Sweat broke out on Ellie’s temples, from the way the sun beat on her and the speed at which she inched up the drainpipe. Her arms flexed with each hoist upward, and she twined legs around the pipe to ground herself. The coolness seeped through her trousers as she lifted up again until the low-hanging roof appeared to her left.
She leaned over to slap her palms onto the mottled surface, her heart rattling like an autocart. Any moment, she braced herself for the mutton shunters to burst out from the back of the bar and find her. Ellie hoisted herself on top of the roof and found a perch there, her muscles singing and poised for action.
Her shoulders heaved from the effort, but she found her knives. If she zipped them into the throats of the coppers before they could fire upon her, she’d have a momentary advantage. That was, if they caught her up here.
Ellie’s heart studded her chest. How had this all unraveled so quickly? Wanted throughout the city for murders she didn’t commit, marked by the true serial killer…all for the crime of trying her damndest to survive. Even if she’d been born a lady, she’d never be a saint, but Islington had a way of turning the denizens to thieves and wastrels. Theo had maneuvered out of their hell, but she was the exception, not the rule.
She peered over the ledge. Where was the clamor? The burst of the coppers through the doors on the hunt for her? The man had recognized her, sure as the shout that came from his mouth. The quiet unsettled her more than a chase. If they’d punished Bernard for her association with him, her revenge would be incendiary.
Minutes passed.
The door creaked open and shut, and she sucked in a breath. However, a moment later, a drunkard stumbled past, swaying with each step into the alley. Ellie’s shoulders didn’t deflate, even as he meandered by. She crouched on top of the roof, vigilant, waiting for the inevitable ruckus that followed her like a curse.
Her fingers curled around the ledge, and she dared to peek over the side again.
The door swung open, too fast for her to pull back.
Bernard strode through, his dark eyes roving and his stance steady. Ellie waited for the following officers to trail behind him, but he closed the door with a click and stepped out. Her breath trapped in her throat.
He hadn’t traveled more than a few paces when his intense gaze swung her way. He drew his thick eyebrows together in confusion.
Ellie pursed her lips and tilted her head toward the building. He nodded and lifted his hand to gesture her forward. The breath escaped her lips.
She scrambled over to the drainpipe and slid down, far faster than it had taken to scale. Her boots thudded on the ground, dirt puffing around them. By the time she’d reached the base, Bernard had already closed the distance.
An amused smile played on his lips. “Your disguise remains intact, my dear,” he murmured in that rich way of his, like melting butter.
Ellie cast another glance to the door. “How did you pacify them?” She crossed her arms, a prickle of vulnerability trailing across her nape.
“He recognized me, not you,” he responded. His grin widened enough to reveal even teeth, offset by his thick beard. The sight of a genuine smile on his face almost caused her to lose her balance. The man looked gorgeous enough in his broody silence, a compilation of firm lines, but the bright look from him was devastating. “I explained your unreasonable exit away as a newsboy I questioned for my case who got spooked by their arrival. They didn’t question further.”
Relief saturated Ellie’s chest. “I may not be suited for this whole daytime foray.”
“Truly? What made you think so?” Bernard smirked, looking far too handsome in the light. The strong silhouette of his form, the solidness he emanated, and the bite of cedar and gunpowder he carried with him—all of it stoked her flames like little else. He stared at her with a hunger that burned in his gaze, one she felt as acutely. This man hadn’t just attracted her curiosity but ensnared it.
“I’m only as paranoid as my company,” she murmured. Impulse struck her like a slap, and she took one step toward him, then another. Pushing up on her toes, Ellie closed the distance between them and pressed her lips to his.
Kissing a detective in the broad daylight behind a bar filled with coppers didn’t stack as her most brilliant move. However, Ellie had wanted to seize upon this desire mere minutes after they’d met, and she wasn’t one for wasting about. After all, who knew how much more time she had?
