“Well? What do you make of the demon?” I asked, stifling a moan. The heat felt lovely.
He settled the blanket around us, then stared out at the sidewalk. I followed his gaze, noticing swirls in the light dusting of snow that reminded me of serpents slithering through it.
“He saw a man with blue eyes talk to a woman on the street,” Thomas said. “That much I believe is fact. The issue I’m struggling with is his claim of seeing the same man with another woman, doing the same act.”
“Do you think it’s a fabrication?”
“No. His behavior was quite easy to read. Weren’t you observing…” Thomas shook his head at my scowl. “Apologies, Wadsworth. What I mean is, when I asked about the demon’s acts, Mr. Cigrande was able to give them without moving about. When asked about the devil or his desires, he had to think. To make up his own idea of what Satan might be after. It wasn’t information he’d seen firsthand. I couldn’t deduce if he’d truly witnessed the same man luring another woman away, or if he’d replayed it in his mind so often he confused the facts.”
“Let’s argue the facts, then,” I suggested. “If what he claims is correct, how will that assist in us finding the man he claims is the demon?”
Noah rushed back to the carriage, clapping his hands for warmth. “Sorry. What do you think?”
“We were just trying to figure that out now,” I said. “It’s something.”
The carriage driver snapped his reins, urging the horses into a trot.
“If he can recall where he saw the man abduct that first woman”—Thomas braced himself against the jostling of our ride—“you ought to sit nearby and wait. See if the kidnapper’s brazen enough to return. He may or may not be telling the truth about the demon revisiting the site. It’s worth investigating at the very least.”
Noah flashed a skeptical look, his mouth pinched tight. “I don’t see how anyone would be foolish enough to commit the same act twice in the same location.”
“It’s part of his fun,” Thomas said. “The hunt is thrilling, but so is the idea of potentially getting caught. This man is besotted with the unknown. It’s dangerous. Tantalizing. It makes his heart pound and his loins ache with desire.”
I scrunched my nose, not wanting to think of anyone’s loins, aching or otherwise. Silence filled our carriage, broken up by the clomping of hooves on cobblestones. I turned the events of this new mystery over in my mind, working out all the oddities. As much as I loathed to think such a thing, if we had a body to study I’d feel more confident in my own theories.
“Do you believe he’s holding them captive?” I asked, already dreading the answer I knew was coming.
Thomas dropped his gaze to mine. “Perhaps for a time.”
“So?” Noah asked. “What does he do next? Let them go?”
“He murders them.” Thomas didn’t notice the color leach from our friend’s face. Or if he did, he paid it no mind. There was no such thing as delicacy when it came to murder. “I’m sorry to say, my friend, but this is a career murderer. It’s likely no simple missing persons case.”
I looked at Thomas, searching his expression for anything he wasn’t saying. When he met my gaze, my stomach dropped. This career murderer was undoubtedly the same one we sought.
Poor Noah was unaware he was now tracking the most notorious killer of our time.
THIRTY-FIVE
DARK CREATURES
GRANDMAMA’S ESTATE
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
12 FEBRUARY 1889
It seemed a terrible contrast to be so cozy and snug while reading about missing women who were probably dead. I stared down at my notes, nearly going cross-eyed trying to find a substantial clue that might link our case to Noah’s. The missing women were of ages ranging from nineteen to thirty. Hair color and build varied as much as their backgrounds. The only connection they seemed to share was that they all up and vanished one day, never to be heard from again.
I hadn’t realized I’d pressed my nib so hard until ink splattered across the page. I glanced up sheepishly, but Thomas seemed more worried than amused. Honestly, I was growing more worried with each passing hour, too.
Purplish black shadows under my eyes gave away how little I’d been sleeping. Though I was exhausted each night, my mind never ceased. It was a constant wheel of tension. Nathaniel. Jack the Ripper. Miss Whitehall. His Grace, Lord Cresswell. Missing women. Thomas. Uncle. Each person brought on their own set of worries until I was sitting up in bed, gasping for breath.
