Corroded: Book Three of The St. Croix Chronicles
By Karina Cooper
Book three of The St. Croix Chronicles
Hungry for vengeance, Cherry St. Croix is forced to the fog-ridden streets of Victorian London.
My rival, a collector of bounties like myself, has murdered one of my own. In consequence, I have been removed from my house, my staff and all who would support me. I have nowhere else to turn, so I beg asylum within the Midnight Menagerie, London’s decadent pleasure garden.
Micajah Hawke’s dominance there will not tolerate my presence for long. I am fixated on revenge, but I walk a razor’s edge under his scrutiny. His wicked power is not easily ignored, and I must not allow myself to submit—no matter how sweet the sacrifice.
Challenging my rival to a race is the only way to end this—no small task when the quarry is the murderous Jack the Ripper. As my enemies close in, I fear the consequences of this hunt. I am trapped between two killers, and what doesn’t kill me may leave its scars forever.
99,000 words
Dedication
For my flower twin—whose beauty, intellect, and spirit will set the world on fire. You are my inspiration.
With thanks to Amanda Morris. Your generous donation to Books Fighting Cancer fueled the wayward dreams of an eager young miss determined to become the next collector to set London on its ear.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Author’s Note
About the Author
Copyright
Chapter One
A fortnight after my husband was murdered, I exhibited a severe allergy to sobriety.
Nightmares plagued first my sleep, then haunted me through every waking hour. In order to maintain what sanity I had left, I chewed the opium that was so much easier to attain now that I had taken my shelter below London’s foggy drift.
Laudanum alone could not accomplish what the resin of Turk’s bliss would.
It became a rote as unthinking as breathing. A bit of tar before I sought my rest. Another bit more upon waking, to ease the ache of the night’s passing. I swallowed it when the anxieties of the fortnight’s events wrapped around my chest, tighter than any corset I’d ever worn, and squeezed the living breath from me.
I licked the bitter medicine for courage and I choked it down to forget.
Revenge tasted best when laced with the cinnamon-sharp draught of laudanum, but such liquid was more difficult to carry and hold than the wax-wrapped bit of opium I had taken to keeping in my pocket. And certainly the ruby solution I’d grown to require could not compare to the long, narrow tube I now held in my hands, its fragrant smoke drifting through my nostrils and into my hazy, addled mind.
While I imbibed, freely and without thought for consequence, I could not bring myself to grieve.
I was on a charge. Or, rather, I should have been.
My name is Cherry St. Croix, and I am a collector. I hunt men for bounties—for coin delivered upon successful conveyance of vagrants, degenerates and those too far in debt to allow to roam free. Were I anywhere else but in a Limehouse opium den buried beneath the choking fog of London low, I would be Lady Compton, grieving widow to the late Cornelius Kerrigan Compton, Earl Compton, and certainly I would not be a collector of any stripe.
A countess could not set so much as a dainty slipper beneath the foggy drift without every periodical from here to the remote Orkneys shouting the scandal.
Of course, I had served as a collector for longer than I’d ever been a countess—five of my twenty years compared to five hours a bride; and the former a secret affectation, beside.
A fortnight as a widow, and I had not yet relinquished my collector’s role. Here, in this shabbily furnished parlor with the stained brown walls and shoddy, threadbare settees and chairs, I could simply be a street boy, with my soot-blackened hair hidden beneath a floppy cap, and my clothing deliberately large to disguise the specially designed collecting corset I wore beneath.
If any of the lolling, idle patrons of this dimly lit Chinese den considered me more than a slightly rotund youth, there was no word, no glance, no questions. Only the brief brush of work-rimed, callused fingers against mine as the pipe passed into my hands and out again, and the sweet, almost lyrical orchestra of voices raised in absent conversation.
The idle gossip of Jack the Ripper, that mad murderer stalking Whitechapel’s doxies and dollymops, could not chill the warmth of the pipe. The crimes the fiend perpetrated in the depths of smoke-blackened night turned all of London on its ear, and to date, even Scotland Yard’s finest had failed to suss out the criminal’s identity—for all that, these things did not sour the atmosphere of this dingy place. Truth be told, an evening spent imbibing Chinese opium often made the grimmest news seem tolerable, and even welcome.
For many that do not partake of the smoke often, the promised bliss of opium comes first through the senses. The things seen by the eyes become something dreamed instead, a skirling waltz for the mind and a feast for the soul. If I were to give credence to a faith which could not be proven, that what the bliss engenders in one is a religious occurrence the likes of which no clergy would approve.
By the glassy sheen to the dreamy gazes about me, most were long gone from the grim shackles of these dank environs. The voices they heard came like melodious chimes, a vibrant delight taken in each syllable, each breath. Laughter sparkled, sighs shimmered. Feelings altered.
Things that might otherwise seem unbearable softened. Eased away.
I envied them, these occasional partakers. Enjoyment though I felt, it was not as it once was for me. Such is the risk. Those who take the medicinal regularly must always take the more to feel the same as that first lovely delight.
