He pulled out his phone and swiped the screen. I scooted my chair to his side, looking over his shoulder. He was skimming Wikipedia articles, leaping from one to the next.
“There.” His features brightened. “Cassiopeia and Ursa Major rotate around the north star, about one rotation anticlockwise every twenty-four hours.”
“The queen spins thrice with the bear,” I said slowly, and our eyes met. “We have three days.”
“Less. We got the note this morning. We already wasted half a day.”
Chapter 7
I wanted to blame the London rain for the sudden shiver that went up my neck as I left The Water Poet. But as I stood in the cobbled street outside the pub, dread crawled over my skin. I hugged myself, wishing I’d brought an umbrella.
Two and a half days.
With a ticking time bomb before him, Gabriel had promptly taken off for the station. I was supposed to go back to my hotel, get some rest.
Two and a half days until the next girl is murdered.
I was exhausted, and the headache whispering in the back of my head all day was slowly turning up the volume. I should sleep it off and join the rest of the task force tomorrow morning, fully refreshed.
Two and a half days, and then another woman would be disemboweled, her organs ripped from her body.
But I couldn’t quite bring myself to just hole up in my luxurious hotel room with this sadistic killer on the loose. Instead, I began walking down the street, my jaw clenched. Hickory dickory dare… My mind replayed the words. The next one dies. The evil one simply waits there.
The killer struck at night, so we could expect the next murder in… what? Fifty-two hours? Fifty-four? No time.
I wasn’t a detective. I didn’t track footprints, analyze DNA, or talk to informants. But I could try to understand the killer’s mind. Perhaps two days was enough time to figure out the way he thought. Maybe I could even predict where he’d hit next, and we could stake out the likely spot. It wasn’t likely. But I had to try.
I decided to keep following the old Ripper’s lead. Maybe our unsub would continue to imitate him.
As I walked through the chilly rain, I mentally reviewed everything I’d learned about the original Ripper cases. Catherine Eddowes had been the fourth victim, after Mary Nichols and Annie Chapman. Annie’s body body found behind a rickety wooden house in Hanbury Street in September of 1888. The Ripper had cut her throat and stolen her uterus.
According to my phone, the exact address was just a five-minute walk. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to take a look before returning to my hotel, even if I was getting soaked in the downpour.
The surroundings changed abruptly as I got to the end of Folgate Street. The narrow cobbled side street led to a thoroughfare lined with quirky boutiques in squat brick buildings. Between shops, vibrant graffiti snaked over the walls, lurid colors brightening the gray London landscape. From here, I could see a towering white spire—the “white chapel” that gave its name to the neighborhood. In 1888, the local prostitutes would parade in a circle around the church grounds, looking for enough work to rent a room for the night. That’s probably how ol’ Jack had found his victims.
My phone buzzed, and I pulled it out my pocket. Did you see the execution spots yet?
I shook my head, typing, Not exactly. But I’m on my way to a Ripper location. Is that good enough for you?
The green bubble popped up. The Ripper was a demon. Case closed. Did you try the chicken yet?
Sometimes Scarlett was a bit too weird, even for me.
No chicken yet. Holding out for pie and mash.
I shoved the phone back in my pocket.
As I passed a pub, I peered in one of the windows. Rustic wooden tables, modern chandeliers, and brick walls—it looked extremely expensive. And completely empty.
Clearly, gentrification had been hard at work here since the Victorian era, and I had a feeling we were in the Brooklyn of London. And yet, the new Ripper had cleared the neighborhood out. In fact, on my walk from Folgate to Hanbury, I passed only three people: all men, all with hipster beards and mustaches, and all extremely drunk.
I turned onto Hanbury, which looked nothing like it had in the old sepia-toned photos. The scenery as the Ripper had seen it, more than a hundred years ago, was gone. Where crooked rowhouses had once loomed over the sidewalk, there now stood a brick warehouse, plastered with neon flyers for music events. On my side of the street, a row of colorful shops nestled together—including a storefront called The Nude Espresso. What did an espresso usually wear? Was it the cup? Somehow, a cupless espresso did not sound appealing. Damn hipsters.
