by April White
The lights were really flickering and I looked up to see if there was some sort of power surge. Weird. It looked like real flames in the wall-mounted brackets. I didn’t think that was legal, but then again, this was London, not earthquake-prone L.A. Coming from the tracks was the sound of heavy boots and the jangle of keys. Mine was pretty much the last train so someone must be coming to lock up. I stuck close to the wall as I slunk away from the night watchman, back to the steps and across the tracks bridge toward the street exit for Whitechapel Avenue.
I adjusted the straps on my backpack and pulled my hoodie up to cover my head, hunching down like boys do when they’re minding their own business. It’s a pose that doesn’t work for girls because they look afraid, and that turns them into victims. But most guys just look like sullen jerks when they walk like that and I was counting on my jeans, boots and hoodie to make me anonymously male in this nighttime city.
Whitechapel Road was deserted when I left the tube station. It was a wide street with low buildings running its length on either side. Across the street was a huge Victorian edifice with a sign proclaiming the “Royal London Hospital.”
I heard the clatter of footsteps and a man’s laughter coming down an alley so I instantly switched direction and turned down a side street. It was darker there, with no streetlamps and no porch lights on any of the houses. A good place to disappear, but not knowing the geography was making me very jumpy.
I veered down Berner Street and stuck to the sides of the narrow road where I could duck into a doorway for cover. I needed a plan. I didn’t have enough money to buy a ticket home to L.A., but I could probably make it in London long enough for my mom to get back. Then life could go back to normal – whatever that was.
I had a twenty pound note stuck in my pocket and dollars in my backpack that couldn’t be changed until I found an open bank in the morning. I hoped I could work my magic and blend into the city. But so far, I wasn’t feeling it.
Coming toward me, down the street, were a man and a woman dressed like they just stepped off a stage. She was wearing a long black dress with a full skirt and a black hat like something Steampunk girls would thread chains and old pocket watches through and call fashion. She had a long, fur-trimmed coat over the dress with a red rose pinned to the collar, and was holding the arm of a short guy in another long black coat. He had a pock-marked face and a wide-brimmed hat, and he pulled a flask from his pocket. The woman took a drink from the flask, wiped her mouth and gave it back. The whole effect of the two of them was like some weird costume prom.
I ducked into an alleyway while the costume couple passed. She was laughing in a way that told me it wasn’t coffee in that flask. They crossed the street and stopped for a moment. The sound of noisy kissing made my stomach turn. Ugh! Boozy breath and sloppy drunks.
But who was I to judge? So far I’d avoided any form of physical connection with anyone at all. I managed to be intimidating or stand-offish to the point no one had ever asked me out. I was fine with it, but other people thought I was a freak. Who turns seventeen without ever having been kissed?
It didn’t seem too smart to stay tucked into a covered alley for very long and I tried to see down the far end to make sure I was actually alone. My night vision, usually awesome, was really being put to the test as it seemed there was almost no light anywhere. I looked up and was comforted to at least see stars in the London sky.
I heard a woman scream then, but quiet, like she was muffled. I couldn’t tell where the sound came from but every nerve in my body jangled electrically.
I didn’t even think I just ran… toward the screams. I’m not the hero-type. I don’t think it’s my duty to save people, but I can’t stand bullies. This flies directly in the face of my need for camouflage, but there are some times it just isn’t right to blend.
Across the street was an open gate to an empty space. There was a little wooden sign above it that said “Dutfield’s Yard” which became one of those useless facts that got lodged in my brain. Just like the pointy black woman’s shoe in the yard that was still attached to its owner’s foot. I gasped and suddenly a shadow moved. A figure in a black cape was crouched over the woman’s body and I must have surprised him because he stumbled backwards.
“You!” In my shock I wasn’t even aware that I’d spoken. The pale face of Wolf stared up at me in alarm as I yelled at him. “What are you doing?”
“I was determining her condition.” His voice sounded very nervous and formal, totally different than he sounded an hour ago before he kicked me to the curb at Upminster Station. He got his feet back under him and stood up, blocking my view of the woman on the ground.
“Which is?”
“Deceased.”
I stared at Wolf in complete disbelief. I’d never met the guy before tonight and he’d already managed to freak me out more than anyone had in my entire life.
“As in… dead? What did you do to her?”
Wolf looked appalled. “Do I know you, sir?”
“It’s me.” I pulled off my hood, releasing my long braid from the confines of my sweatshirt.
Wolf’s eyes widened in surprise. “I’m sorry, Miss, but you have me at a disadvantage.” A clatter of what sounded like hooves was entering Dutfield’s Yard from the other side. “But unless you’d like to find yourself associated with the lady’s demise, may I suggest we make ourselves scarce.”
Wolf moved toward the gate so fast I could only follow. We left the yard just as a horse-drawn cart came down the path, and I could hear the driver shouting “Whoa there, girl! Whoa!” For a second I thought the driver meant me and I almost stopped, but a light touch at my elbow kept me moving forward.
“In here.” Wolf’s voice was low and his hand at my elbow directed me toward a narrow covered alley. He practically shoved me into the doorway and put a finger to his lips.
