Who: Gabriel Allen & Biddie What: In the aftermath of the MPC fire, two parties consider their dinner options. When: October 11, 1888 Where: MPC Airship, Concordia Rating: R Warning: Mention of bodily harm, implications of cannibalism. Lemonade.
Unlike many transport moguls, the rail barons and ocean kings, Biddie did not keep a privately owned compartment on any of the MPC airships. Space on an airship was a precious resource and not to be wasted on some bonbon room that would’ve been kept empty for show’s sake.
Of course, that didn’t mean she didn’t swing clout when a private room was needed immediately, which was how Mr. and Mrs. Beauchêne found themselves installed in one of the Concordia’s rare double rooms. No doubt Mr. Beauchêne would’ve been more impressed by his “wife’s” luck in making the arrangement if he’d been consciousness.
The double room was palatial by high-altitude standards, but in truth its dimensions would’ve been shamed by the smallest parlors. Still where space lacked, luxury reigned: the floor was richly carpeted, the walls attired in handsome handpainted wallpaper, the limited furnishings imbued with the soft lustre of expense. The MPC reigning green and gold made tasteful touches in the decor. The bed, the undeniable centerpiece of the room, was a king’s ransom in itself.
Biddie wondered if it’s current occupant would appreciate the sentiment. He certainly fit in with the cost of his surrounding. Indeed, Mr. Gabriel Allen made a remarkably pretty tableau where he lay among snowdrift sheets and fat eider-down quilt. One beautifully proportioned wrist made a start contrast against the quilt’s cover. The silk matched Mr. Allen’s emerald pajamas to perfection.
Biddie herself settled for a less vivid display in Prussian blue and ivory corded silk, the matching long gloves unbuttoned and discarded by her seat. There was no trace of the scratched woman who’d torn rock or pulled apart killers; she had been engulfed by smooth clothe and the faint, opaque scent of an unnameable bouquet.
Biddie checked the slender gold-and-jade wristwatch, a popular adoption among the pilots and air staff, at the edge of her cuff, then resettled to with a sketch pad and pencil in her newly unblemished hands. She placed one of those hands at the incubus’ unwrapped wrist to count the beats, and was pleased by the steady rhythm. By her calculations Mr. Allen would soon return to the living.
It would be interesting to discover how long he planned to remain there.
Gabriel came to consciousness sluggishly.
The first thing he noticed was his raw throat and dry mouth -- the discomfort of it was annoying, and he kept trying to swallow hoping it would go away so he might go back to sleep… and it took a few blessed breaths of ignorance before the previous events came slowly filtering back into his cotton-filled brain.
The fire.
With that, the rest of it slowly and terribly clicked into place, ending in the last thing he’d remembered. Mrs Linden, mouth stained red, grimly holding his mouth and nose shut with a truly prodigious amount of strength, pressing down on his airway as he struggled and black spots took over his field of vision…
His eyes flew open in sudden recognition that he wasn’t in his own bed, and looked up at the ceiling -- he was finding it a touch difficult to focus, and his limbs felt heavy, but a quick internal assessment found him mercifully whole, and, while a little battered and sore about the throat and ribs, unharmed and alive.
For the time being.
He realized he was in an unfamiliar room, in unfamiliar pajamas, and the fact that he’d been unconscious long enough to apparently be bathed and dressed, that he’d been unawares at being moved here, that he didn’t know where here was or for how long he’d been there caused a moment of blind panic before he could school himself, and his sudden sharp intake of breath hurt.
It took considerable effort to not cry out and flail out of the bed blindly, but he knew there was no point to it -- so instead he turned his head slowly (heavens his neck was sore) and blinked crustily at the rest of the room until it and the calm occupant sitting in the chair next to him came more clearly into focus.
At the stirring of bedsheets, Biddie set aside her sketching, a lovingly shaded detail of an tantalizing deltoid, and stood up to fill a filigreed glass. She took a moment to admire how steadily the glass and its brethren sat on their platter; they really had done a keen job ironing out the turbulence issues with the mid-sizers.
The thing was Biddie truly enjoyed eliminating problems, be they significant as onboard heating or as trite a wobbly glass or…
“Good afternoon, Mr. Allen.” She held up the glass. “Lemonade?”
There was a pregnant pause, even though it only was half a beat, before Gabriel nodded.
“Thank you,” he rasped, wincing a little.
