Theo took a seat on a nearby keg. “I completed a special exo breathing apparatus for Lord Beaumont Dashwood only four weeks ago. He was very urgent and adamant about the construction to a specific scheme. He had a rough sketch of his own.
“A quite unpleasant man, with atrocious manners, and wretched personal hygiene, I might add. Quite frankly, he smelled simply awful.
“He insisted it be delivered to his home immediately on the day of completion.” She remembered the mask as it seemed to have no useful purpose she could ascertain. It was complicated and delicate, and yet had an aura of diabolic intent. “There was some special leather and hoses. The device was rather large. I remember having to make special buckles for it.”
She constructed the device and got it out of the shop as quickly as possible. Even Moggy had noticed the thing, and refused to get on the worktable while the mask was out. Moggy was generally a good predictor of bad intent. Theo remembered how the cat had hidden when Julian had come to the shop. Why hadn’t she noticed the indications?
“I always engrave the shop name and address somewhere on the devices I make. It is a standard thing that ensures quality from the shops. We all do it.”
“Theo, do you recall where you delivered this mask?” Sebastian asked. “We must warn him to stay securely hidden until the killer is caught. We need only tell him that it was the girl from the brothel and she is being hunted as we speak.”
“Yes, I delivered it myself. Oh, Sebastian, I was a part of this poor girl’s torture, wasn’t I? Again I have been used to create some nefarious device.” She leapt up and put a hand to her forehead and gave them both an aggrieved look. She thought of the control devices, the automaton earwigs that Julian had used for his clockwork army.
Fighting back tears formed of frustration and distress, she turned her back to them and walked to a large pile of metal nearby. Theo put her booted foot on what was left of the engine. Hands on hips, she studied the mangled lump of nuts, bolts and hardware as she composed her emotions. Her gaze followed the tubes and wires that snaked in and out of what now resembled more of a welded sculpture than it did a machine.
The trail of her vision landed on a round, lacey shadow on the ground. A spiked-edged sprocket seemingly untouched from the explosion dangled in the sun. Theo snatched it from the bike and held it in front of her face and looked through the holes. “I know where Josephine is hiding.”
“How could you?” Marcus looked shocked.
“You just told me that you and your kind are safe on hallowed ground. Look. Look at this. It jogged my memory.” She held out the sprocket. “It is exactly like the rose window at St. Mary’s Church, there where you buried Hannah. It is in the district where many of the clockmakers’ shops are. It is even near my shop. She is there. I have no doubt.
“If her last kill was at my shop, this is the nearest sacred ground. It’s old and almost unused—a perfect hiding place.”
“Very fitting, as a rose window is called a resurrection window. Quickly. We must away to warn Dashwood.” Sebastian rushed out the stable door calling, “Sneed! Sneed! The carriage—quickly.”
Chapter Eleven
A furtively hushed voice spoke from the confessional. “Father, something must be done. It appears that our acquaintances are being hunted. Yes, hunted. One by one they are being killed. It is becoming too dangerous to frequent Madame Payne’s. Yet the threat of exposure is even worse than any personal burden one must bear.”
Josephine’s eyes snapped open, instantly awakened in her darkened crypt. To the human ear, no one could hear this exchange. To Josephine, it was clear who was speaking. She not only knew the voice, that oily accent, she knew his putrid scent. It was Dashwood. Her hypersensitive hearing became even more receptive. Who is he speaking to? There were priests that also frequented the brothel, but only one that was her client as well.
“I agree, Lord Dashwood. It has been weeks since I have patronized Madame Payne’s. I am too afraid for my life. I fear there is a vigilante with his own cause seeking those clients out. This Cerberus, guardian of Hades, seems to be on a quest to ruthlessly purge us all from Madame Payne’s clientele,” the priest whispered in a nervous tone.
Father William! The horrid old creature. Pious. Pompous. Most of all, hypocritical. All that sanctity, at the house, begging the girls for “confessions”. Yet he still had the nerve to have a standing session with her every Tuesday at noon. Even though she was now a vampire, he still made her skin crawl.
