by L. J. Smith
“Don’t let that story scare you off from London,” George said, laughing a bit too loudly. “This all took place in the slums. We won’t be anywhere near there.”
“It won’t,” I said firmly, my jaw set. I set the paper next to me. “In fact, I think I will take your offer and take the entire week off.”
“As you wish,” George said, leaning back into his chair, the murder story already off his mind. I glanced back down at the picture. The line illustration was gory and gruesome, the illustrator having clearly gone out of his way to vividly draw the innards falling out of the girl’s body. Her face had been cut, too, but I kept glancing at her neck, wondering if two small, shodding nail–size holes were hidden underneath the gore.
The train whistled and I could see the vast expanse of London out the window. We were entering the city. I wanted the train to turn around and take me back to Abbott Manor. I wanted to run away, back to San Francisco or Australia, or somewhere where innocent people didn’t get their throats ripped out by demons. Around us, porters bustled to get trunks and suitcases from the overhead bins. Across from me, George placed his hat on his head, glancing down to the paper.
“Can you imagine, that poor girl . . .” George trailed off.
The trouble was, I could imagine it all too well.
I could imagine Damon, flirting, allowing his hand to graze the woman’s bodice. I pictured Damon, leaning in for a kiss as Mary Ann closed her eyes, ready for the brush of his lips. And then, I imagined the attack, a scream, her desperately clawing toward safety. And finally, I saw Damon, blood-drunk and sated, grinning in the moonlight.
“Stefan?”
“Yes?” I said gruffly, already on edge.
George eyed me curiously. The porter was holding open the door to our cabin.
“I’m ready,” I said, steadying myself on the armrests as I stood up.
“You’re shaking!” George said, laughing loudly. “But I promise you, London’s in no way as frightening as the Ivinghoe woods. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if you end up loving it. Bright lights, plenty of parties . . . why, if I were a younger man without responsibilities, I wouldn’t be able to tear myself away from the place.”
“Right,” I said. His words had given me an idea. Until I’d found out who—or what—was loose in the city, London was where I was going to stay.
No matter what came, be it murderer, demon, or Damon, I was ready.
Chapter 3
A few hours later, my feet ached while my head kept spinning. My sense of duty kept me with George as we spent the morning shuttling between appointments and tailor fittings. I was now wearing linen pants and a white shirt from Savile Row, and had several more bags on my arms. Despite his generosity, I was desperate to escape George. All I could think about while trying on various clothes was the girl’s blood-soaked, ripped bodice.
“Can I give you a lift to your relatives? You never did say where they lived,” George said as he stepped off the street corner to nod his head at a passing carriage.
“No, that’s quite all right,” I said, cutting him off as the coach pulled up to the curb. The past few hours with George had been torturous, plagued with thoughts that would make his hair turn white and stand on end. I blamed Damon for poisoning what was supposed to have been nothing more than a day of pleasant diversions.
I glanced away so I wouldn’t have to see George’s bewildered expression. A few blocks away, I could just make out St. Paul’s Cathedral. It was a structure I remembered sketching when I was a child and dreamt of being an architect. I’d always imagined it as being white and gleaming, but in reality it was constructed of a dingy gray limestone. The entire city felt dirty, a thin layer of grime coated my body, and the sun was covered by gray clouds.
Just then, the sky opened up and fat drops of rain landed on the pavement, as if reminding me this was my narrow chance to follow my instincts and flee from George.
“Sir?” the coach driver on the curb urged impatiently.
“I’ll find my own way there,” I said, sensing George’s hesitation at leaving me. The coachman moved to escort George to the sleek black carriage.
“Enjoy yourself,” George said, clambering up the steps of the coach. The coachman whipped his horse, and the carriage took off down the rain-soaked cobblestone streets.
I glanced around me. In the few minutes that George and I had been talking, the streets had become almost deserted. I shivered in my fine shirt. The weather perfectly matched my mood.
I raised my hand and hailed a coach of my own.