He’d already been drugged once, by the feel of his limbs, but he didn’t think she’d drug the lemonade. Then again, witch -- or at least associated with one -- heaven knows what sort of potion one could work up -- but when it came down to it, his throat hurt, and he needed to show faith despite the fact that most every impulse was to distrust.
His mind was clicking away rather furiously, and kept getting stuck on why she’d chosen to knock him out -- in his panic, he’d assumed, at the time, that she was reneging on her word to Archie, and was simply killing him, which would, he supposed, make a certain degree of sense given what he’d seen -- but he would’ve gone with her if she’d asked (he knew how limited his choices were, how quick and bloody strong she was).
Perhaps this gave her a greater sense of control. Perhaps she’d needed to… his eyes darted over to her hands as he reached for the glass offered. Ah. Perhaps she needed to regroup.
He took the offered glass, noting the odd hum of energy as their fingers brushed -- a crackling, sharpish, sour sort of power that had notes he simply couldn’t place -- and raised an eyebrow as he raised the glass in a little toast before quaffing it.
“Yes, that’s the beauty of the gloves,” Biddie said as if they were mid-way through a conversation. She waited to be sure Allen could keep a safe grip on the glass, his jaunty attitude notwithstanding, before reaching out and adjusting his pillows with the civil indifference of a veteran nurse. “Vampires and witches tends to simply chalk it up to mine being some murkier version of the latter, the water folk can’t tell, the Fae don’t care to shake hands, and I’ve not met enough dragons to form a true opinion. But your kin, now they’re special. It’s always harder to fool a connoisseur.”
She absentmindedly patted his knee under the quilt, took back the empty glass, and resumed her seat. The room being what it was, there was a marked absence of space between them.
“Now then, Mr. Allen…” The glass made a very faint clink against the platter. “What are we going to do about our situation?”
He looked at her carefully, trying to pull together his thoughts through the fog of lingering panic and the drugs still pulsing through his system making him feel weak and off-kilter.
“I have a feeling,” he said, his voice still painful, “that our respective futures depend on how much you’re willing to trust my discretion. So what might I do to convince you, Mrs Linden?” The look he gave her was an earnest enough one, under the circumstances.
He’d played his fair share of cards before. She stood to lose business, which was the only chit he had on his side of the table besides his charm, and his stakes were most certainly higher. Still. He was currently alive, and capable of talking, which was something.
There was a tiny painted tin secured in one of the table’s netted caddy-pockets; Biddie removed it and held it out to the man. The chair and bed were close enough for her to extend it easily within his reach. The MPC logo was boldly bronzed on the lid.
“Honey drops,” Biddie said, popping open the tin. “The air at this altitude parches folk something terrible. Plus you’ve had a tube down your throat for a bit, never mind that you were insensible during the experience.”
She didn’t bother going into the chemical details of what had gone inside him. None of it would do any damage long term, so why worry the man unnecessarily?
“I am sorry how this turned out, Mr. Allen, and not only because of the money,” Biddie continued. “Financially speaking the inconvenience of you declining to invest pales against by the loss of a workshop and over a dozen staff. Some of them have been with MPC for years.”
With me added the guilty beast inside her head.
“But that’s business which you’re not a part of, unlike your almost-as-handsome counterpart back in the ‘shop. Who you saw me kill. And eat.” Biddie sighed.
She picked up her sketchpad, pinching something from between its pages with two fingers. “And that’s where ‘discretion’ becomes a very flimsy word, Mr. Allen. We both move in circles which might forgive the killing of men such as that pair. In this particular season, though, they might have questions about the method.”
“To be clear, none of that is my doing,” Biddie said firmly. “But I think you can see how the Night Watch might be interested in exploring the potential parallels. Would your sense of discretion extend far enough to prevent that?”
“Ah,” Gabriel replied, looking down at the clippings, and then back up at her, having to leap over several details such as tube down your throat for a bit and a dozen to focus on what would impact his immediate future the most.
He rolled the honey candy around in his mouth, spreading his fingers gently over the newsclippings. “I’ll admit, my interest in these particular current events is a personal one. I have been following it quite closely, and making inquiries of my own, and shall continue to do so.”