The sky was darkening to a charcoal gray, and I hurried across the road. By now, the rain had completely soaked through my dress. If this had been a scene in a Jane Austen novel, it would mean that in a day or two I’d be dying of the chill on a handsome gentleman’s estate. But in real life, I’d end up with nothing more than a mildew situation.
As I stood outside the dingy brick warehouse, I stared at the ground while I tried to imagine the unsub’s next move. This didn’t seem like an ideal murdering spot. Jack the Ripper had killed his victims behind a ramshackle house, but with the shopfronts facing—
A reflection in the puddle froze me in place. There, looming over my shoulder—a man with golden eyes and horns.
I whirled to find the stranger behind me, his honeyed hair darkened in the rain. My vision of the horns had gone.
But when I looked into his eyes—green now—time seemed to stand still. The scent of a forest, moss and dirt and oak, enveloped me. Once again, I had to fight the instinct to lower my eyes, his power overwhelming.
Desperately, I tried to gather my thoughts. How convenient that we’d bumped into each other here. I took a step back, my hand going for my weapon—the one I didn’t have. He’d followed me here, to this deserted neighborhood—right where I expected the next murder to take place.
“Stay away from me.” I tried to steady my voice, my eyes flicking to The Nude Espresso. Surely the one person in there would notice if this man tried to murder me.
The stranger towered over me. Something about the way he stood so still unnerved me. Shadows flitted through his eyes, whispering of ancient violence. He could kill me seconds, before the dude in The Nude Espresso had a chance to drop his cappuccino.
“I don’t intend to touch you ever again.” His voice was pure ice.
I swallowed hard. I had no idea what the fuck that meant, but it sounded oddly threatening. “Fantastic. We’re on the same page. And yet, this is a city of nine million people, and you’re the only one I’ve bumped into twice.”
“We need to talk.”
“Yes, we do.” I tried to control the trembling in my voice. “I want you to come with me to the police, and give them a description of the two men who attacked me last—”
“No.” The finality of his tone brooked no argument. “When I said we need to talk, I meant that I need to talk. You need to listen.”
“Okay.” I crossed my arms. This guy spoke in commands. Who the hell did he think he was? “You have two minutes before I’m leaving.”
“I found you standing here in the rain staring at a puddle like a madwoman. I don’t imagine you have anything important to do right now.” He cocked his head. “But of course, someone like you is driven to haunt places of death.”
“One minute and forty-five seconds.” Just looking up at him made my heart race. “And what do you mean, ‘someone like me?’”
“You thrive on terror.” A muscle worked in his jaw. “And if terror is what you love, I’m the kind of man who could give you what you wanted, were I so inclined. Pity for you, I’m not.”
His cold words slid through my bones.
“One minute left. I just cut your time for being an asshole.” My harsh tone was all bluster. My heart pounded in fear.
He stared down at me, seemingly unconcerned by my time limits. “We need to talk about the murders.”
“What murders?” I
bluffed.
“The ones you’re investigating.”
“How do you know who I am?” This definitely confirmed my fears about last night’s encounter. He hadn’t been in that alley by chance. He’d followed me! Was this our killer? He was strong enough, fast enough… weird enough. And with his godlike looks, he could probably lure any straight chick in the city into a dark alley.
He arched an eyebrow. “How I know your identity is hardly important right now.”
“The hell it isn’t.” I was buying myself time, my hand sliding to my bag, grasping for my phone. I would call the police. Or Gabriel. He’d be able to find my location using my phone.
“If you want to know more about the killer, you need to follow me. I have information you will want.” For just a moment, the stranger’s eyes slid down my sodden dress. The way he looked at me, I felt completely naked before him. “You have something I want, too.”
My heart was hammering against my ribs. “Why would I follow my own stalker?” Finally, I grasped my phone in my bag. I swiped the screen with my finger gently.
