by Maren Smith
“I’m sorry!” she bawled. “Draven, p-please! I’m sorry!”
The fingers of the hand he held trapped at her hip opened and closed, clawing at empty air. The toes of her shoes scrambled fruitlessly over the thin rug fibers beneath her feet. She could barely move, waggling her bottom from side to side each time he struck, but there was no evading the discipline of his work-rough hand. Not until every inch of his target area was strawberry-ripe red and the job, at last, was done.
When he let her go, she drooped limp in place, waiting until he coaxed her up far enough to crawl—it had been so, so long—like a sobbing child upon his knee. She curled into him, arms clinging to his neck and shoulders, tears soaking into the collar of his shirt. The heat of her well-spanked flesh burned through the leg of his trousers into his thigh. It was a heat that went straight to his groin as he held her close, stroking her hair and rocking her from side to side.
“Trust me,” he whispered as he touched his lips to the thin, cold flesh of her forehead. “I can keep you safe, Elise honey.” He buried his face in her hair, trying to cling to that faint fragrance of sweet soap and honeysuckle that she liked to wear, but breathing in earth and fresh-turned dirt instead. “I love you,” he whispered, the wisps of her hair tickling his nose.
Her head tipped back, no doubt seeking that kiss of reassurance that meant all was right once more between them. Only too happy to oblige her, Draven leaned back. But as his grip on her relaxed enough to allow those precious inches of space to grow between them, her head fell back on her shoulders and the slack-jawed face that rolled back to meet him was the eyeless, thin-skin-stretched-over-bone grimace of a woman who had been dead at least three years.
Draven came awake, kicking so hard to get back that his boot hit the floor and the chair he’d been asleep on went flying over backwards. He had only one split second of dazed vertigo before his head hit the side of the feather mattress and then his back hit the floor. He wasn’t on the ground long, however. Vaulting to his feet, he scrubbed at himself—arms, chest, mouth, legs—shuddering all over as he tried to get the touch of death off his skin.
Eventually, he managed to calm down, catch his breath, and slow his heartrate back to a stable rhythm. His flesh even stopped crawling, and once that happened, Draven noticed something that up until that moment, he’d been too panicked to care about: daylight was pouring in through the windows. Not pale glimpses of early morning dawn, but full-on, sunshine-over-the-rooftops-because-the-sun-was-already-high-in-the-sky daylight.
He’d slept through the night. Draven rubbed his face, astonished. He hadn’t slept through the night in years.
Shit, the store should have been opened hours ago. He was missing another day of sales.
Swearing under his breath, Draven donned his heavy leather apron and then his knives. He had only a half second of pause when movement caught his eyes. Florrie sat up in bed, the sunlight setting off the gold in her sleep-tussled hair.
“Was that an earthquake?” she yawned, rubbing her eyes.
Elise’s shift was much too thin a garment for her. When gravity folded back the quilt, the peaks of Florrie’s nipples were as obvious as the instant blossom of awareness that throbbed hot and low down in his abdomen. His cock stirred, in spite of himself, in spite of that dream, in spite of that wince and the ugly bump that was still visible when she combed her fingers back through her hair to touch the knot above and around her cut.
He wasn’t retreating from her, he told himself. He wasn’t some an acne-pocked kid too shy to talk to his would-be sweetheart at the well pump. He was a man who had no business looking at her like she was the choicest haunch in his shop. He was a married man, for God’s sake, and gone though she might be, it was that woman—not this one—who held his heart.
Fucking act like it. Stabbing his fingers back through his long hair, he tied it back to keep it out of his face, he said, “Stay in bed today. I’ll fetch tea and breakfast as soon as I can.”
He left before she could offer any arguments, but Draven didn’t make it any further than the door to his flat before he found all the confirmation he needed to justify his caution the night before. Scrawled in black charcoal on the wall of the stairwell, he found the words: Horror of horrors. Oh, how the blood will flow.
