by Tim Marquitz
And while Scarlett was dressed in loose fitting breeches and a shirt she’d tucked into her thick leather belt, there was no hiding the curves God had given her. She was an angel, and I mean that literally; one of God’s chosen. She made her home in Heaven alongside the rest of the Choir. She had wings and everything; well, they were a psychic manifestation of her power, but they were still wings.
“My face is up here,” she said, putting her hand in front of her chest and pointing upward.
I sighed and followed her finger. The green seas of her eyes glared at me. They were very expressive when she was angry, which was most of the time I was around.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was sent to find a killer.” Her eyes narrowed, her gaze trailing from my feet back to my face in a casual sweep. Fingers twitched near the twin, short blades she wore at her hips. “How fortunate to have found one so soon.”
“Whoa there, Sherlock. It seems your detective skills could use some sharpening.” It wasn’t the first time Scarlett and I had duked it out over some stupid misunderstanding, and I didn’t figure it would be the last, so I set my feet just in case she came at me. When it came to emotional overreaction, Scarlett made me look like the mature one. “Lucifer sent me to find the killer, too.”
“I’m supposed to believe our dear uncle has nothing to do with any of this?” Scarlett shook her head. “I can’t believe that, Frank. The butcher signed one of his letters ‘From Hell.’”
“And you think Lucifer would attach his name to something as brazen as these murders?” I could tell by the look on her face, she did. It’s a good thing she’s pretty. “Seriously, woman, Hell isn’t behind any of this. I promise that.”
“You promise? Oh, okay. Our mistake.” Scarlett shrugged and turned away, her hair trailing her like a wild mane. I stared at her for a moment, one eyebrow raised, too stunned to even think about checking out her ass before she spun back around. She chuckled.
“Of course you’re not leaving.” I sighed. What had started as an annoying quest for a killer had degenerated into a pissing match between Heaven and Hell with me getting the golden end of the shaft. “Look, Scarlett, if you’re gonna be elbow-deep up my ass, we need to set some rules down.”
“First off, ewwww.” Her upper lip peeled back in a disgusted sneer. “Second, Metatron sent me here to find out what Hell has to do with this Ripper and to ensure the killings end. I don’t take orders from you and we aren’t setting terms as to my mission.”
“I don’t expect you to take orders, but we can’t just go stomping across London, going door-to-door looking for Jack the fucking Ripper or whatever the hell the guy wants to be called.” I mimed knocking. “Pardon me, ma’am, but have you seen a dashing murderer here about lately? Loves romance, candlelight dinners, late night strolls, and cutting women’s uteri out.”
Scarlett shivered, crossing her arms to hide it. “That’s not funny, Frank.”
“It’s not meant to be.” I squeezed the bridge of my nose in hopes of staving off the headache that always seemed to accompany Scarlett’s presence. “As much as you want to put this on Hell and be done with it all, it’s not gonna be that easy. This killer has been operating for months and getting away with it. He’s not gonna slip up or give himself away just because we’re here.”
She grunted. “Then what are we going to do?”
At least she was playing nice now. Well, as nice as she was capable of. I know she didn’t really believe I had anything to with this, we’d known each other too long for that, but I had no doubt she still felt Hell—or more specifically, Lucifer or one of his cronies—was behind it all.
Her father, Royce, was one of Lucifer’s three siblings. Seeing how he’d raped an angel, which resulted in Scarlett’s birth, that didn’t exactly give her much faith in her southern relatives by default. Can’t say I blame her any, but for what it’s worth, Uncle Lou is the white sheep in the family. He’s certainly got his faults, but between his siblings—Royce, Reann, and the piece of shit scumbag that was my sperm donor—Lucifer is a saint.
“Well, it’s Friday night and most of the killer’s attacks have been on a weekend, as well as on hookers, so I suggest we find out where the more secluded of the women hang out and see what we can see.”
“You mean something like the group you scared off before beating their pimp unconscious?”
“Uh, yeah…just like them.” I hated when she made sense.