He tipped his head and considered carefully. “I would be willing to take you at your word, madam, and believe the cases in question would have little connection to what I witnessed regardless.” His quick flash of a smile could very nearly be called conspiratorial. “There’s the marked difference in tools used, for one, and, with the exception of two of the victims, the bodies have been intact -- the purpose was something I have yet to deduce, but it was not to consume for sustenance.” He paused. “...That, and you strike me as decidedly unlikely to want to draw attention to yourself, and this positively screams of it. So yes, in a word, it would.” He shrugged, wincing a little. “If there’s already an active inquiry, there’s a limit to what I can do, of course, but I would not lead them to water, so to speak.”
He over at her evenly. “I realize this is most likely not the ideal time nor the place, given other more pressing matters,” he said, his voice a low scratch, “but do you have any take on what might be happening? I should be curious of your opinion.”
Biddie gave the man a mildly disbelieving look--’more pressing matters’ indeed!--but answered nonetheless. “I’ve no clear diagnosis. When these first cropped up I assumed they were mere, if ugly, cases of violence. Violence is seldom extraordinary in itself, let alone uncommon.”
She nodded at the clippings. “The events of the 30th, though, those were not common.”
Indeed, it had been something of a rude shock to receive the familiar freezing surge with her breakfast. Spraying about power like that went rather against etiquette. (Although admittedly this particular etiquette ran mostly along the lines “don’t leave ‘em where you bleed ‘em”.)
“Necromancy,” Biddie said finally. “Done right enough to pinch the nerve of anyone capable of feeling it. Whatever was done with those last kills wasn’t achieved by accident, someone was acting according to design. Even the Night Watch is bound to pick up on such a thing eventually.” The memory of a thin face and utmost sincerity flashed in her mind, and Biddie frowned. The keen and civic Mr. Eden was...inconvenient. “Indeed that horse may find water sooner than expected.”
“None of which lends credit to your promise of circumspection, Mr. Allen.” Biddie held up her hand to stave off reaffirmations of that promise. “You may have only honorable intentions--now. But what will preserve those intentions in the future? I do not know you.”
She looked at him with a bit of rueful fellow-feeling. “And, in all fairness, you don't know me. Do you trust something that eats your kind to keep her distance? To never reconsider the risk you pose? Do you trust it to trust you?”
She let the implications sink in before adding gently, terribly, "You said you have children."
The look Gabriel shot her was a complicated one -- fear mixed with exasperation -- and his heart lurched in his chest. It was difficult to not take it as a threat -- to not immediately leap to the worst possible outcome, followed immediately by the second-worst in short order, and he had to force himself to redirect.
“I do,” he said, quietly, “as well as a circle of friends and lovers I hold dear, and employees I take responsibility for.” His look gained a flash of honest sympathy despite the situation -- she’d just had a loss, after all -- but he avoided overextending his hand too obviously by offering his sympathy aloud.
“Well, then,” he said, quietly rasping. “Let us sort out the conditions that would satisfy, shall we? A treaty. A mutually beneficial financial arrangement, and other considerations to assure that I should keep my silence because I find it not only immediately expedient, but truly useful.”
He knew that she was fully aware he’d say nearly anything to get out of the room for the immediate future, and she had a fair point -- while his silence would be assured in the short term, a promise wrested out of a captive audience was hardly ideal. He looked over at her squarely. “What are you willing to offer?”
(The thought that she could end up holding a list of people he’d rather she not eat was a touch difficult to stomach -- it held him over a proverbial barrel, and could easily be twisted round to be used as a weapon -- but circumstances like these demanded a leap of faith, regardless of how sour it tasted.)
What to start with….ah, yes. Money was the easiest. Allen was a man of comfortable circumstance and extremely friendly connections. Remarkably so on the latter, according to Archie. If he invested with MPC, she could triple what he put in after five years. The trouble was that lucrative though the idea was, neither one of them craved money. Biddie knew the signs of true, splendid greed; Allen didn’t show them.
Power, then? Allen had influence and connection; it wasn't unthinkable that he’d want to evolve either into more aggressive influence. A prosperous outfit like MPC went a long way into carving such roads. On the other hand, a man of Allen’s innate ability--and canny age--would’ve found his own means by now. Biddie secured her own interests by end of her first century and she didn't even have the honeyed advantage of the demon-kin’s allure.
What else, what else…Ideas of travel, luxury, risk, the potential offer to eat someone's solicitor, housing, risk and reward, rarities, graphic notions of evisceration, abundance and miseries passed through Biddie's consideration. She'd offered some version of them all at some point in her dealings with the world. Existence, after all, was a costly affair.
