“I am glad you trust me enough to let your guard down. In your house, you should be who you really are, and I will not stand in the way of that.” She paused as she searched for the right words. “If you are going to be intimate, for the sake of not creating an awkward situation, try to do that when I am not home and do keep your door closed because next time, it might not be me who catches you.”
A wide grin spread across Immanuel’s cheeks, brightening his blotted eye as he squeezed it shut against the moisture creeping to the surface. Good people still existed in the world, and maybe, just maybe, there was hope for them.
Chapter Twenty-Six:
The Deceiver
Lord Rose took a long drag on his cigarette, relishing the billowing ash passing between his lips and out his nostrils. Holding the dying cigarette between his fingers, Alastair carefully cleaned the prongs of the machine that helped him traverse the veil between life and death. It was coated with blood from his previous experiments and victims, and no matter how thoroughly he cleaned it, he knew Higgins, Kitty, the German boy, and Henrietta’s blood still mingled with his own. The idea of his victims being part of this process thrilled him, but if he was going to enjoy this, he would need to be calm. With a twist of his finger, he unlatched the whining hinge at the front of the brass ribs. The jar of solution was still fairly full, but he needed a fresh vessel to tease his soul into.
In the darkened room, the quartz containers were barely discernable tucked away in the divided nooks of the crate, but as he lifted Kitty’s jar to his eye, a faint outline danced within, glowing a dull yellow like a waning firefly. Each soul was different, and while indiscernible and amorphous, he found they varied in size and color. He remembered Prince Albert’s was nearly as large as Henrietta’s, yet Higgins’s was barely a wisp. The royal consort’s soul was hidden away in a vault far below the palace beside the bubbling vat that had been his tomb for three decades, but the sight of his immaterial form forlornly knocking against the jar never left his mind.
Narrowing his eyes, Alastair stared at the empty space in the box where that stupid boy’s soul should have been. He had eluded him, but he could wait. At his leisure he would devise a way to kill him, and next time, he would ensure he stayed dead. In less than a fortnight, he would get everything he wanted, wealth, land, a title, and all the respect he rightly deserved now that the doctor finally finished his end of the project. Someone could always be hired from the less desirable parts of town to kill the boy, but watching the life drain from his eyes permanently would be the crowning glory of his triumph.
This moment wouldn’t be ruined by him; he had to focus on what he did have. With a flick of his wrist, Henrietta Wren’s urn rested neatly in his palm. Inside, a reddish light glowed and rippled, growing in intensity as she pressed against the edge of the glass. Alastair put his hand over the feeble heat only to have her soul shrink to the other side of the container. A cruel grin stretched across his features as he drew in an ashy breath. He had her right where he wanted, and no matter what she desired, she was his now. Killing her was not what he intended to do that night, but she pushed him too far. She thought she was too good for him, and for that, she had to pay, especially after the German escaped.
He had seen her on the way back to Mayfair from Wimpole Street. From the back of his idling steamer, he watched her between the curtains as she wandered through the thick fog rolling off the Thames in her dark green, velvet gown and mink wrap. Immediately he recognized her. Henrietta Wren had been on his arm when they attended the Samhain ball in Oxford, and with a little flattery and sweet words, the alluring diva’s prudish hauteur crumbled for a time. After that night, she avoided him, only greeting him when necessary and attending Spiritualist society gatherings when he was not there. Maybe it was time they had a talk about that.
Tucking his climbing stilts under the seat, his persimmon eyes followed her as she paused beneath a street lamp. The nebulous light illuminated her tightly curled coiffure like gold coins. She cast her eyes to the street signs before taking a few steps down the road but shook her head and turned to walk straight toward his hiding place. As she passed without noticing his gaze on her, he pocketed his devil mask, affixed a fresh jar beneath his ribs, and pulled his great coat closer to hide the machine that hummed and growled against his chest.
