by LENOX, KIM
The police, and everyone who gathered, would believe him a lunatic if he started spouting off. If he did not mind himself, he would find himself not only imprisoned, but whisked to Bedlam. He had to remain rational.
He leveled his gaze on Abberline. “Someone has misinformed you.”
Who was that someone? And how would they have known to send the police to the hospital to lie in wait for him?
“Now settle down, your lordship,” Abberline assured him in a calm voice. “That may be true, but we can’t clear the report until you come with us and offer your testimony, and a supporting witness or two.”
Archer responded through clenched teeth, “You must summon my man outside so that he may find my ward, Miss Elena Whitney, and inform her I am being taken into custody.”
Abberline answered flatly, “Mr. Leeson has been named your accomplice. He’ll be coming to the station as well.”
“Archer!”
Elena’s voice.
Relief coursed through him, tempered by the knowledge she remained in danger. She raced toward him, her face stark above the high collar of her mantle. One of the detectives intercepted her, catching her by the shoulders.
“What’s happening?” she demanded, in a blaze of white-fire beauty. Even now, in the midst of this, he wanted her still.
Archer snared her gaze. “I’m being taken into custody.”
Elena’s face fell. “Into custody?”
Abberline assured her, “It’s all right, miss. If he’s telling the truth, then you’ve nothing to worry about. Once the appropriate witnesses are provided, and supporting documentation gathered—”
Archer bit down on a curse, hopelessly trapped by the confines of his false mortal identity.
Dr. Harcourt pushed into view. “What is the meaning of this?”
One of the other detectives answered this time. “His lordship has been implicated in the Ripper crimes.”
“That’s impossible.”
Abberline chuckled, “So he maintains. I suppose any suspect would say the same, now wouldn’t he? So let us do our work, and if there is no validity to this anonymous report—”
“Anonymous?” Archer gave a caustic laugh. “How many anonymous reports have you received on the Ripper case? Thousands. I am certain you do not act on them all.”
Abberline’s brows rose high. “They are all not as compelling as this one.”
Archer claimed Harcourt’s gaze. “Take Elena to Black House. Inform the Countess Pavlenco that I’ve been taken in for questioning.”
“Yes, of course.”
Though after midnight, word had spread quickly, and a raucous throng had gathered outside. As Archer was dragged down the hospital stairs, he spied Mark standing in the crowd.
Elena, stunned by the sudden and unexpected loss of Archer, stared at the door through which the detectives had taken him. All too quickly, the crowd dispersed, and she was left alone—alone except for Harcourt.
He stared at her, unsmiling. “After my failed proposal, I came here thinking I would find you. I had hoped I might still be able to persuade you to marry me.”
Elena did not answer. She clasped her mantle around her, wanting to weep, yet she refused to give in to hopelessness. Archer would expose whatever false allegations had been made against him. He would return for her, and they would have their proper good-bye.
Harcourt probed softly, “You weren’t with him before. But you’re with him now, aren’t you?”
She perceived no rancor in his voice, only hurt, and resignation.
Elena whispered, “Yes.”
Even if Archer departed London tomorrow, and she never saw him again, yes. She belonged to him, body and soul.
Just then the doors flew open. A crowd of men in leather aprons, their faces grimy with filth, pushed through. They carried an unconscious man by his arms and legs.
“Doctor! Nurse! Help us. There’s been an explosion at the brewery.”
Archer stared at the dingy gray wall of his cell, his heartbeat crashing in his ears. He was trapped in the Whitechapel police substation, while the Ripper was out there, just a few streets away, stalking Elena.
I could teach her a thing or two about human anatomy, as I have recently become an expert on the subject—haha!
He thrust his hands into his hair. Acid tore at his stomach, and he felt as if he would retch on the cell floor. He had only glimpsed Leeson, who’d been confined to a cell around the corner. The detectives of H Division had questioned him about his comings and goings over the previous weeks. He had answered them, referring them foremost to the customs officials for proof he had arrived in England after the murders had begun. He had also glimpsed the handwritten note accusing him of involvement in the Ripper crimes. Though the writer had sought to disguise his writing, Archer easily recognized the strokes as belonging to the Ripper.
He cursed and paced the narrow cell. How long would it be before his release?
The only way he could escape the cell would be to shift into shadow and slip through the metal door. Yet the young sergeant outside his cell watched his every move, and would not only see him, but raise an alarm as to his paranormal abilities. He’d never come close enough for Archer to touch him, to blacken his mind. Rigidly, Archer seated himself on a stool in the middle of the cell. He lowered his head into his hands and steeled himself to wait.
Hours later Elena, numb with exhaustion, sat on a bench with another nurse. After the casualties from the brewery had started flowing in, she’d never found an opportunity to leave for Black House. With Harcourt’s authorization, she’d sent one of the hospital couriers with a note informing Selene of Archer’s arrest.
Her back ached from hours standing on the hospital’s India rubber floor. She untied her apron, which was hopelessly soiled. Sadly, two brewery workers had died from their injuries, but Dr. Harcourt and the three night surgeons had saved the lives of the others.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m starving,” the ever-cheerful Nurse Braxton exclaimed, sagging beside her against the wall. She too removed her apron and used its corner to scrub a bit of blood from her wrist.