“How does it work exactly?” Biddie suddenly asked. “Your feeding. I understand the mechanics.” Decades in engineering made it impossible to imbue the word with voluptuousness it deserved. “But how do you maintain a steady diet? They can’t all be anonymous encounters or paid arrangements, surely. You can’t be existing on a selective coterie of partners either; how would any of them be enough to last, unless you keep a veritable harem.”
The lengthy silence was strangely comforting -- that she was considering a variety of options was a good thing he’d rather like to promote.
Her subsequent question was a little surprising, but he supposed it was in the spirit of sorting out who he was, what he wanted (although he couldn’t yet track her reasoning -- it was difficult to play such high stakes cards against someone he’d only just met).
“It’s a mix,” he said, reaching for another honey candy. “I currently have four fairly regular partners I can depend on, and several of them are capable of providing me with a touch more sustenance due to their natures. There’s always the odd fling with an acquaintance or two now and then, and I supplement with an occasional stroll through the park of an evening, or a walk down by the river.”
He was already counting Keira in that list as it seemed rather inevitable, and Merrick provided considerably more than ‘a touch’ when it came to their rather impressive energies, but he figured they’d appreciate his discretion in that particular matter.
“If I might, I’m likewise… curious,” he added, mildly enough, raising an eyebrow.
Biddie translated as “more capable” as supernatural, thus confirming that the incubi and she functioned on a energy conversion principle. Nonetheless she doubted they were going to be sharing a kitchen any time soon.
“I eat people.” The flat tone was a habit; it was easier to shoot the words in order to shock and gauge effect. It felt a trifle foolish, childish, to try the tactic now.
“I need meat,” she said with more care. “As close to human as possible. Humanoid can be even more effective for the most part. Freshness is also...something of a factor.”
Warm enough to be bleeding if not screaming was how the last of her creators had put it. It wasn’t even completely true, damn that sick goat’s heart and bones; she could feed from the dead, but there were limits. Much like a man or woman couldn’t always be lucky enough to convert roadkill into supper, Biddie needed her substance relatively fresh off the mortal coil.
“I don’t necessarily need to consume the whole of a body in one sitting, but you can imagine the challenge in finding volunteers. One can’t quite donate the way they would with the vampires or,” she waved a hand in his direction, “other parties.”
Wryness and resignation suffused her in equal measure. “Speaking as an engineer, it’s a definite goddamn design flaw.”
That surprised a laugh out of him, even though it hurt -- the ultimate exercise in gallows humor, really, which made him shake his head, his smile quick and apologetic.
“I can appreciate a woman with a good head on her shoulders,” he said, and that very nearly tipped him over again into laughter, but he caught it before it approached an edge of hysterical silliness he couldn’t bottle back up again.
“But yes,” he said, clearing his throat and wincing a little, “I can see how that would present a distinct set of challenges, on several fronts, to say the least. How often must you?” He paused, tapping the bedspread thoughtfully. “I have an acquaintance -- she deals in the very recently deceased, which may be slightly less than ideal, but good to know in a pinch.”
The man was handling this handsomely well, Biddie observed. Which was to say he wasn’t whimpering, shouting, or trying to put anything lethal through her.
“I try to not go three days without a proper supper.” Biddie did not go so far as to grimace, but her mouth tightened in unhappy memory. “Going too long without takes an unattractive toll on my attitude. One doesn’t like to end a diet by demolishing a vicar.”
At Allen’s suggestion, it was Biddie’s to swallow an inappropriate laugh. Sweet Christ and all mercies, was he trying to be helpful? “Yes. Thank you. I’ve my own collection of such helpers, and try to avoid relying on them as a rule. The Anatomy Act hardly legitimized body snatching and frankly the sort of insane individuals who…”
She trailed off as a horrible, horrible suspicion occurred. “Your acquaintance. She wouldn’t happen to have the body of a Venus, the hair of an Irish queen, and the general disposition and morals of a crazed pirate king?”
“I see you’re familiar with Lady Kalderash, then,” Gabriel replied, his turn to have a wry twist to his mouth (with a small touch of humor behind it). “She is rather… distinctive.”