“I believe we ought to set this aside for tomorrow,” Thomas said, his attention still fixed on my face. Knowing him, he probably read each of my thoughts before I even had them. “It’s getting late, and while you may not require beauty’s rest, I like to keep myself as pretty as possible.”
I nearly snorted. Sleep. As if I could tumble blissfully into the arms of rest when my world was utter chaos. I flipped to the next page of my brother’s journal and hesitated. It was the only page that had been folded over on itself—almost as if it were hiding.
Or marking the spot for someone to easily find.
“Audrey Rose?”
“Hmm?” I glanced up briefly, turning my attention straight back to the journal. A note scrawled in my brother’s hand stared back at me. It almost read like a poem, though it was only the same sentence written on different lines in different intervals.
A burning sensation gnawed at the pit of my stomach.
I am guilty
of many sins, though
murder is
not one of them.
I am guilty of many sins,
though murder is not one of them.
I am guilty of many sins, though murder is not one of them.
If this were true… I closed my eyes against the sudden feeling of the ceiling dropping down. I breathed in slowly and let it out. If I didn’t calm myself now, I’d experience those waking terrors again. But if Nathaniel was being honest…
“I said I’m turning in for the evening, Wadsworth. Would you care to join me?”
“Mmmh.” I tapped the end of my pen against the table; it was strange for my brother to have so many articles about missing women if he didn’t harm them. I still didn’t understand his role in this mess, but by his own hand, he hadn’t murdered anyone. Whether or not he could be believed was another story altogether. It might simply be another well-constructed mask he’d created to disguise who he truly was.
“I’ve decided to farm spiders. I think training them to dance to show tunes will bring in a hefty sum. It may also cure me of my phobia. Unless you think dancing roosters are better.”
I tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear, half listening to Thomas and half staring at the confession. The more I uncovered, the less I knew anything for certain.
“Once, I hung naked upside down from the rafters, pretending to be a bat. Isn’t that interesting?”
“Mm-hm?”
“Wadsworth. I have a confession to make. It’s something I ought to have mentioned sooner. I am shamelessly addicted to reading romance novels. I may even shed a tear or two at their conclusion. What can I say? I’m a fool for a happy ending.”
“I know.” I pulled my attention from the journal and fought a smile. “Liza told me.”
“That scourge!” He feigned being upset, clearly pleased he’d wrested me from work. “She promised to not say a word.”
“Oh, not to worry, my friend. She more or less just showed me your secret stash under the bed. Ravished and Ravenous sounded like an interesting read. Would you care to discuss it?”
A troublesome smile played over his lips. If I expected him to feel shy about his reading tastes, I was hopelessly mistaken. “I’d much prefer to show you how it ends.”
“Thomas,” I warned. He mimed locking his mouth and instead of tossing away his imaginary key, he placed it in his inside pocket, patting the front of his jacket. “What do you make of this? ‘I am guilty of many sins, though murder is not one of the
m.’”
“Your brother wrote that?” Thomas scratched the side of his head. “Honestly, I don’t know what to make of it. Nathaniel seemed to be Jack the Ripper, especially when we confronted him that night in his laboratory. Since we’ve got more murders done by the same hand, and he is most certainly deceased, we now know that his involvement in the actual slayings was a lie. At least in part. Who knows what else he’s lied about?”
Frustrated, I returned to my work. I wasn’t sure how long had passed, perhaps only minutes, but a similarity finally caught my attention. I set my journal aside and searched the newspaper. There. Quite a few of the women in both London and Chicago were either off to work or inquiring after a job. It was a tiny connection, but it was the only one that might be worth following. I read over the article about the latest missing woman in Chicago.
Her last known whereabouts was exiting the train near the World’s Fair. I scribbled her information down, hating that there wasn’t more to do. I wanted to scour the streets, knocking on doors and demanding people take notice. These were daughters. Sisters. Friends. They were people who were loved and missed. A few moments later, I found another missing notification. A Julia Smythe. She and her young daughter, Pearl, hadn’t been seen since Christmas Eve.
