I'll Be Damned

by Erin Hayes

  That part of my dreams didn’t come true.

  I blink several times before sitting up. This is the last time I'll let Rob suggest anything to me other than finding a pub.

  I feel like I need a drink. Or thirteen.

  “Damn,” I mutter as I roll myself a tobacco cigarette and strike a match to light it. I check my pocket watch which lays on the nightstand next to the bed. “Damn,” I say again, as I realize that I’m late to get to the Vermont.

  I’m never late. Even during my most inebriated moments at port, I’m still at the ship before everyone else who spends the night landside. Hell, the captain may even dock my pay for showing up late. I may have to scrub the decks, even deal with the literal shit from the other sailors.

  Which makes me feel like the lowest of the low.

  I blow out a plume of smoke, still trying to understand the night before. Like what I had done to make Catherine flee like that. Without payment. Maybe she forgot that we hadn’t exchanged money first. Seems unlikely, but this whole experience has been unlikely from the outset.

  I button up my trousers and my shirt, throw on my jacket and my boots, and head downstairs. The proprietor of the Fuzzy Duckling is at the front desk as I come down, a gruff, heavy-set man who sneers at me as I give him the key to the room. Like he’s judging me.

  I give him a tight smile and don’t say much as I settle the bill. To my relief, Catherine hasn’t stolen my wallet, or else I’d be in worse trouble.

  I step out onto the street, and as I muss my hair, I realize that I haven’t the faintest clue as to where in London I am. Catherine had been the one to lead me here, and I was so enthralled, so nervous by the whole experience, that I hadn’t paid attention to where we were going.

  I’ll have to ask for directions, which only goes to show how much at her mercy I was last night. If she had devious intentions, I would have been in serious trouble.

  I’m still not sure that I wasn’t in serious trouble, to be honest.

  In the daytime, the area seems even more seedy than I originally thought. Large smokestacks reach up to the sky, spewing brown clouds of smog, making the dreary skies of London seem even more dreary. The streets are filthy and filled with shit, and despite my efforts to keep clean, I’m already dirty before I locate a policeman.

  “Can you direct me to the Millwall Dock?” I ask him.

  The policeman eyes me warily for a moment, his mustache twitching in irritation. I’ve apparently approached the wrong policeman this morning.

  “A yank, eh?” he asks. “What are you doing here?”

  “Spent the night at the Fuzzy Duckling,” I answer, giving him the truth. “I’m just trying to get back to my ship.”

  Another twitch of his mustache. “Which one is that?”

  What is it with all these questions? “The Vermont,” I tell him. “Home port is New York City.”

  “You’re quite a ways from the Millwall Dock,” the policeman continues. “Can I see your papers?” He holds out his hand.

  I blink. “Papers?”

  “Yes.” The policeman sounds irritated. “Papers. You must have papers to be here in London legally.”

  “Right.” Of course, I am getting hassled by the very person that I asked for help from. I pat the pockets of my trousers and my breast pocket. “They’re on the ship,” I realize. And it’s true. I’d been in such a hurry when I left the Vermont in case Catherine disappeared, that I hadn’t even thought about bringing identification with me. She left me anyway, which is an irony of itself.

  “On the ship?” the policeman asks, raising an eyebrow. Like he doesn’t believe me.

  I nod. “Yes. The Vermont at the Millwall Dock.”

  The policeman gives me a thin-lipped smile. “Then let me escort you there, sir.”

  Of course, an escort to the ships meant a ride in a horse-drawn carriage with bars while the policeman, who I learn is named Officer Patterson, sits across from me, watching me with a grim expression. I feel like I’m being turned inside out through his gaze.

  We arrive at the docks, and it’s just as busy as ever. I wonder, perhaps a little too hopefully, if I’ll see Catherine among the crowd. But between the sailors, merchants, peddlers, and prostitutes, I don’t spot her.

  There is another thing that I don’t spot.

  “It’s not here,” I say in disbelief. I push open the door and step out of the carriage, my shock settling in a moment at a time. “No, no, no.” I grab at my hair. “No, it’s not here.”

