The Lost: Book Two of The Whitechapel Chronicles

Chapter 9

As the first figures began to emerge from the far side of the cemetery, I felt my muscles tense and that awfully familiar sense of fear begin to creep through my veins. I spotted five figures in total. I had expected an arrogant show of strength, a small army maybe, so I couldn't help but agree with Harper's sentiment. This all just seemed too civilised.

The five approached, dressed literally for business, wearing that staple long dark coat and suit, so typical of the Walter and Noble office-wear and as they got closer I was stunned to see Grayson Walter and Richard Noble themselves leading the way.

Grayson Walter, I had discovered quite early on in my relationship with Brandon, was a charmer, your typical silver fox with an equally silver tongue. Never overly flirtatious or creepy in his attention, he was ever the gentleman but in a way that made your heart beat a little faster every time he fixed those steely blue eyes on you. I always thought he had a touch of Paul Newman about him, tall, strong and athletically-built despite his late fifty-something years. Looking at him through my vampire eyes, I wondered how I could ever have not seen the beast that lay under the surface, because right now all I could detect was the cold menace that emanated from him in great waves.

I had however, always thought that there was something undeniably dark about Richard Noble. He was the older of the two men, quiet where Grayson was chatty and amiable, as repellant as Grayson was attractive. I had often found myself struck dumb under his piercing gaze and no matter what assurances Brandon had given, I had always felt as if Richard had disapproved of me. Well, I knew now that he had disapproved of me, in fact they all had, because I had been the one Brandon had dangled in front of them to show what a big bad senior alpha he was. I had been the one allowing him to keep one foot in the human world to prove that he was the one in control. 

Standing close to Grayson was Daniel, that other big bad alpha who looked the least comfortable with this little graveyard soirée of ours. His eyes darted all around the cemetery, eyeing the apartment blocks on all sides as if anticipating an attack. I could see him fighting the monster, his skin rippling as he cricked his neck round on his shoulders, trying to ease the clear tension that taunted him.

And then there was Brandon.

He flanked Richard, to whom he was somehow related in their twisted family tree and it was only now that I could see how evident this really was. There was something in their expression, a quiet brooding darkness that looked ready to splinter and crack.

Brandon stared directly at Garrick and did not look my way as he stood with his hands by his side, the Cartier cufflinks that I had bought for him the Christmas just past peeking out from under the cuffs of his Paul Smith coat. I couldn't help but steal glances at him, pained at how he could look so much like my husband and yet also like a complete stranger. His unruly curls, which I could still recall running my fingers through, had been combed into some semblance of order but that wasn't unusual when he was playing at being the hot shot city lawyer. And it seemed his appearance was all about business tonight and I might have been fooled by that if it weren't for the fact I could smell the foul Varúlfur stench that hung stagnant in the frozen air. How easy it was to see beyond the facade when your eyes were fully open.

 Yet, despite being faced with the man with whom not so long ago I had shared a life, it was not him nor his associates who caught my attention but the fifth figure, who held back from the group, half-hidden behind the Varúlfur. All the pungent beast odour in the world could not hide the fact that this man was not one of them.

He was human.

His heart beat slow and steady, clearly unruffled by the company in which he found himself and a sweet smell of lotion drifted over, as if he had recently slathered his hands in moisturising cream, maybe to combat the drying effects of the cold winter air. A wide brimmed black felt hat kept his face half-cloaked in shadow. Could this be the mysterious client who was willing to pay millions for Lucius?