“Whitechapel,” I said confidently, surprised as the words left my lips. I’d thought of going to the Journeyman to find Damon. And I would do that, eventually. But for now, I wanted to see for myself where the murder had taken place.
“Of course,” the coachman said. And instantly, I was trotted into the maze of claustrophobic London streets.
After much back and forth with the coachman, he dropped me on the corner where the Tower Bridge was being constructed. Glancing around, I could see the Tower of London. It was smaller than I’d thought it would be, and the flags on its turrets didn’t wave so much as droop in the constant trickle of rain. But I wasn’t here to sightsee. I turned away from the river and onto Clothier Street, one of the many twisting, dirty, dank alleys that webbed through the city.
I quickly realized this part of town was vastly different than what I’d seen with George. Rotting vegetables cluttered the rain-slicked cobblestones. Thin, slanted buildings were shoddily thrown up almost on top of each other. The scent of iron was everywhere, although I couldn’t tell whether the concentration of blood was from murder or simply from the mass of people forced to live in such close quarters. Pigeons hopped along the alleyways, but otherwise the area was deserted. I felt a shiver of fear creep up my spine as I hurried around the park and toward a tavern.
I walked inside and into nearly complete darkness. Only a few candles burned on the rickety tables. A small group of men were sitting along the bar. Meanwhile, several women were drinking in the corner. Their brightly colored dresses and festive hats were at odds with the gloomy surroundings, and gave them the look of caged birds at the zoo. No one seemed to be talking. I nervously adjusted the lapis lazuli ring on my finger, looking at the rainbow of refracted light the stone created on the gritty oak floor.
I sidled up to the bar and perched on one of the stools. The air was heavy and damp. I unbuttoned the top button of my shirt and loosened my tie to counter the stifling atmosphere. I wrinkled my nose in disgust. It wasn’t the type of establishment I’d envision Damon frequenting.
“You one of them newspaper boys?”
I glanced up at the barkeep in front of me. One of his front teeth was gold, the other was missing, and his hair stuck out in wild gray tufts. I shook my head. I just have a taste for blood. The phrase popped into my mind. It was an off-color joke that Damon would have cracked. His favorite game was to almost give himself away, to see if anyone noticed. Of course they didn’t. They were too busy being dazzled by Damon.
“Mate?” the barkeep asked curiously, plunking a filthy rag on the bar as he looked at me. “You one of them newspaper boys?” he repeated.
“No. And I think I might not be in the right place. Is the Journeyman nearby?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“Ha! You ’avin’ a laugh? The Journeyman is that right proper supper club. Only admits the toffs. Ain’t our kind, and you won’t get in neither, even with that fancy shirt. Only option is to drown your sorrows with some ale!” He laughed, displaying one of his gold molars in the back of his mouth.
“So the Journeyman club isn’t close?” I asked.
“No, mate. Close to the Strand, near all them shows. Where the fancy folks go when they want to get wild. But they come here when they want to get wicked!” The barkeep laughed again as I glanced away, annoyed. I wasn’t going to find Damon here. Unless . . .
“Beer, please. A dark ale,” I said, suddenly
inspired. Maybe I could get the barkeep to talk and find clues to who—or what—was responsible for Mary Ann’s death. Because if it was Damon, either directly or indirectly, I’d finally teach him the lesson he should have learned long ago. I wouldn’t kill him or stake him. But if it came down to it and I had him on the ground, at my mercy, would I hurt him?
Yes. I was immediately certain of my answer.
“What?” the barkeep asked, and I realized I’d spoken out loud.
“Just that I’d like that ale,” I said, forcing a pleasant expression.
“All right, friend,” the barkeep said amiably as he shuffled to one of the many taps that lined the back of the bar.
“Here you go.” The barkeep pushed a glass of frothy brew toward me.
“Thank you,” I said, tipping the glass toward me as though I were drinking. But I just barely let the liquid cross my lips. I needed to keep my wits.
“So you’re not a newspaper boy, but you’re not from around here, are you?” the bartender asked, leaning his elbows on the bar and gazing at me curiously with his bloodshot gray eyes.