  “What isn’t here, Mister Etheridge?” Officer Patterson says, stepping out of the carriage behind me.

  “The Vermont,” I say, turning on him. Because in the spot where I’d left the ship yesterday is an empty berth. Like it was never there.

  I was late to the docks. But not this late. It wasn’t supposed to leave for at least another couple of days. Rob wouldn’t let them leave without me. Surely.

  “Are you sure this is the Millwall Dock?” I ask, turning around. The rest of the area looks familiar, if not for the steam ship that should be here. “Are you sure this is the right place?”

  “Are you sure that you’re looking for the right ship?” Officer Patterson offers.

  I glare at him, even though that may not be the smartest thing to do. “I…”

  Everything I had was on that ship. I had my extra change of clothes. More money. My identification papers. If the Vermont has truly left me, then I’m stranded with the clothes on my back and the few things I have in my pockets.

  Nowhere near enough to even buy passage home. If I can survive that long.

  The policeman purses his lips in amusement. “Perhaps, Mister Etheridge,” he says, drawing out his words, “we should talk about this back at Scotland Yard.”

  I meet his eyes, and a beat passes between us in which I consider all the consequences of running and why I shouldn’t do it.

  And I take that chance.

  I bolt, running into the crowd as fast as my legs take me, trying to blend in as much as possible.

  “Stop!” Officer Patterson shouts. I hear a shrill whistle, blowing once, twice. “Stop that man!”

  Fortunately, no one moves to stop me. Everyone is too busy going about their daily tasks. My feet pound the cobblestones, and I duck into a dark alley, nearly tripping over a drunk. The man doesn’t even notice me as I continue running.

  The whistle sounds again, joined by more whistles from other policemen who join the search. I run. And run.

  Leaving the whistles behind me. And the dock where my ship was.

  After a while, I stagger against the wall of a building and sink to my knees, cursing under my breath.

  What do I do now?

  13

  Hazel

  I look at my undergarments, at the light red spots on them and feel my hopes and dreams sink.

  Blood. Not a lot of it, and it’s a light flow, but it’s blood nonetheless. Earlier than I expected, too.

  I’m having my monthly bleeding, which means that I am not pregnant.

  I stare at the spots, and the longer I look at it, the more hopeless I feel.

  It was all for nothing. That night with Jared, the night that I gave up myself for the greater good. I gave up so much of myself, felt things and conflicts and fretted so much.

  And now…

  I do not have anything to show for it. I’m not with child. There will be no daughter or son in my future, at least not starting from this month.

  And I’ve sullied myself in the process.

  My vision turns watery as tears fall down my cheeks. I toss the undergarments aside, lean forward and start to cry even harder. I’m not even sure why I’m crying so hard, it’s not like I’ve lost anything, other than what was left of my dignity.

  I think it is just too much happening too quickly. And to find that it didn’t work so soon after all that I have done, I just feel…

  Defeated.

  I straighten and wipe at my eyes. It wouldn’t do to have any
one see my cry. Perhaps I shouldn’t even tell Lizzie about what happened, because she would consider this a sign. And perhaps it is.

  I simply don’t think I can do that again. Not with another strange man. Not after that night with Jared feeling whatever it is that I felt that night.

  Triumph. Not the defeat I feel now.

  I sigh and open a cupboard to retrieve a sanitary belt and slip it on over my legs, my cheeks burning in shame. I look at myself in the mirror, making sure that I’m proper enough to avoid questions. My hair is askew, and my eyes are bloodshot, but I am passable.

  I step into my bedroom and finish getting ready. I glance over at Margaret’s bed, which was made before I even woke up this morning. Ever since she and I had that disagreement over Mister Holmes’s involvement in the workshop, our relationship has been strained.

  I debate if it’s worth repairing. Perhaps pushing Margaret away from me will do her good. She’ll marry Mister Holmes and move on with her life. And I will find another way to carry on the Harker line.

  The door chime rings—Papa’s own invention—and I step out on the landing just as Mrs. Hudson opens the door.

