Spider Silk
Page 24
He froze as something moved in the corner of his vision. Sévère looked up, readying himself. Come what may, he would not go back to Newgate.
His gaze met Olivia’s.
She stood only a few paces away, in trousers and jacket, moustache and corduroy cap. A cigarette at the corner of her mouth lit part of her face. She held a pistol in her hand. The weapon trembled. Her eyes were stuck to Sévère’s legs.
‘I should have known,’ he said.
‘You…walk?’ she muttered.
‘Would you mind taking his valuables? I need this to look like a mugging.’
She cocked her head.
‘I doubt I’d be able to get back up. My knee is a little…tired.’ He knocked his cane against the brace, and slipped the blade back into its sheath.
Olivia exhaled a cloud of smoke, bent over Frost’s still-twitching body, and dropped to one knee. She rifled through his pockets, took his wallet, and spat her cigarette in his face.
Sévère felt his hackles rise as she drove her thumb into Frost’s wound, and hissed, ‘God created you for me, my sweet. Do you feel me stretching your flesh? Do you enjoy it as much as I do? Say yes, my sweet.’
Frost’s feet jerked in response. A faint grunt issued from the man, and Sévère swore to himself to never again use the word sweet on her.
‘Olivia, we need to leave.’
She put her full weight onto Frost, driving in her thumb to the hilt. ‘So tight, my sweet. You are so tight. And so hot. You do love it, don’t you?’
Sévère grew sick to the marrow of his bones. ‘Olivia!’ He grabbed her shoulder, but she shook him off.
‘I can make your curls bounce, and your mouth form a perfect “o.” Would you like me to do that for you, my sweet?’
No sound and no movement came from Frost, yet Olivia did not stop.
Sévère grabbed her by the collar and yanked her back. She threw out her arms to keep balance, and almost took him down with her.
‘Don’t wipe your hands on your clothes. Use his lapel,’ he said.
Finally, she did as he asked. When she rose, he took in the contours of her mouth, nose, and eyes, and it seemed to him she’d been carved from ice.
‘It’s over,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘It’s over.’
‘Is it?’ She looked up at him.
‘We need to leave.’ He took one step, staggering. ‘Check his pulse, please.’
She touched his throat. ‘He’s dead,’ she said and stood. ‘Gavriel?’
‘Hmm?’
She wrapped her arm around his waist. ‘Lean on me.’
‘I’m too heavy.’
‘Lean on me anyway.’
They turned away from the alley, from the monstrous act they’d committed, and onto a street dotted with gaslight and frosted with mist.
A pair of sleepy crawlers grunted in protest when two drunkards — one with a cane and a red necktie, the other long-limbed and moustachioed — hobbled past a decrepit doorway they called home.
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END
Olivia & Sévère will return in spring 2018. Check out my Book Club for pre-publication access:
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Acknowledgments
To write Sévère’s poison murder trial, I relied heavily on the 1882 trial of George Henry Lamson — recorded in the Old Bailey archives, the book “Notable English Trials: G.H. Lamson” edited by H.L. Adams, and “Leaves of a Life” by Montagu Williams. Although quite entertaining, the scientist in me recoiled at how aconite tests were performed (also: yuck!), and how swiftly — despite the unreliability of the analyses — Mr Lamson was led to the gallows.
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A huge number of people have helped create this story:
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My lovely Patreon patrons, Kim Wright - the queen of ugly blankets and turn of the century Boston background research, Robyn Montgomery, Michael G. Morrison, Valancy, Chris Stevens, Andrea Ward-Kelly, Sandra Stehr, Donald, Nancy, Bernadine Yeghoian, Carrie Pandya, Emily Shirley, Gudrun Thäter, Rey Arbolay, Victoria Dillman, as well as Sabrina Flynn & Rich Lovin who are also faithfully beta-reading every single manuscript I throw at them.
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Mercutio Jones for insightful information on 1800s embalmment fluids and alkaloid tests, and Irina Kraft for stunning Victorian undergarments.
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My prime test subject and husband (isn’t that the same thing?), Magnus, who only complains about my stories when I write too slow, and my children Béla and Lina who make sure I occasionally partake in “real life” (jumping in puddles and all that).
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Tom, my patient and sharp-eyed proofreader who keeps offering his help and friendship, and I keep wondering how I deserve it (I’m a grump, you know); and Nancy DeMarco who miraculously found time to edit this book while renovating her house from top to bottom.