Elena looked at her watch. “It’s too early for the dining hall.”
Not that she was hungry. Her stomach had been a tangle of knots since Archer had been taken away. Her only saving grace had been the hospital, which had provided constant distraction . . . until now.
Where was Archer now? Why had the detectives taken him and Mr. Leeson, and would they soon be released? Her mind repeated the same questions over and over again.
Nurse Braxton elbowed her. “There’s that chandler’s shop off Philpot, always open early. Come on. Walk with me. You know we’re not supposed to go out on our own.”
Harcourt hurried past, obviously in response to some new emergency. One of the day nurses who’d just come on duty—her hair drawn neatly back, and her uniform pristine and starched—followed in his wake.
“All right,” Elena agreed.
Anything to keep herself occupied. She wouldn’t rest until she knew Archer had been released.
Outside, night lifted into pale blue morning. Behind the hospital she and Nurse Braxton crossed the grass and continued down Philpot, joining a good number of wharf workers and warehouse men on their way to the Thames. Eventually they came to the chandler’s. Light glowed from the windows, revealing the movement of other customers inside. They walked beneath the yellow canvas awning, and Nurse Braxton pushed open the door.
“Nurse Whitney!”
Elena paused, searching the space around her. Lizzy stood at the corner of the building, wearing a crooked, apologetic smile. She wore her old clothes, and appeared mussed and weary as if she’d spent the night on the street.
Elena told Nurse Braxton, “You go on in. I’ll join you in a moment.”
Nurse Braxton glanced curiously at Lizzy and nodded. “All right, then.”
A few steps and Elena stood before the girl.
“Lizzy, what’
s happened? Why aren’t you at Black House?”
“It’s a telegraph from the queen herself, sir. In no uncertain terms, she commands his lordship be released. Immediately.”
Archer sat on the stool at the center of his cell. He heard the words and realized Selene must have telegraphed Her Majesty, but his gaze remained fixed on the narrow window across the room. The sky lightened with each passing moment. He pressed a hand to his mouth and felt the perspiration on his upper lip. All the centuries, all the battles and all the magnificent events to which he had born witness had faded to nothingness in the course of the night. There was only Elena.
If she died—
His heart seized darkly.
If she died, he would die as well. He would shrivel and rot and waste away inside. He could not explain, even to himself, how he had come to be so connected to her, at such a soul-deep level, but he had. He would not survive her loss. Would not want to.
The lock of his cell rattled, and the door swung inward.
“Your lordship—”
He caught up his coat and hat, and brushed past the detective, to race down the corridor. Leeson called out to him from his cell. Outside, on the street, he broke into a run. His desperation carried him all the way to the doors of the London Hospital.
He pushed inside. A crowd filled the small reception room. Jack’s trace, of course, had completely disappeared.
Words and thoughts blasted around him.
“Lord Black!”
“He’s been released—”
Who will tell him?
Harcourt’s face swung round, stricken. Beside him stood a young nurse with a tear-streaked face, and two grim detectives.
Archer growled, emotion deepening his voice, “Where is she?”
Elena awoke to shadows and something damp and hard against her cheek.
Dazedly, she pushed herself up—and screamed.
Beside her sat a dead man, his head and shoulders canted at an awkward angle. No, her panicked mind realized, the thing beside her wasn’t a man—it was a life-size effigy, its head and hands formed of wax. The same effigy of Jack the Ripper she’d seen on the street that afternoon after leaving the museum.
Fear, deeper and darker than anything she’d ever experienced before, numbed her arms and legs. Pressing her hand against her mouth, she knelt against the wall and took cover in the darkest of its shadows.
She was imprisoned at the bottom of a pit, at least twelve feet in depth. A metal grate covered the opening, and orange light wavered beyond. Beneath her feet were pottery shards. She squinted, trying to see more. Old clothing and newspapers. Everything smelled old, damp and decayed.
Elena closed her eyes and tried to remember how she had come to be here. She remembered leaving the hospital, and seeing Lizzy, but nothing more. Had Lizzy done this to her? She couldn’t believe that.
So who had?
Her head spun, from panic or some narcotic drug? She suspected she’d been subdued with chloroform, a method often employed by the villains of Whitechapel’s streets. How long had she been unconscious, and was anyone looking for her?
She stood again, unsteadily, and pressed her hand against the wet stones. More clearheaded now, she examined them. They were too smooth and closely mortared to climb, not to mention completely covered with greenish black slime.
Something rustled above. One shadow in particular took a more solid form.
“You are awake. Delightful. I so wish to introduce myself.”
Such an odd, hollow voice. A man or a woman’s, she couldn’t be sure.
She cleared her throat, and asked in a strong voice, “Who are you?”
“Call me Jack.” The voice chuckled evilly. The chill she experienced did not go just down her spine but invaded every inch of her body. “Everyone else does.”
Elena’s breath rasped in her throat, echoing against the sides of the well.
“You haven’t fainted . . . have you, Miss Whitney?” the voice asked hopefully.
“How do you know my name?”