She sighed. “You don’t have a better plan than hang out and watch prostitutes?”
I looked up at the dark clouds and let the rain fall over my face. Lucifer didn’t know anything more about the killer than Metatron did, which left us all out in the dark. Even with as often as Hell and Heaven played in the mortal sandbox, it wasn’t like they understood the humans or could read their minds or anything. Free will left a lot of room between the lines of black and white pool the supernaturals played in. It was a condition neither angels nor demons could entirely fathom. While we—demons, that is—had a lot of room to maneuver, we were all bound to the rules of the universe we inhabited. In the end, we’re all pawns from one side or the other, the Almighty and Uncle Lou nudging us into motion as they saw fit. Those two as far from human as possible, the machinations of gods and men have never quite synched up.
“No, not really,” I admitted as I lowered my face and let the trickles of water roll down my cheeks. Come morning, I could run off and have a chat with my uncle’s contact but until then, it looked like were spending the night in the downpour searching for a needle in a wet and drippy haystack. “We’re just gonna have to get lucky.”
Scarlett shook her head, water flying off her hair in glistening drops. “The very last thing you’re going to do is get lucky, Frank.” She turned and went to the edge of the building, peering over the ledge at the street below. The scree of whistles and the barks of dogs were whispers in the darkness. The bobbies had lost the trail.
A smile split my cheeks as I watched Scarlett. I might not be getting lucky, but at least I had a room with a view.
Four
The sun inched into the sky behind a blanket of gray. It did nothing to chase the chill from the air, but at least it had stopped raining. London glistened in the dawn. Millions of sparkling diamonds littered the city, reflecting the pale morning light and shimmering in the early gloom.
Scarlett and I had circled the city all night via the rooftops the entire night but what brave souls remained outside—by choice or happenstance—were few and far between. While it might have been an ideal night for killers, since there were no witnesses anywhere to be found, there were also no victims out and about. Hard to kill folks who aren’t there.
I shook the water from my soggy coat and glanced over to Scarlett. She’d taken up a perch on a chimney after we’d stumbled across the last of the late night streetwalkers. The woman, more vagabond than hooker, with thick layers of worn clothing hiding her uncertain shape, staggered off alone when morning came. With no more whistles or baying hounds in Whitechapel, our hunt had come to the end.
Scarlett stood and stretched, preening in the weak glow of the sun. “It would seem the killer took the night off.”
“I wish we had.” My hat had nearly soaked through, the constant pressure of the rain softening and bending the brim until it hung limp around my head. My ears tingled from the cold wetness that ran over them.
She nodded while twisting her long hair in her hands, water spilling between her fingers. “Since we’re not going to find our man plying his trade during the day, I think I’ll return home for a bit.” Scarlett turned her green gaze on me. “Meet back here at dusk?”
“Sounds good.” I waved, knowing she meant to report our evening’s failure to Metatron.
“Yet another wonderful evening in the life of Frank.” She yawned. “No wonder you’re single.” Scarlett snorted and leapt into the sky before I could reply. She was gone a moment later, leaving a trail of golden energy in her
wake. I waved goodbye with one finger.
Once she was out of sight, I sighed, glad to be rid of her. I yanked my hat from my head to shake the water loose. While Scarlett might be right about the killer not hacking up his prey in broad daylight, it was by far the best time to scout a victim and to prepare. It was also the perfect time to find out more about our elusive friend.
That was what set Heaven and Hell apart, or so Lucifer always told me. Demons were willing to crawl in the muck to accomplish their goals. You don’t get to know your enemy by keeping your distance, he’d said. You have to get up close and personal, dig through their belongings, sniff their asses. The contact would be a big help with that; the learning more part, not necessarily the ass sniffing. Then again, you never know.