Gabriel’s own needs could present quite the juggling act -- and he knew his vampire acquaintances faced similar challenges -- to feed often enough to satisfy without drawing attention (in Gabriel’s case, the added attention of the law -- it struck him as rather unfair that they’d find his proclivities a jailable offense, while a bit of bloodletting was practically medicinal), but Biddie’s conundrum was decidedly more difficult -- and he had to admit, that small wince of discomfort he saw on her features was a bit of a comfort -- at the very least, it didn’t appear to be a particularly joyous experience, which spoke of the capacity for a certain degree of restraint despite the moral tangle at hand.
“Lady Kalderash is not distinctive. The aurora borealis is distinctive. A black cat is distinctive. Severina is unbridled pandemonium that has, against the advice of all reason and morality, assumed female shape.” Years of experience resided in the tone. Biddie wanted to put her head in her hands and pull. Of course. Of course, it wasn’t enough that Archie mooned over the man, no, of course, he had to be one of Severina’s friends in the bargain!
That terrible feeling of suspicion grew. “If I were to ask you to name any Fae among your acquaintance…”
“It’s a small island, my dear Mrs Linden,” he said, not unkindly, “I know a great many people as a matter of course, and if it makes a difference, while she is an acquaintance, we’re not particularly close.” He tipped his head. “I am quite friendly with Una, and on good terms with Mac, and if Brigid, Rhoswen, or Delwyn manage to show their heads this century, I’m sure we’d pick up where we left off quite easily.”
“There are times, Mr. Allen, when this island seems roomy as a cupboard” Biddie said wearily.
Blast it all to heck and Kansas, then. She couldn’t stash the man’s body overseas now. Any suspicion on Lady Una’s part would be merely unfortunate, but killing one of Mac’s bed partners would be...Biddie glanced down at her hands. Her nice, whole hands. Third pair since July and who knew how many more she’d have to find if Mac got involved in this. Vengefully involved.
Bollocks, Biddie announced silently and with feeling.
“Well,” she said. Then again, “Well, it seems you’re fated to live through this, Mr. Allen. Because I’ve already sat through one uncomfortable discussion concerning wars and Faerie interests, and a second would be unhinging.”
Her shoulders slumped down slightly. “I suppose I may as well give you the antidote now.”
Gabriel could feel the return of a slightly hysterical laugh threatening to bubble up -- he let loose with a rather undignified splutter as it was, but kept the giggle at bay.
If there was anyone who wouldn’t be joking about it, it’d be her -- given the circumstances, really, he wouldn’t put it past her to have a contingency plan, but it felt like they’d turned a corner of sorts and it didn’t bloody well matter one way or the other.
He worked to regain his composure, and managed tolerably well.
“I should like to think I’d be of considerably more use living than not,” he said, “but, then again, I am rather biased on that count.”
“It’s a common prejudice,” Biddie said. She finally gave in and rubbed a hand over her colorless face. “Lord Almighty, what a foul week. You got to lay down for some of it at least. Along with a free ticket to Constantinople. Enjoy.”
“Meanwhile I’ve dead workers, mad Russians, and a son who likely won’t speak to me ‘till Christmas.” The last would mend easiest, but would still be a damn sour experience in the process.
She sighed and lowered her hand. “I wouldn’t have done it, for what it’s worth. Your children. I wouldn’t have gone after them.”
He was sure he’d have a chance to fully dwell on the horror of that particular contingency in full later. As it was, he was managing the three different shoes that dropped simultaneously (due, no doubt, to his brain clearing some from the fog of panic and drugs); that Archie was Biddie’s son, that he was apparently on the way to Constantinople, and, upon being reminded of the Russians, that Bertie was up to his neck in all this.
His all too human, eager, curious, tender, and infinitely eatable neck.
He sighed.
At least he had some room to bargain with.
“You don’t strike me as the sort,” he said, quietly, “but it’s good to hear nonetheless.” He paused. “I am sorry about your people,” he added. “I know Archie was selling an image, but I could see the heart underneath it, and the loyalty there, and I know that’s something earned. Hang the financials, it’s a goddamn tragedy.”
He sighed again, reaching up to pinch his nose, allowing himself a brief concession to frustration. “Constantinople, you say? ...How long, exactly, have I been out of commission?”
It would only remain a tragedy for as long as it took for Biddie to turn the story into a revenge tale. She was much stronger as an author of wrath than a woeful audience.