Quietly, Josephine shoved the lid of the marble burial box to the side. Her new costume of men’s trousers and shirt made movement even easier. She crept along the walls of the alcove toward the confessional booth. From one fluted stone column to the next, she moved as silently as smoke in pools of deep shadow. The exotic scent of frankincense was still heavy in the air as mass had just ended. Little light came through the round rose window in the peak of the nave. Once it had been the pride of the street, but now it was like everything else, grimy and half forgotten.
The church was empty. No one stayed long or lingered for confession or conversation in this down-at-the-heels little parish. The parishioners moved in and out the church as if they did not wish to be seen, either by strangers or each other. There was no chance of distressing someone lingering to pray.
Flattening her back against the wall, she continued to listen. What lies would they continue to tell each other to salve their consciences? For living lies? What scheme would they come up with to attempt to hide their secret, twisted, evil actions? No matter, she was not going to allow it.
“I fear we must take the chance to call a meeting of the Brimstone Club, of the few of us who are still alive. We must come to an agreement as to how to catch this fiend before the police do. If someone was brought to questioning, all would truly be lost for us.” Dashwood seemed very anxious, as well he should be. Revealing his involvement with such matters would mean ruin for him and his family. His voice was like the whine of a disease-bearing insect.
“I beg of you, dear Lord Dashwood, is there any way you can keep me out of this? Surely there are enough of you without my help.” Sniveling to the end. Disgusting.
In a blur of speed, Josephine silently yanked open the confessional door. She grabbed the priest by his throat before he could make a sound. “Oh, I’ll keep you out of it, Father,” she whispered in his ear. Pressing him against the face of a cherub carved in the wooden wall, she tightened her grip in an instant, crushing his windpipe, as the cherub’s wooden nose neatly punctured his skull. Dark blood dripped sluggishly down onto his white stole. Death was quick, too quick. He barely made a gurgle as Josephine bit through his jugular vein just for good measure. He was dead indeed.
No need to waste time on him when her true victim was on the other side of the screen. She couldn’t risk letting him get away. The priest crumpled soundlessly onto the confessional floor. Already a puddle of blood was spreading.
Dashwood continued his self-pitying whine and had not noticed the slight flurry of action in the nearby cubbyhole. “We can try, Father. And, blast it all, my favorite trollop has escaped. Gone when all this began. I had so many wonderful accessories made for her too. I will have to train another. Damn and blast. Such a bother.” Josephine could hear his hands rasp as he rubbed them together in the gesture she knew so well, the one he used right before pulling out some new ghastly instrument for her torture.
“Gone, but not forgotten.” Josephine yanked back the curtain and bared her fangs in what she hoped was a horrifying bloody smile at Dashwood. The flash of fangs had the effect she wished. He wailed, a long loud shriek of horror, and frantically tried to manipulate the handle in the confessional door to escape. Josephine crashed through the frail carved interior screen and grasped Dashwood. Her strength and weight continued to shove him through the weak splintery door.
Josephine landed on his chest and pinned him easily to the
stone floor. “Let’s see. Where to start?” She squatted on his chest like a tomcat before a cream bowl.
“Please. No. I’ll do anything you ask. Please,” Dashwood begged, twisting his head to and fro. “I have money, so much money. I can help you. Please, whatever you want.”
“I will show you the mercy you always permitted me.” Josephine wiped her bloody hands across his cheeks, first one then the other. “I won’t need any help to give you the same treatment. No sweet little gadgets.”
“You won’t get away with this,” he screeched and tried to gather some bravado. “I am an important person! I know important people! You’ll—you’ll be sorry if you hurt me.”
“Maybe, but you’ll be dead before they catch me. Shall I bite off your nose? Just the tip, a bit of a bob. Such an improvement. Or how about this?” She reached down and grabbed his genitals and gave a hard squeeze. “You won’t be needing that tally-whacker where you’re going. Then again, you never did. A little twist? Shall I just rip it completely off?”
