by Erica Monroe
“Because you are,” Poppy said with absolute conviction.
Abigail tugged on her glove, remembering how it felt to be without the silk. How loved she’d felt in Michael’s arms. How content she’d been. “I want to forgive him. I do. But…”
Poppy nodded. “It’s going to be hard. Yet if you don’t go to him, won’t you regret it?”
She would. She’d regret it every damn day of her life. Losing Poppy and Moira had hurt but losing Michael would sever her heart in two. Without him, everything dimmed. The things she’d enjoyed were no longer quite so fulfilling because he wasn’t there to talk about it with her.
“Go to him now,” Poppy urged. “Let no time waste. You deserve to be happy, Abbie.”
“You’re right,” Abigail said. Poppy had been right all along—she’d just been in too much damn pain to see it. Thanking her, she gave Poppy a quick hug and Moira a kiss and then hurried from the stall.
It would take some time to feel completely comfortable with Poppy again, but hopefully she’d be able to make things right with Michael. He’d promised not to give up on her.
She prayed he still felt that way.
23
Michael hadn’t been able to find Abigail. She wasn’t at home, at the Ten Bells, or waiting around the factory to walk her sister home. He’d gone with Smithers to the Knights to warn them of Clowes’s deception. Knight had set out immediately to retrieve Poppy and Moira from the market.
But that didn’t help Michael. Unfortunately, Knight hadn’t seen Abigail for some time, either.
Their last stop had been to Wood Street. His sergeants were back on high alert, and Michael had requested that Hume and Jeffries come to his townhouse to set in place further security. Once he found Abigail, he intended to move her back in here, whether or not she agreed. This was home territory. He’d have the advantage.
Smithers smacked his hands together as they entered and went into the parlor. A frown darkened his weathered face. “I’ll go put on the kettle. Least you’ll be warm as you tear Whitechapel apart looking for Miss Vautille.”
Michael nodded his thanks, pulling off his gloves and tossing them onto the table. Crossing to the window, he pushed back the blinds to survey the street. The only sight he wanted to see was a hack pulling up with Abigail inside of it. With all other options exhausted, he figured he’d camp on Abigail’s stoop until she eventually came home.
If she came home.
He wouldn’t blame her if she left Whitechapel. With the money he’d stuck in her apron pocket, she could flee with Bess. She could finally have something worthy of her.
How could he have been so damn blind? He should have told her from the start how he’d visited her in hospital. Instead of being mad at him, she might have appreciated him coming to see her. With Abigail, nothing went as expected—he liked that about her. She challenged him. She was proud, vivacious, and so utterly full of life. She reminded him of the easy delight he’d felt as a foot patroller, content to be out in the elements, free of the classroom. Somewhere during his rise in the Met, he’d forgotten the simple joy of life. Of being understood by another person. Of no longer hiding behind a roguish veneer.
The world had been theirs to change, if only she’d stayed.
Smithers’s yell echoed through the house. “Oh, God, no. Strickland, come outside quickly!”
Mrs. O’Neal and Cook met him in the hall, but he ordered them to stay inside the house. Following Smithers’s voice, Michael bolted toward the garden. He found the butler squatted in the snow; the back door flung open. Sprawled out before Smithers was the prone form of a man dressed in blue, the bronze buttons on his uniform splattered with crimson.
Michael knelt down beside the corpse. One of the foot patrollers assigned to the house, though the man’s face had been disfigured so brutally he could only hazard a guess as to the patroller’s identity.
“Christ.” Bile seized Michael’s throat. He swallowed it back down, composing himself.
The gaping wound in the man’s stomach was probably what had killed him. He’d been disemboweled. Michael held a handkerchief to his nose to staunch the sickening stench of the man’s intestines, pulled out from his body.
Blood streamed from the man’s broken nose, crusted his cheeks, his split lips. Michael surmised that his face had been bashed in with a blunt weapon repeatedly, some of the wounds possibly delivered postmortem, fitting with the personality profile Knight had drawn up for Clowes. Killing wasn’t enough for Frank Clowes—he viewed his victim’s corpses as a canvas, and his mutilations were art.