The official-sounding footsteps of the Bobby tapped down the road. He paused for a moment outside the entrance to our alley and I held my breath. A shout of “Police!” came from the direction of Dutfield’s Yard. The Bobby hesitated a moment, then finally took off running.
“He saw us come in here. When he realizes the woman’s dead he’ll come looking for us.” Wolf’s voice had the same low tones I knew, but his words seemed more formal…and less sure… than before. “We should go.”
“Why should I trust you?” This whole thing felt wrong, like I’d been thrown in the middle of a weird play. That had to be it. This whole thing with the ‘dead’ woman and the Bobby, and the horse and cart, it must be all part of one of those Haunted City tours. Why Wolf was involved mystified me, but for some reason he was penciled in as my tour guide for the night. I decided I would play along for a minute to figure out why he’d targeted me since he didn’t seem willing to break character.
“You’re right. You don’t know me and have no reason to trust me.” Wolf looked me up and down with a critical eye. “Despite your choice of garments you are a woman. And given your strange way of speaking, a foreign woman at that.” He looked me in the eyes. “That places you in a certain amount of danger. If you choose to travel with me that danger will be somewhat mitigated.”
“Assuming the danger isn’t coming from you.”
Wolf searched my face with a very frank gaze. “Quite true.” The edge of nervousness in his voice gave me goosebumps for a second. Shouts of alarm were coming from Dutfield’s Yard and running footsteps pounded by. Wolf turned away from Berner Street and faced down the pitch-black alley. “This alley leads toward Commercial Road East and a less… criminal district. You’re welcome to join me if you’re willing to risk life and limb in my company.” I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic as he strode away down the alley with a quick glance over his shoulder at the growing foot traffic on Berner Street.
So somehow I’d managed to lose Slick and all his creepiness, and land myself in the middle of some murder mystery thing. I didn’t know who this guy was or why he was following me, but I did
know that no amount of night vision was going to help me in that pitch-black alley, and Wolf seemed to have a road-map of London lodged in his brain. So I shoved my skepticism and pride down to somewhere around my ankles and took off down the alley after him.
And even though it made me cringe to think it, whatever this guy’s game was, the nighttime city seemed slightly less menacing with him standing next to me.
Wolf
After Commercial Road we headed west, toward solidly middle-class neighborhoods. I had to admit, walking with Wolf gave me a sense of security I definitely didn’t have on my own.
I’d never had a tagging partner so I didn’t know what it felt like to have someone watch my back. Not that I trusted him, but I had the sense he was putting some distance between us and the game in Dutfield’s Yard. And that was just fine by me.
The next corner put us squarely back on Whitechapel High Street. A pub door opened and a couple of drunks spilled out, laughing and teetering down the steps. Wolf grabbed me and spun me into a darkened doorway, out of sight of the drunks. But not before I saw their costumes. Wool hats, knickers, long socks and linen shirts. Working men’s clothing… from another century.
I stared at Wolf, really looking at him for the first time. He was wearing a white shirt with a small collar, a thin black tie, a black suit with a long coat, and a cape which smelled like some warm spice, maybe cinnamon or nutmeg. A cape? Who wears a cape? His face was pale and his dark hair was longish with a piece that fell over one eye. The fact that I actually wanted to brush it back irritated me even more than the whole situation I found myself in.
“Is everyone in this city completely nuts?” I whispered as fiercely as I could, which isn’t nearly as effective as a yell. Wolf raised an eyebrow with a half-smile.
“Depends on your definition of insanity.”
I glared at him. “You’re all dressed like you stepped off some Victorian stage. Well guess what? You can let go of the character now. I’m not the damsel in distress who needs to be rescued from drunks.”
“That lot wouldn’t give you time to explain your manner of dress before they threw the first punch. They don’t much care for ‘different.’”
“I’m different? You’re wearing a cape, for God’s sake, and you think my clothes are weird?”
“God had almost nothing to do with my wardrobe choice tonight, the theatre did.”
“Of course it did. Your little murder mystery get-up must go over really well with the goth set. Oh that’s right, I got off the train in Whitechapel. It must be some sort of Jack the Ripper thing.”
I didn’t think it was possible for Wolf’s already pale face to get any more bloodless, but it was, and it did. He stared at me. “How did you know it was the Ripper?”
“Oh come on! You’re dressed like some Victorian dude crouching over a ‘dead’ woman in Whitechapel, how dumb do you think I am?”
Wolf’s eyes widened. “The police haven’t even tied these killings together yet. How could you possibly guess the Ripper could be involved?”
I rolled my eyes and scoffed. “He’s only the most famous serial killer in history, who else could it be.”
“In history? I suppose two prior killings would make the news, but to link them to tonight..?”
“Two? No, five I think. Maybe more.” My mom was completely hooked on all things Victorian and I’d absorbed some of her near-encyclopedic knowledge of the era by osmosis.
Wolf took a step forward, still staring at me like I was the nutjob. “Who are you?” He was uncomfortably close to me in the doorway and it was beginning to affect my brain. I needed air and I pushed past him out into the street.
