by Erin Hayes
I shake my head. “I have no idea.”
But if the vampires are up to something, I’ll have to let Scotland Yard know so they are aware of anything the vampires are up to.
“Did she mean to warn us?” Lizzie asks.
I shake my head. “No, she meant to tease us.” I call my sword back to my palm. “She knows that Catherine was killed before me, and she’s trying to make me doubt myself.” I nod toward the man. “Let’s see if he’s still alive.”
If he is, then he’ll have a horrid time when he wakes up next.
But that’s better than not waking up at all.
6
Hazel
“A serum?” Detective Inspector Earnest Doyle blinks in confusion. “What kind of serum?”
I shrug, my hurt shoulder protesting in answer. “I’m not certain, but I thought it would be of value to you in your investigations.”
It’s the morning after the lady vampire had taken the stake and killed herself. The morning after she nearly killed a lower-class gentleman. And it’s barely been twenty-four hours since Margaret became engaged to Mister Holmes.
So much had happened between yesterday and today. I am exhausted from a night of patrolling the streets and dealing with the injured man. It’s not every time that we come across a vampire during our hunts. When we do, however, I can barely keep my eyes open the next day.
Yet to fulfill my duties to the Metropolitan Police Service, I alert them to this new development.
Doyle raps his knuckles on the worn wood of his desk as he considers this news. We’re in Scotland Yard’s headquarters on Whitehall Place, and I pay attention to the comings and goings of the various people within the building. There are drifters, robbers, and those who smell like piss. Yet there are also those who come in of genteel class that I know are here because of debtors.
London is a big place, and there are plenty of those who would wreak havoc if left unchecked. And I’m not even considering the vampires in that group.
“Do you think this has anything to do with the Whitechapel Murderer?” Doyle asks, breaking into my thoughts. I’ve worked with Doyle most of my life, especially after Mother passed away, so I know how to read his facial expressions. He hates bringing up the Whitechapel Murderer, because he was the one who had to come get me the morning after Catherine died. He had seen how shocked I was and the bloodied state of my dress. He knows how vulnerable I am right now.
“You mean the Ripper?” I ask. The Detective Inspector nods. “That I don’t know.”
I had considered it, but I don’t see the connection between a serum and the vampire that that had torn apart Catherine’s body.
“Besides,” I add, “we haven’t had any sign of the Ripper since October.”
Doyle nods absently, and I can see that he hasn’t stopped that consideration. “Yet we never did find him.”
I nod. “Yes. But the only attacks since have been conventional vampire ones.” And I’m not sure what I would do if I came face to face with the vampire that murdered my sister.
Doyle sighs and glances back at me. “Is there anything else? Anything that could be a hint as to what this serum could be?”
I shake my head. “She knew who I am.” I frown as there’s something else that niggles in the back of my mind. “She also said that there would be nowhere for me to hide.”
Doyle looks up with a start. “Nowhere to hide?”
“Again, I haven’t the faintest idea what that means. Only hope it helps.”
“Right.” He looks at the files on his desk, and I can practically see the thoughts forming in his mind. He holds his hand out and stands as I rise from the seat opposite from him. “If you learn of anything else, Miss Harker, please let us know.”
“I shall.” I take his proffered hand and he gives it a firm shake. I give him one back, and he removes his hand and rubs it on his trousers.
He always seems so surprised by my strength. I give him a demure smirk. “Until next time, Detective Inspector.”
I turn to leave.
“Oh, Miss Harker,” Doyle says, and I glance back at him. “Have you heard from Thomas lately?”
My younger brother? I shake my head. “He moved out on his own several months ago. He hasn’t come around much since.” Like he cannot stand to be around my family. Much like Papa.
“My men have seen him in St. George’s-in-the-East,” Doyle says. “He does create some trouble for the policemen there.”
I frown. “I will call on him more often.”
Doyle winks. “Keep an eye on him.”
