A Bad Breed Read online

  A Bad Breed

  Kat Ross

  A Bad Breed

  First Edition

  Copyright © 2019 by Kat Ross

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This story is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  ISBN: 978-0-9997621-1-0

  Contents

  Prologue

  I.

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  II.

  Part II

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  III.

  Part III

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  IV.

  Part IV

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  V.

  Part V

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Kat Ross

  Prologue

  Tuesday, January 15, 1889

  The last rays of the sun were setting fire to the high peaks when he caught her.

  She’d run for miles through the forest, fighting the black tide of the drug he’d slipped into her wine. Whatever it was made her feel as if she floated above her own body, weightless and without a care in the world.

  If not for the bitter cold, she might have sat down in the snow for a spell.

  The hard-eyed, sober part of her, which was not yet gone entirely, knew that would be a very bad idea.

  So she ran, focusing on the tidal rasp of her breath, the metronomic ticking of her heart. After a while, the sounds of pursuit grew fainter. She dared to hope she’d lost him.

  Then she’d twisted her ankle in an animal hole concealed beneath the snow.

  It wasn’t broken, though it hurt like the dickens even through the narcotic fog. At least the pain sharpened her wits.

  I am so bloody stupid, she thought for the hundredth time, leaning against a tree. I never should have….

  Should have what?

  Her eyes lost focus.

  What an intricate, miraculous thing snow was! She’d never noticed it before, each crystal outlined with perfect clarity. Deep cold was like swimming underwater….

  Her fingers tightened to a fist, the nails drawing blood.

  Drunk the wine, that’s what. Bloody stupid of me. Now get a grip.

  She studied the woods. Blue shadows gathered beneath the tall pines where the twilight deepened. All was quiet. But she sensed a presence, watching.

  There were wolves in these mountains. She’d seen one that morning at dawn, standing on a rocky tor. It stared at her with yellow eyes, then turned and loped away. She’d felt a sublime grace in its presence.

  She had no fear of wolves.

  Yet her heart hammered in her breast as she limped down the path. She wore stout boots and a high-necked wool dress over layers of petticoats and a cloak lined with dark blue silk. The path followed a frozen creek, its edges brittle with ice. Frost lay thick on the ground and the boughs of the trees.

  The light bled away as she reached the edge of the forest. A full moon rose, huge and bright. The nape of her neck prickled a warning.

  She looked back. A silent shape glided through the trees. Not a wolf. Not a man either, though it moved on two legs.

  In the distance, she heard the whistle of a train.

  She scrambled down a steep incline. Her ankle throbbed, but she thought it would hold for a few more minutes.

  A quarter mile off, the mouth of a tunnel led into the mountain. The tracks sat atop an embankment and she could see the glossy black engine chugging toward the tunnel. Light spilled from the windows of the passenger cars. The hood of her cloak fell back as she struggled through knee-high drifts. She tore a glove off with her teeth and freed the long iron blade sheathed at her waist.

  The clatter of the train grew louder as it approached a curve and slowed down. She veered left toward the white expanse of an open field. If she cut across, she might still catch the train before it accelerated into the tunnel. Silhouettes filled the windows and she imagined the people on the train, reading books or sipping coffee, in the warmth and light.

  She risked another glance over her shoulder. Whatever came was cloaked in shadow, but she sensed it speeding down the slope.

  She was halfway across when ice cracked beneath her boots. Not a field but a lake — and not solidly frozen. She flung out a hand, scrabbling madly as she slid into the frigid water.

  She tried to summon her elemental power but it drifted away on a black tide of tranquilizer. The train whistle sounded again and then it was swallowed by the tunnel.

  And the last thing she saw was two golden eyes, bright as the moon, rushing toward her.

  I.

  Part I

  "If the loup-garou were only a natural wolf, why then, you see” — the mayor cleared his throat — “you see we should think nothing of it; but, M. le Curé, it is a fiend, a worse than fiend, a man-fiend — a worse than man-fiend, a man-wolf-fiend!”

  —The Book of Were-Wolves: Being an Account of a Terrible Superstition

  Chapter 1

  Sunday, February 10

  Vivienne Cumberland lit an Oxford Oval and exhaled a stream of smoke at the ceiling. She’d been about to leave for an early supper followed by a play at the Adelphi Theatre when the summons came from 19 Buckingham Street. There was no time to change so she was dressed for an evening on the town, in a red silk dress with matching hat and gloves.

  The hat had been tossed onto a side table. Fog pressed against the windows of the library, blurring the glass with chill droplets. A fire roared in the grate, but her hands still felt cold. She drew deeply on the cigarette, savoring the rush of nicotine.

  “Anne’s been missing for over three weeks and we’ve just been informed?” Vivienne asked with a frown.

