In Absinthia

by Alexandra Christian

  “I’m afraid I can’t give you your coat, if you don’t have your ticket, sir.” The checker’s smile was thin and condescending. Cage immediately wanted to punch him. “Sorry.”

  “Look, the coat is mine,” Cage insisted. “I don’t even want to take it out of here. I only need to see what’s in the pockets.”

  “It’s the hotel’s policy, sir. We have to verify each guest’s ticket before we can hand over any item in our care. I’m sorry, but those are our rules.”

  “I was here a half hour ago. You waited on me.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “If you say you’re sorry one more time…”

  “Look, I sympathize. I really do, but put yourself in my position. If I let you go through pockets and they aren’t yours, the hotel is liable for any stolen property.”

  “But they are mine. If they weren’t, how would I know which coat to ask for?”

  The coat checker sighed, shaking his head. “Sir, it isn’t my policy. It’s the hotel’s.”

  Cage reached out to grab the man by the collar. He had every intention of jerking this idiot over the counter and shaking him repeatedly.

  “St. John.”

  Cage turned to see Sigerson, shoving his way past a concierge at the front of the hotel. Cage’s heart sank. If Sigerson was here, then something was wrong. He had the thought that if he pretended not to see him, maybe Sigerson would go away. No such luck, as the concierge fell on his face and Sigerson rushed right up to him.

  “St. John,” he wheezed. “Thank God I found you.” He put a hand up and breathed hard, doubling over.

  “What are you doing here, Sigerson?” Cage grabbed him roughly by the shoulder and steered him away from the other guests waiting to go inside. “I told you that I wanted no more part of this.”

  “But you have to see what I found.”

  “Look, despite what you might believe, I did not come to Absinthia to be the Watson to your Sherlock Holmes. I came here to be with Phoe, and right now she’s waiting for me.”

  “But what I have to tell you may well concern Phoe as well.”

  Cage crossed his arms over his chest and reminded himself to be patient. He glanced at his watch. “You have five minutes.”

  “Remember the key I found?”

  Cage nodded.

  “I thought I recognized that key. After a little investigating, I figured out that the key came from a brothel called the Devil’s Doorbell.”

  “Devil’s Doorbell? Where do I know that name from?”

  “The murder in the alley beside the Alice & Ludwig. The woman who found the body, Lavinia Norcross. She’d been at the Devil’s Doorbell all night. And the Merriwhether woman was an unfortunate who worked in and around the place.”

  “I’m shocked,” Cage deadpanned. “You mean prostitutes hang out at brothels?”

  Sigerson rolled his eyes at Cage’s sarcastic tone. “The weird part is that the key clutched in Mrs. Pankenthorpe’s hand was from the Devil’s Doorbell. She was certainly not a prostitute, so why did she have a key?”

  Sigerson reached into his jacket and produced a small, leather-bound notebook. “I was wondering that myself, so I went over to the Devil’s Doorbell. A snaggle-toothed young woman led me to the third floor where there are dingy old rooms available for rent. She showed me to a small room, noting that she was glad to see such a respectable gentleman belonged to the key. When I asked her what she meant by that, she explained that she had never actually seen the gentleman who rented the room, but that he came and went at odd hours of the night. And that the only girls that would entertain the gentleman were cyborgs.”

  “Why only cyborgs?”

  “Because the other girls seemed to be put off by him. When I asked why, the woman said that the girls claimed the gentleman ‘wasn’t right’ but that I seemed just fine.”

  “That is strange. She thought you were ‘just fine.’”

  Sigerson ignored him. “So, I went into the room to snoop around. Everything seemed pretty innocent at first. Bare mattress, dirty woodplank floor—typical cheapside accommodations. I checked under the bed and noticed that there was a board sticking up. So I moved the bed aside and found this.” He held up the notebook and handed it over to Cage.

  The leather-bound notebook was ratty and held together by a bit of twine that had been wrapped around it. Inside the pages were stained with tiny brown splatters, and some looked to have fallen out of the binding. Someone had tried obviously tried to burn the book at some point judging by the scorch marks on the cover and some of the pages. There was no clue to its manufacture, as it had no markings of any kind, save for a name that was barely readable on the front cover—Dr. Alfred Thorpe.

