3
Dane gave Tracker one last command. “Find the maid. Bring her here.”
“The girl doesn’t know any more than she told me.” Tracker’s voice held no hint of doubt. King had told Dane once that Tracker was his very own human lie detector. On top of being an experienced investigator and well-connected, the former runner apparently had a knack for knowing when people were lying or even withholding the truth.
“Bring her here for protection then,” he said. “The lady’s maid too.”
“Protection,” Tracker repeated. His sharp eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What do you mean to do?”
Dane sniffed. “I’m done playing nice.”
Tracker’s gaze dropped to his bloodied fists. “This has been you playing nice?”
Dane grunted. “This has been me on my best behavior. But I’m not going to let another night pass without knowing if she’s safe.”Without knowing if she’s alive.
He shoved the thought aside.
She couldn’t be dead. He’d know it if she was. How? He wasn’t certain. But he’d know all the same. She was alive, she had to be. But wherever she was, she wasn’t safe.
“What are you going to do?” Tracker asked again. He sounded more curious than wary, and Dane could practically see the other man’s mind at work. Formulating, calculating, coming up with plans and contingency plans.
Just once Dane wished he had the intellect that this man had, or even better, the wiley wisdom and instincts that had led King to such great heights. But Dane wasn’t a tracker, and he definitely wasn’t a king. He was Beast. And a beast only had one advantage.
He reached for a strip of cloth a young serving girl brought over to him and wrapped it around his knuckles. What did he mean to do? He meant to get answers once and for all, the only way he knew how. “I’ll pay a visit to her home myself,” he said.
Tracker winced. “Do you think that’s wise?”
Clearly Tracker did not.
“She’s been gone for days,” Dane growled, anger lacing his words. “Who knows what’s become of her. I’m not going to waste any more time.”
“But the servants say he doesn’t know and—”
“And servants don’t know everything,” he interrupted.
At last the cloud of frustration was clearing. The fight had done that much at least—it had reminded him of who he was. Of what he could do. “The viscount has to know more than he’s letting on,” he said. He shook out his fists and stretched his neck. “And I can make him spill.”
A little squeaking sound, no louder than a mouse, had him looking back at the door. The girl who’d come in to give him fresh linens for his cuts hadn’t left. She was still there, hovering by the door.
He knew the wench, she was one of the girls Madame Benedine employed at King’s favorite brothel. Her blonde hair was nearly white it was so light and it caught his eye now as he realized she hadn’t hurried off like servant girls normally did when he was near. “What’s your name, girl?”
“Sarah, sir,” she said.
“All right then, Sarah. What do you want?” he growled.
She bit her lip and lowered her eyes. “There’s someone asking for you, sir.”
“Stop calling me sir,” he growled.
She grew paler as she ducked her head and stared at the ground.
“Who’s asking for the Beast?”
She lifted her head and her gaze actually met his. She had more courage than most, he’d give her that. “She’s not asking for the Beast, she’s asking for a Mr. Dane Helms.”
He stilled. No one called him that anymore. It was the name the earl had given him. The name he’d walked away from the day he’d left that wicked lair for the relative calm of the seedy underground. At least on the streets a man could fight back.
At least in a slum, he could be his own man.