  “Inspector,” Mrs. Hudson says, recognizing the man from our previous dealings. “What brings you to Baker Street?”

  “Beg your pardon, Mrs. Hudson,” Detective Inspector Doyle removes his hat and bows his head. “Is the elder Miss Harker at home?”

  “I am,” I call down the stairs, my voice stronger than I thought it would be after what I learned in the bathroom. I pad down to the ground level of the house. “Is something the matter, Detective Inspector?”

  Doyle bows his head again up at me. “It’s Mister Harker, miss.”

  I frown. “Papa?”

  “No,” he says, and I remember what he said about my brother. “It’s Mister Thomas Harker.”

  “Is he in some sort of trouble?” Mrs. Hudson asks in alarm as she clutches at her pearls, scandalized. She always had a soft spot for my brother. “What has Thomas gotten himself into?”

  “I’ll take care of this, Mrs. Hudson,” I say, patting my housekeeper’s arm. I grab my cloak and wrap it around my shoulders. I look up at Doyle. “Where is Thomas?”

  He hesitates, his eyes on Mrs. Hudson before he looks at me. “Newgate Prison.”

  Mrs. Hudson gasps.

  I inhale deeply, steadying myself at the news. This day just keeps getting better and better. “Take me to him, please.”

  During my years of hunting vampires, speaking with witnesses, and talking to prisoners, I’ve been to different prisons in my time, even served time myself, and I’ve yet to ever get used to them. There is a depravity and a sadness that seeps through the stones of the prisons. So many are gaoled here for horrible reasons. And so many are here for completely innocent ones.

  I’m not certain of which camp Thomas falls into at this moment.

  The gaoler takes Detective Inspector Doyle and me down the galleries on the third level to a damp, dark cell. I stop in front of it, and I can barely make out anything in there.

  Save for the one lone figure huddled in the corner.

  I reach out and grasp at the bars of the cell. “Thomas?”

  The huddled man looks up from his spot and turns his head my way. “Hazel? Hazel, is that you?”

  “Yes, dear brother,” I say, smiling softly.

  He gets to his feet and comes to the bars, grasping at them as he blinks at me. I’m startled by the change in his appearance since I last saw him. Thomas has always been a tall, wiry man, as evidenced by Mother’s and Papa’s inability to keep him from outgrowing his trousers. There’s a gauntness to him now that wasn’t there before. His eyes look wide and lidless, and his hair is in greasy clumps.

  He’s a shell of the Thomas I once knew.

  “You’ve discovered the opium dens, I see,” I tell him.

  “Hazel,” he sighs, “don’t be like that.”

  “Don’t be like what?” I say tightly, giving him a fake smile. “Concerned for my little brother’s wellbeing?”

  He casts his eyes to the floor. “I’m fine.”

  “Which is why you’re in Newgate as a debtor,” I remind him. “I daresay, if you were fine, you would have found much nicer accommodations. What happened, Thomas?”

  He shifts uncomfortably, and I feel like I’m scolding a child. “I missed a few payments on my rent. That is it, Hazel.”

  “That is all?” I gasp in mock surprise. “Well, the bill I just paid your creditors seemed to be much more than a few missed payments. You are fortunate that we have a few hundred dollars stashed away for emergencies such as this.”

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “You should have asked for the money, Thomas,” I say, leaning into the bars. “Why didn’t you come to us if you needed help?”

  He meets my eyes with his own hollow, shifty gaze. I hardly believe this is the innocent Thomas that I grew up with. “I was doing just fine. Things simply got away from me.”

  “Away from you?”

  “It’s difficult to keep track of everything,” he says glumly.

  “Do not let it happen again.” I nod to the gaoler, who unlocks the cell and swings the gate open.

  Thomas looks at him suspiciously. “I’m free to go?”

  I smirk. “One of the perks of having your sister work with the police force.”

  “One of the only perks,” he mutters under his breath, and I know he’s thinking about Catherine.

  “You should be grateful that your sister came to your rescue,” Doyle tells him. “Many debtors stay here for months to pay off their debts.”