“I will try.” As if I do not have enough to handle already. Such as my mad idea.
I can only hope that he won’t be at the London Docklands in a couple days. Because there, he will see a Hazel that he won’t recognize.
Hopefully no one else will recognize her either.
Two nights later, I sit at my vanity, powdering my cheeks and adding rouge to my lips, turning them a bright scarlet red. The color of a woman who is putting herself on display, advertising herself to any man who would be willing to pay a few shillings for a night with her. Despite her protestations, Lizzie has helped me cinch my corset as tight as it will go, making my ribs ache. I cannot help but think that if there were to be a vampire attack, I wouldn't be able to draw enough breath to chase after him.
My shoulder has mostly healed, a light, pink scar over where the wound had once been. Good thing, too, because I doubt a man would be interested in a woman with her arm in a sling.
Then again, as I examine the curves of my breasts in the mirror, the neckline just barely above my nipples and the corset making them look full and luscious, I wonder if any would care.
I do not necessarily have the ideal figure of a woman. While corsets help me achieve that much-coveted hourglass shape, I'm too slim and have too many muscles from a lifetime of fighting vampires to be considered a true beauty. Hopefully this makeup will help take out some of the more severe lines of my face—I can't seem to bring myself to smile much these days. Hopefully it will do more flirting than I can.
"I don't like this," Lizzie says behind me. She stands with her arms crossed, frowning at my reflection.
I meet her gaze and sigh. "I don't like it either. But I see no other way."
"You could find a man. A widower like that Mister Holmes that Margaret is engaged to," Lizzie says. She's basically saying that there may be some man out there desperate enough to take a chance on the wild and strange Hazel Harker.
"And tie myself down to a man who may not otherwise understand my duties?" I ask her. "Or understand that I must have my independence as the Harker? If he doesn't commit me for hysteria first." I turn around in my seat to face Lizzie. "And if he were to understand—which I doubt I'd be able to find a man like that, Mother got very lucky with Papa, and even he has grown detached from me after Catherine's death." I swallow back the lump that forms in my throat. "If I were lucky enough to find a good man like that, I'd leave him with our children once the vampires caught up with me."
And they will catch up with me. I'm sure of it. Since making this crazy decision, I feel as though I only have so many sands of time to get everything in order before I do get killed by a vampire. I'd train my daughter to be an effective, deadly vampire hunter so that she'd be able to last and stand up against the vampires until she comes to her own crazy conclusions. I'd protect her through her training.
That's more than I can do for Margaret, who doesn’t have the same training or skills to follow through with hunting vampires nightly.
Lizzie shakes her head. "I still don't like it."
I sigh as I turn back to the mirror. "If you didn't like it, Lizzie, then why did you help me into my corset?"
"To see if you'd come to your senses," Lizzie scoffs. "And because Mrs. Hudson would be scandalized if you asked for her help. She would probably blame me for putting you up to it."
I grin. "She would, wouldn't she?" And the thought makes me somber a bit. P
oor Mrs. Hudson, who has faithfully served my family for years, keeping our secrets as vampire hunters. Her husband had served us as well until his death, and I think of Mrs. Hudson as more part of the family than a servant.
"She's only looking out for you, Hazel," Lizzie says.
"I know."
"I'm only looking for you, too."
"I know. And I appreciate it."
"I just hate the thought of you being sullied like this." She sighs and sits next to me at the vanity, imploring me with her gaze. "Not only for your family, but yourself."
I chuckle. "I'm already sullied, Lizzie."
"That's not what I meant."
"That is what you meant," I tell her. I wink. "Remember William Yates?"
My words take a moment for her to process, and she cocks her head, looking at me in disbelief. "The storekeeper's son? Him?"
I nod. "I was sixteen and Mother had just been killed, so I was looking for comfort in the arms of a man. William was there to offer it to me." I shrug. "It wasn't anything special." In fact, it had been a downright terrible experience. I'd heard from other women how they had felt something like a rose blossoming within their chests during lovemaking. Or something to that effect.