“Bastard,” Smithers cursed, scuffing his feet in the snow. He’d turned around, clutching his coat to him, as though he could ward off the evils of the world if he was properly outfitted.
Michael pushed himself up from the ground. He often witnessed death in his line of work, but that didn’t make it easier. This patroller had perished, senselessly, needlessly, protecting his home.
Nodding at Smithers, Michael cast his gaze to the sky, mumbling a short prayer.
“That ain’t gonna save his almighty soul, Sergeant.”
Dread stopped Michael’s heart. His hand flew to the truncheon sheathed at his side. In one fluid movement, he had the billystick in hand.
Frank Clowes emerged from a shaded alcove. The youth with the eager eyes he’d arrested was gone, replaced by the hardened brute who’d knifed his way through Newgate’s worst factions.
Beside him, Smithers spun around. He gripped his flintlock rifle like a club. The gun wouldn’t be accurate in close quarters, but Smithers’s years in the Army had made him a skilled hand-to-hand combatant.
Michael was glad they’d fight together, for three burly men flanked Clowes. While he was skilled enough to fight multiple opponents, Clowes was highly unpredictable. His men were also armed. One had a lead pipe, while another smacked a cudgel against his palm.
Clowes advanced upon them. The silver dagger in his hand glinted in the dying sunlight. Dried blood coated the tip. “Inspector now, I’d forgot. ’Cuse me for not payin’ you the respect you ain’t deservin’.”
Michael assessed Clowes coolly, buying time to plan an attack. “You didn’t have to kill him. I would’ve come to you.”
Clowes smirked, malevolent glee twisting his handsome features. “I’m not one for wasted opportunities. I’m free, you see? With the Larkers, I’d rules to follow. Ain’t nobody to chain me now.”
“You’re your own man,” Michael mused. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the movement bringing him almost imperceptibly closer to Smithers. “You could go anywhere. Hell, even if you’d taken that steamer to Ireland, we wouldn’t have followed you. Not enough men for a full-scale pursuit.”
“Why would I do that?” Clowes traced the jagged scar across his cheek with the knife. He gestured to the man at his side. “Everything I been wantin’ is here. Right, Hittles?”
Clowes’s man nodded eagerly.
Out of the corner of his eye, Michael saw Smithers brace for attack. He inclined his head, tapping two fingers to his leg. Smithers would take the two men on the right, leaving Clowes and his associate for Michael.
“What is it you want?” Michael asked, keeping the conversation flowing.
If they attacked first, they’d have the advantage.
“I want to bring pain.” Clowes dug the tip of the knife into his flesh; just enough that blood pebbled at the surface, causing the mark to turn white. “You’re weak, Inspector. I’ll harden you. Craft you into somethin’ more.”
Another droplet of cerise slid down his face. “Then I’m gonna finish my work on that dirty drab. You took her from me, you and Effie Larker, and I ain’t finished yet.” He caught the blood on his tongue, grinning.
Michael surged forward. Smithers was a step behind him. The men on the right took off further into the garden. Smithers ran off after them. Left on his own with Clowes and Hittles, Michael felt the change in the air. This fight had been inevitable,
from the moment Clowes had chosen Abigail as his next victim.
Swinging out with his truncheon, Michael connected with Clowes’s side. Clowes stumbled but did not go down. The knife fell out of his hands and Michael kicked it away from him before parrying an attack from Hittles.
He bounced on the balls of his feet. A moving target was harder to hit. He couldn’t stay in one place, couldn’t let his back get exposed to the other men.
Fending off jabs, Michael thrust out with the truncheon, connecting with flesh—of which man, he was no longer sure. Hittles advanced, but Michael held him off with a fist to the jaw. He blocked a wild haymaker punch from Clowes with his elbow, swinging around to smack the truncheon into the man’s knees. Instead of hurting Clowes, the hit only invigorated him.
Clowes’s fists came down upon him, beating into his chest, his arms, anywhere that he could direct a blow. Pain shot through his body, blistering, agonizing pain. He heard Clowes caw with triumph, the very sound shattering any hesitation he might have had about this fight to the death. There was no Met to defend him here. He’d hurt, he’d bleed, and he’d die unless he fought dirty. His mind homed in one instinct: survival.