“Two days,” Biddie said easily. "You've spent only slightly less than half of it in the air. It was too much of a risk to keep you in town, I'm afraid."
She hesitated for a moment, considering how much to tell. It felt gauche to go into details of a cover up when the target himself was in the room. Even if he was no longer a target.
Biddie settled for, "It felt best to deal with the situation outside of Britain's borders." And away from the blasted Night Watch and their pet ghost catcher. "Constantinople is a wonder. The modernization over the recent years is impressive. There's something uniquely foreign about seeing old stone in electric light. Some nights you'd think we'd made a new moon."
The rather delightful implications of all of that settled like a small (but weighty) stone in the pit of his stomach.
Two days. Two days missing after going on a factory tour that resulted in a fire. Leah and Lydia must be beside themselves. (That, and what she wanted to deal with, and how, and why being out of the country made it easier was heading down a fairly tangled and frankly massively unproductive path -- there was no earthly point in dwelling, and the situation appeared to have been mostly dealt with in a way that kept him his neck, and he had to focus on what was ahead of him, damn it.)
He was here now.
He couldn’t snap his fingers and change that.
(He wanted to be home so badly it ached.)
He reached for another honey candy.
“I must admit, the stateroom is impressively appointed,” he finally said with a sigh. “I hadn’t quite realized we were en route. Remarkably steady.”
“We’re at cruising altitude, it’s barely above five hundred feet. Turbulence doesn’t usually become a concern until we breach cloud cover at the minimum. Even then we’ll likely stay smooth unless the vertical gusts turn unfriendly.” Biddie poured the man another glass of lemonade. “The weather reports are favorable so you are welcome to have your supper in the shadow of a minaret, Mr. Allen.”
She paused, frowning slightly at her own words. “It occurs to me that the situation now being what it is, you may wish to dine earlier.” From a neatly stitched pocket at her side, Biddie extracted a small notebook and thumbed through its pages. “I regret Concordia doesn’t have the level of hospitality staff as our midnight flyers, but--ah, yes, here we go. Do you have particular preference on gender?”
For a person who’d been sleeping (not exactly, but at least prone and resting) for the better part of two days, he was frankly exhausted (and he had a feeling he’d just scratched the surface of just how much -- he had a feeling it’d come roaring up in full force once he was back on solid ground), and knew that it’d be patently unwise to keep himself less than at full strength during what would most likely be a challenging contract negotiation. That, and while he knew all the places one could go easily and quickly in Paris, Constantinople was another experience altogether -- and the mere thought brushed against his exhaustion further, stoking it into a low heat.
“None,” he said promptly. “Although…” he made a hesitating gesture, consent rearing its head.
“...If they’re willing enough,” he allowed. “I wouldn’t have you feel obligated to put one of your employees in an awkward position, but circumstances being as they are…”
Biddie would’ve pointed out that the special division hospitality staff were paid extraordinarily well to be willing, but that sort statement never sounded polite. Or kind.
“Do you need to have intercourse for best results?” she asked frankly. A second glance at the little ledger in her hand verified that only one of the staff was readily available for such; the second candidate would need to be verified. To be fair, both were used to a rather different exchange of fluids.
Luckily, there were no vampires booked on the current flight so Mr. Allen could reap the benefits of the hospitality corner’s exclusive attention.
“Ideal, but certainly not required,” he said, with an equally brisk tone. “Skin to skin contact with a willing partner who’s having a good time of it is all I’d need -- their enjoyment is necessary, my own, incidental, and how said outcome is achieved can certainly be creatively interpreted depending on the partner in question.”
He smiled a little, fully aware of the inherent ridiculousness of their conversational topic despite the valiant attempts of both at coating it in a veneer of professionalism. “You are a rather hospitable kidnapper, all told.” He paused. “I do, as you might imagine, have a certain degree of experience with more specialized forms of hospitality, for future.”
“I’ll leave the particulars to be negotiated between you and Miss Thomsen, then.” Biddie closed her little ledger and tucked it back in its pocket. She looked up to meet Mr. Allen’s amusement with some of her own. “This is a people business, Mr. Allen. Unconscious or awake, one learns to accommodate the client to the best advantage.”
She grinned suddenly, showing excellent teeth. “Or was that a bid for cooperation? Have Archie’s market skills planted a seed after all? He was very keen on you.”