With William, though, it had hurt and was over too quickly, and as a woman like myself, I had tried taking control over the deed. In the end, I think William had been too embarrassed by the whole thing for courting me after that, and my young, childish love wilted like a rose starved of water. And maybe that is why I haven't been interested in being pursued by a man.
Maybe that's why I'm in this situation now. If anything, though, I'm glad that I know what to expect and that my maidenhood won't be broken during this tryst. I'm supposed to play the part of an experienced, keen whore.
I wouldn't have a great chance of that if I were still a virgin.
"Why didn't you tell me that, Hazel?" Lizzie asks, shocked by my admission. "Did anything...happen?"
I shake my head. "No, nothing happened beyond that. He went his own way, I went mine. And now I'm here. Doing this." I check my reflection one last time and get to my feet, checking that my boots are strapped on correctly. For some reason, I feel like I need to be more prepared for this than any fight I've had against vampires in recent memory.
Maybe that's why Catherine and I were unprepared for the Whitechapel Murderer. But I refuse to be caught off-guard again.
Lizzie frowns. "You're not arming yourself?"
I shake my head. "I won't be able to conceal any weapons. If everything...works as it should," I say, and as I speak, butterflies take flight in my stomach. Nerves. I'm growing nervous. "If everything works as it should, there would be nowhere to hide a blade on a naked body. Besides." I hold up my left hand. "I do have my sword with me at all times."
"But..." Lizzie's voice trails off, and she crosses her arms again. "I don't like it. You should always be more armed than that."
I hug her. "I know."
She holds me closely for a moment longer than a normal hug, like she doesn't want to let me go. Finally, I'm the one who straightens up and gives her a grim smile. "It will be fine, Lizzie. Trust me."
"I do trust you," she says. "But I don't trust anything about this."
And that's something that we're both going to have to live with.
I grab my cloak and wrap it around me, making sure that my more exposed style of dress goes unnoticed by Mrs. Hudson or Margaret. Papa, I'm sure, could care less about what I look like when I leave the house. There will be nothing I can do about my makeup.
"I'm ready as I'll ever be in the face of the unknown," I whisper to myself as I steal one last glance in the mirror. I hardly recognize myself as the powder and the rouge have smoothed out the lines of my face, giving me a more pleasant, softer demeanor. My scandalous clothes are now hidden by my cloak, but I feel as though I'm more exposed than ever.
"You're not saying good-bye to Margaret or your father?" Lizzie asks me, and I'm struck by a similar conversation that Margaret had with Catherine the night she was killed. Catherine had been sick, dying of an infection given to her by the vampires, and she knew that her time was short. When Scotland Yard had approached us to face the Whitechapel Murderer, she had gotten dressed in a very different fashion that night to what I am wearing right now, but with the same amount of gravitas to it.
She had known that night would be different. Just like I know this night will leave me a changed woman.
That night, Catherine had tried to sneak out of the house and go unnoticed by our family, including Thomas, who had been still living with us at the time. But she had been caught on her way out, and I still remember the look on Margaret's face at the near betrayal of her slipping out.
“You were going to go on a hunt without saying good-bye, weren’t you?”
Catherine had looked stricken and pained at Margaret’s voice. As I'm sure I do now.
Oh, Catherine, I'm so sorry you had to go through that. I understand now. I understand everything, and I feel closer to my sister now than I have since her death. I feel like I understand a lot of what was going through Catherine's head at that moment.
"I can't have them see me like this," I tell her. Even though it is tradition to say good-bye to our family, I can't bear their scrutiny right now or their questions. They know there are many things that a Harker must do that she cannot speak of.
And this is one of them.
"I'll be back in the morning," I say to Lizzie.
"The morning? You're going to spend the whole night doing this?"
I shrug. "Well, if I'm earlier, let's just say it was a disappointing start."