  Henry Sidgwick, president of the London division of the Society for Psychical Research, gave a small cough, eyeing her cigarette with disapproval. He wore a dark frock coat nearly the same color as his thick black beard. He had stern features, but his voice was gentle.

  “The village was snowed in, Vivienne. It’s a tiny place. They don’t even have their own constable. Ten days passed before they could get word to the nearest real town. The authorities there contacted the British consulate in Bucharest, but they had no record of her. Anne neglected to bring her official identification. It took another two weeks to connect her with the Society.”

  Vivienne pondered this for a moment. “Where was she last seen?”

  “At her rooms in Mara Vardac. The mayor ordered a search party when the innkeeper realized she’d gone, but they found nothing. The snow had erased any footprints.” He clasped his hands together. “Her things wer
e still at the inn.” A pause. “At least no body has been found. The others were all left in plain sight.”

  Vivienne’s black eyes flashed. “You should never have let her go alone.”

  He gave her a level look. “As if I could stop her. Anne is a bright, capable agent. For God’s sake, Vivienne, you know how she is. She prefers to work alone. And you and Mr. Lawrence were preoccupied with the Clarence case.”

  This provoked a stab of guilt. “I know. But she’s also my ward. I feel responsible for her.”

  Anne wasn’t a child and hadn’t been for a very long time, but part of Vivienne would always see her that way.

  “What did her last letter say?” Sidgwick asked.

  “Only that she’d stopped at Saint Sava College to pick up the books Cyrus wanted, and had arrived safely in Mara Vardac. That was January 12th or 13th. She seemed to think there was something odd about the place, but she didn’t say what.” Vivienne frowned. “How did we first learn of this case anyway?”

  He pushed a slim dossier across the desk. “Anne came across a news article from one of the Bucharest weeklies about a series of strange deaths in the mountains. Three so far.”

  Vivienne opened the file and scanned the top sheet of cheap paper within. The article was barely two paragraphs, though a few phrases leapt out from the jumble of Romanian. Savagely assaulted … strange bite marks … presumed madman.

  “The first victims were two children from the village, a brother and sister aged nine and twelve. Their throats were torn out.” Sidgwick sighed. “Then a woodcutter was found outside his hut, badly mauled.”

  “Drained of blood?”

  “No. Just mutilated. I don’t have any additional details. Anne planned to look more closely.”

  Vivienne frowned. “That doesn’t sound like a ghoul. They only want the blood. And why would the newspaper call it a madman? It sounds more like animal attacks.”

  He shrugged. “Most likely it’s wolves.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  His face was solemn. “I honestly don’t know, Vivienne. But three violent, mysterious deaths in a tiny village? I agreed with her. We’d be remiss not to investigate it.” He paused. “Is there any chance the Duzakh could be involved? Anne thought there might be.”

  “The Duzakh no longer exists,” Vivienne replied tightly. “Not for a hundred years.”

  “A rogue necromancer, then.”

  Vivienne exhaled, considering it. “They’re more than capable of such savagery, but they don’t like drawing attention to themselves. Leaving the bodies to be found…. That’s careless. Necromancers tidy up after themselves.” Her face darkened. “It’s why we’ve had such a bloody hard time finding any of them.” She stood and paced to the window. “It’s not the sort of assignment Anne usually chooses.”

  “No, but Central European folklore is one of her specialties and she speaks fluent Hungarian. She was the obvious choice.”

  “I suppose.”

  Henry Sidgwick cleared his throat. “My impression is that she was quite disturbed by the choice of victim.”

  “The children, you mean.”

  “Yes.” He frowned. “What do you propose, Vivienne? I told the consulate to wait before taking any action.”

  She sighed. Henry was brilliant in his own way, but he could be quite thick sometimes.

  “I’d better go to Mara Vardac myself. She may have followed another lead without telling us. She’s done it before.” In fact, Anne had done it many times, to Vivienne’s exasperation.

  Sidgwick nodded. “Take the dossier. It has the letter from the constable in Satinari. And be sure to bring your full credentials. I wouldn’t rely a warm reception from the locals.” He paused. “What about Mr. Lawrence?”

  “He’s gone away for a holiday. After our last case, I can’t blame him. But I’ve no idea where he is. Somewhere near Morocco, I think.” She stood and pulled on her gloves. “I can handle this myself. “Cable Cyrus Ashdown if anything comes up in London.”

  Sidgwick nodded. “Field agents are supposed to report back regularly,” he said with a feeble smile. “When you find her, tell her I said that.”

  “I will.” Vivienne snatched her hat off the table.

  He sighed at her grim expression. “She insisted on going, Vivienne. If you hadn’t been preoccupied with Dr. Clarence—”

  “I know. I don’t blame you. Anne does what she pleases with little thought for those who might worry about her.” Vivienne took a last drag and tossed her cigarette into the fireplace. “Tell Cyrus everything. And check in with your liaisons in Central Europe, all of them. Find out if any have heard from Anne.”