“Miss Wren,” Lord Rose called with the door open just far enough that she couldn’t see him against the darkened interior, “would you like a ride home?”
The opera star stopped at the sound of that familiar, cloying tone. A little voice, the one she listened to on Samhain when she saw a hint of what he was capable of, urged her to keep walking, but with the murk soaking through her fur stole and the sherry coursing through her veins, the voice died into a dull nudge at the back of her mind. With an inaudible sigh, she stooped into the steamer, crinkling her nose as she inhaled a mouthful of stale tobacco.
“Thank you, Lord Rose. I hope I am not inconveniencing you.”
“Not at all. You never know who you will run into at this hour. One can never be too careful with Spring-heeled Jack on the loose.”
A throaty chuckle escaped Henrietta’s lips as she stared out the passenger window, keeping her eyes locked on the bleak brick façades sliding past in hopes that the wave of nausea from the cigarette smell and the alcohol would pass. “I am more worried about the human riffraff.”
“Then, what brought you out of the Christmas party all by yourself?” he asked, watching her close her eyes and let her golden head rest against the seat.
“My sister and I had a row, so she took her husband and left me behind.”
“Then, our meeting was fortuitous.” Alastair Rose’s gaze trailed from the emeralds adorning her alabaster fingers up her arm until they came to rest on the green and gold pendant at her throat. With the woman’s eyes shut, he slid down to the swollen curves of her ivory breasts, which peeked from between the edges of her stole and rose and fell rhythmically with each drowsy breath. Slinking closer, he let his hand rest on her thigh. “We really have not seen enough of each other, Henrietta.”
Her light eyes flew open at the pressure on her leg, but as she tried to move it away, his hand clamped down. Looking into his eyes, she swore they flashed orange before returning to their dull brown. “I have been very, very busy.” She glanced out the window at the familiar façades before calling, “Driver, let me out here, please! Thank you for taking me home, Lord Rose. This is close enough. I would not want to inconvenience you further.”
“It is no trouble at all. For some time I have been meaning to ask you why you have been avoiding me.” His hand slid higher, cutting a strip of velvet away as he dragged the tips of his claws into the pliant flesh of her upper thigh. “I thought we made quite a pair together at the ball. Everyone spoke of how smart you looked on my arm.”
Henrietta gasped as the metal dug into her leg so hard that blood pooled and dripped onto her chemise and drawers. Reaching behind her, she groped for the door handle, but the nobleman continued his advance until he knelt across her. When his face finally loomed over hers with his smirking eyes gleaming, she drew her hand back and brought it hard across his cheek.
“I said, let me out here,” the diva seethed as blood trickled from his lip where her ring cut him.
Alastair Rose glared at her, poised to attack but stood transfixed over her with his eyes locked on hers. Her painted porcelain face stared back as she held his gaze, masking the fear that constrained each breath and did not allow her to move from beneath him. In the shadows of the backseat, his hand slid closer until it came to rest at the base of her neck. Pushing his leg against hers, he leaned forward, so the humming machine’s pulse echoed through her body. Henrietta’s eyes darted from the gleaming ribs to his face, which had contorted into a fiendish mask.
“No one denies me what I want,” he growled as he sunk the needles into her neck and flooded her body with electricity.
When she opened her mouth to scream,
the cry died in her throat. Her eyes rolled back in their sockets, leaving only a rim of blue at the edge of her lids. Small gasps and sighs broke from her lips with each muscle contraction that contorted the singer’s body. Spitefully holding down the trigger, he let her body dance against his even though he knew her soul was already trapped within the glass prison. A scant amount of electricity raced through the velvet and into his body where they touched, eliciting a silent moan as his limbs twitched from the energy’s effects.