He let Clowes think he was beaten, all the while waiting for the perfect shot.
“Everybody before was so scared of Boz Larker. They never saw me comin’. Do you know what that’s like? That power of bein’ unexpected?” He motioned for Hittles to stay back, advancing upon Michael. “You went and took that from me, but I remade myself.”
Clowes swung out. Michael sidestepped. At last, he was in position. He slammed the truncheon into Clowes’s gut, as hard as he could. Stunned, Clowes doubled over, clutching his stomach. Michael brought the truncheon down soundly onto his head, dropping the blackguard to the ground. Stepping over his prone body, Michael turned, confronting Hittles.
While Clowes had been trained on the streets of Whitechapel, Hittles lacked the impassioned cruelty of his master. His punches were a moment too slow. Michael easily avoided them. Hittles was a big man, not light on his feet; he intimidated but did not know how to parry. Dancing around him, Michael landed another solid crack to his legs and deflected the returning facer.
By God, he could actually win this! He stopped considering the angles and allowed himself to enjoy the fight. This was another round in the gymnasium, fighting against a newcomer. A smile slid on his lips as he jammed his elbow into Hittles’s nose. Blood cascaded down his face. Yelling, Hittles cradled his nose in his open palms, trying to staunch the flow of blood.
Michael didn’t see Clowes behind him until it was too late.
No one answered the door at Michael’s house. The parlor curtains were drawn apart, so Abigail peered inside. Michael’s gloves were on the table, and a fire burned in the hearth. She tried the door, but it was locked. Had he gone out? Maybe he was in the courtyard with Smithers. She circled around the house, coming to the back gate. She’d expected to find it closed. Instead, the door was wide open.
When Abigail stepped inside the garden, she’d hoped that Michael was out here. That he’d forgive her. That he’d say they could be wed after all.
She hadn’t expected to see Frank Clowes on the ground.
He was supposed to be in Ireland.
She was supposed to be safe.
But with Clowes on the ground, the threat lessened. Perhaps he was dead. Oh God, she hoped so, even if it made her wicked to wish for another man’s demise. Please, Lord, let the suffering be over.
Transfixed, she watched as two men fought near Clowes’s body. She didn’t recognize the larger man, with his patched overcoat and striped scarf. His opponent was pummeling him. There was a crack and blood poured from his nose.
The fighters shifted. The taller man now faced her direction. And she knew, even from this distance, that it was Michael. Knew it with every fiber of her being, for though she couldn’t see his face clearly, his body was imprinted on her mind. She stayed where she was, not calling for him, afraid she’d disturb him, and he’d lose the advantage he had on his opponent.
Clowes shifted in the sludge. So slightly, she was not sure she’d seen it at first. As if her fear was bringing him back to life. But suddenly he stood, knife outstretched, and he sneaked toward Michael’s back.
He would hurt Michael.
“Michael!” She screamed out his name, her tongue leaden in her mouth. But her voice wasn’t strong enough. He didn’t turn around, didn’t acknowledge her.
She had to get to him. Holding her skirts up with one hand, Abigail sprinted forward, her half-boots sinking into the snow. She couldn’t find easy footing; the continued cold temperatures had turned the slushy terrain into a treacherous mix of ice and hard snow. Yet still she ran, tripping and pulling herself back up. She ignored the ache in her shins, the creak of her knees.
Clowes lunged.
“Michael, look behind you! Please, Michael!” She kept screaming, her breaths uneven, her heart drumming in her ears.
As she rounded the corner, she saw him turn his head. His jaw dropped. Clowes stabbed. For a second, she couldn’t tell if the knife had sliced into him. But there was blood, spewing blood, gushing blood, drowning out everything. He stood, his hand sliding up to the gash.
Michael’s knees gave out and he slunk to the ground, landing in a sodden heap. She ran toward him, bounding over an overturned tree branch. Her screams had alerted Smithers, who dashed to her from the other side of the garden, another man trailing him.