I scribbled another note. Thomas fell asleep at the table, arms sprawled out in front of him, snoring ever so slightly. Despite my work, I grinned.
An hour later, the fire popped, waking him. He glanced around, coming alert as if someone had snuck into this room and attacked us. Once he relaxed and fully woke up, he settled his attention on me. “What is it?”
I pushed over several articles I’d clipped out from the papers.
“Why don’t the police care?” I asked. “Why aren’t more people out combing the streets?” I held up my parchment. On it alone there were nearly thirty women, gone in the span of a few weeks. “This is absurd. At this rate, a few hundred will have vanished in a year’s time. When will it be enough for them to investigate?”
“Do you recall what happened when the lights all came on at once at the fair?” Thomas asked, all traces of tiredness now gone.
It was an odd segue, but I nodded and played along. “People wept. Some said it was magic—the most beautiful thing they’d ever seen.”
“You know why they cried? That fair is quite literally a shining achievement of both art and science. The most talented people in America have poured their blood into making it one of the most surreal places ever to be seen. The Ferris Wheel alone is one of the most incredible feats of engineering. Over twenty-one hundred passengers can ride it at once, soaring nearly three hundred feet into the sky. If something that large can be done, anything is possible. What is the Gilded Age, if not dreams dipped in gold and outlandish fantasy sprung to life?” He shook his head. “If the police admitted there were a staggering number of young women missing, it would be a stain on this place, the ultimate American Dream. Their White City would morph into a den of sin. A reputation Chicago is desperate to mend.”
“It’s awful,” I said. “Who cares if the White City gets stained? A man—most probably Jack the Ripper—is hunting women. Why doesn’t that take precedence over some silly dream?”
“I imagine it’s similar to war—there are always casualties and sacrifices that are made. We happen to live during a time when young, independent women are seen as expendable when pitted against greed. What are a few ‘morally compromised’ women in the face of dreams?”
“Wonderful. So the greed of men can condemn innocent women and we all ought to sit quietly and not utter a word.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t believe it’s just men who want to keep this illusion up. This is a puritan nation, built upon strict religious notions of good and evil. To admit the devil walked these streets would acknowledge their greatest fears. Something that looked like the Kingdom of Heaven was actually the devil’s dominion. Imagine what that realization would do? No place would feel safe anymore. Hope would be replaced by fear. Night would descend forever. If there’s one thing man cherishes above greed, it’s hope. Without it, people would cease to dream. Without dreamers, civilizations crash. Think about the police inspector in New York. One hint that the Ripper was in his city sent him spiraling into chaos.”
I stared at the fireplace, watching flames lurch up and devour the shadows. Light and dark, forever in conflict. Our task suddenly felt more daunting than usual. I knew confidence when holding a scalpel and demanding clues from flesh. But there were no bodies to inquire after. No physical mystery to dissect.
“What about those missing women? What of their dreams?” I asked quietly. “This city was supposed to be their escape, too.”
Thomas was quiet a moment. “Which is all the more reason for us to fight for them now.”
I grabbed my paper, renewed in our mission. If a fight was what this murderer was after, a fight was precisely what he’d get. I’d not give up until breath left my body.
It was near midnight when I spotted a detail I’d overlooked. Miss Julia Smythe, the missing woman with a child, had last been seen leaving her job at a pharmacy jewelry counter in the Englewood section of Chicago. I rubbed at my eyes. It wasn’t much, but at least we had a goal for tomorrow—a hint of a plan. We could inquire around that neighborhood and see if anyone saw anything out of the ordinary.
Thomas watched, his gaze questioning, as I picked up the pieces of newspaper clippings and tucked them into Nathaniel’s journals that also contained missing women.
“I’m bringing this to Uncle,” I said. “He’s the one who’s taught us about there being no coincidences in murder. If he was unsure of the Frankenstein code, then this will be a bit harder for him to ignore. Something is happening here. It’s only a matter of time before bodies turn up.”