For that reason, I was not controlled by bliss as they were around me. The sweet orchestra of their world became a muted whisper in mine. While ’tis true that I felt no anxiety—no fear stemming from my dangerous plans, no sorrow upon my thoughts—I also could not sink back into the sweet cushion of lassitude as these partakers had.
I slept with its help and dreamed while it eased my burdens; long had I valued its assistance. My reliance upon laudanum was at one time a strength. The day my father’s alchemical tincture of opium nearly took my life, my near lifelong use allowed my intellect to overcome the medicinal’s effects. I fought back where he expected placid surrender.
The unfortunate result of continued use was such that while I could soften the blunt edges of this new life of mine, I could not escape it.
I could have railed against the injustice, but to what purpose? To soothe the sting, I simply took the more. I resolved to allow the details of this room to blur ever so gently, until the smoke became a gentle breeze and the candles warming the tar in copper plates turned to merry dancers wrapped in golden hue.
It was so easy to lose one’s self in the slow, deliberate disconnect of time and understanding. An hour’s passing could be as a moment, yet a moment could stretch for eternity. I watched the dancing flame, blinking with deliberate effort to watch the copper glints o
f my own lashes in the fringes of my own sight, and I contemplated my coming actions thoroughly.
Without looking at him, I considered the man seated at my left. The bearded cove had been my surly and unknowing companion for the past two hours—a man whose broad shoulders and bulging gut beneath patched shirtsleeves and leather suspenders professed him to be hardy stock. He was also was my quarry.
No small game.
As a member of the Brick Street Bakers—one of many gangs who claimed the streets of London low like boundaries of war—Bartholomew Coventry was dangerous alone and unstoppable when among his allies. Any attempt to collect him for the Menagerie, to whom he owed his debts, would most certainly draw the attention of the Bakers, were we on Baker territory.
Then again, the Bakers had no love for any members foolish enough to attract the all-seeing eye of the criminal organization what ran the Midnight Menagerie. That Coventry allowed his debts to go unpaid, earning the Karakash Veil’s ire through collectors such as myself, would be a black mark on the man’s service—if service was the word for what the men of a street gang accomplished. With politics of London low always teetering, swaying this way and that, neither the Bakers nor the Veil appreciated any that caused unrest. Coventry’s debts rocked that balance.
As I, myself, had been given cause to learn, the mysterious heads of the Karakash Veil—so named after a river in China said to overflow with boulders of jade—were not the forgiving sort.
The Veil centered its seat of power in Limehouse—so named for the lime kilns that gave it its distinctly acrid stench—whilst the Bakers’ usual run turned toward the more easterly Poplar and Blackwall. While Limehouse’s borders remained the smallest in size, with the Baker’s territory reaching as far south as the Isle of Dogs, the former retained a grip upon London’s premier pleasure garden, and the firmest grip of all upon the Chinese opium trade.
Truly, if the Midnight Menagerie demanded Coventry’s skin, the Veil could see to it easily. That was not the way, however. Such bounties were left to collectors, such as I, and I could not—and would not—count upon the Veil’s aid in securing a quarry.
If I intended to secure Coventry for the purse, I would need to do so before he reached Baker ground. It would be safer for all involved that way.
I knew that he must leave here some time soon, and I had made plans to follow and seize any opportunity along the dark roads. If he reached the edge of Baker territory, well before Brick Street, I’d lose my chance of a quiet collection and be forced to negotiate—if even given the opportunity, for the Bakers were not a forgiving sort—with any other men within earshot of a whistle.
If I were lucky, Ishmael Communion would be among them—a friend, as they go, and an extremely large tool of persuasion.
If I were unlucky, I would be forced to run.
Any worse than that, and I’d be a dead collector washed up along the River Thames a few days hence.
Easily decided, and all the better when I’d followed Coventry’s trail to this den. I only had to encourage the large fellow to smoke as much as his bellows of a chest could imbibe, and he would be docile as a kitten.
Such efforts were a necessity. I was confident, as collectors routinely must be, yet I was not so far gone that I imagined myself capable of taking on the large Coventry without the help of the calming pipe. In the fickle haze of the Chinese smoke, the great weight of the man mirrored that of a mountain—unmovable but for his own volition. Although I had no intimate understanding of Coventry’s talents, I had no doubt that he would fight like a maddened bull were he antagonized far enough.
A body such as his did not join the Bakers to become a beggar. He lacked overt injury, so would not be much of an abram, and carried no sign of sailor’s cant to play the part of a ruffler. That left thieving or bruising, and I had a clear enough picture of which direction our Mr. Coventry leaned. I was not eager to test his prowess with fists or cudgel.
I preferred, if at all possible, a peaceful collection tonight.
He had not yet denied my pass of the pipe, and I wagered a man large as him could go for a few more before I trusted my weight against his. I fit my mouth about the narrow tube and inhaled the smoke gathered within its bulbous end. I did not fear the sharing of such pipes, for the smoke within did much to ease such idle concerns. The smoke burned in a delightful reminder of its nature—warmth and continued lassitude slid over my senses like sweet bliss.