While I didn’t mind Scarlett hanging around, especially if it helped prove Hell’s innocence in this particular matter, she didn’t need to know everything. A demon needs his secrets. We were, all things considered, on opposite sides of the war. It never hurt to have her there if a fight broke out, but when it came to subterfuge or choosing the lesser of two evils, Scarlett was a liability. She thought in straight lines and was colorblind to the gray in the world. There’s no doubt she came here to finish the job, to take out the killer like I’d been sent to do, but you never know how things are going to work out. I hoped the mission was that clear cut—track and kill—but they usually weren’t.
I tossed my hat and coat aside, both worthless after being drenched, and shimmied down the drainpipe to the alley below. My uncle had given me plenty of shillings in case I needed to bribe or coerce information out of anyone, but I didn’t think it would hurt much to pick up a new jacket. After all, Uncle Lou wanted me to blend in. Wandering around in the winter for too long without a coat might draw attention.
The Webley tucked nicely into the waistband of my pants, out of sight beneath my shirt, I made my way out to the street. Still early on a Saturday, most folks were still slumbering off their Friday night or just avoiding the cold, wet morning. The streets were nearly deserted as I wound my way through Whitechapel. What the night’s darkness had hidden so well, the hazy morning revealed. I wasn’t impressed.
It was no surprise the Ripper fellow had chosen to stalk his victims in the East End. The place was a dump. Trash littered the alleys and flowed out onto the sidewalks in haphazard jumbles, the rain having turned most of it into a wet, stinky mush. Urban mud.
Rats skittered through the garbage looking for breakfast. They were fearless, beady little eyes staring me down as I walked past while they held their ground, whiskers twitching. They were willing to fight for their meal. That meant they were starving. And if the rats were so hungry they would challenge a demon, I could only imagine how bad it must be for the people living there. That kind of desperation made folks do stupid things. Just like the women I’d run into last night. They were out because they needed to be, not because they wanted to. Even in the pouring rain, they’d stepped onto the streets to sell themselves in the hopes someone was buying. It meant the difference between eating that day or not.
While Baalth would laugh at my sentimentality, that horrible desperation only made me want to catch the Ripper even more. I could hear my mother’s voice inside my head reminding me that I was one of them—human—or at least half of me still was. She wanted to be sure I never forgot that. A peaceful woman, she might not approve of what I intended when I caught Saucy Jacky, but she would agree something needed to be done. Regardless, he wouldn’t kill any more women if I could help it.
As I made my way through the labyrinth of Whitechapel streets, London crawled meekly from their beds. A newspaper vendor hawked his wares from the corner, his voice cutting through the still, morning air. With no mention of a murder in his pitch, I breathed a little easier. So, it seemed, did the people gathered alongside me. While there weren’t many pedestrians on the sidewalks, they carried a sense of doom with them, as if the killings were a weight pressing down on their lives. Their shuffled gaits sped a little at the vendor’s proclamation, the weight lifted until darkness fell once more. For their sakes, and my own, I hoped I could remove that pressure forever.
I handed the vendor a coin, him passing me a newspaper in return. After a quick nod to the man, I folded the paper and slipped it under my arm and continued down the street. It wasn’t much of a disguise, but it’d be enough given the preoccupation of the Whitechapel residents. They’d made it through another night of terror and were reveling in being alive, regardless their circumstance. Later in the day they might be more vigilant, but I’d have replaced my coat by then. I continued on, the city slowly growing into prosperity with every block.
At last I came to the far reaches of the East End and turned onto Alderny Road, Mile End, remembering the directions Baalth had damn near embedded in my skull. There, I picked out the address for the contact: a Mister George Lusk. I sauntered across the street and took a moment to survey the house. George didn’t live like the rest of the folks in Whitechapel. A fresh coat of paint gleamed on the exterior of the three-story home, which was nearly as large as some of the apartments I’d passed. Attractive, flowered curtains lurked behind the large glass windows that stared out onto the street. Thick shutters hung open at their sides. A large porch butted into the sidewalk, white, stately columns rising up to the roof of the veranda. Several wooden rocking chairs sat out front, further proof of George’s status in the community. Had he lived further west, he’d wake up to his chairs missing.