Birds of the crow family: four figures, including a crow, a raven and a rook
THIRTY-SIX
MURDER OF CROWS
SOUTH SIDE
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
13 FEBRUARY 1889
Uncle, Thomas, and I walked into police headquarters, appearing like a murder of crows, swooping in with our black cloaks and sharp eyes. The sound of my cane reminded me of the tapping of Edgar Allan Poe’s famous raven. I hoped the Chicago police would fear us haunting them forevermore should they ignore our evidence. Someone had to hold them accountable for their lack of effort. I was thrilled Uncle was back on our side.
It hadn’t taken him long to start twisting the ends of his mustache when I’d showed him each piece of new evidence. He’d agreed: there was undoubtedly a career murderer stalking these streets. Young women didn’t simply vanish on their own. At least not in the staggering numbers of the last few weeks. Someone was preying on them.
A lack of bodies troubled Uncle. He wondered where the murderer kept them. Surely he hadn’t dug over thirty graves within the city of Chicago. So where were they? He didn’t want to connect the crimes to Jack the Ripper without further proof, but even he couldn’t deny the underlying suspicion that we were getting close. And now we were about to demand answers.
Uncle paused at a desk where a young woman sat, typing up correspondence.
“Good morning. I’m Dr. Jonathan Wadsworth, forensic coroner in London. I rang earlier.” He cleared his throat when she still hadn’t looked up. “Is the general inspector in?”
The young woman slid her gaze from Uncle to Thomas before landing on me. She shook her head. Back in England, Uncle’s name meant something. We were no longer in England and her blank stare indicated she’d never heard of the famed forensic man. Odd, since he was mentioned in conjunction with the Ripper murders worldwide.
“I’m sorry,” she said, not sounding apologetic at all, but still polite. “Mr. Hubbard is currently indisposed. May I take down a message?”
I studied the young woman. Young. Independent. Someone who craved to earn her own way without relying on anyone else. I imagined she wasn’t originally from this city and had left comfort an
d familiarity behind with her loved ones. She was precisely the sort of person who appealed to our murderer. She very well could be next. Anyone could.
“It’s quite urgent,” I said. “We believe we’ve got information that might be beneficial to him regarding several missing women.”
She seemed to hesitate at that, her own attention traveling over me with the same curiosity I’d shown her. I must seem equally intriguing—a young woman working with a forensic coroner. For a moment, I thought she’d break protocol for us.
“He really is indisposed,” she finally said. “Do you have a card or an address he can use to contact you?”
Uncle stayed behind to make sure she’d taken his message and address down, while Thomas and I waited outside the building. Sunshine tried shoving its way through a thick wall of clouds. Its attempt at getting through was going as well as ours was at present.
“What are we supposed to do?” I asked, poking holes in the snow with my cane. “Sit around, sipping tea and eating cake, until a body turns up?”
“We could try speaking with friends of the missing women.” Thomas watched me stamp at the snow. “Though perhaps we can wait a bit.”
I glared at him. “You’re not suggesting I’m incapable, are you?”
Without care or concern for the people walking past us on the street, Thomas tugged me by my overcoat until we were close enough to share breath. “You, my dear, are more capable than any person I’ve ever had either the pleasure—or displeasure in most cases—of meeting.” He kissed my forehead. “I’m suggesting we see what Noah’s come to say.”
“Noah?”
He smiled down at me. “He sent a telegram this morning. He has new information he wants to share in person.”
“Hey, you two!” Noah loped through the snow, his infectious smile in place. He held fast to his hat as he crossed the busy sidewalk and paused in front of us. “Have any luck?” He nodded toward the police station. After scanning the holes I’d punched in the snow, he answered his own question. “Don’t take it personally. No one in this city wants to acknowledge bad stuff is happening. They think it’ll scare people away from the illustrious White City. As if anything would keep people away from the Ferris Wheel.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m heading there now and thought you’d like to come.”
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