His mouth was scorching, his lips firm and the bristles from his beard scratched against her cheeks and her upper lip. Bernard stiffened in surprise for a moment, but as he relaxed into the kiss, Ellie had to restrain her moan. He swept his tongue across hers in pure possession, and he gripped the back of her neck with a force that made her mind reel. She leaned in against the solid frame of this man, brushing against coiled muscle and unrepentant need.
Ellie curled her fingers into the lapels of his waistcoat, holding on by flimsy fabric alone. The strength of their kisses coursed through her, trailing down her core, her legs, until they shook. He swept his other arm around to her waist, his palm a hot brand there. The newsboy cap fell from her head to land onto the ground, but she couldn’t summon the effort to care, drawn by the lure of this man’s presence and the powerful way he kissed.
He pulled away first, and her shoulders rose and fell as she was left gasping. For a moment, she couldn’t help but question if she’d made a grievous mistake, but his hand didn’t leave her waist, and the heat flickered in his eyes. He skimmed his thumb over her lower lip, and her heart skipped a beat at the tender touch.
“You’re full of surprises, Eleanor Whitfield,” he murmured.
Her lips turned in an impish grin. “How tiresome would life be if I wasn’t?” Before the steady thump in her chest grew any more, she brushed her fingers along his arm and stepped back. “I’ll see you later tonight, detective. Let the hunt begin.”
* * * *
Tonight, they were checking out the location of one of the Butcher’s kills. Ellie, stubbornly, foolishly decided to meet Bernard there rather than accepting his courteous invitation to accompany her, a choice she regretted more with every step forward.
She’d never been afraid of the night before. After all, the criminal ruffians and drunks carousing on the streets were familiar sights—ones she’d grown up beside and had later joined. However, the singular focus of this monster’s hunt was a stark contrast to the wild capriciousness of rough-and-tumble Islington.
Ellie strode down the back alleys with the quick quietness she’d always prided herself on. She navigated around the slumped-over opium addicts, some shivering and trapped in the throes of their addiction.
Within minutes, she’d stepped onto one of the main streets toward St. Pancras, yet she couldn’t shake the crawl along the back of her neck, as if someone was always, always watching. With the Butcher on the loose, someone might be. An errant breeze curled around her arms, then her legs, like tendrils trying to tug her to the deeps. Even though she’d worn layers, the cold seeped in through fabric and skin until it touched her marrow like the edge of a blade.
Along the streets, the gaping maws of closed buildings glared at her. The church lay at the end of the road, a quaint, ancient thing that spun shadows like silk. St. Pancras was under a renovation close to completion, clockwork crews working in long shifts to perform the basic tasks. The uninhabited nature of the building made for the perfect meeting spot.
Ellie sucked in a sharp breath, inhaling the stiff air filled with decay and the scent of corroded tin. Dim lights emanated from a nearby bar, and the throaty tones of some songstress filtered out from the door every time it opened and shut. Once upon a time, she might’ve owned this night, prowling through like one of the stray cats.
The scent of must consumed her senses and her shoulders tightened. Bile filled her throat. Too much had happened for her to unleash upon these streets like she once did.
She crossed the street to the gate surrounding the church grounds, which was n
o longer functional during the restoration. A light push caused it to creak open, and flakes of rust fluttered to the ground. The arched windows of St. Pancras gaped at her, the stone building drawing in darkness at the seams. The ground shifted beneath her feet from the uneven, harsh tread of the cobblestones to the dewy softness of padding over grass.
Ellie rested her hands on the knives tucked into her waistband, restlessness rising like the price of potatoes. The entrance had been boarded years before, but recently, they’d installed new doors, the wood and iron construction stark and bright against the crumbling stone and dulled glass. The moon cast silvery rays over the path in front of her, dappled beams stretching out like piano keys.