There was only one person who could—would—have done that. That he had been in Draven’s shop… on his stairwell… perhaps with an ear pressed to the door at the exact same moment that Draven’s ear was cocked to hear him first…
Down below, the shop door rattled as someone tried the handle and found it locked. Already shaken, that shook him more and even knowing in the whole of his mind that whoever it was absolutely was not the killer, back to face him like a man now in the God-fearing light of day, Draven’s temper flared. He charged downstairs, picking up steam and speed with each step until, by the time he reached the door, he was more than in a mood to take on a murderer.
He shouldered it open to find the streets in front of his shop filled to riotous proportions. People were gathered at his windows, under his awning and around his empty hanging poles. The second he threw open the door, silence fell across that sea of both familiar and unfamiliar faces now staring back at him.
Slam the door, his brain supplied, but stunned as he was, it was the crowd that reacted first. The silence turned to deafening shouts as they all surged forward, grabbing the door before he could yank it shut. Three men locked shoulders in the bottleneck of his doorway before the sheer press of the long line behind them knocked them through and full-bodied into Draven. He almost fell, but amid the shoving, shouting and newssheet waving, he landed against the wall instead. It was one of the three who almost went down under all the tidal wave of people shoving to get inside. Had Draven not grabbed his arm, he would have been trampled. It was in that shocking melee that his stunned ears at last made sense of what was being shouted: “Where is she?”
“Can you see her?”
“…where…”
“Did he get her yet?”
“…the chit that got away!”
“Oi!”
He’d never had so many people in his shop before. They were packing in, shoulder to shoulder, the weight of them all crushing into him and they just kept shoving. A barrel of pickled meat toppled, sloshing a wave of brine, pork, and beef bits all over the floor. A neatly stacked tower display of potted meat quickly followed. The three-ounce tins bounced and rolled, some breaking open as they were kicked by a crowd of fifty or more in a shop that rarely held ten at a time. And that was only half the waiting line. There were more still outside, pushing, shouting, and waving their papers as they tried to squeeze themselves in.
“Oi! Oi! Get on there!”
The shrill scream of a police whistle cut through the deafening crowd, sending those outside the shop bolting to get out of the way as a horde of constables descended on them. On the second whistle blow, those inside the butchery grew still and quiet as Sergeant Hatman marched through the men outside, grabbing those who blocked the doorway by their coats and throwing them out of his way. The third that he took hold of shook off his arm.
“Piss off,” the man snarled. “I got here first.”
Pulling his truncheon, the sergeant whacked him upside the head, not quite knocking him cold, but knocking him off his feet. Yanking him out of the shop, he threw the limp man at his men. “Arrest him,” he said, turning his cool gaze back on everyone else still crowding the interior of Draven’s butchery. “Right,” he demanded. “Who’s next?”
Pressed to the wall shelves, Draven watched in a mix of horror, shock and slow-budding rage while, one by one, people shuffled out of his shop, away from the police, but rarely any further away than the far side of the street. Once the bottleneck was cleared, they filtered out more readily.
Sergeant Hatman with his truncheon and icy tone had no problem stepping up to those reluctant to go. It never took more than an impatient—“Well?”—to get them moving. Soon, it was just Dr
aven and another man remaining, the one who had nearly been trampled and who now stood on unsteady feet next to him, his handkerchief pressed to his bloody nose. The injury didn’t spare him from Hatman’s cold stare.
“Sod off,” the sergeant said.
Staggering as he stepped through the doorway, the injured man left. The only two left in the store, with a ring of constables keeping order outside, Draven and Hatman stared at one another.
Sniffing, the sergeant studied the destruction in the shop, the spilled barrel at his feet, the smashed tins and broken barrel, racks and shelves. “Productive morning?”
“I’m just opening,” Draven replied.
“A bit late for a butchery, yeah?”
“Running behind time isn’t a crime, or a matter for the local constabulary. Is there something I can get for you, Sergeant? A bit of mutton; slice of beef? A nice, fat hog’s head for the roasting?”