Despite the smile, Biddie seemed somewhat displeased by the reminder of her protégé’s enthusiasm.
“It was, on the whole, an unorthodox pitch,” Gabriel replied, his own smile quirking at the edge, “but should our fates be somewhat entwined by necessity, I don’t see the harm in profiting from it, or sharing my expertise when warranted.”
Recent setbacks notwithstanding. He had a feeling the temporary depression in the company’s stock would be to his long-term benefit, anyways. Room to grow.
“...He’s a good sort,” he added. “One who, I may add, literally moved heaven and earth to get to you. I hope he’s recovered.”
He knew there was still a great deal currently still floating about in the ether -- when he might expect to catch a return trip to London (his telegrams to Leah and Lydia once they landed would, no doubt, be interesting -- he wondered whether he ought to write drafts first, to save on time once there), whether she’d accompany him (he assumed as much), and the answer to his earlier question -- ‘What are you willing to offer’ -- one he couldn’t help but notice she’d avoided fully digging into just yet, diverting instead into immediate needs for sustenance, and an assurance that her earlier rather pointed twist of the knife had been a test he’d passed rather than a true spectre.
It was probably a kindness -- he was less than sharp at the moment, and she was nothing but (sharp and hard, all teeth and iron plated armor, but with occasional flashes of something with a sense of humor and a heart peeking through all that he could hold onto). Even now, parsing her expression took effort, and while they’d turned enough of a corner that he didn’t feel as if every word had the weight of possible death behind it, he had a feeling he’d be distinctly on edge until he was back in London regardless.
If anything, Biddie looked more put out by her godson’s bravery than she did by the enthusiasm. A person could learn to outlive enthusiasm; bravery tended to have a more lethal learning curve.
What was she willing to offer...that was a dangerous line of thought. Better consider what she could risk on this provocative specimen instead. The evaluation made her feel boxed in; Allen’s unfortunately vast acquaintance limited Biddie’s options to a claustrophobic degree. He could expose her, expose Archie, blighten MPC’s reputation at a time when they needed to shine best. Even if he failed to be recognized by the private circles they both belonged, he could still spark a rumor that would reach the gnats at the blasted Institute.
Biddie could kill Gabriel Allen; Gabriel Allen, however, could destroy her.
Porcelain, Biddie reflected dourly. This sort of situations would not have popped if she’d gone into porcelain. Or fisheries. One seldom worried about sabotages with cod liver oil.
“Are you familiar with Parkinson & Co?” she asked. “They chaperone the majority of our interests with unique private investors.”
“Lou is a good lad,” Gabriel replied easily enough, with a very small hint of tiredness lurking behind his voice. “When we last talked, he was looking to direct several more investors your way, by the bye. Quite keen.” He wasn’t sure whether he still was, of course, but he was young, and less risk averse than some.
He noticed his rings were missing just then (and really, it was a sign of how hyper focused he’d been on the matter at hand.) It figured she’d have them removed -- she was a witch, or at least witch adjacent (he hadn’t quite sorted that out entirely), and he had it pegged more as a precaution on her part than anything.
Still. He added Keira to the list of people he should probably notify of his continued existence, on the off chance that they’d activated somehow during the fire, or after.
“He’s very agreeable,” Biddie agreed. “A marked improvement from his predecessor, apparently. I certainly have no cause for complaint.”
Especially since the dear boy had been so accommodating as to find her the werewolf investor upon request. One learned to appreciate such an obliging nature in a banker.
“Shall we try to do business then, Mr. Allen?” Biddie paused, then amended. “Gabriel.”
Start as you mean to go on, she thought. There was little reason to stand on ceremony when they were forced to remember such...personal knowledge of each other.
“I do believe we shall, Biddie,” Gabriel replied, nodding his head, “and I should like to think we’ll be rather good at it.” He sighed. “Perhaps after I’ve had a snack and put on some trousers, we might dive in, as it were?”
“Of course, you must be famished from your boarding.” As if Alle--Gabriel’s boarding had required, or allowed, any effort on his part. But they were--what? Allies of a sort, if not quite compatriots. Associates certainly.
Either way, when Biddie smiled at him it was with the fullforce benevolence of a hostess. “I’ll summon Miss Thomsen to attend you. Along with a fresh suit, of course. Please take your time to refresh. I’ll be more than happy to speak with you later.”
The smile sharpened every so slightly at the corners.