The circular stained-glass window in the center stared down at her upon her approach. Ellie hoped Bernard had arrived here first, otherwise this wait would crawl across her skin like maggots. The sepulchral air from the surrounding tombs infiltrated her veins. She tested the door, but it was locked. No matter. Ellie pulled out her lockpicks and inserted the narrow length into the keyhole. A couple of clicks and she dealt with the lock. Ellie entered the old church.
The church was nothing like the vaulting, majestic things scattered throughout the city, and the renovation left the entire place smelling of dirt, milled stone and must. Her throat tightened at the familiar scent, but Ellie strode forward, past where the chairs must have once resided, toward the chancel. The altar remained upon the elevated platform, but only a few meager strips of moonlight peered in from the windows along the back wall.
Stones were piled against the walls to be used in the renovation, and she clung to the slight relief at the spartan nature of this church—fewer unattended corners for lurkers to creep. The quietness of this place slid over her skin like a gossamer web. She didn’t catch the soft breaths or padded steps of anyone else inside, which meant she’d arrived first. Ellie approached the elevated step leading to the altar and spun around to take a seat. Her knees had begun trembling without her permission.
She slid her fingers through her untethered strands of hair, exhaling a shaky breath. Her world had churned into one noxious storm of serial killers, coppers and bad memories. The only salvation through all of this had been Bernard Taylor. She could still recall the taste of him when they’d kissed and the possessive grip that made her long for more.
A click sounded on the opposite side of the church. The door.
Ellie’s brow furrowed. The lock was already opened, but maybe Bernard hadn’t checked. Her thighs tightened and she braced herself, waiting for the door to swing open. Minutes passed and it didn’t budge.
Ellie’s throat tightened as the realization crashed over her.
She vaulted up and strode toward the door before her mind registered the motion. Her heart beat so loud she could hear little else the closer she got. No, no, no.
Her palm landed on the handle, and she pulled.
Locked.
A buzzing grew louder and louder in the back of Ellie’s mind as she pulled out her lockpicks, even though the futility seeped through her veins. She slid the pick in and turned, but the lock wouldn’t budge. Someone had jammed the mechanism.
Her heartbeat accelerated and her forehead broke out in a cold sweat. She couldn’t be locked away again. The time spent imprisoned in Jack Blair’s basement had marked her in a permanent way, no matter how much she tried to push herself out of the throes of those memories. Ellie slammed her shoulder against the door, trying to get it to move, but the new construction wasn’t like the feeble boards of the former.
Her mind kept cycling around to who might’ve done this, but there wasn’t a question in her mind.
The Butcher knew where she lived.
He knew where she lived and could’ve followed her the entire way to the church. The prickle at the back of her neck never lied, and the crawl of watchful eyes had followed her throughout her journey tonight.
Ellie strode away from the door, heading for the sides of the church, hoping, praying to find a window low enough to climb through. Moments before she might’ve appreciated the minimalistic nature of this place—however, now the solid walls felt like they were closing in on her, as if she’d been trapped in a tomb.
Her pulse sped and the breath hitched in her throat, coming out in uneven spurts even as she walked at a fast clip from one end of the building to the other. Out. She needed to get out. Those arched windows glared at her, beyond reach even as she stretched.
She needed height. Ellie skimmed around the room, her mind dizzying with a panic she tried to force down. Her gaze kept drifting to the door, waiting, waiting, waiting. Any moment now, the door might open, and she’d need to be ready to fight for her life. The killer couldn’t be in the room with her now—could he?
The thought chilled her to the bone, sending a violent shudder down her spine. Every longer-than-average shadow seemed to shift beneath her eyes, poising to spring at her when she passed by. A stack of the masonry bricks lay against the walls. Ellie seized on those, even as she kept drifting her hand to her knife with every step forward.
She hoisted one of the bricks, heavier than expected, and trudged to the nearest window. Her breaths came out in shallow gasps, the panic descending like a torrential downpour until she could barely see a step in front of her. Her vision flickered to black then back again, and she stopped mid-stride. Ellie began to count, one of the few things that had helped her when her mind threatened full shutdown.