Would that it could ease the darkest of my fevers; I was too far gone in its use to allow it to take such liberties.
The tar popped faintly in the gleaming dish, and as I maintained my held breath, I passed the slender pipe to my left.
No grunt of thanks came. No thickly callused and peeling fingers over mine.
I turned my head, every gesture given a deliberation of pace and measure that my senses delighted in. The air caressed my grimy cheek, as sweet as a stroke from a gentle hand, and I smiled vaguely as if I were only ascertaining Coventry’s appearance for that of a real man, and not a mirage.
There was no mountain to look back at me.
The pipe slipped from my fingers.
I blinked when the cylindrical tube clattered and clinked to the shoddy floor, each marked note a shimmering crystal bell in my hearing. My eyebrows drew together as I stared at the smudged brass. There was no hand to take it from me, no gruff rumble of acceptance as he’d given me half a dozen times before. I waited a tick more, as if he would reappear from nowhere at all.
He did not do this, either.
For a man whose every breath heaved like a mountain, he had moved like a ghost from his place on the floor. I could only scowl at the cushions emptied of both ghost and mountain.
The skiff had gone. Not only had he gone, but in my smoky reverie, I had missed his departing entirely.
By all the bleeding bells in Westminster Abbey, I’d lost my quarry.
How? I would have sworn he was right beside me. Not a minute ago, he’d passed me that pipe without so much as an inquiring lift of eyebrows.
Wasn’t it but a minute?
I fumbled underneath my too-large coat, plucked the small, tarnished brass pocket watch from its place inside a pocket hidden on the outside of my slatted armor corset. I checked the time as cautiously, furtively as I dared. It told me nothing, for I had forgotten to wind it.
Careless of me.
Secreting the small piece once more about my person, I clambered to my feet, swaying as the ground tipped beneath me. A hand not mine caught my backside—less a fondle than an idle motion of helpful restraint—and I righted myself immediately. “’Fanks,” I tossed off, in the vernacular of the truly uneducated. Exactly the sort of thing one might expect from a guttersnipe’s vocabulary.
“Yeh,” said the man who’d righted me, waving me away as if not quite sure if what he saw was real or imagined. “Yeh, sure. Nice night for’t.”
Ask him tomorrow what I’d looked like, and he’d like as not make it up as he went. Opium could be as much help as hindrance.
For my needs, it was all help. Ordinarily, anyhow. Tonight, I had miscalculated.
Amidst the grumbles of sprawling patrons astride every chair, settee, cushion and even the bare floor, I made my way from corner to corner, searching for a large man with the big black beard of a storybook pirate.
“Watch it!”
“Pass that dream, lad,” someone else mumbled.
I took the pipe from one outstretched hand, tucked it into the asker’s, and moved along.
Nothing. Not so much as a whisker of Coventry’s presence. He’d vanished.
And with him, any hope of a hefty bounty to weigh against my own debts.
“Brilliant,” I muttered, whirling. No real interest met my searching gaze; I was but another patron of this ever so fine establishment, another fool of indeterminate age to give hard-won coin to the same criminal Chinese organization that held my leash.
For I too owed the Karakash Veil a debt of life.
Especially as I kept losing my targets.
I spun for the door, pushed away the pipe thrust at me and hurried to catch the trail of the vanishing mountain.
A dim hope, even I knew that. The fog that filled the streets of London was blindingly thick, laced in black coal and yellow filth, painted in eerie shades by the gaslamps struggling to pierce the gloom. So terrible had the coal-smoke castoffs of the factories gotten that Parliament decades ago decreed that all the most respectable parts of London were to be raised above on massive hydraulic lifts.
The work was done long before my day, providing a neat divide between Society’s disposition and those unable to keep up the appearances. Immigrants—such as the Chinese teeming in London’s Limehouse district—and the colored Negros freed by Parliament’s abolition of slavery remained tucked safely out of view, beside the factories, the working class and the poverty-stricken. Those who could manage to keep up such appearances, or them what could learn enough deportment to work for a fine lord, were lent an accord.
There were trades that offered a certain amount of respectability, and then there was real work, done by scarred men and women whose livelihood rested on the pittance earned. My father had been among the former, a doctor of some repute, before he suffered an ill-conceived break with sanity that resulted in the death of my well-to-do mother and my subsequent orphaning. After a childhood saturated in Godfrey’s cordial—a trick of laudanum and treacle employed by orphanages and governesses the world over—and too many years in the employ of a traveling carnival, was it any wonder that I had come to feel more at home in the fog-ridden streets of London below the drift than I’d ever felt wearing silks and gilded feathers above?
Of course, my fascination with all things improper had placed me in this untenable position. It had been a long time since I’d lost a quarry so obviously.
I kicked at the street, muffling an uncivility against gritted teeth as the fog curled and drifted beneath the golden lights flickering on either side of the innocuous façade. It stung my nose and eyes, forcing a sheen of irritated tears, which I swiped at with impatience.
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