by Eve Silver
“Perhaps. Tell me, in the end, is the vampire revealed for the monster he is?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“A guess. Are vampires not always fiends?” The thread of irony in his tone gave her pause.
“I don’t know. I have not read many such tales.”
He nodded slowly. “You have not read Byron’s The Giaour?”
“I have not.”
“It is a poem about a monster damned to drain life from those it loves.” There was no inflection to his words. They were flat and dry, yet she thought they meant something to him.
“How terrible,” she said. “To be so damned and so alone in that damnation.”
His gaze burned into her. “You feel pity for the monster?”
She swallowed. Did she? “Yes.” She looked at the floor. “Such loneliness is a vile pestilence eating one from the inside out.” She looked up again. “Perhaps he was a monster because of his loneliness.”
Killian drummed his fingers in a slow roll across the tabletop, and she had the feeling that he argued a silent debate within himself, as though he meant to say something and weighed the pros and cons. In the end, he said, “I…dislike that you know anything about such loneliness.”
Her gaze shot to his. “And I dislike that you know it too,” she whispered, daring much with this assumption.
He did not argue her assertion; he inclined his head and exited her chamber, closing the door behind him with a soft snick.
She hesitated then went to the door, pressing her palms against the frame. She could not say how she knew it, but she did—she knew he waited, listening until she turned the key in the lock.
Her hand trembled, and she held it out flat, watching the fluttering movement, feeling the reflection of that quaking in her soul. With a sigh, she rested her forehead against the wood and imagined that on the far side of the door, Killian leaned in and did the same.
A moment later, she heard the creak of the chair as he sat, and it was only then that she recalled there was no light on the landing, and Killian had taken no candle.
She wondered how he would read the story of The Vampyre in the dark.
* * *
Muted sounds carried from below when Sarah awakened the following morning. The house was stirring. Shards of light stole through the crack where the ancient, frayed curtains met. Recalling all that had passed the previous night, the fear of being hunted, the thrill of being kissed, she gathered her resolve and crossed to the door. Throwing it open, she found Killian gone from the hallway, and The Vampyre resting on the chair.
He must have left at the first sign of dawn as he had promised. She was both disappointed and relieved by that. Relieved, too, because the confit box and ribbon were gone. Either the sisters had discovered the items or Killian had taken them away, a small but welcome kindness.
She washed and dressed with haste, for the hour was later than she preferred. Soon, she walked briskly along Portugal Street toward the hospital, her thoughts consumed by recollections of all that had passed between her and Killian, her emotions in a terrible state of confusion. Questions scurried about in her mind like the mice in the hallways of King’s College. She had run the gamut last night from abject terror as the unknown man chased her through the alleys, to absolute bliss as Killian kissed her, his mouth hot and hungry on her own.
His kiss had aroused both her body and her mind, weaving her in a spell of delicious wonder. His abrupt withdrawal had left her adrift, uncertain what to think, what to feel.
One thing she did know was that, oddly, last night she had slept better than any night since her father’s drowning, and she was grateful to Killian for that. After the terror she had endured during her panic-scored flight to Coptic Street, it was only the knowledge that he guarded her that had allowed her to sink into sweet slumber, and once there, she had dreamed of him.
There was danger in allowing herself to succumb to the lure of his protection, for who would watch over her tonight and in the nights to come? Only herself, as it had been only herself for so many months now. She was proud of that, of her ability to find solutions and care for herself in a city that was far from kind to a woman alone. Still, the luxury of allowing herself to be protected for a single night had been a sweet and wonderful balm.
And a distraction.
In the end, she had never learned why Killian had waited for her outside Mrs. Cowden’s house, the question of that forgotten in the muddle of other concerns and the heady lure of his kiss.
She was left wondering about that this morning as she made her way along the street, about his reasons for seeking her out last night.
Better to think of that than to ponder their late-night confessions where each had owned the paucity of their lives, the emptiness, the loneliness. She knew why she was alone. In part, it was the life she had led with her father, one which had offered few opportunities to cultivate friendships. In part, it was the lack of relatives. And in part, it was by choice for while she did not doubt she could find a man to marry her, she had no wish to marry a man who would limit her life to the four walls of their home, to washing his laundry and cooking his meals. No, she was better off alone and working at King’s College, which at least offered her opportunities to learn, to expand her knowledge, to care for others who needed her.
But better off or not, she was not merely alone. She was lonely, aching for someone to talk to, to laugh with, to cry with, to love.
Still, it was better to live a life of poverty and loneliness than to sacrifice the person she was.
Reaching the hospital, she hurried inside, out of the biting wind. After hanging her cloak away, she went to the sick ward and found Elinor there ahead of her, setting out bowls on the tray.
The other woman set aside her task and hurried over to grab Sarah’s arm and draw her to one side. “Have you heard?” the widow asked in a low voice, her eyes wide and round. Her words suggested she had a new tidbit of gossip to share, but her expression and tone belied that. Elinor was disturbed, afraid, and the words she shared were a cry of distress. “There’s been another death. This one worse than the others. The victim’s throat was torn open, and still not a drop of blood to be found.” She tightened her grip on Sarah’s arm. “Explain that by bugs and fever and excoriation, if you can, Sarah Lowell.”