“Mmmmmm . . . Lord Black. I strive to keep myself informed of all his affairs. He likes to be elusive, though, doesn’t he? Likes to play the dark . . . silent . . . shadow.” The voice hissed off into nothingness.
Elena circled the perimeter, her mind occupied in equal parts by horror and curiosity. What sort of creature taunted her from above? She felt an irrational, burning desire to see him for herself.
For the first time she wondered if the Ripper might not be altogether human. But if not human, what?
“What are you going to do with me?”
“Entertain myself.”
The shadow skimmed along the edge of the well. Something dark and soft fluttered down all around her. Elena gasped, and sidestepped the stuff.
Rose petals. Dark red rose petals.
She realized they were not the first she’d received from this monster.
He growled, sounding more animal now than man. “It’s not really you I want, you see. You’re not at all to my tastes with your pretty hair and your white teeth. Though I do find you so very interesting . . . the future Dr. Whitney. I don’t believe you’d be able to fix what’s wrong with me. Nor my lovelies. Like them, when you look inside me, there’s nothing left to work with.”
“If you don’t want me, then why am I here?”
The petals came in handfuls now. “Because he wants you. And you see, I like to play games. My master bids me to do so.”
The petals were heavier now, and wet. They smelled rotted. They struck her in the head and shoulders, great stinking gobs. She fended them off, only to realize they stained her hands . . . with blood?
Something clanked onto the stone floor beside her, a rusted metal sphere the size of a croquet ball. Acrid yellow smoke spiraled out from inside. She sank onto her knees, covering the ball with newspaper and clothing. Another came down to hit against a chunk of pottery. Clank. And another. The narrow space filled with smoke. Even though she pressed her hands over her nose and mouth, and tried to cover them as well, her throat closed upon the burning stuff. Her eyes watered too greatly to see. Dizzy, she fell back against the wall.
“No,” she pleaded softly. Don’t lose consciousness. The Ripper would certainly do to her what he’d done to Catherine. “No . . . no . . . no.”
“Don’t worry, my darling,” she heard him say. “I’ve something quite spectacular planned for you. I just don’t want to hear you scream.”
Stone thumped against the back of her head. Someone gripped her shoulders with painful strength and pinched her cheek. Someone with fingernails. She’d so much rather sleep than be assaulted.
“Ouch,” she finally complained.
“She’s alive,” a woman’s voice announced, sounding vaguely disappointed.
“Out of my way, Selene.”
Elena opened her eyes.
A face replaced Selene’s. Mark. He was so handsome. But not as handsome as Archer. She heard the crush of shards and newspaper as they moved about.
“Miss Whitney, are you all right?”
She felt so weak and out of sorts. She could barely keep her eyes open. Yet she was conscious enough to know she was safe and no longer in the Ripper’s vicious clutches.
She mumbled, “I’m feeling better already.”
He lifted her, and her head lolled onto his muscular shoulder. At the museum that afternoon, she’d gotten the distinct impression Archer and Mark didn’t like each other. Perhaps she ought to show Archer some loyalty, but at this moment she felt nothing but adoration for the man. She wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezed.
Selene gasped. “She’s been cut on her throat.”
Damn the Ripper. He’d cut her.
Odd. She didn’t feel any pain.
Sweet, though, of Selene to care.
Warm fingertips pressed against her skin. “No. It’s only paint. The bastard drew a line across her throat to show us what he could have done to her.”
In three f
antastical steps, Mark carried her up the high well wall. Such a feat was not humanly possible, but obviously, her mind played tricks because of that nasty yellow smoke.
“Thank God we found you.” His voice rumbled in his throat. She felt the vibration against her forehead.
“Thank you. Thank you so much,” Elena whispered.
“Let’s go.” Selene hovered near a wooden door. “He wasn’t ready for us to find him yet. He’s not gained his full strength. We can catch him if we hurry.”
“We can’t leave her here.” Mark lowered Elena onto a sagging chair. Darkness surrounded them. From what she could see in the weak glow from the fire grate, they were in a basement. She had not heard the sound of carriages passing by while she was in the pit, but she did now. The place stank of roses. They were everywhere, layer upon layer of blooms and broken stems. She never wanted to smell another again.
Mark knelt beside her, and taking a handkerchief from his trouser pocket, scrubbed at Elena’s neck until she pushed him away.
The countess growled, “Fine. I’m going alone.”
“Damn you, Selene.”
Her mind slowly cleared and presented a host of questions, the foremost being why the countess would be itching to engage Jack the Ripper. Why had the Ripper talked about Archer? Her mind was like a thousand puzzle pieces, none of them seeming to fit.
“Damn you both,” came a guttural curse. Archer materialized from beneath the door, like a towering wraith—something her mind again pronounced impossible.
With a sudden flailing of arms and legs, Mark slammed back against the stone wall with such force that a cloud of dust sprang out to dirty the air around him. He grimaced, groaning, and threw a furious look at Archer.
Archer raged to the center of the low-ceiling room. Fury contorted his handsome features along with some other emotion she couldn’t put her finger on. He wore no coat, no hat. Though he wore braces, his shirttail had slipped free of his trousers. She had never seen him in such disarray.