Since I spoke to so few people, except for the Abbotts, I forgot that my Virginia accent instantaneously gave me away. “From America,” I said briefly.
“And you came here? To Whitechapel?” the barkeep asked incredulously. “You know we have a murderer on the loose!”
“I think I read something about that in the paper,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Who do they think it is?”
At this, the barkeep guffawed, slamming his beefy fist on the bar and almost causing my drink to tip over. “You hear that?” he called to the motley crew of men on the other side of the bar, who all seemed deep into their drinks. “He wants to know who the murderer is!”
At this, the other men laughed, too.
“I’m sorry?” I asked in confusion.
“I’m just having a laugh,” the barkeep said jovially. “It’s not some bloke who pinched a purse. This is an unholy killer. If any of us knew who it was, don’t you think we’d go straight to Scotland Yard or the City of London police and let them know? It’s bad for business! That monster has all our girls half-terrified!” He lowered his voice and glanced at the cluster of women in the corner. “And between you and me, I don’t think any of us are safe. He’s going for the girls now, but who’s to say he won’t go for us next? He takes his knife and like that, you’re gone,” he said, drawing his index finger across his throat for emphasis.
It doesn’t have to be a knife, I wanted to say. I kept my gaze locked on the barkeep.
“But he doesn’t start at the neck. Why, he cut that girl’s innards right out. He likes to torture. He’s looking for blood,” he said.
At the mention of the word, my tongue automatically slicked over my teeth. They were still short and even. Human. “Do they have any leads? The murder sounds gruesome.” I grimaced.
“Well . . .” The barkeep lowered his voice and raised his eyebrow at me. “First off, you promise you ain’t from one of those papers? Not the Guardian or them other ones?”
I shook my head.
“Good. I’m Alfred, by the way,” the barkeep said, reaching out his hand to me. I shook it, not offering my name in return. He continued, hardly noticing. “I know the life we live here doesn’t seem prim and proper like what you might be used to across the ocean,” he said, taking in my brand-new Savile Row outfit, which made me wildly overdressed for this establishment. “But we like our way of life. And our women,” he added, waggling his salt-and-pepper eyebrows.
“The women . . .” I said. I remembered the article had said that the victim had been a woman of the night. Just the type of woman Damon had enjoyed at one point. I shivered in disgust.
“Yes, the women,” Alfred said grimly. “Not the types of ladies you’re going to meet at church, if you know what I mean.”
“But the type of women you pray to meet in bed!” guffawed a ruddy-complexioned man two seats down, holding up his whiskey glass in a mock toast.
“None of that talk! We’re a respectable establishment!” the barkeep said, a wicked spark in his eye. He turned his back to me and filled two glasses with several inches of amber liquid. He then turned and ceremoniously placed one in front of me.
“For you. Liquid courage. You need it around these parts, what with the murderer walking the streets,” Alfred said, clinking his glass with mine. “Although my best advice is to stay here until sunrise. Maybe meet a nice lady. Better than meeting the Ripper.”
“‘The Ripper’?”
Alfred smiled. “That’s what they’re calling him. Because he doesn’t just kill, he butchers. I’m telling you, stay here for your own protection.”
“Thanks,” I said uneasily. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to stay. The smell of iron hadn’t lessened in my time in the bar, and I was growing increasingly sure it was emanating from the walls and floor. The man in the corner kept staring at me, and I found myself staring back, trying to see any glimpse of fangs or blood-flecked chins. I could hear the women behind me whispering, and I wondered what they were discussing.
“Did Mary Ann . . . the most recent murder victim . . . did she ever drink here?” I asked hopefully. If I couldn’t find Damon, then I’d just do the next best thing and find out all I could about Damon’s victim.
“Rest in peace,” the barkeep said reverentially. “She was a good girl. Came in from time to time, when she had enough pennies for gin. This ain’t a charity, and the girls all knew they needed to pay the proper fee in order to spend time here. It was a system that worked out. The locals left the girls alone while they were out on the streets, unless they were striking a bargain. The girls respected the rules of the bar. And now, everything’s fallen apart. If I ever find the bloke who did it, I’ll rip his throat out,” Alfred said savagely, pounding his fist against the table.