  Cage opened the book carefully and flipped through the pages. Everything was hand-written in a small script that varied from meticulous to illegible.

  “Thomas getting worse. His diseased heart simply cannot take the strain of living, despite his doctors’ best efforts. What a cruel God to allow this kind of pain to one so young. Though, perhaps my little boy is to serve as a lesson to others who complain about the petty, insignificant problems of their daily lives. He never complains, never cries. Even as he struggles for each breath, Thomas never fails to smile.”

  Cage looked up at Sigerson. “What is this?”

  “Keep reading.”

  Cage flipped ahead several pages, reading aloud, “The IU turned down our request again. I fear that at this point it’s no use in even trying. Thomas is practically unresponsive now.” The further he read, the less the entries made sense until it was obvious that these were the ravings of an increasingly desperate madman who wanted to save his child’s life.

  “This is terrible, but what does it have to do with the Ripper murders or Phoe?”

  Sigerson tore the book from Cage’s hands and flipped though. There were drawings and equations detailing a mechanical heart, letters from the Interplanetary Union, and entries that were written in fragments. “These are our killer’s words, St. John. This is the Ripper. Dr. Alfred Thorpe.”

  Just as Sigerson said this, a few pages fell out of the back of the book. Cage knelt down to pick them up. His companion backed away as he read them.

  “None of them understand the desperation of my quest. Not even my dearest Ellie. In fact, I think I’ve been found out. I’m afraid Ellie found my briefcase earlier this evening. She didn’t see that I was watching. Her horror was obvious. I wanted to confront her, to try to help her understand and soothe her fears, but Mrs. St. John walked in. I’m afraid that Ellie will be unable to keep our secret. I had prayed that it would not come to this.” Cage’s gaze met Sigerson’s as the realization dawned.

  “My God. Phoe.” Cage threw the book at Sigerson and darted into the ballroom.

  “Wait. St. John,” Sigerson shouted, running after him.

  This time as he ran through the crowd, Cage didn’t bother to be polite. He crashed into dancers, sending them sprawling, as he made his way toward the corridor that would lead him back to Phoe. His heart pounded in his chest. He could feel the beast within crawling under his skin, but he wanted to avoid shifting in a room full of people.

  He and Sigerson ran through the serpentine corridors to the hidden gentlemen’s salon where he’d left Phoe earlier. They crashed into the doors and Cage fumbled with the knob. He banged his fist against the wood. When he was finally able to open it, he and Sigerson practically fell through the doorway.

  “Phoe,” he called, rushing in. Her cloak lay across the couch where they’d sat and her discarded mask beside it. A copy of The Kama Sutra lay open on the rug. “Damn it,” Cage hollered, his voice nearly cracking with panic. “Damn, damn, damn.”

  “Look,” Sigerson said, pointing to one of the tapestries on the opposite wall. The heavy fabric swayed and shifted.

  Cage threw the tapestry aside. A secret corridor was hidden behind it. Cage stepped inside and closed his eyes, his vampiric senses scanning the space for any sign of
life. “They’re this way,” he called. “I can smell her perfume.”

  Twenty-two

  Phoe jerked awake and immediately wished she hadn’t—her head felt in serious danger of splitting wide open and spilling her brain into her lap. She tried to blink away the gauze that had settled over her eyes to little avail. Her vision was blurry and the room around her was almost pitch black, save for a few fuzzy balls of light that she could only assume were lamps along the wall. She could barely make out the shape of the wall ahead of her and possibly a door somewhere off to her right. She was sitting on the floor, that much was clear, and her wrists and ankles were bound with heavy brass cuffs.

  “Hello?” she called out. Her mouth felt stuffed with cotton fluff and she coughed violently. “Hel—” She tried again, but the pain behind her eyeball flared and choked any rational thought. “Jesus,” she slurred. “What did you hit me with?”

  Phoe didn’t remember much about the abduction, only flashes. Being hit on the side of the head with some blunt object. Seeing tiny explosions of color before losing consciousness. A filthy wooden floor. The scrape of dirt and broken glass across her cheeks as someone dragged her along the floor.