  Thomas smirks and the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Right.” He steps out of the cell with nothing but the clothes on his back. I suppose he didn’t bring anything with him to Newgate, but as he steps further into the light, I’m shocked at his state.

  In short, he hasn’t been taking care of himself. If anything, he looks like he has a few steps to go before he falls into an early grave, and I have already had too many early deaths in my family.

  “Thank you, sir,” I tell the gaoler, and I give Detective Inspector Doyle a grateful nod before I take Thomas by the arm and lead him out of Newgate. No words pass between us during our trip, and he stumbles several times before finding his footing. It may have been because I’m walking quickly, but I think it’s because he still has some alcohol and opiates in his system.

  “Where are you taking me?” he says once we’re down the street. He shoves my hand off his arm and glares at me. “My home is that way.” He points in the opposite direction.

  I shake my head. “No. Baker Street is this way, and I’m going to call a carriage to take you home to recover.”

  His eyes narrow. “No, Hazel. I’m not going back there. Thank you for paying off my debts and coming to get me out of Newgate, but I have built a life for myself, thank you very much.”

  “What, in opium dens and in the arms of a different whore every night?” Because much of Thomas’s debt had been to the various brothels across the entire city. I saw the bills when I paid them off.

  He shrugs. “What’s the difference if I find companionship with them or a wife? I have needs, Hazel. Just because you haven’t found a husband and are miserable, that doesn’t mean that I can’t have a little fun.”

  Before I know what I’m doing, I slap him soundly across the face. After everything I’ve been through in the past couple of weeks, what I’ve done to protect Margaret and him, after taking Catherine’s place as the Harker, I deserve better treatment from him.

  Unfortunately, the problem with me slapping anyone without restraining myself, is that it bowls him over and he falls to his knees before sliding a few feet on the cobblestones.

  It wasn’t even that hard of a slap, but coming from me, any slap is like being hit by a freight train.

  He clutches at his cheek and looks up at me with fear in his eyes, and I immediately feel regret at my actions.

  “Thomas,”
I say, horrified at myself, “I’m so sorry, I—”

  He scrambles to his feet, watching me like he’s afraid that I’ll strike him again. We’re lucky I didn’t break all the bones in his face. Or worse. I could have easily killed him.

  “If this is your idea of rescuing me, Hazel,” he says, “then leave me be next time.”

  He turns on his heel and strides away from me.

  “Thomas!” I call after him. “Thomas!”

  But he doesn’t look back at me, and he disappears into the crowd. I can’t help but feel that this may be the last time I see Thomas alive. The next time may be in a morgue. Or in some back alley.

  I failed at conceiving a daughter to protect Margaret. I failed at bringing Thomas back home.

  I’m the Harker, meant to protect the innocent from the vampires lurking in London’s seedy underbelly. And I cannot even protect my family from falling apart.

  14

  Jared

  “Are you going to pay for your drinks?” the barkeep asks me. “My pub isn’t a charity.”

  I look up from my mug and sway as I give him a lopsided smile. The barkeep, a big man with arms that look like they could crush me, doesn’t look amused.

  “What?” I ask in mock horror. “Why, I thought all the pubs in London were for the charity of the poor and depraved like me.” I lift the empty mug and turn it upside down. A drop of beer spills out onto the counter. “I do believe I need another one to settle the bill, kind sir. For charity.”

  The barkeep leans into me, and I blink. His breath smells awful. Then again, I’m sure that I don’t smell much better. Sleeping on the filthy streets of London for a fortnight tends to do that to a person.

  “You need to pay up before you see another mug of beer,” he snarls at me. “In fact, you need to pay up or else you’ll see my fist.”

  Is he threatening me? I look back at those massive arms and decide that I should probably listen to the man before I make him more angry.

  I slap a few coins on the bar, trying not to feel guilty about how I procured them. Since the Vermont left me with nothing, I’ve had to resort to pickpocketing in order to get by. I had promised myself a long time ago, when I set foot on my first ship, that I wouldn’t ever pickpocket again.