“Why would you walk into a narrow alley in the middle of the night? Why would you walk by yourself in the darkness, knowing that a murderer is on the loose? You feed off fear. That’s what happens with your kind. And in your case, you can feed off your own.”
“My kind?” I asked incredulously. “American? What are you talking about?” I slipped my phone from my bag, glancing at the phone display, and my finger went to the call log. I needed to call Gabriel; he was the last phone call I had made.
Instantly, his hand darted forward in a blur of movement, deftly pulling my phone from my hands. When his skin brushed my own, an electric thrill shot through my body. I felt something like an ancient power surge through me, but I had no idea what that meant. It wasn’t a sensation I could explain rationally.
I was pretty sure he felt it too, because his eyes widened. For the first time, the angry set of his jaw relaxed, and he gazed at me intently, as if he’d been drugged.
In the next moment, his features hardened again as he composed himself.
“What do you mean by ‘my kind?’” I asked again.
“One from the drowned realm. A terror leech. My ancient enemies. That’s your kind.”
I worked very hard to keep my features neutral after that comment. “Right.”
“We’re done for now. When you are willing to embrace the truth about these murders, come see me in Leroy’s Wine Cellar.”
“Are you just there all the time?” Overwhelmed, I tried to steady my voice. “And what would you know about the murders?”
His body went completely still, his gaze piercing me. “The truth you already know deep inside. The killer isn’t human. And the human police won’t put him behind bars.”
I stared at him in shock, words failing me completely. He was insane. And I’d been insane for listening to him for so long.
He turned, striding away in the rain.
“Hey!” I called after him. “What’s your name?” I needed something to report.
“It’s Roan,” he shouted without looking back. “Roan Taranis.”
A chill rippled over my skin as he stalked away, and I lowered my gaze. The puddle where I had seen his reflection was gone, replaced instead with a smooth, white circle of ice.
Chapter 8
I’d barely had time to sit down in front of my desk the next morning before Gabriel appeared, clutching a small stack of paper. “What do strange carvings on the body mean?”
His eyes were red-rimmed and his whole body looked tense. I wondered if he’d slept at all last night.
“I’m sorry?” I hadn’t even had a cup of coffee yet.
“The killer carved a symbol behind Catherine’s ear.” He slapped a few pages on the table. The top page featured a printed close up of an ear. Behind it, the killer had marked a strange design, clearly sliced into the skin. It looked like an upside-down T, followed by three diagonal lines, crossed in the middle. I picked up the pages, looking closer.
And suddenly, ice streamed in my veins, and I could hear dozens of tortured screams, deafening, my vision going dim. I dropped the page.
“What is it?” I heard Gabriel ask.
I shook my head. The feeling was gone, leaving behind it a deep sense of dread. “I don’t know.” I swallowed. “Those runes, they look—” familiar “—weird.” I picked up the pages again, tensing in case the sensation returned, but it didn’t. Flipping to the next page, I saw it was a printout of the autopsy report.
“How did the doctor miss this yesterday?” I asked.
Gabriel shrugged. “I think Dixon’s got a bit of a drinking problem, to be honest.”
“Wonderful.” I narrowed my eyes at the images. They were small but detailed. I had to marvel at the unsub’s coolness. After murdering someone, he’d carved these intricate markings on the body in a public street.
“Do the other bodies have these markings?”
“Yes. Not as pronounced as this, and better hidden. One victim has already been cremated. The other two have no known next of kin. They had the same markings.”
“Exact same markings?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll have to check,” I said. “It’s probably part of the killer’s fantasy, but I want to check with some experts, see if I can find something more definite.”
“Let me know.” He turned to walk off.
I skimmed the autopsy report, disbelief sinking in. My eyes focused on three sentences that made absolutely no sense.
To extract the heart from the body, the killer broke the third, fourth, and fifth ribs. The method he used to do this is unclear. There is no indication that he used any utilities for this purpose.
So, what—the unsub had broken through her ribs with his bare hands?