“The missus has Sunday supper seen to, I’m sure. More than anything though, I think you can see how putting this girl in custody as a witness is the best way to keep her safe.” Spreading his arms to encompass the mess, he turned a slow circle. “You’ve hardly done a spectacular job in that capacity, have you?”
Draven’s slow bud of anger bloomed a bit hotter.
“Guess I ought to be grateful you just happened along in time to sort this trouble out, yeah?” Draven said softly. Those who knew him would have recognized it as being just a touch too soft.
The sergeant only smoothed down his moustache. “I’ve had a constable watching your shop since yesterday. There hasn’t been a mouse fart in this alley that he hasn’t taken note of it.”
“Really?”
Stepping closer, Hatman donned a commiserating albeit smug smile. “Look, she fell in your lap, right? I understand. She’s young, pretty, injured, and in more trouble than your masculine tendencies know how to handle. Shining knight and all, eh? She sparked something in you, I can see that. You want to protect her, I can see that, too. But the plain fact here is, you can’t, and he knows it. The best you can do for this poor woman is give her over, let us take her where not only she’ll be safe, but she’ll get the proper care she needs. It’s what she’d want, yeah? If she was sensible and all.”
The urge to grab Hatman by his uniform lapel and drag him up the back stairs was almost more than Draven could contain. He swallowed hard, forcing his balled hands to relax. “Come with me.”
Draven didn’t look back, but as he picked his way through the wreckage, he could hear the hard soles of the policeman’s shoes as he fell into reluctant step behind him. More than one set of shoes, actually. Draven still didn’t look back, but he knew at least two of the man’s constables were trailing along behind them.
“Good man,” Hatman said. “I know how hard a decision this must be, but you’ll thank yourself for it later, I’m sure.”
He said nothing. Climbing the stairs to the mid-level landing, Draven went another six steps higher before stopping. Planting himself firmly in front of the door, he waited for Hatman to notice the coal-black letters scrawled across the stairwell. He read it without moving. He stood frozen for so long, he must have read it at least twice.
“Your man,” Draven said pointedly, “should concentrate less on mouse farts and maybe he wouldn’t have missed the bloke what broke in here.”
Hatman looked up the stairs at him, then back at the wall.
“The only thing he knows,” Draven emphasized, “is how easy it is to slip in and out beneath a policeman’s nose. He’s been doing it for months, building quite a name for himself in the papers. ‘Horror of horrors’? What newssheet did he get that from, do you think? My guess is he liked it, but what do I know, yeah? The only thing I do know is it wasn’t this door that stopped him.” Indicating his flat over his shoulder, he said, “T’was what he knew was waiting for him on the other side. Me. I’d have cut him into pieces.” He nodded at the writing on the wall, not taking his eyes off the sergeant who stared just as icily back at him. “The only thing this tells me, yeah, is how right I am to think she’s safer here, with me, than she ever would be with you. You can’t protect her; you don’t even care if what you do gets her killed, so long as it’s your name what goes in the paper under the grand proclamation: Ripper Caught! Ripper Hanged. Sergeant Hatman Saves London.”
Hatman frowned. “I’m doing my job. How many more does this fiend need to murder before you’ll stop standing in the way of justice?”
“Whose justice?” Draven demanded. “Yours?”
“Every person living in terror right now, today, in this great city! I stand for all of them!”
“I’m sure they’ll all sleep better tonight for the knowing of it,” Draven replied, unimpressed. “But Florrie stays here, in my flat, with me standing between her and him, and you. So.” He angled his head, shifting his weight to one foot. “If there’s nothing more I can do for you blokes, then I have a shop to run. I’d appreciate it if you’d let me get to it.”
Hatman’s stare hardened. Draven had often heard people refer to his own glare being as cold as frigid winter waters when he was pissed. He imagined this must be what they meant. Not that he was intimidated by the officer’s. If anything, that stare pricked at his temper, throwing coal on the already bonfire-like blaze of it.
