The Ouroboros Cycle, Book Two: A Cautionary Tale for Young Vampires. G.D. Falksen
informative tour.”
“You should join us, Mother,” Friedrich said. “You and Aunt Ekaterine.”
Good Lord, Ekaterine thought. He was looking at her in that way again. Of course, the way he did it was rather nice, but still.…
“Yes, perhaps,” Varanus said, sounding dubious. “Doctor Constantine, would you be so good as to excuse us?”
“Ah, yes, yes, of course,” Constantine said. “A pleasure meeting you, Baron. Good evening.”
Varanus waited until Constantine had departed before she turned to Friedrich and said, “Walk me to the refreshment room.”
“We have just come from there, actually,” Friedrich said.
“The refreshment room,” Varanus repeated, more forcefully.
Friedrich bowed his head and offered her his arm.
“Refreshment sounds lovely,” he said.
As they walked from the ballroom, Varanus spoke to Friedrich softly but with anger.
“Alistair,” she said.
“Friedrich, Mother,” Friedrich said.
“I named you Alistair when I gave birth to you,” Varanus said. “That is your name. It is no fault of mine that your Aunt Ilse decided to call you Friedrich when she brought you up.”
Friedrich looked at Ekaterine for support. Ekaterine merely smiled and shrugged. What could she do? Varanus was being unreasonable—Friedrich’s name was what he, not they, decided it was—but it was no good trying to tell her that.
“As you say,” Friedrich replied, avoiding both agreement and argument.
“Good,” Varanus said. “Now tell me, why in God’s name are you in London?”
“For…reasons,” Friedrich answered. “I could well ask you the same.”
“What reasons?” Varanus demanded. “You were supposed to return home on the first train from Paris. Your life was in danger!”
Friedrich cleared his throat and said, “Yes, Auntie Ekaterine has already told me. I had no idea she was my aunt.” He quickly added, “By marriage, I mean,” and smiled at Ekaterine.
Ekaterine could have sworn that he winked as well.
“Your life,” Varanus repeated. “In danger.”
“And so was yours,” Friedrich said. “You are not the only person who is concerned about somebody, you know. You were supposed to go back home to Russia as soon as the estate was settled.”
“Well, it hasn’t been settled yet,” Varanus said. “Nor is that any concern of yours. I am your mother. It is for me to manage such concerns. And it is for you to go back to Germany at once!”
They entered the refreshment room, both mother and son looking very stubborn.
“Nonsense,” Friedrich said. “I don’t have to return to Germany, and I won’t hear another word about it. Whereas you, Mother, must return to Russia.”
“Georgia,” Varanus corrected.
“Whichever of them,” Friedrich said, sighing. “I am a soldier, you are not. And,” he added, leaning down toward her and speaking quietly, “unless you want to explain to me how you killed a man twice your size with your bare hands, then I shall have to assume that it is not something you can repeat and that you will not be able to protect yourself if the des Louveteaux or any other of your enemies decide to try again.”
Ekaterine saw Varanus’s entire face tighten, partly in anger and partly from frustration. The incident in question—when Varanus had faced the eldest son of the des Louveteaux family in a fight to the death and won—had saved Friedrich’s life. And here he was, being ungrateful. Never mind that Varanus shouldn’t have been able to overpower Alfonse—tall, burly, and an officer in the cuirassiers—or that she had refused to explain to Friedrich how such a thing had been possible. Ekaterine understood, and she gave Friedrich a look to silence him. It didn’t, but it was worth the attempt.
“I am perfectly safe, Alistair,” Varanus said. “Whereas you—”
“My name is Friedrich!” Friedrich snapped, still keeping his voice low for the sake of decorum. But the sentiment was clear in his tone.
Ekaterine thought it best to intervene before the other guests took notice of what was rapidly becoming an argument.
Smiling pleasantly, she gently pushed Varanus and Friedrich apart, interposed herself between them, and asked:
“Would either of you care for a sandwich?”
Chapter Five
The next day brimmed with excitement. Though Varanus was confined to the house until dusk, she dispatched Luka to make discreet inquiries in the East End while she and Ekaterine made plans for the journey to Blackmoor. Though by all accounts the Village of Blackmoor was a small country affair, it had a railway line connecting it with York. Varanus found it peculiar but useful for their purposes. She and Ekaterine would be able to travel there directly from London.
Luka returned a little before evening and reported on his investigation. There was indeed a pub called the “Old Jago” on Parrott Street, a particularly low establishment from Luka’s description. He was unable to confirm the presence of a Mister Jones, but the clientele did suggest the possibility of a gang lurking on the premises. Of course, so did the entire neighborhood.
As the shadows lengthened, Varanus and Ekaterine changed into simpler clothes, dresses that were respectable but would attract slightly less attention in the slums. Again, Ekaterine refused to wear a corset, much to Varanus’s chagrin. Varanus made a comment about it, and Ekaterine replied by bending at the waist and touching her toes. Varanus had little to say on the matter after that.
They made their way to the East End in silence, having little else to discuss. They exited the cab a few streets away from their destination and walked the remainder of the distance in the growing darkness. Parrott Street was like the remainder of Spitalfields: grimy, worn, and hopeless. Men in the street pushed past them with no concern for civility. But the beggars largely ignored them. What a difference a simple change of clothes could make.
The Old Jago was exactly as Luka had described it. The paint around the door was peeling, the boards were splintering from wear and lack of care, and cracks in the windows had been stuffed with bits of rag or newspaper to keep out the cold. The taproom was dark and cramped, a little smoky, and smelled distinctly of cheap beer. A dozen or so men in shabby suits sat around the room drinking from half-cleaned glasses and speaking in low tones. A few women were there as well: prostitutes looking for customers or readying themselves with drink before venturing outside in search of them. A man with dull brown hair and a greasy beard tended bar. He looked toward them as they entered.
Varanus walked directly to the bar, Ekaterine at her side. Luka hung back, leaning against a wooden pillar and keeping an eye on the room.
“What can I do for you ladies?” the barman asked, studying them skeptically. Doubtless they looked little like his normal patrons, even in disguise.
“We are a looking for a man,” Ekaterine said.
The barman shrugged and motioned to the room with the flick of his hand.
“Take your pick, love,” he said. “Plenty’a customers. Mind you, the regular ladies might not like it.”
Varanus looked at him disdainfully and cleared her throat.
“A specific man,” she said. “Mister Jones.”
“Can’t ’elp, miss,” the barman said. “We probably ’ave three or four Joneses in ’ere.
“You