I put the autopsy report down, frowning. The killer would have to be an uncommonly strong man. He would have to be huge. Probably worked in some sort of manual labor. But how did that merge with the rest of the profile?
It didn’t. Not yet. I had to know more.
I flipped through my papers, searching for Gracie’s number—the forensic scientist. I picked up my landline and dialed.
“Hello?” Tiredness edged her voice.
“Gracie? This is Cassandra, the FBI agent.”
“Oh! How can I help you?”
“I wanted to ask you about the DNA analysis. You had some problems yesterday. Did you resolve them?”
“I… not yet,” she said. “I think the samples are contaminated. There’s no other explanation. I sent a sample to the NCA labs. Maybe their equipment will work better, I don’t know.”
“Oh,” I said. “Uh… I see.”
“That and the fingerprints thing… This case is driving me insane.” Her voice sounded teary.
“What fingerprints thing?” I glanced at the image of the markings behind the ear again. What did all this mean?
“I managed to pull a set of fingerprints from the box with the heart. Well, fingerprints come in several patterns. Some are more common, some less. The ulnar loop is the most common. Then we have the whorl, the radial loop, the arch—”
“Yeah, I know.” We’d gone over this in the FBI.
“Well, this killer’s fingerprints aren’t in any of those patterns.”
“They’re not? What patterns are there?”
“One fingerprint looks like… spots. And one is criss-crossed, as if someone scarred it over and over with a knife.”
“Do you think the killer is masking his fingerprints somehow? Burned off with chemicals?”
“That would leave its own pattern of scar tissue. I have no idea. Aliens maybe. Or vampires.” She gave a hollow laugh. “Do you have any better ideas?”
“Not really. But aliens aren’t really my territory.”
“Listen, Cassandra, I need to get back to this. Do you need anything else?”
“Not right now, thanks.”
“Okay. I’ll let
you know if I find anything, okay?”
“Sure. Thanks, Gracie.” I hung up and stared at the phone vacantly.
We had two days to find the killer. And this case left me nothing but questions.
* * *
I stood before the whiteboard in the meeting room, staring at the bullet points I’d written until the words themselves began to lose all meaning. Gemma was psychotic, but her language was still structured. She’d spoken of water and kings, and of Catherine being a sacrifice. She’d burned off the eerie water tattoo on her arm, and talked of a man who seemed like a god—someone, perhaps, with extraordinary strength and charisma.
I wanted to speak to her again later, but I might get clearer answers from her after someone had sorted out her medication.
“What are you doing?” The sudden voice made me jump. I turned to find Gabriel in the doorway, two cups of tea in his hands.
“Just trying to figure this out.” I motioned at the whiteboard. “DCI Wood said I could use the meeting room. Do you need it?”
“No, I was looking for you. Got you some tea.”
He stepped into the room and handed me one of the cups. I sipped from it, grateful. I preferred my tea milkier, but it was strong, and that was what mattered right now.
“So…” Gabriel nodded at the whiteboard. “What do we have so far?”
I focused, trying to build a rudimentary profile in my head. “We know he’s a very strong man. He was able to break the victim’s ribs with his bare hands. Unusually strong. I think it would be apparent once you look at him; he should be huge. Ox-like.”
“You sound dubious.”
“How many ox-like men do you know? And on top of that, he’s probably charming and reasonably good-looking, if he convinced Catherine to go with him. She went with him willingly, a stranger she had just met. I don’t think she’d just walk away with a man who was clearly physically intimidating. She looked to me like she had her life together.”
I paced to the edge of the room, then turned, walking back across the floor, fidgeting with the marker in my hand. “He seems to be cold and calculated. Catherine’s murder was a carefully executed plan. But I think Gemma had something to do with it. The references to water, to a king, saying Catherine was a sacrifice—and that means his plan hinged on a mentally unbalanced woman, whom he couldn’t possibly trust. That doesn’t make any sense.”
Agent of Enchantment (Dark Fae FBI Book 1) Page 7
