London and killed anyone who’d been involved in the coupe against his sire. Kidnapped his own bloody wife and didn’t make a secret of it. Subterfuge”—Tywyll pronounced the word carefully—“is not his style.”
“Fair enough. I had to ask. He’ll make a fortune in this mess with his blood-wine business.”
“Ah, interesting that.” Tywyll nodded. “But he’s keen. I imagine he’d probably mint coin no matter what.”
Murphy paused. “That was my main concern. We’re in his house. His wife is kin to a friend. I didn’t want him to be involved, so I had to ask.”
“Smart of ye. I have no loyalty to Ramsay, though he’s aligned himself to a family I respect.”
“Carwyn’s?”
Tywyll nodded. “His new young mate is working for ye?”
“Yes.”
“Then yer a lucky bastard. And that makes me glad my Annie is in Dublin.”
From the tone of his voice, Tywyll obviously didn’t like Anne being isolated in Galway. Perhaps he might have an ally in Anne’s sire after all.
Murphy said, “I’ll do my best to keep her in Dublin.”
“She thinks she needs solitude, but she doesn’t.”
“What does she need?”
“Love,” Tywyll said without pause. “Trust. And to be needed. It surprised me none that she became a healer, for she has the finest heart of any woman I’ve known, including her mother. It’s a strong heart. A survivor’s heart. Honor that heart. Respect the woman, Patrick Murphy, and you’ll find a treasure greater than any fortune ye could earn or vengeance ye could take.”
Chapter Ten
SHE’D HAD A FULL BOTTLE of blood-wine before she’d gone shopping with Gemma and another when she returned, yet Anne was still hungry. Her hunger was getting worse, and she didn’t know what she was going to do. In an unfamiliar city, feeding from random humans was too dangerous. Terry and Gemma had blood donors on staff, but feeding over the norm would be cause for scrutiny. Still, she could ignore the burn in her throat when she was swimming.
Terry had installed a magnificent salt-water pool in the basement of the Mayfair house. Anne took the length of it in long strokes, stretching her body and soaking up the energy she drew from the water. She’d missed swimming in Dublin. Neither Brigid nor Carwyn particularly cared for water. Murphy had a pool, but she’d never wanted to ask. And the river… well, she was too accustomed to the ocean. At home she greeted every night with a long swim in the bay before she set foot in her office.
Anne had grown up by the sea. As a human, she’d loved it and feared it in equal measure. It was the fierce mistress that had taken her father, and the harsh master that drove her stepfather. Her mother had spent most of her time by the shore, looking out in hope and dread and love and longing.
Tywyll had loved her mother. Fallen in love with her voice as she sang in the night. Had raged over the tearful girl who told him the same sea her mother sang to had claimed her.
Accident or suicide?
Anne had never known.
The awareness of Murphy brushed away the melancholy thoughts. She didn’t need to surface to know he watched her. She could feel it.
She kept swimming.
Lap after lap, she swam. Sometimes using a formal stroke, sometimes slipping underwater like a seal, turning and twisting as the depths held her. When she finally surfaced, he was still there, lounging in a three-piece suit and watching her with an enigmatic smile.
“Could you swim as a human?”
Anne found herself coming up with clever retorts to avoid his question and was reminded of his anger in the caravan. He’d complained that she never shared her past. He was right. She didn’t like dwelling on it, but she had to admit that avoiding it was something she would never advise a patient.
Tywyll took a drink. “But they’re watermen, nonetheless. The Americans, I mean.”
“You’re familiar with the O’Briens?”
He chuckled. “There’s no one on the river I don’t know, lad. I know the O’Briens. Don’t particularly like them. No manners, that lot. I suppose that’s to be expected with the sire they had.”
“Jean Desmarais from France is already here, I believe. Jetta from Scandinavia—”
“Ah, now that’s a woman. I do like that Jetta.”
Murphy tried not to cringe at the blatant appreciation in Tywyll’s eyes. Apparently the tiny waterman preferred the statuesque, frightening type.
He cleared his throat. “Yes, well… She’ll be arriving tomorrow night. Along with Leonor from Spain—”
“Watch that one.”