  Who was the someone? She hadn’t seen his face, but she remembered him calling her name. She knew that she had recognized the voice, but who was it? “Oooh,” she whimpered. Every time she tried to process a thought, the throbbing pain would come back with a vengeance, as if the brain itself were punching back against her skull.

  “Okay, Addison,” she coached. “We can do this. I have to get up.” She winced at another stab of pain, but at least her vision was starting to clear. Looking around, she realized that she was in some abandoned room, like an attic or basement. All around her was broken furniture and ruined trinkets. Maybe a storage room for the hotel? A large wooden worktable stood in the center of the room with large hooks and chains at each of the corners. Phoe didn’t like the look of that.

  She struggled against the brass cuffs at her wrists. They cut into her skin and she cried out. Soon they would be bleeding, but that might not be so bad. Bloody wrists were easier to slip through handcuffs.

  “Idiot,” she whispered to herself. She would shift, and her problems would be over. Just fly right out of here, get a message to Cage, and get the fuck off this colony. She closed her eyes, centering herself and trying desperately to calm the panic that was beginning to set in. “Ugh, my beautiful dress,” she whispered. She willed the burning. She could feel it under her skin, bubbling and roiling as her cells woke up. In a moment, she would be able to taste the ash on her tongue. Phoe braced herself for the transformation.

  But nothing happened.

  “Come on,” she said, taking a deep breath. “Don’t panic. We can do this.” Again, nothing happened.

  “It’s no use, Mrs. St. John.”

  Phoe opened her eyes to see Alfie Pankenthorpe emerge from the shadows. She watched him approach. His gait was a strange shamble. Not quite a limp, but definitely not normal. His eyes were red, and the deep dark circles beneath gave the once well-kempt professor a skeletal look. His teeth stood out in the darkness behind a mirthless grin.

  “Alfred?” she said. “Is that you? I thought you’d be on your way to the spaceport by now.”

  “No,” he replied.

  “Well then,” Phoe spoke as if they were friends, trying to sound unafraid. “Perhaps you could help me. It seems I’ve gotten myself into a bit of a mess.”

  “Be still, Mrs. St. John,” Alfie said. His voice sounded almost cheerful. “You aren’t going anyplace.”

  “What are you talking about?” She began pulling at her bonds once again.

  “You won’t be able to shift, I’m afraid. I gave you a bit of insentia to ensure that we wouldn’t have any accidents.”

  Alfie moved around the room, pulling out a large leather case that looked like a doctor bag. He set it out on the wooden table and began taking things out of it, one by one—mostly silvery metal instruments that glistened in the gaslights. “You know, I’m rather excited about our time together tonight. Despite all reports, I am rather concerned with proper hygiene. Dark alleys and street corners aren’t usually my style, but one does what one must. But tonight, you and I should have plenty of time to really enjoy ourselves.”

  Phoe wanted to scream. Pankenthorpe, the husband of her friend, was the Ripper. Of course. Now everything made sense. Their travels to Absinthia. Alfie being gone at night, disappearing at the theater—he’d been right under their noses all along. “Look, Alfie. I’m not sure what’s going on here, but whatever it is, we can talk about it.”

  He snorted. “Please, Phoebe—may I call you Phoebe? Spare me the dime store psychology. What’s going on here can’t be solved by long talks over coffee or island vacations. People have died.”

  “Yes, too many. Too many innocent lives, Alfie. You can’t let this go on.”

  Alfie grabbed a sheet from his bag and began laying it over the table. He smoothed it out lovingly. “They were not innocents.” He turned to Phoe and his eyes were cold. In that moment, Phoe understood that this man—this thing—was no longer Alfred Pankenthorpe. “None of you are. You’re an abomination.”

  Alfie came toward her, and Phoe began struggling with the cuffs. She scooted backward, trying to put some space between herself and the professor. When he got close enough, she kicked out with her feet, but he avoided them easily, grabbing her by the arm and hoisting Phoe to her feet.

  “Let me go, Alfie. Macijah will be back any second.” She tried to pull herself away from him, but the insentia had made her slow, like she was trying to fight him underwater.