“But did she leave with anyone, or was there ever a man you saw her with?” I pressed.
“I saw her with a lot of men over the years. But none that stood out. Most of ’em were the blokes who worked down by the docks. Rough types, but none that would do that. Those blokes aren’t looking for any trouble, just a good pint and a good girl. Besides, she left by herself that night. Sometimes, when there’s too many girls here, they go out to the streets. Less competition,” he explained, noticing my confused expression. “But before she left, she’d had a good night here. She had some gin, a few laughs. Was wearing a new hat she was so proud of. Felt like it drew the men over to her. The good kind, too, not the ones who only pretend to have money. I wish she’d stayed, God bless her,” Alfred said, raising his eyes piously to the ceiling.
“And her body . . .” I asked.
“Well, now, the body was found in Dutfield Park. It’s where the ladies sometimes go when they can’t afford a room. I don’t say nothin’, whatever goes on outside the premises ain’t my business. But that’s where he got her and slit her throat.”
I nodded, my mind racing back to one of the many overgrown squares of grass that dotted the area. The weeds, garbage, and peeling paint of the iron fences surrounding the parks all made the area seem more dismal than simple city squares.
“And if you are one of them newspaper boys, then I didn’t say nothing. What’s your name anyway, boy?” Alfred asked.
“Stefan,” I said, taking a huge swig of whiskey. It did nothing to calm the dread in my stomach. A soulless killer was loose, and he would stop at nothing.
“Well, Stefan, welcome to Whitechapel,” he said, raising his second glass. “And remember, better whiskey down your throat than the murderer on it.”
I smiled tightly as I held up a glass to my new friend.
“Here, here!” one of the drunk men at the other end of the bar said. I smiled at him, fervently hoping that too many whiskeys drunk at the pub wouldn’t lead them all to their doom.
The devil you know is better than the devil you don’t. The phrase floated into my mind. It was one that Lexi would often in
voke, and it was one I’d only found to be more and more true as time passed. Because as horrid and soulless as the crime was, if Damon had done it, at least I wouldn’t have any other vampires to worry about. But the longer I stayed at the bar, the more another thought tugged at my brain: What if it wasn’t Damon, but another vampire?
Down at the other end of the bar, Alfred had drifted into conversation with a few of the other customers. Rain pelted against the windows, and I was reminded of the fox den at the far side of the Abbotts’ farm. Entire families of beasts huddled there, waiting for the moment when they thought it was safe to head into the forest. The unlucky ones would be hit by a hunter’s bullet.
I glanced around again. A woman in a lilac dress allowed her hand to slide down a man’s shoulder. The real question was, who were the foxes and who were the hunters? All I could hope was that I was a hunter.
Chapter 4
The longer I spent at the pub, the more crowded it became—but there was no sign of Damon. I told myself I was staying to try to find more clues. But the truth was, I didn’t know what I could do. Stand outside the supper club? Plod up and down the streets of London until I happened to run into Damon? Sit in Dutfield Park myself until another attack happened? The last was the one idea I kept toying with. But it was ludicrous. For one, why would the murderer strike twice at the same place? For another, what would I do if I saw the murder? Scream? Call the police? Find a stake and hope for the best? None of the options seemed ideal. And if the murderer wasn’t Damon . . . well, then I could be dealing with a fiend from hell. I was strong, but not that strong. I needed a plan.
I watched as customers poured in. Each seemed seedier than the last, but all were reassuringly human. Some men, the ones with cracked nails and dirty shirts, had obviously just gotten off their construction jobs, while others, reeking of cologne and furtively glancing at the women at the corner tables, were clearly there to consort with ladies of the night. And indeed, I couldn’t help but notice each time a garishly garbed woman stepped into the tavern, the crowd surveyed her as if they were gamblers at the racetrack sizing up the horses.
