by Maren Smith
Why would anyone go through the extremes Draven had to take care of someone he didn’t know? He’d fed her, brought her warm water to wash with—both of which could probably be explained away as nothing more than politeness. He’d also called a doctor for her and, although she hadn’t been herself at the time, she vaguely recalled seeing him pay the man a few coins before he’d left. Add to that how he’d stood between her and Sergeant Hatman, who wanted to take her into custody as a witness and, if Draven’s interpretation of what might happen to her after that was anywhere close to correct, then she was grateful that he’d chosen to bust her butt rather than let her stubborn pride get the best of her.
And, of course, he’d even chased off the man who’d left this necklace of bruises on her throat and the knife nick. She might well have killed her had Draven not stumbled upon them when he had, and by someone how had already killed multiple women before her. The paper boy hawking newssheets on the streets outside said seven women—seven had died.
They were wrong. It was five. How did she know that? Why was she so certain?
I may not know who you are, but I know more about you than you do.
Her stomach tingled as she remembered how his hands had reached for hers, the rough pad of his thumb caressing her palms as he’d made his examination of her soft, ladylike hands. That same hand had been anything but gentle or caressing when he’d turned her across his knee. She had a tender spot the size of at least two fingers on the underside of her right nether cheek that still made her wince each time she sat down. Without a mirror or an extra joint in her back, she couldn’t get a good enough look at it, but she was pretty sure she might have a bruise. Her stomach didn’t care. It still tingled and clung on to the memory of how the shivers had trembled her as his calloused hands moved across her skin.
Fingers pressed to her temples, Florrie shook her head as if she could shake off the effects of that memory just as easily. She had to stop thinking about him like that. She had to stop eroticizing him, period. She wasn’t going to stay here. At some point, she was going to remember something and then… and then…
And then, what? What if she never remembered anything? What if what she remembered was worse than not knowing? Maybe she was running for reasons that had nothing to do with Jack the Ripper.
Icy fingers tickled down her spine. Mid-pace, she snapped around. Dear God, did she know the killer personally? She clapped her hands over her mouth. Jesus! Did she know him intimately?
She strained, fingertips trembling against her lips as she struggled to see through the ache and the emptiness in her head for a hint of the truth. Nothing came back to her.
She swore softly under her breath, although there was no way Draven could hear her from downstairs. Especially not with the crowd of customers she could hear clamoring for service beneath the floorboards under her feet. And that was nothing compared to the long, long line of customers trailing out the door and down the street front. She crept only close enough to the window to catch a glimpse of the line. As soon as she was spotted, the pointing and whispering began. Heads tucked together. Eyes stared. Was he out there somewhere, hidden in plain sight among all those other gawkers, watching for her too? Fingers fidgeting in the folds of her dress, she crept back out of their sight once more.
The door latch clicked and Florrie jumped. Having heard no footsteps on the stairs, she turned, not knowing who was coming through it. The morning had been so heavily punctuated by Draven’s gruff shouts of ‘Get off the stairs’ there was no guarantee that it would be him.
Her relief at seeing him come through the door was met with an overwhelming apprehension. It mirrored the surge of motion with which she rushed to him, catching fistfuls of his shirt around the heavy leather apron he wore, and she didn’t even care about the blood splatters that stained it. He wasn’t saturated, but it was there. The smell of it hit her nose the second she came close enough to touch him, and on the heels of that smell, she remembered peering in through the pane of a broken window, seeing clothes burning in a fire hot enough not only to light the whole room but to melt the spout off the kettle hanging over it.
She remembered the body on the bed—nothing but torn meat and exposed bones. She remembered the guts and the excess flesh on the table. She remembered the man standing over it all with his arm shoved up under the exposed ribcage as he tore the heart free.
Tea splashed her skirts and the thick sausage he’d brought her bounced when he dropped both cup and plate to grab her arms instead. “Sit down before you fall.”
Had she paled? She must have, judging by how he immediately muscled her over to the table, dropping her onto the nearest chair before yanking one in close for himself. He touched the backs of his fingers first to her cheek and then to her forehead.
“I remember,” she said faintly. Her voice was shaking. Startled, she looked down at her hands, suddenly realizing the rest of her was shaking too.
“Right,” he said, quickly recovering from his surprise. He started to get up, but she grabbed his arms.
“No, Draven, you don’t understand. I saw him!”
He sank back down, mouth grim as he asked, “What did you see?”
“Clothes burning on the fire. Mary Kelly, she was… unrecognizable.”
“You know her name? I read it in the paper yesterday, but I never brought the paper upstairs.”
“I…” Did she? The name was in her head, but for the life of her, she couldn’t conjure a face to go with it. Her brow buckled as she thought, picking through the circulating images in her head. The fire, the kettle spout, the unmistakable lumps of human flesh, layered on the table like cuts of steak with the skin still on… She shook her head. “I-I don’t remember. But I must have known her and I know I saw him. I have nightmares of running and he’s chasing me. I can’t see his face, but he’s chasing me.”