  “He won’t be able to find you, I’m afraid. No one will. That’s the beauty of this particular spot. It’s hidden quite well. Though, I suppose the ventilation system will alert the staff of your presence eventually.”

  He hoisted Phoe over his shoulder and carried her writhing body to the table. He laid her down and began fastening the shackles to the chains. “Alfie,” she called. In her training, Phoe had learned that if she were abducted, she should try to use the person’s name as much as possible. “Alfie, please. I know that you don’t want to do this. I know that you’re upset about Eleanor.”

  He laughed. “You think this is about Eleanor?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  He paused for a moment, looking thoughtful. “Maybe a little bit. After all, it was her malfunctioning womb that started it all, but no. I’m afraid dear Eleanor was collateral damage. She knew too much. I couldn’t let her go to Tuggingham.”

  “She was your wife,” Phoe cried. “She loved you. She knew something was wrong and she wanted to help you.”

  “She didn’t want to help me,” Alfie spat. “She was a sniveling moron, like all those IU idiots. I wanted to bring our son to the colonies, far beyond their reach, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She kept telling me to trust the doctors.”

  “Your son?” Phoe asked, trying to keep talking. She knew that once Cage returned to the study and she was gone, he would know something was wrong. He would find them. She had to buy time. “Eleanor told me about him. Thomas?”

  Pankenthorpe nodded. “He was such a bright little thing.” His expression softened. “So kind, so young. He was only two when we found out about his heart condition. The doctors said he would be lucky to make it to five, but Tommy was strong.” Pankenthorpe picked up one of the scalpels at his side and twirled it absently in his fingers. “It broke my heart to see him sitting by the window, staring down at the other children as they played, knowing he never could. But he bore them no ill will. He said it made him happy to watch them playing.”

  “He sounds like a lovely little boy. Macijah and I, we don’t have a son, but we take care of a little boy. He’s away at school. His name is Ben.”

  Pankenthorpe smiled and Phoe thought she could see the shade of his true self, but it quickly dissolved, and he gripped the scalpel tightly. “When the doctors couldn’t help us, I star
ted to work on a new heart for our son. Others had tried before, but the metal used in traditional biomech wouldn’t allow the heart to pump as it should. I figured it out. I designed a mechanical heart that had articulated pieces. It was powered by the body and would run indefinitely. I took my discovery to the IU, but they insisted on wasting time with clinical trials. Meanwhile, my child was dying. By the time those idiots were ready to move forward, Tommy was practically gone. For months he lay there, not moving, not speaking, barely existing in a hospital bed. Eleanor could only sit there by his side, clutching his hand and holding on to the foolish hope that the doctors would be able to heal him. Those hypocrites then wouldn’t allow me to help Tommy. They said he was brain dead and to give him a mechanical heart would be unethical. As if letting a child die while we argue in committee isn’t unethical.”

  “I’m so sorry, Alfie,” Phoe sympathized. Her voice trembled, and tears rolled over her cheeks. She kept her eyes trained on the scalpel that he twirled over and over. It was so close to her skin that she could feel the cool metal brush past. “I’m sorry, but those women, it wasn’t their fault. Or mine.”

  “Of course it is. It is the fault of every single person who carries those enhancements inside of them. That slut Arabella and her eternal youth. The whores with their mechanical eyes, and hands, and cunts. Even you with your mindjack. Those scientific breakthroughs that you all wear so proudly were acquired with the blood of my son. And now I want them back.”

  Suddenly, the scalpel was at Phoe’s throat. “Please, Alfie.” She looked into his eyes as he leaned over her. All she could see was resolve. Phoe pictured Cage’s face. She wanted him to be the last thought she had in this life. She closed her eyes and waited for the inevitable.

  “Shove off, asshole.”

  Phoe opened her eyes to see Shercroft Sigerson bursting through the door. Pankenthorpe slashed downward, but Phoe was able to move enough that he missed her throat, opening a gash at the corner of her jaw. He stumbled forward and Phoe crashed her head against his as hard as she could, throwing him backward. Sigerson grabbed the professor by the shoulder and turned him around, punching him in the face.