Reeling with the horror of Elinor’s words, Sarah stood frozen in mute dismay. A greasy knot of dread congealed in her gut. Finally, she managed to croak, “Where?”
“Surgical ward. Mr. Simon found him an hour ago.”
An hour ago. Before dawn. “What was Mr. Simon doing here so early? He usually comes in past nine.”
“He said he had concern for the patient he trephined yesterday. Wanted to see how he had weathered the night.”
Sarah held very still, sensing the answer before she even asked the question. “And how had he weathered the night?”
“He’s the one who is dead.” Her reply scratched at Sarah’s composure and sent a whisper of icy foreboding curling through her veins. Elinor darted a quick look around the ward and dropped her voice even further. “Yesterday, Mr. Simon and Mr. Thayne had words over that patient. Mr. Thayne said that the man had been insensate for over a week since he fell from the roof of the Bull and Mouth Inn, that he was unresponsive to stimulus of any kind, even pain. Mr. Thayne said he wasn’t likely to get any better if Mr. Simon drilled a hole in his skull. But Mr. Simon said there was no way to know for certain and so he went ahead and did it anyway.”
“And today the man is dead.”
“Not just dead.” Elinor pressed her lips into a tight line. “Murdered. There can be no doubt of it now, no simple explanations, or even convoluted ones, to brush aside concerns.”
Sarah stared at her, then looked around the ward. The patients were restless and wary, watching them, straining to hear their words. “Everyone knows?” she asked.
Elinor nodded.
“I must see—”
Elinor nodded a
gain. “Go on.”
Without another word, Sarah spun and strode down the hall to the surgical ward, skidding to a halt just inside the doors. She stood, trembling, her heart hammering, her palms damp.
A group of men huddled around a bed in the middle of the large room, among them Mr. Simon and Mr. Franks, and two men she thought must be constables from the Metropolitan Police. One of them—dark haired and swarthy—seemed familiar, and she wondered if he was the officer who had attended the ward before, the one who had declined Elinor’s offer of tea.
“I tell you, sir, that I saw Mr. Thayne lurking about when I left last night,” said Mr. Simon.
“And what time was that?” asked the constable.
“Just before midnight. I know it because as I walked through the front doors, I heard the clock strike the hour.”
“And did you speak with Mr. Thayne at that time?”
“I did not. But I believe it was he that I saw.”
“You believe it was he?” the second constable asked. “Did you see him or not?”
Mr. Simon’s lips thinned, and when he spoke his voice was high with irritation, his cheeks flushed red. “I did not see his face clearly, but I saw enough of him to determine his identity. The man was tall, as is Mr. Thayne.”
“As am I. As is that attendant there.” The dark-haired constable gestured at a man standing by the wall and then cocked his head to one side. “You and Mr. Thayne are of a similar height, are you not?”
“Similar height. Different build. I tell you the culprit is Mr. Thayne,” Mr. Simon insisted. “He has been on this ward each time someone died of the strange and inexplicable wounds perpetrated upon their bodies. He and I had words over the care of each of those patients. And—”
“—and I would like to know precisely what accusations are leveled against me,” Killian said in a ringing voice as he stepped through the second doorway on the far side of the ward. His gaze slid to Sarah, lingered for an instant before sliding away. He scanned the faces of the men assembled around the corpse.
Sarah watched him walk deeper into the room, thinking that he seemed to appear mid-conversation with odd regularity, as though he could hear others invoking his name from a great distance. The thought flickered and then slipped away as Mr. Simon said, “Mr. Thayne, you will confirm your whereabouts last night.” The constable cast him a sidelong glance. Mr. Simon’s chest puffed up. “He was here each time a patient was killed,” he said to the constable, then looked to Mr. Franks for confirmation.
Mr. Franks, ever true to his adversarial nature, stepped forward and said, “As was I. As were you. As were the night nurses and several of the apprentices.” His attention was snared by a man on the far side of the bed. “Like young Mr. Watts there, with his white bib apron. I am certain you were here last night, were you not? You went out and then returned. I saw you come back with a sour face, saw you doff your gloves and hat and hang your cloak.”
Mr. Watts looked at the ground. Sarah studied him for a moment. He was tall and broad in the shoulders. And he was the apprentice Elinor had mentioned, the one she claimed watched Sarah with interest of a romantic nature. It was true, Sarah realized in that moment. Mr. Watts did watch her and he was always at the hospital when she was. He raised his head now and met her gaze. There was something dark there, something…angry.
According to Mr. Franks, Mr. Watts had left King’s College last night only to return.
Could he be the man who followed her?
Could he be the killer?
“Valid points,” Killian said as he stepped deeper into the room, holding to the shadows, out of the spill of morning light that came through the window. “I was here, as was Mr. Franks and Mr. Watts and a dozen others. As were you, Mr. Simon. Does that bring you under equal suspicion?”
“It does not.” Mr. Simon’s words fell like drops of burning acid. “As to the accusations leveled against you, the way of it is clear enough. Five dead bodies. I accuse you of having a hand in that.”