I drew a deep breath and sauntered across the road as though I belonged there, the task made easier by the street being empty. Up the porch, I went to the door and knocked. A smile brightened my face at the deep thump of the wood. Despite the façade of comfort, the door was made of a heavy wood, just as the shutters were. George was no less fearful than the rest of the East End folks. He was just subtler about announcing it. He was likely far more afraid of the people of Whitechapel than of the Ripper, his home one foot in the slums and three feet out. I wondered what his game was, what he hoped to gain from stepping into the spotlight as he had.
Footsteps pattered across the floor inside, drawing closer. Bolts slid loose of their holes and the door creaked open a crack. Dark brown eyes stared out at me, surrounded by a cherubic young face.
“Yes?” the boy asked.
I smiled and gave a half-ass nod. “I’m here to see Mister George Lusk, the head of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee. He’s expecting me.”
“And you are?”
“Thomas Yardlow,” I lied, offering up the name my uncle had passed on to the contact. It didn’t make much sense seeing how George wouldn’t know me from Adam, but whatever made the old man happy. “Is Mister Lusk home?”
The boy stood and stared at me without moving. He lifted his chin, eyes narrowing, as though he were about to tell me to fuck off, but a sharp voice at his back silenced him.
“Let the man in, Joseph. It’s cold outside.”
The boy swallowed hard and spun about, yanking the door open. “Yes, father.” He waved me in.
“Thank you…Joseph.” I smiled at the kid and patted him on the head as I stepped inside. “It is a might chilly out this morning.”
“You’re foolish to have left your room without your jacket, Mister Yardlow,” George said, eyeing me up.”
Older than I expected, George was still a solid man. Not huge by any means, but he carried himself with a dignity not present in the streets I’d wandered through to get there. He seemed a match for his home: sturdy. George stood with a rigidity that only came with wealth and status, prosperity stiffening a man’s spine against adversity.
A brown mustache trailed down to his chin on both sides. The rest of his face was neatly shaven. His graying hair, only beginning to thin, was slicked back against his scalp. Pools of brown stared out at me just as they had with his son. He proffered his hand.
“I arrived late, my coat soaked through by the storm. It’s out to dry.” I took his hand. Thou
gh his flesh was smooth and soft, he met my solid grip with one of his own.
He smiled. “Then come in, Yardlow. I’ve just the thing to chase the chill from your bones.” George turned to his son. “Shut the door, boy before we lose the heat. Our guest and I will be in my study should you need me.”
Joseph muttered a quick affirmative and did as he was told, his eyes never leaving me while George led me down a short hall and into his study. George waved me to a seat and shut the door, blocking out his son’s prying gaze.
“You’ll have to forgive Joseph,” he said as he stepped around an oaken desk and dropped into the chair behind it. “These are difficult times to put one’s trust in strangers.” From the drawer beside him, he pulled out two crystalline glasses and a small bottle of amber liquor. “Brandy?”
I nodded. “It would seem to be the wise course given the circumstances, wouldn’t you think?”
George grinned in response, but there was no humor to it. He poured a liberal shot of Brandy into both glasses and slid one across the bare desk to me. “Too true, Yardlow. Too true.”
“Call me Thomas,” I answered as I collected the shot, biting back a chuckle. If only my uncle could see me now, a cultured gentleman, all please and thank you, a stick up my ass to keep me proper. He’d shit a goose laughing. I raised the glass to George. “To a happy ending.”
“Indeed.” With a trembling hand, he lifted the glass to his lips and swallowed it down in one gulp.
I did the same, savoring the heat that lit fire to my throat and warmed my belly. George hadn’t skimped on the liquor, offering up the good stuff. He poured himself another shot and held out the bottle to me. As much as I wanted to suck more down, I waved it off. There’d be plenty of time for carousing once Jacky boy caught a bullet.
George drank down the second shot without hesitation and set his glass aside. Though his hand was noticeably more stable, his eyes kept wandering to the bottle. “I’m not sure what you can do to help, but your employer, Mister Ceefer, seemed to believe you can.”
