Beneath a Waning Moon
Page 2

“He won’t be going for money,” Murphy said. “Or at least not only money. He has no son. He won’t have any grandchildren. These businesses are his legacy.”
“Agreed,” Tom said. His sire could have acquired Shaw’s assets through mental manipulation like many of their kind did. It was a point of honor for Murphy that he didn’t and one of the reasons Tom had been so keen to join his former student in immortality.
It wasn’t as if Patrick Murphy needed the old pugilist at his side for fighting advice anymore. But Murphy could be a little too trusting in Tom’s opinion. He needed a bruiser at his back, and Tom had been happy to volunteer, even if it did mean having to feed on blood when the need arose.
He’d been a vampire for over thirty years, and all in all, it wasn’t that bad. He missed the sun, but if he was honest, he’d been living the last years of his human life at night, hustling through Dublin and even over to London with Murphy, trying to scrounge enough money with boxing matches to make it worth the blood.
Now the blood came from donors, and Murphy was the one in charge. At least, that’s what it looked like to outsiders. Murphy, Tom, and Declan presented themselves as brothers to mortal society. No one questioned their connection. In time they’d have to adjust, but for now it worked. Tom just had to remember to answer to “Mr. Murphy” on occasion.
“If Shaw is truly looking to sell, he will want someone who’ll invest more than money,” Tom said. “Someone who cares about the workers. That’s my take, anyway.”
“Agreed,” Declan said.
“No harm in calling on the man,” Murphy said. “We’ve already been introduced. Perhaps I come to him asking about improvements for my own millworks…”
Tom nodded. “Show him you’re the kind who cares. A boss willing to invest for the long term.”
Declan said, “Plus he might have something to help with the dust problem in Whitechurch.”
“True.” Murphy set his pen down. “Declan, write up a letter, will you? Ask Shaw for a meeting next week if he’s amenable. Let’s see if John Shaw is a man willing to work with creatures of the night.”
THE meeting had been six months coming, at least, and Tom had watched Shaw deteriorate in that time. The once-robust man had grown wan and pale as Tom and Murphy’s respect for the human grew stronger.
“You know,” Shaw said, “I spotted your intentions in our second meeting, Mr. Murphy.”
Murphy smiled. “And yet you kept meeting me.”
“It’s the same kind of tactic I would have used when I was young,” Shaw said with a drawn smile. “Of course I kept meeting with you.”
Shaw was a hell of a businessman, but Tom approved of the core of honor in the man. When he’d been human, he would have felt privileged to work for a man like John Robert Shaw.
“And so,” Murphy said more quietly, “we come to the sticking point. I want to buy the works, John. The mills and the boat works. You know that. What I need you to know is that it’s not just about the money to me. I respect what you’ve done. I’m no Englishman to see only the profit in them. I see what the boat works have the potential to do for Dublin. For the whole of Ireland. That’s important to me.”
“I know.” Shaw took a sip of his whiskey, and Tom noticed his hand trembling just a little. “I’ve made a study of you, young man. And while there are some… curious things rumored about you, I know a gentleman of good character when I see one. I like your wife. I like your brothers. You’re a man who understands family.”
Tom cocked his head. Shaw talked more than a little about family, which made the relative secrecy around his own something of a mystery. It was well-known he had a daughter, but Tom had never seen her. Neither had Murphy or Declan. She was a mystery. One that Tom Dargin couldn’t help but wonder about.
“You’re right. Family is very important to me,” Murphy said.
“And me.” Shaw dabbed at his brow. “I had this all planned, and now I find myself nervous to speak of it. Perhaps I’m absorbing some of Jo’s fancy after all.”
“Jo?” Tom asked from the settee.
Shaw had asked both Tom and Declan to join Murphy and him that night for a drink. Tom felt as he always did in company, like the prized ox accidentally let into someone’s parlor. He was an unfashionably big man, and the scars on his face often led those in polite society to avoid his gaze. He was more at home with the factory workers than the bosses.
“My daughter, Josephine.” Shaw took a deep breath. “As I imagine you have heard, she is not well. She has been unwell for years, despite the efforts of numerous physicians.”
Tuberculosis, they called it now. Consumption, his mam had said. If the disease had progressed as far as rumors claimed, there would be no cure for Josephine Shaw, and Tom could see the knowledge in her father’s eyes.
“Your own health…,” Murphy said cautiously. “You fear you are deteriorating.”
“I am deteriorating. And faster than my daughter. She will be alone.”
Tom knew Shaw was worried about his daughter’s protection after he died. Those with consumption could linger for years. And while she might not hurt for money, a woman without a family to protect her was still at risk of being taken advantage of.
Murphy said, “Her family—”
“She has little to none. She has friends—good friends—but mostly in England where she went to school. Her cousin should be the one to care for her, but Neville has little interest in anyone but himself, and he will be furious when he learns I am looking to sell the businesses. He expects to inherit.”