And with that, I sneak downstairs, watching out for the one floorboard that creaks and will let Margaret know in the workshop below the house that I'm leaving. Catherine, for all her skill as the Harker, never seemed to remember that floorboard and it would creak every time she tried sneaking out.
Or maybe she wanted to alert Papa and Margaret to the fact that she was leaving every night.
I slip out of the house and into the early dusk. I hail a carriage a few blocks from Baker Street and settle into the seat.
"Where ya headed?" the cabbie asks me as his clacks the reins to spur his horse forward.
"Take me to the Dockyards," I say, practicing my confidence even before I set foot in the realm of the sailors. I need to act like I'm well-prepared and well-versed in pleasing a man.
"The Dockyards?" the cabbie asks, shocked himself. "Are you certain?"
For a moment, I consider my options, I consider everything there is to this. That this may be my last chance to lose my nerve, turn around, and figure something else out.
No. I must do this. For Margaret and Thomas. For Papa.
And for Catherine's legacy.
I suck in a deep breath. "Yes," I say. "I'm certain."
7
Jared
It’s been three days since we docked in London. Three days of unloading the cargo of the SS Vermont and three days of loading it up with silks and teas to bring to New York on our return trip, and my job has been to make sure that the steamer is in ship shape to head back across the Atlantic.
Of course, one of the boilers broke, so I’ve been below deck trying to get it up and running, which is a lot harder and more stressful than it should be. I’ve burned myself on the damn thing more in the past three days than I ever have. I knew it was temperamental, but it’s never been like this.
This isn’t what I signed up for.
It’s been exhausting and not necessarily the relaxing retreat to the pub that I had hoped for. I wanted to get lost into the bottom of a mug of beer, not work my ass off for days.
The whole crew has been unhappy about the amount of work that has been needed. Many, I’m sure, have been sneaking off the ship to satisfy their needs in other ways. I’ve been thinking about heading off myself, wondering if I should do so as well.
“It’s a wonder this rust bucket ever got here in the first place,
” I mutter as I wipe oil off my face. Of course, I just manage to smear it.
“It’s been through worse,” my friend Timothy tells me, and he sighs with the weight of it. “Let it go, there’s nothing we can do for the moment.”
“I don’t think there’s anything we can do,” I tell him, shaking my head, and he just chuckles behind me as I head up above deck.
It’s almost dusk outside, casting the city in a hazy light. At night, London takes on an almost sinister appearance. I don’t know what it is, almost like there’s something unsettled about it. I don’t get it back in New York, and I don’t think it’s because it’s home.
No, there’s something happening in London that I can’t quite put my finger on.
“Jared!” Rob hails to me. He’s leaning on the railing of the ship, smoking a rolled-up cigarette. “C’mere.”
I barely conceal my snicker as I walk over to him. “You’re done early.”
He grins at me. “Bad back. Can’t do much with the loading.”
I want to point out that if he can’t lift, then he probably shouldn’t be a sailor on a merchant ship.
“How’s the engine looking?” he asks, blowing out a plume of smoke.
I sigh. “We’ll be stranded here for another few days. The whole thing is blown.”
He shakes his head. “Means we can have a little bit of fun while we’re waiting, eh?”
I take out my tobacco stash from my pocket and start to roll my own cigarette. “Maybe,” is all that I give him.
Really, all I want to do is just sleep. Forget going to a pub or drinking. Battling the engines for three days has made me feel like I’m barely human.
I light my smoke and join Rob in people watching from the Vermont. Other than helping with the unloading and loading of the ship, I haven’t set foot much on English soil this trip. Maybe I should disembark and at least go for a drink.
The London Docks are always teeming with people, regardless of the time of day or year. There’s always something happening; peddlers selling snake oil, prostitutes approaching sailors, men haggling over the most useless items. I’ve heard that the Thames freezes over at certain times, stifling ships coming in or out, yet even then, the city runs Frost Fairs to keep it busy.