She didn’t care about Clowes, about the danger to her. All she cared about was Michael. Saving him, loving him, protecting him. Let everything else go to hell, as long as Michael was alive. Falling to the ground beside him, she cradled his head in her lap.
He did not stir. His eyes remained closed.
“Please, no, you can’t die,” she cried. “I love you, Michael. I love you so much.”
He breathed. The shallowest of breaths. He was alive, but she couldn’t be sure for how long. He needed medical attention. She wrenched her gloves off, pressed them to the wound to try and lessen the blood loss. The stench of it stung her nostrils, sweet yet acidic, bringing her back to the two days she’d spent alone in her flat, bathed in her own blood, after Clowes had tortured her.
Out of the corner of her eye, she tracked Smithers’s movements as he took on the remaining two of Clowes’s men. The drumbeat of her heart had become cannon fire, the harbinger of war. As she reached for Michael’s truncheon to face Clowes, his maniacal laughter filled the air.
She was taken back to that night. Being lifted up to the jacquard attachment at the top of the loom. The slam of her hand against those needles. The prick, the splice, the blood cascading. Blood was everywhere. It stung her.
His laughter echoed in her ears. While she’d suffered through these past six months as a shell of her old self, he hadn’t changed. He was the same attractive bastard, pushing a lock of wavy hair out of his eyes. He had the same arrogant sneer.
“I’ve come back for you.” He advanced upon her with the same carefree stride. “I’m gonna finish what I started, Abigail, and this time there’s nobody interruptin’ us. We’ll do this nice and slow.”
Michael’s blood dripped onto the ground, but still Clowes was not satisfied. He’d keep coming for them until they were dead, and even then, he’d probably dig up their damn corpses so he could torture them all over again. She’d feared facing him again, feared it more than anything else, but now that he was in front of her, she lost control.
The red overtook her. Mindless, bloody red. Every moment before had prepared her for this fury, this pounding red. She leaned her weight on the truncheon, pushing herself up from the ground.
She moved with a speed she’d never known she had. She was no longer Beauty, no longer Abigail, but a demon of an entirely new nature. Brandishing the truncheon, she delivered a swift, strong smack to his chest. When he didn’t flinch, she smacked him again.
He didn’t fight back. He smiled.
“That’s it,” he coaxed her. “I’ll teach you to embrace pain.”
“There is nothing you could show me,” she grunted, slamming the truncheon into his shoulder. “I already know everything there is to know about pain. My life is pain.”
He caught the truncheon in his hand, jerking it back. Leaning in, he dropped his voice to a whisper. “You know I’ve killed him. It’s what you deserve, you little bunter, thinkin’ you could escape me before I finished with you.”
In the blink of an eye, he had his hand on the truncheon. His grip was more powerful than hers. He gave a great push and the billystick crashed against her midsection. Her breath knocked from her. Her eyes watered. She couldn’t focus.
“No one gets away from me,” he hissed. “I’ve been makin’ plans for you. You’ll be my finest creation. If you thought before was bad, you ain’t seen me now.”
Wresting the truncheon from her, he threw it to the ground. She dove for it, but he was too fast. He scooped her up, planting her back on her feet. He held her against him, her backside to his front, the knife pinned to her throat. He leaned against a stonewall.
Thrashing, she fought him. Tried to free herself from his hold. But his iron grip was too tight. He’d trapped her again. The realization crashed down upon her, stripping every other instinct away until she was overcome with helplessness.
With the point of the knife, he nicked her sensitive flesh, and then dragged the knife along her skin. “I could slit your throat here,” he murmured. “You’d be such a pretty little thing. You remind me of Anna Moseley. Did you know when Boz cut her, she begged for her life?”
“You sick bastard,” she spat, even as the cold steel of the knife pressed into her. “She was just a girl.”
“No one is just anythin’, Abigail.” He tutted her. He turned her slightly, so that she faced Michael. “You see what I done there? He looks better, I think. Like he oughta been that way all along.”
She couldn’t tell if Michael was still breathing. Oh God, she didn’t know if he was alive. Her shoulders shook with the effort to suppress her cries. She couldn’t function.