  “I’ve already done so. Nothing yet, but it will take a while for the inquiries to trickle through.” Sidgwick gave her a serious look. “Be careful, Vivienne.”

  She nodded and left the S.P.R. offices off the Strand. It was just after five o’clock and already growing dark outside. Tendrils of mist rose curled around the streetlamps, softening them to dim smudges. Vivienne lit another cigarette. Her hand was unsteady and it took three tries to flick the wheel. If Anne had stumbled over something more dangerous than a ghoul or two, she could be in trouble.

  But it was far more likely she’d gone her own way. Anne always had an impetuous, headstrong streak and it had grown worse over the years.

  It was a short carriage ride to her townhouse on Park Place where the butler, Quimby, greeted her at the door. Tall and formidable, with a beaky nose and white side whiskers, he took her damp cloak and hung it up to dry.

  “His lordship is in the conservatory, milady,” he said.

  “Thank you, Quimby.”

  Nathaniel. She’d forgotten about him. Well, he deserved to know.

  Vivienne made her way to the glass-walled conservatory, an oasis of green facing the garden at the rear of the large house. The smell of living things filled the air, perfume from a dozen hothouse flowers and rich, moist earth. It was the one room where she never smoked.

  “Darling!” The Marquess of Abervagenny stretched like a cat, his blonde hair adorably untidy. Nathaniel spent most of his time at his family seat of Eridge Castle in Sussex. He’d come up to London that morning to see his solicitors and wore an elegant blue morning jacket, open save for the top button, over a single-breasted waistcoat. A newspaper lay open on his knee. He gave it a tap.

  “I’m reading all about the Exposition Universalle. It opens in Paris in May. You must let me take you. Alec, too, if he ever decides to come back to us.” His grin died as he studied her face. “What’s happened?”

  Vivienne sank into a wicker chair. “It’s Anne. She’s vanished again.”

  Nathaniel’s vivid blue eyes narrowed. He was very fond of Anne, and one of the few people she seemed to like in return. He folded the newspaper and jumped up to pour them each a finger of brandy from the sideboard.

  “Tell me all of it,” he said, handing her a glass.

  Vivienne knocked the brandy back in one go and let out a sigh. “I don’t know much. She went to investigate some killings in a remote Romanian village.”

  Nathaniel nodded, cradling the snifter in his hands. He already knew that part.

  “Sidgwick thought it could be a ghoul. Anne wouldn’t have had any trouble with one of those. She must have made some inquiries in the village since she was there long enough to post a letter. But then she went out and didn’t come back. This place is miles from anywhere and it’s the dead of winter….” Vivienne trailed off, unable to meet Nathaniel’s gaze. “I must go after her. Immediately.”

  “Of course you must,” he said soothingly. “And I’ll come with you.”

  Vivienne gave him a tired smile. “It’s kind of you to offer, but—”

  “Nonsense.” He leapt to his feet in a burst of boyish energy. “I am your husband. Isn’t that what we’re good for? Sickness and health, good times and bad. Ghouls and goblins.”

  She gave him a level look. Their marriage was one of convenience, thoug
h they enjoyed each other’s company. Nathaniel had his dalliances — not of the female persuasion — and Vivienne had her work with the S.P.R. He knew some of what she did, but not the full truth of it.

  “It’s too dangerous,” Vivienne objected, realizing too late that this was precisely the wrong approach to take.

  Nathaniel got a glint in his eye. “Don’t be beastly, darling. It’s about time you let me help with one of your cases. And Anne is my ward, too. I promise I’ll be well-behaved and do as you say.”

  To her surprise, Vivienne found herself actually considering it. If she traveled alone, she’d spend the whole trip fretting. And Alec couldn’t be reached, damn him.

  “I don’t know how long it will take.”

  “It doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is Anne. I’ll make all the arrangements.”

  Vivienne felt a rush of gratitude for their friendship. Beneath the façade of an idle lord, Nathaniel was as dependable as English rain. She rose and kissed him lightly on the mouth. He smiled.

  “You’re a gem,” she said softly.

  “Take care,” he murmured. “I might have to make a proper wife of you.”

  She gazed into his eyes. They both burst out laughing and he strode off, bellowing for Quimby.

  What have I done? Vivienne wondered. Now she’d have to protect him if they did encounter monsters, though he was big and strapping and could certainly prove useful in a pinch. The master of Eridge Castle was not one of those soft-bellied aristocrats who spent their time playing cards and drinking. He preferred the company of dogs and horses to his fellow peers — the ones he wasn’t currently seducing, at any rate — and had the build of a middleweight boxer. At thirty-nine, he looked a decade younger. He was also charming and discreet. Lord Cumberland guarded her secrets and she guarded his.