Dashwood shrieked. “No! No!” Dashwood vacillated between high-pitched howls of agony and bursts of blubbering sobs of despair. “Help! Murder!” So terror stricken he could not frame a suitable plea, he squirmed. Josephine could smell he had wet himself. Wet wool and pee the odor of a coward.
“Get up!” she commanded him. She clamped her hand on his scalp and dragged him backward to the baptismal font. “Do you even know my name? I might let you live if you know my name.” She growled her words. “Say my name!”
“Jane? Jennie? Judith?” He stammered. “Jessamine! That’s it!” He continued to gulp and bawl. “Oh God! Oh God, help me!”
“Be quiet.” He kicked and yowled as Josephine plunged his head in the basin of holy water and held him under. “Be. Quiet.” He splashed and bubbled. She pulled him out just at the point he would drown. He gave a huge gasp, pulling air into his exhausted lungs. She dunked him again. Pulled him out.
“My name is Josephine!” He seemed to be getting weak, but this could not be over too quickly. I must keep him quiet. She pulled him out of the water and gave him a shake. He whimpered and panted, too spent to talk, and pawed weakly at her hands. With one hand still clamped on his skull, she snatched the altar cloth and ripped off a strip with her teeth.
Dashwood continued to sputter and cough out the water from his lungs. She spun him around and stuffed his mouth with the velvet and gold fabric. Like a lascivious demon’s tongue, a tail of the sacred cloth hung down from his mouth onto his chest.
Josephine spied the tip of a black leather exo breathing apparatus peeking out from his coat pocket. It was shaped in the popular plague doctor’s style. While some found the look elegant, the style appeared as a bloodthirsty raven head to Josephine. There would be no filling the elongated beak with posies or rosemary to keep away the stench of the vulgar outside air tonight. She jam-packed the rest of the cloth in the beak of the mask and slapped it against his face. “Well, isn’t this special? Cozy? Getting enough to breathe?” she asked as she tightened the buckles at the back of his head. “What? I cannot hear you speak. Make yourself plain, sir.” She could hear the muffled sobs and the wheezing of his breath impossibly trying to suck in air.
“What a pity I can’t see the fear in your eyes. I must fix that.” She poked her index finger sharply through the dark lenses of the mask, burying shards of glass into each eye. “One. Two. There. That’s better. Now it seems you have lovely, long eyelashes.” Dashwood sagged and fell to his knees. Josephine ripped off her braces and bound his wrists. He was near death and she felt it, but she must get every ounce of revenge she could wring out of this debased lump of mortality.
Humiliation, the final salt in the wound. With that thought, she stripped him naked with a few strokes of her hand, cloth ripping away easily. She was strong, so wonderfully strong. She leapt upon the altar with Dashwood over her back like a sack of wool. She looped his bound wrists over the back of the crucifix. His head lolled upon the Christ’s chest, with the hideous mask pointing down at the altar.
“I must have blood for all the blood you have taken from me.” Josephine hissed at him, climbed up his body and with one strike, ravished his neck. Blood cascaded down the crucifix, splashing on the walls and altar.
Dashwood gave one last feeble squirm. He was barely alive. Still licking and gnashing at his neck she reached down and slashed his abdomen open with her claws. With a powerful gesture, she yanked his entrails out for the world to see. Threaded through her splayed fingers, she held them up for a moment and appraised them as if they were a string of pearls. Worthless! She flung them to the floor. The roped organs spilled and steamed, uncoiling past his feet.
Josephine pushed off his dead body and stood in the middle of the altar admiring her success. She watched with amusement as the green bile and rich brown excrement poured from his punctured intestines, dripped to the floor and speckled the pools of blood. The smell was ghastly, but it smelled like roses of a victory bouquet to Josephine. She breathed in heavy gasps from excitement and exertion, her eyes wide with the physical rush of the most unsavory of emotions—utter revenge.
“Josephine!” Marcus called from the main aisle of the sanctuary. She spun to see Marcus, and the two other humans fanning out among the pews. “Josephine! You must stop! Come to me, dearest.”