That was how he realized what the machine was capable of. It could steal life and instill it anew, but it could also bring pleasure. Did his victims, just for a second, feel the same ecstasy he experienced when he dulled the charge and plunged the prongs into his own flesh? Dropping the opera star’s soul back into the wooden box, he withdrew an empty jar and strode across the room to where the machine lay. Once the vessel was secure, he flipped the switch that sent the machine humming to life and moved the second switch to the midpoint between extraction and deposition. By keeping the setting in limbo, the amperage was cut in half, allowing him to maintain mastery of his body throughout the process. Standing before the mirror, his eyes traveled to the series of triangular wounds littering his torso. Most were sore and red and a few had even purpled from the force of the puncture, but it was worth it.
Alastair took one more puff from his cigarette to steady his racing heart before mashing it into the ashtray beside his bed. Slipping his hand into the gauntlet, he flinched as the needles plunged into the flesh of his hip. With one squeeze, current flooded his body, sending a shockwave that tensed every muscle against his will. He locked onto his reflection as his vision tunneled and the world died away. As the energy was pulled from his body, a film as thin as a spider web caressed his flesh and sent his heart sputtering. His adrenaline rushed as a black mist came into the jar, but when the ecstasy reached its peak, he released the trigger. His caliginous soul darted back into his body, and a shudder passed through him as he stood panting before his reflection. A smile crossed his lips even as he yanked the prongs from his flank. No one could get as close to death as he could. No one could feel the euphoria of their soul being teased from their bodies and returning with a flood of relief as every muscle finally relaxed. He would never be prey like them. In becoming Jack, he had mastered death, conquered it and dealt it with a deft hand. Blood trailed down his thigh, but as he wiped it and brought his wet fingers to his lips, he tasted the metallic brew of his body. Life and death were his to command.
***
Immanuel hesitated at the head of the autopsy table, taking a deep breath to stifle the guilt that climbed up his throat like bile. For the third time, he reread Dr. Hawthorne’s wiry handwriting. Henrietta Wren, age thirty. Found posed on her doorstep in Chelsea, discovered by her housekeeper around five in the morning. Time of death difficult to determine due to the cold weather, estimated to be between one and two that morning, in rigor mortis. Triad of three punctures on the left side of the neck an inch above the clavicle, minimal blood, peri-mortem, burns at the periphery of the wounds. Eight inch cut on the left thigh beginning two inches above the knee. Laceration is pre-mortem, considerable bleeding (presence of clotted blood across limb). Blood on right hand but no wound present. Livor mortis shows body remained in sitting position in doorway for considerable amount of time, coinciding with time of death. Cause of death unknown, possible cardiac disruption from electrical shock. Potential Spring-heeled Jack victim. No autopsy performed.
“Adam, you do not have to stay for this.” Putting the ledger aside, he met his companion’s gaze as he waited for him at the base of the cellar stairs. “I have seen a dead body before.”
“I know, but I want to make sure you are all right.”
A faint smile crossed his lips before he resolutely sighed and folded back the sheet covering Henrietta Wren. Her face even in death retained its natural beauty. With her blonde hair and fair skin, she reminded him of his sister Johanna, but when he reached her neck, he chased all visions of his younger sister away. Instinctively Immanuel reached for the bandage around his throat. Resting his fingers against her icy shoulder, he waited for the visions he knew would never come. Alastair had killed her. When he couldn’t kill him, he found someone he could. His fingers twitched as he covered his face and tried to tug the sheet over her, but his fingers refused to cooperate. A hand reached past him and carefully covered the deceased singer. Adam clasped Immanuel’s trembling arm as an aftershock of the electricity darted through his limbs, cramping his legs and shaking hands.
“Sit,” Adam commanded as he lowered him onto the step. Kneeling before him, he glanced toward the closed basement door before holding Immanuel’s hands. “There is nothing you could have done to stop him.”
“If— if I had died, he would not have looked for someone else,” he croaked. “She died because of me. In a few days we are going to be in Greenwich celebrating Christmas, but her family— her family will be planning her funeral. If only I could have done something.”