“Ah.” Killian raised a brow. He prowled closer, his dark garb blending with the gloom, his bright gold hair the only light thing about him. There were grace and power in the way he moved, and suddenly, Sarah wished there was not. She wished he were ungainly and gangly. Less masculine. Less threatening.
Her gaze slid to the constables. All of a sudden, she saw Killian exactly as they must, as a powerful man who would surely emerge the victor in almost any altercation. All the more so if he chose to attack a sick and weakened patient.
He would never do that. She knew it. There was no question in her mind or in her heart.
Killian reached down and drew the sheet up, covering the face of the man in the bed, shielding him from dozens of eyes. “And when exactly did this patient expire?”
“Last night,” snarled Mr. Simon. “I saw you here.”
“Did you?” Killian did not appear particularly perturbed by the assertion, but Sarah noted the constables studying him with wary assessment. She edged closer and heard the one murmur to the other, “This man didn’t die last night. The body lost its bladder and the sheets are still wet. I’d say the murder was closer to dawn, else the sheets would be dry or at the most, damp.”
Sarah swallowed. Killian had left in the early hours of the morning, at the first light of dawn. She glanced at the sheet-draped body.
In time, an explanation of these repulsive acts would surely come to light, and that light would not shine on Killian Thayne.
But the constables did not know it, and they stepped toward him, flanking him on either side to block any possible escape.
“He’s quite the bandy rooster, isn’t he?” one asked with a nod at Mr. Simon. “All full of questions and knowing all the answers, yeah?”
Killian made no reply.
“Let’s just step over here and have a brief chat, shall we?” said the other.
Killian walked with them to the side of the room.
Sarah followed, lifting soiled items from the floor as she went, hiding her interest behind the mundane task.
“So you were here the nights all five patients were killed. Can you tell us what you recall?” the dark-haired constable asked.
Killian looked around the ward. All eyes were trained upon them; all ears strained to hear. “May I suggest we adjourn to the corridor?” he said.
The constables agreed and the three of them stepped out.
Sarah lifted the water bucket, then wove her way between the beds, close enough to the open door to listen to what was said.
The dark-haired constable—she knew his voice now—repeated his questions. Killian replied with information both truthful and sparse, offering not a single word more than was absolutely required. As Sarah dipped the ladle and offered water to a patient, she realized that Killian never mentioned that he had seen her the night the woman had died in the sick ward. He never mentioned that she had been by Mr. Scully’s bed, that she had seen a shadow. He never mentioned her at all. He kept her out of it.
The constables let him talk, listening, not interrupting.
When he was done, the second constable asked, “So that patient, Mr. Scully…he asked you to kill him? Did you do it out of pity? Is that what made you kill him?”
Sarah bit back a gasp and took a half-step forward before she could stop herself.
“I believe Mr. Scully’s exact words were, ‘“Kill me and be done with it. You know the way of it, Mr. Thayne,’” Killian said.
The dark-haired constable said, “So you killed him.”
“No.”
“When you killed him, did you think it an act of mercy?” the second constable asked.
“I did not kill him.”
Sarah tightened her grip on the bucket handle as the constable threw another question at Killian and another, his colleague chiming in, until the drone of their voices buzzed as they challenged and prodded. Killian answered each sally with calm equanimity.
Sarah noticed they asked the same question again and
again in different ways. Were you with Mr. Scully when he died? So, what did you do for Mr. Scully at the moment he expired? When Mr. Scully died, how was he positioned in the bed? On his side? On his back? They were not merely questions; they were thinly veiled accusations.
Though Killian remained calm, they were increasingly disinclined to believe his replies. Their doubt was evident in the tone of their voices and the cadence of the questions that came faster and harsher now.
For the third time, one of the constables asked him, “And exactly where were you at midnight last night, Mr. Thayne?”
For the third time, he answered, “Occupied elsewhere.”
He sounded amused, and Sarah thought his attitude only further inflamed the officers, inclining them to believe the worst of him. She set down the bucket and glanced around to make certain that no one watched, then she edged forward so she stood at the open door and had a clear view of the three men. The constables stood side-by-side, facing away from her. Killian faced them, which meant he saw her there in the doorway. He offered no recognition of her presence in expression or action.
“And this morning? At dawn? Where were you then?”
“Occupied elsewhere.”
“I am afraid that will not do, sir. I need details of your whereabouts, and witnesses who can attest to your activities during the time in question.”
Sarah held her breath, her throat tightening, horror and fear congealing in a sickening knot. They believed that he had done this thing. They were convinced that he had killed this man in a hideous, unthinkable manner. No, not just this man. Many people. They thought Killian was responsible for all the questionable deaths on the wards.
Her first thought was for him. Her second was for herself. If he told them where he had been last night, what little security she had would be sliced away like a scalpel slicing away skin and muscle. If he said he had been with her, her position at King’s College would be forfeit. What would happen to her then? She had managed to scrape aside two pounds four shillings in savings that she kept in a tin beneath the foot of her mattress. That money would not last her long if she found herself without employment.