Chapter Twelve
“Marcus! My darling Marcus. You found me.” Her body sagged a little and her face went soft. “Have you come to save me?” She reached her arms out to him and entreated an embrace, yet didn’t move from the altar. “But, who is this? Who is this woman? Who are these people?” Her body stiffened again as she balled her fists by her side. “Who is she?” Her voice turned into a trembled screech as she pointed at Theo.
“These are my friends.” Marcus moved slowly toward her. The scene at the front of the church was horrifying. He appeared to use every caution. Carefully, very carefully.
“I don’t believe you. She is your lover! You have forsaken me! Forgotten me! Have you given her the same gift you gave to me?”
“No, she is human. I gave you—only you—that special gift so we could be together forever. Just you and me, my love. Come to me.” He slowly approached the altar and held out his hand. Theo and Sebastian cautiously crept closer while Marcus distracted Josephine. Theo froze just inches from the edge of the altar, while Marcus was still feet away.
Theo had the presence of mind to grab one of her pyraballien flame throwers before leaving the manor. It was the only item of a defensive nature she could think of at the time. Sebastian had said fire was an effective weapon against vampires. She held it low by her side, concealed. The men had their daggers, and superior strength, but nothing else.
“Then let’s share her!” Josephine snarled and jumped down onto Theo, pinning her to the ground. “If she’s not your lover, come. You take the first taste of her. I’ll hold her for you.”
“Get off me, bitch!” The pyraballien went flying away before Theo could flick the switch. She kicked and struggled to keep Josephine’s fangs away from her and not look at her in her eyes as the men had taught her. “Get off, get off!”
Josephine was obviously not even a little tired from her recent kills, rather she seemed energized. Theo wriggled and thrashed with all the strength she could summon. After getting one hand loose, she fished blindly into her corset top. Her fingers fell upon a steel clockmaker’s awl. It was a hand’s length of metal, small and very sharp. Theo jabbed it into what she could reach first—Josephine’s neck. Theo thrust and twisted, ripping a gash in Josephine’s flesh. Blood splattered.
Josephine released her grip of one hand and cried out in pain and astonishment, moving her hand to cover the wound on her neck. She still had Theo pinned down with one hand at her throat. Theo’s blow would only slow her down momentarily. “Stupid girl!” She knocked Theo’s head against the floor. “Be still.” She gave her anot
her hard thump, making Theo see double and lay quietly, stunned for the moment.
Marcus moved closer. He held out both hands to his sides. “Let her go, Josephine. She is nothing. You must stop this killing.” Sebastian was out of Marcus’s sight, but coming nearer the two. “We can go away, somewhere wonderful. We can be together.”
“Marcus, I love you. Come back to me. Why are you forsaking me?” Josephine did not seem aware of her wound or of Theo lying all but petrified beneath her. She was focused on Marcus. Her eyes glittered in the last throes of madness.
Theo, through her hazy mind, watched as at the dim margins of the nave, Sebastian crept closer to a shrine niche in the church wall. A dusty altar and scores of rat-nibbled candles filled the space. On the altar was the saint’s relic, an ancient tooth perhaps, encased in a gilded display, elevated on a staff.
Lying as still as she could, Theo rolled her eyes and saw Sebastian quietly grasp the staff and lift the large sunburst reliquary. Sharp and heavy gold, it would do nicely for an ax. Her heart pounded, still she knew that Sebastian would not allow her to die. He nodded at her and she barely motioned with her eyes at Marcus to look at Sebastian. Theo held her breath.
“Marcus!” Sebastian shouted. He tossed the impromptu hatchet at Marcus. He caught it with both hands and swung across Josephine’s back, hacking her in two parts with one blow. The handle snapped with the intensity of the strike. The round portion of the weapon continued to clatter down the aisle.
Josephine fell to the ground, the two distinct body sections laying still. The chapel was silent, but for the slow drip of Dashwood’s blood on the altar.
Theo shoved the cleaved body off her. She scrambled to her feet and hurried over to stand between Sebastian and Marcus, wiping her bloody hands down her sides. Her fingers trembled. “Now what?” She voiced her thoughts. Sebastian put his hand on her shoulder.
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