“He caught you right outside my door,” Draven confirmed. “Do you remember that, Florrie?”
Footsteps echoing off the brickwork and her own terrified heartbeat thundering through her veins…
Shuddering, her frustration bubbled up through her in an instant. She cupped her head, the headache that had been only a dull background throb in her skull now growing too. “I just can’t get it to come out. It’s driving me crazy!” Erupting from her chair, she paced restlessly away, stopping when she reached that dreadful green wall. Shoulders drooping, she stared at it. “This wallpaper is hideous.”
He was silent for so long, she almost forgot he was in the room until she heard his chair creak as he stood up. The slow, steady tromp of his big feet crossed the floor, coming to a stop behind her. Together, they judged the wallpaper.
“Elise loved it,” he finally said. “She thought it was vibrant.”
“Who’s Elise?” Florrie bit her tongue to keep from adding, ‘And does she know she has horrible taste in home décor?’
Draven didn’t move. “My wife.”
Florrie looked to him in surprise. The careful blankness of his expression, as well as the total absence of anything remotely feminine in this place, should have told her everything she needed to know on that front. And yet, she still couldn’t helping offer a cautious, “I didn’t know you were married.”
“Widowed.”
Oh God. She winced. “I’m so sorry.”
Draven accepted the apology with both a nod and a one-shouldered shrug. “So am I.” Bowing his head, he added, “I’m also sorry for dropping your breakfast all over the floor.”
“Yeah, well. My meeting you at the door like that didn’t help any.” A flush of slow heat moved through her, something she couldn’t help no matter how grossly inappropriate it was, especially after just having learned about his wife. Was it a recent loss, or had it happened a long time ago? Did it matter at all either way? She needed to stop looking at him. Those broad shoulders, burly arms, lean waist accentuated by the heavy leather butcher’s apron he wore and the even heavier array of knives that hung from it.
“I, um,” she cleared her throat. “I’m fine now. You, uh… I mean, don’t feel like you have to keep watch over me, or anything. I know how busy it is downstairs.”
“One of the Fat Man’s boys is watching shop for me,” Draven said. “Can’t stay long though. Boy’s honest as the day is long, but he’s still just a boy and the place is packed with curiosity seekers and journalists.”
By his tone, she couldn’t tell which of the two annoyed him more. “Journalists?”
Turning from the wall for the first time, he looked at her. “Told you I’d do what I could to help. My word’s me bond, luv. They want to talk to you, if you’re up for it.”
Faceless anxiety rose inside her. “About what?”
“We’re going to find your people.” He tipped his head and, following his gaze, she looked at her own bare feet. “Get your shoes on. They’re going to get some sketches, take down your description, but I’ve already told them not to ask you questions and no matter what, don’t try to leave here with anyone. No matter what they say, right?”
For some reason she didn’t fully understand, the stern look he leveled at her went straight to her bottom. Shivers danced in her skin, raising goosebumps and budding her nipples into needy points.
His eyebrows arched and, having given her plenty of time to answer, repeated, “Right?”
“Right!” she said, snapping back to herself in a rush of awkwardness and embarrassment. “Right.”
She whipped away, pressing her cool hands to her hot cheeks as she walked quickly back to the bed. She found both her shoes and stockings tucked under the nightstand. She laughed, shaking her head, horribly embarrassed with herself and this runaway attraction to a man who was really doing nothing more than trying to help.
Plopping down on the edge of the mattress, she hiked her skirts far enough to wrestle on her stockings. She picked up her boots, the tiny buttons that laced the front impossible for her fingers, though that wasn’t what stopped her. She sat motionless, staring at them, but for just a moment she was in a different room altogether. Her queen-sized bed with its purple bedspread and the television in the corner, tuned to the morning news as she readied herself to go jogging. Her breath caught. Gray sports bra, pale blue tank top and matching jogging pants, and her sneakers—white and blue-trimmed.
“Florrie?” Draven asked.
She stared at her shoes. What was she seeing? Her bedroom, she was sure of it, and it looked completely different from this one. Everything was different. The windows of her bedroom were long and narrow and high up on the wall, because she was in a basement below street level. Traffic sounds filtered in—the rumble of cars, the laughing, talking, arguing of pedestrians passing by. She had no fireplace in her room; she had an a/c unit. She had no oil lamp or candles on the bedside table; she had overhead lights and switches on the walls. She had an alarm clock, a bathroom and kitchen both with indoor, running water that could be hot or cold at a touch of her hand on the faucet.
“I’m in the wrong place,” she whispered, her throat so tight that the words barely strained free.
Coming up beside her, Draven pulled up the chair he’d slept in the night before, sinking down to sit in front of her. She looked at him as he took the shoe from her hands. Bending, he brought her foot up, resting the heel upon his knee as he put her shoe on. With a thin metal hook, he worked the buttons through the loops, and she stared at him the entire time.