Turning to retreat back down the steps, the sergeant paused. “You know, I can see why you might be so devoted to the care of a woman you’ve never met before yesterday. Having her here in your shop is about to prove itself most lucrative. Got all the papers lurking outside your door, yeah?”
Draven was just startled enough by the accusation to laugh, though it died quickly when the door at his back suddenly opened. That tantalizing whiff of Florrie’s alluring soap was both a balm on his ready temper and the steel that instantly reinforced his determination.
Hatman’s gaze softened as she stepped into view, dressed in nothing but her shift, her bare feet padding softly upon the floorboards as she crept into view.
Touching the brim of his hat, Sergeant Hatman said, “Miss.”
Florrie’s small hand came to rest on Draven’s shoulder. He felt her trembling and heard the catch of her breath when she noticed the words on the wall. She stopped and, like Hatman, was still for so long that she must have read the missive half a dozen times. He felt her shudder through the grip she had on his shoulder, and yet, she still had the brass to turn to the sergeant and say, “What do you need from me? How can I help you stop him?”
A man had to admire that kind of brass in a woman. Draven would probably admire it too, just as soon as he got over the shock, fury, and no small amount of fear that that stupid offer inspired in him for her.
“Excuse us,” he told Hatman as he quickly caught Florrie by the wrist and pushed her back into the room. “If you’re still here when I get back, I guarantee I’ll get your name into the papers, but it won’t be for anything so noble as catching the maniac. It’ll be for harassing the only surviving victim while she’s still medically fragile. Close the fucking door on your way out, yeah?”
Hatman scowled, but Draven retreated back into his flat and slammed the door before he could launch a parting verbal shot.
“What are you doing? Ow!” Florrie wrenched her wrist free of him.
“What am I doing?” he echoed incredulously. “What are you doing? Are you daft, woman? You just—” He stopped, staring as the realization hit him at just how thin her shift was. Not only could he see the taut peaks of her nipples, thrusting beneath the fabric, but he could see the dusky hue of them against the milky paleness of her round flesh. When she backed away, rubbing her wrist, the sun hit just perfectly behind her and—God help him—those long, shapely legs of hers. The rounding of her hips. The dip of her waist. She was an hourglass of shadow and loveliness swathed in a shift that had tried and failed to keep her shapeless.
And he hadn’t had a woman now in… how long? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember what they were arguing
about. Fool as he was, he wasn’t even sure if he remembered his own name.
He yanked the curtain off the wall in his haste to wrap it around her. “Cover yourself,” he said hoarsely, but swaddling her now did not erase what he had just seen. And lord, but how his devilish brain was already hard at work, taunting him with all the alternate ways in which this scenario should have played itself out. What’s more, while the gorgeousness of her body had been enough to derail his anger, hers was now in full bloom, spreading the blush of temper up her cheeks and fueling the flash that turned the blue of her eyes as dark as sapphires.
“How am I daft?” she snapped back. “What did I say wrong? If what you both said out there is true, if I really am the only surviving witness, shouldn’t I be doing everything possible to help them catch that man?”
One couldn’t help but admire that kind of courage.
“With what?” Draven gruffly demanded, determined to make her think. “If you’ve remembered something useful, then let’s hear it, luv. Is your name really Florrie? What’s your address? What do you remember of the bloke what did that?” He would have tapped under her the chin had she not recoiled.
“I remember some things,” she said, stung.
“What?” Spreading his hands, he waited.
Her mouth opening and closing in several wordless starts, her gaze searched the floor as if she might find the answer there. Suddenly, she squared her shoulders and glared at him. “I-I-I remember the… the knife.” Hiking her chin, she all but daring him to mock that. “I-I remember the smell.” She swallowed hard, and the flicker of fear that trickled in around the weakening of her courage physically hurt his heart. “I keep seeing clothes… burning in the fireplace and I… I can hear him. He’s running b-behind me—”