“A better question is who are you?” I didn’t like it when things didn’t make sense and ever since I’d stepped out of the Whitechapel station I’d felt like I was in some alternate universe where the little things weren’t adding up.
Wolf stopped short at the realization that we weren’t on a first name basis. He offered his hand to shake. “Archer Devereux at your service.”
I smirked. “Archer? That’s so much more noble than what I’ve been calling you.” One of Archer’s eyebrows arched up arrogantly and I decided his real name was just as appropriate as his nickname. “I’m Saira Elian.”
Archer stumbled and had to catch himself against a wall. “Elian?”
My eyes narrowed. “Yeah?”
“But it couldn’t… you aren’t…”
Now I was getting mad. “I’m not what?”
Archer grabbed my hand and pulled me off the main street into a small brick courtyard. I yanked my arm from his grasp and glared at him. “What is your problem?”
The intensity of his gaze on my face was starting to freak me out. “Miss Elian, when were you born?”
I gaped at him. “When was I…? What are you, a cop? Why do you want to know how old I am?”
His voice was calm and quiet, like he was talking to a skittish animal. “I didn’t ask how old you are, I asked what year you were born.”
“In the nineties. Why? When were you born?” My voice was beyond snarky and I didn’t care. I had lost my patience with this whole night.
My tone of voice didn’t seem to affect him. “The 1890s?”
“No jackass, the 1990s.”
Now it was Archer’s turn to stare. And then his eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. “Of course! It all fits. The dress, the speech, the manner…”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re a Clocker.”
“A what?” I started pacing furiously. “What’s a Clocker? Slick called me that too.”
“A time-traveler. Who’s Slick?”
I stared at Archer. “I’m not a time-traveler.”
“Then you explain it. And I repeat, who is Slick?” He looked a bit concerned, probably for my sanity.
I answered automatically. “He was in Venice, and then chased me to London. And you drove me to Upminster Station and told me to run.”
Now Archer looked at me like I was losing it. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Miss Elian. I’ve never met you before tonight.” His tone got all formal again and now I was really annoyed.
“If I really did travel back in time, you did too.” I turned to face him, our noses inches apart. It made him uncomfortable but he didn’t back down.
“Of course I didn’t.” His tone was completely no-nonsense.
“And neither did I.”
He glared at me a moment longer, then grabbed my hand again and pulled me back onto the main street. Boy, was this guy ever pissing me off! I tried to yank my hand away but his grip tightened and he pulled me toward some kid standing on the street corner. The kid was dressed in the same type of costume as everyone else, but wearing possibly the grubbiest newsboy cap I’ve ever seen in my life.
“What’s the date today?” Archer demanded of the kid.
Bright green eyes narrowed dangerously and the kid barked back in a thick Cockney accent. “Wot’s it to yer?”
Archer rolled his eyes as if he was the one whose patience was on the line. He pulled a coin out of his pocket and handed it to the kid. “The date, please.”
The kid bit the coin and slipped it in his pocket almost faster than my eye could follow.
“September 30th, a course.”
“The year?”
“Wot’re ye daft?” The kid looked nervously at Archer, like he expected him to lunge.
“My friend here just arrived here from a long journey and doesn’t believe me about the date.”
Now the kid turned his narrowed eyes to me. “1888. ‘Tis the year after t’ Queen’s jubilee. Now move along wi’ ye. Me mates’ll be none too happy wi’ company.”
Archer’s head suddenly whipped around behind us and he pulled me away from the kid. I stumbled after him and then finally succeeded in ripping my hand out of his.
“You can’t expect me to believe some grubby-capped urchin you just paid to tell me somethin
g totally ridiculous.”
“Oy! I ain’t no urchin!” The kid yelled at me as we hurried down the street.
I turned and shouted back. “Well, you obviously found your hat in the sewer, what else would you call yourself?”
It was official, all my self-protective instincts to blend in and hide had just flown out the window and I parked my hands on my hips defiantly. “People don’t travel through time, except the normal way, one day at a time. So, don’t try to sell me your b.s. story about time travel just to explain the lame costumes you all are wearing.”
He was back to that calm, quiet voice again. “It’s 1888, Miss Elian.”
“It’s Saira. And no it’s not.” I stalked away angrily. Archer must have realized it was pointless to argue because he let me go, even though I heard him walking a few feet behind me. My brain was spinning a mile a minute.
Time travel? Jack the Ripper?
Seriously?
I used the silence to examine my surroundings, looking for any evidence at all that I hadn’t time-traveled to Victorian London. There were no modern buildings or cars anywhere. The only lights on the street were from gas lamps that made shadows dance on the walls.
And then there were the people. The few I’d seen looked like they’d stepped out of a Charles Dickens novel, or maybe a Sherlock Holmes story. A Haunted History tour explained some of them, but everyone? I stopped and faced Archer, with his long black cape and formal-looking clothes. “Why are you staring?” His low voice snapped me out of my daze.
At him? Around me? Like a drooling idiot? Take your pick, I was doing it all. “There’s no way I’m in Victorian England.”
Archer sighed and seemed to search around him for something. Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out some coins, and handed one to me. It was very shiny silver with a portrait of Queen Victoria on the front, and the date “1887” on the back.