The hook in his hand did not feel unfamiliar. She was pretty sure she’d used one before. Like a crocheting needle, but meant for a Victorian lady’s boots.
Victorian…
She covered her mouth with her hand as he set her right foot back on the floor and lifted her left for the same treatment. His clothes matched her gown. Her gown didn’t feel any more unfamiliar to her than her boots or the hook. Or any part of this room, to be honest. She was comfortable with the lamp, the bed, the blanket and the furniture. She was comfortable, because she’d seen it all many times before, in the floors above her bedroom in the basement.
The basement of another building in another place entirely.
“Draven?” she asked, as he pulled the last button through the last hook and gently set that foot too down on the floor.
Taking the hem of her skirts off her knees, he smoothed them down, hiding her shins once more from view. “Yes?”
“Do you think I might be crazy?” She held her breath, almost afraid to hear his answer. Crazy would go a long way to explaining why the things in her head simply were not matching what lay before her eyes.
He blinked, taken aback. He didn’t smile, however. He didn’t laugh or make fun of her, either. “You’ve given me no reason to think so, no.”
“Would you tell me if I were?”
Forearms resting on his knees, he folded his big hands together. “Yes,” he promised. “I would. Do you want to tell me what you’re thinking, luv?”
She shook her head, her heart racing as if she’d just run for miles. And miles and miles, up and down the back alleys of densely traveled blocks, through the brightly colored buildings that made up the French Quarter, beneath the low-hanging vines of the plants that overgrew nearly every second-floor balcony, shading the sidewalks from the full heat of the Louisiana sun.
“Draven?” she whispered, eyes wide, terrified. “What day is it?”
“Saturday, dovey. Tenth of November.”
Her throat almost refused to swallow. “What year?”
If he was surprised by that, he was careful not to show it. “1888.”
That answer frightened her. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.
She wished she could remember what it was.
Chapter 9
Seeing the crowd of people clustered along the street from the safety of her upper-floor window and hearing the volume of movement and talking through the floorboards was one thing; turning the corner of that stairwell landing and suddenly finding herself the focus of some fifty-odd people was, Florrie discovered, something totally different.
“Is that her?” someone whispered. All movement and talking instantly ceased as that whisper carried through the entire shop. It was a claustrophobically small space, long and narrow, and packed with shelves and barrels. Every breath reeked of raw meat, pickling brine, and bodies that believe in perfume over bathing.
Four great slabs of beef, butchered cows simply cut in half, hung from the porch rafters. Hog halves done the same way hung on racks balanced between the outer support posts, along with smaller cuts—haunches, heads, feet and roasts on the bone were displayed on hooks high in front of the main window. Mutton and fowl dangled everywhere a hook could be hung all the way to the open door. Beyond that, barely glimpsed through the window, was the massive block from which Draven made his cuts specific to his customer’s requests. A red-headed teenager no more than sixteen stood at the block, arguing prices before handing a dead goose over.
Had she ever seen anything like this before? Florrie found herself staring, not at the people staring back at her, but at the neat triangular stacks of food tins, the looped intestines filled with sausage meat, and the pig’s head looking in at her through the window shutters. Surely, this had to be a common sight to her. Surely, she must have been in shops like this many times, making purchases for her family. She’d have held her mother’s hand while she’d done this as a little girl. She’d have done it all herself from the moment she moved out on her own. Because unlike the visions in her head, this… this was real.
So why did it seem so alien at the same time?
It was the smell, she decided. It had to be. Her fingers clenched in the folds of her skirt, only just stopping her from covering her nose. It was making her anxious.
“You all rig
ht?” Draven asked on the stairs behind her.
“Yeah.” Florrie made herself nod. She looked everywhere but at him, swallowing hard and trying not to breathe any more than she had to.
“I’ve already told them they can’t ask any questions. They’re just going to take some sketches for the paper. With luck, someone will recognize you and come forward.” Laying his hand on her shoulder, he gave her a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll bear no grudges if you want to go back upstairs.”
Pretending a smile she didn’t feel, she made herself nod. “I can do this.”
She wasn’t a coward and she refused to act like one. Not with all these people staring up at her, right here on this bare wooden step.
“Keep a watchful eye,” Draven said. “No one goes upstairs but you. If you have to, like I said, I’ll hold no grudges.” Slipping past her on the steps, he descended the last few ahead of her. Pausing at the bottom, he announced, “If you’re with a paper, get to drawing. If you’re not, get to buying something or get out.”
Not a single person left. Most brought out drawing pads and pencils, but some picked up the nearest tin of whatever long enough for Draven to pass by on his way back to the barrels of pickled meat where an elderly woman in a maid’s uniform stood waiting.
“What are you needing, mum?” he asked. After that, it was just Florrie and the sights, smells, and busy scratches of pencil on paper that sounded a lot like little mice scratching behind the walls. It made her skin itch. She only just resisted scratching.