One-two-three, one-two-three.
Her legs started to work again as she headed to the window.
A rattle sounded from the door again.
Ellie dropped the stone to the ground with a whump reverberating around her. The door shuddered as the loud blow echoed through the building. She fumbled for her knives, stepping away until her back brushed against the cool stone walls.
Another slam to the door and it shuddered.
Any moment, the Butcher would burst through those doors, and the fight for her life would begin.
The door let out a mighty whine and cracked. Splinters tumbled as it heaved open.
Ellie’s shoulders tensed, and she wrapped her sweaty palms around the handles of her blades.
Illuminated by the moonlight was a solid form she’d recognize anywhere.
Bernard Taylor had arrived.
Chapter Eight
Bernard had sensed something was amiss once he strode up the path to the church. In that moment, he detested Ellie’s stubbornness in refusing to let him accompany her. He couldn’t protect her if she roamed through the city by her lonesome, and with the Butcher’s twisted attentions on her, they couldn’t afford the risk.
The lavender moonlight filtered through the gutted building, seeping in through the massive stained-glass windows. He’d continued his search through the other areas where victims had been found, but any other semblance of a trail had eluded him. Still, he’d soaked in the sights of the areas, memorizing the details in case he could weave them into any sort of clue.
Bernard’s breaths emerged like vapors into the surrounding chilled air as he approached the entrance to the church. A foreboding swept through him that couldn’t be blamed on the wary tombstones. His stance shifted into a more regimental one and his body switched into preparedness for any attack that might arrive.
Steps away, Bernard’s gaze seized on the door. The lock had been tampered with, evident by the metal jammed into the keyhole. His stride quickened as he stepped in front of the massive, newer door. He attempted the rattle the doorknob, but it wouldn’t budge. His pulse sped with familiar panic. He’d planned on meeting Ellie here, and guaranteed she hadn’t barred herself inside.
Only one individual could be behind this.
Bernard slammed at the door. His heart rammed in his chest with the same force as each blow he levied at the structure. Panic gripped him by the throat. Ellie could be locked in there with the Butcher of Broad Street, fighting for her life. His shoulder ached with every blow against the door, b
ut he couldn’t stop until he got inside.
This panic didn’t reflect generalized fear—no, this had somehow become personal.
In the short span they’d known one another, Ellie Whitfield managed to work her way into his system, bypassing his locks and doors like the cracksman she was.
Bernard rammed into the door with enough strength to send his mind whirling like an autocart wheel.
The wood let out a mighty crack, and the frame finally loosened. Bernard drew his pistol as he entered.
His gaze roved across the old building covered in cobwebs and moonlight, not resting until he seized on Ellie.
She’d backed against the wall, her blades bared and her shoulders tensed in vigilance.
“Where is he?” Bernard’s voice echoed through the chamber of this hulled-out church like the fading chords of an organ.
Ellie shook her head. “I don’t know.” She cast a fearful glance to the corners of the room, which all appeared empty apart from stacks of stone and inky shadows.
Unless the Butcher didn’t plan on killing her here. One of the patterns Bernard had picked up in talking to several family members of the victims was how paranoid they’d become before they died. How the women had grown more reclusive and nervous with the passing days leading to their death.
No doubt, the Butcher had tormented them in the same way he was now turning his lurid attentions on Ellie. He hadn’t intended to kill her here. The monster had simply reminded her he was watching and that he knew where she roved. Bile rose in Bernard’s throat. The man sickened him more than he believed possible, even after all the horrors he’d witnessed.
Bernard crossed the space between them. With the front door broken, he didn’t worry about the monster barring them inside. Still, he carried his pistol in hand. Vigilance never abandoned him. Ellie hadn’t moved from where she leaned against the wall, her shoulders heaving as if she’d run a marathon. The stricken look on her face reached inside his chest and twisted.
Of Coppers and Cracksmen Page 6