Immanuel’s eyes watered and his hands quavered in Adam’s grasp. If he didn’t act, his guilt would push him to tears again. Intertwining their fingers, Adam kissed his forehead and wrapped his arms around him. After a few minutes of reassurance, Adam hoisted the thin man to his feet and led him up to the kitchen. As they emerged from the morgue, a pair of dark brown owl eyes locked onto them. Emmeline opened her mouth to speak but faltered upon seeing Immanuel as pale as he was the night before when he was lying on the table bleeding.
“Who is it this time?” she asked softly as the men walked past her.
“Henrietta Wren.”
She swallowed hard, her eyes widening at the implication. “He is killing Spiritualists.”
ACT THREE:
“The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?”
-Edgar Allan Poe
Chapter Twenty-Seven:
Plans for the Future
Emmeline pressed her nose against the window of the cab, watching the streets of London crawl by. For more than an hour she had been stuck in the cab with her aunt, uncle, and Immanuel, who had barely looked up from the copy of Dorian Gray he borrowed from Mr. Fenice since they left Wimpole Street. Self-consciously running her hand over the front of her red gown, she sighed. It was the same one she wore for the Christmas social and she hoped it would be fancy enough for a party at the house of an earl as she only had one evening gown. Who knew who would be there? Hopefully no one from the Spiritualist society or they would surely know how far she had fallen.
She had owned so many beautiful dresses and hats. Her mother always made sure nothing was overlooked when it came to her happiness. Her mother. The fire— that man— had taken her away and, with her, every tradition or comfort she had ever known, leaving her adrift in the world. It was times like this when they passed family after family walking together through the bustling streets where mothers tugged lingering babes from toyshop windows and older daughters walked side by side with their mothers in matching fur muffs and hats that she felt the sting of orphanhood. This time last year, they would have been decorating the tree with fancy ornaments from Paris and singing carols at the piano while the smell of goose and pie wafted up from the kitchen. Emmeline’s lip trembled. Would her mother truly be with her or had all that she had been taught as a Spiritualist been a lie?
“How should I address the Earl of Dorset?” she asked suddenly, ripping her mind away from all thoughts of her mother. “Will you introduce me, Aunt Eliza, since I have not yet come out?”
“Yes, Emmeline.” Eliza Hawthorne’s thin lips curled into an amused smile. “You needn’t worry too much about introductions or formalities, Lord Sorrell won’t. He is not accustomed to using his father’s title yet, so Lord Dorset or Lord Sorrell are both acceptable.”
With a nod, Emmeline recited his titles in her head, but her wide eyes lingered on Eliza’s holly-green
gown. The day after Henrietta’s death her aunt’s stoic demeanor had melted into mirthful smiles and easy laughter. She had even hummed as she cleaned the breakfast dishes and brushed Emmeline’s hair with motherly care. Gone were the drab dresses of grey and black. There didn’t appear to be a cause for the change, and Emmeline couldn’t be sure if she liked it even if her aunt was more willing to entertain her wishes in this state. Luckily her uncle remained as sullen and stony as ever with his arms barred across his chest and his brows knit in a frown.
Falling back into idle thoughts of who would be at the earl’s home for Christmas Eve dinner, Emmeline smiled. Surely there would be plenty of women in beautiful gowns with elaborate coiffures, young men all in black and white who would whisk her onto the dance floor and ask to call upon her, girls her own age with whom she could gossip and giggle, and no Lord Rose to ignore her. As the steamer finally slowed to a stop, her heart sank.
The icy rain pattered down against the weather-beaten façade, fogging the windows tucked into the manor’s Gothic arches. On the muddied plain at the edge of Greenwich Park, their cab and the mottled brown house stood alone. There was no party. Her face darkened as she crossed her arms and closed her eyes against the sting of disappointment. Not only would she be spending Christmas without her mother, but every agonizing moment would be dragged out by the tedium of spending another evening with her family and a nobleman who was probably as old and boring as his house.
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