“And Rens Anker from the Netherlands.”
Tywyll’s eyes took on a calculating gleam. “One of the Anker boys, eh?”
“Know them?”
“Know they’re trying to put me out of business in the information trade, not that they will. At least not around these parts.”
“I was wondering about that.”
Tywyll looked up sharply. “That’s not all yer wondering about, is it?”
Murphy paused but decided that Tywyll’s loyalty to family was likely greater than to whoever happened to be running London in the current century. And since Murphy considered Anne family, he might just qualify.
“Ramsay,” Murphy said, almost silently. “Is he involved in this business?”
“In the drug business?”
“Yes.”
“Not likely. He’s an up-front bastard. He took London and killed anyone who’d been involved in the coupe against his sire. Kidnapped his own bloody wife and didn’t make a secret of it. Subterfuge”—Tywyll pronounced the word carefully—“is not his style.”
“Fair enough. I had to ask. He’ll make a fortune in this mess with his blood-wine business.”
“Ah, interesting that.” Tywyll nodded. “But he’s keen. I imagine he’d probably mint coin no matter what.”
Murphy paused. “That was my main concern. We’re in his house. His wife is kin to a friend. I didn’t want him to be involved, so I had to ask.”
“Smart of ye. I have no loyalty to Ramsay, though he’s aligned himself to a family I respect.”
“Carwyn’s?”
Tywyll nodded. “His new young mate is working for ye?”
“Yes.”
“Then yer a lucky bastard. And that makes me glad my Annie is in Dublin.”
From the tone of his voice, Tywyll obviously didn’t like Anne being isolated in Galway. Perhaps he might have an ally in Anne’s sire after all.
Murphy said, “I’ll do my best to keep her in Dublin.”
“She thinks she needs solitude, but she doesn’t.”
“What does she need?”
“Love,” Tywyll said without pause. “Trust. And to be needed. It surprised me none that she became a healer, for she has the finest heart of any woman I’ve known, including her mother. It’s a strong heart. A survivor’s heart. Honor that heart. Respect the woman, Patrick Murphy, and you’ll find a treasure greater than any fortune ye could earn or vengeance ye could take.”
Chapter Ten
SHE’D HAD A FULL BOTTLE of blood-wine before she’d gone shopping with Gemma and another when she returned, yet Anne was still hungry. Her hunger was getting worse, and she didn’t know what she was going to do. In an unfamiliar city, feeding from random humans was too dangerous. Terry and Gemma had blood donors on staff, but feeding over the norm would be cause for scrutiny. Still, she could ignore the burn in her throat when she was swimming.
Terry had installed a magnificent salt-water pool in the basement of the Mayfair house. Anne took the length of it in long strokes, stretching her body and soaking up the energy she drew from the water. She’d missed swimming in Dublin. Neither Brigid nor Carwyn particularly cared for water. Murphy had a pool, but she’d never wanted to ask. And the river… well, she was too accustomed to the ocean. At home she greeted every night with a long swim in the bay before she set foot in her office.
Anne had grown up by the sea. As a human, she’d loved it and feared it in equal measure. It was the fierce mistress that had taken her father, and the harsh master that drove her stepfather. Her mother had spent most of her time by the shore, looking out in hope and dread and love and longing.
Tywyll had loved her mother. Fallen in love with her voice as she sang in the night. Had raged over the tearful girl who told him the same sea her mother sang to had claimed her.
Accident or suicide?
Anne had never known.
The awareness of Murphy brushed away the melancholy thoughts. She didn’t need to surface to know he watched her. She could feel it.
She kept swimming.
Lap after lap, she swam. Sometimes using a formal stroke, sometimes slipping underwater like a seal, turning and twisting as the depths held her. When she finally surfaced, he was still there, lounging in a three-piece suit and watching her with an enigmatic smile.
“Could you swim as a human?”
Anne found herself coming up with clever retorts to avoid his question and was reminded of his anger in the caravan. He’d complained that she never shared her past. He was right. She didn’t like dwelling on it, but she had to admit that avoiding it was something she would never advise a patient.
