Broken (16 page)

“What’s that?”

“Stay with me. Right with me. At my side. At all times. No arguing about space and privacy. I need to be beside you, to be sure you’re safe.”

“That’s fine.” I managed a smile. “But I still get those bathroom privacy privileges, right?”

“Depends on whether there’s a window someone can crawl in through.”

“Fair enough.”

“And private bathrooms only.”

I laughed. “You’re going to follow me into public restrooms? That I have to see.”

“You just might. Now let’s go tell Jeremy. Then we’ll finish this and get home.”

Back to Cabbagetown. Four times around the perimeter, and twice down the portal street itself, and all I could find with that rotting scent were the two trails: the bowler-hatted man and Rose.

We knew there was a possibility that we hadn’t found a trail because there wasn’t one—that there was no missing zombie. We were basing our “portal closing theory” on a single two-hundred-year-old case. But, for now, it was all we had.

If we were missing something, we couldn’t rely on Robert to find it. Having lost Shanahan, our best source for information was the person who’d gotten us into this mess. So I made the call I’d been dreading.

I phoned from our hotel. Clay stood by.

“Elena!” Xavier said. “What the hell happened? Where’s my package?”

I told him. Silenced buzzed along the line, then, “Huh, well, that’s strange but, you know, these things happen. I’m sure it has nothing to do with the letter, so just go ahead and send—Or, better yet, since we are running behind schedule, send it—”

“Directly to the buyer?”

“Er, right. Just, you know, in case—”

“It
is
demonically possessed?”

“Hey, I’m being careful. Send the letter, go on home and relax.”

“After unleashing hell on Toronto?”

“From what I saw, Toronto could use a hell portal or two. Besides, you don’t live there anymore. What do you care?”

I told him why I cared.

“Er…that’s not good. And the…boyfriend. How’s he taking this?”

“The fact that his mate is marked and on a zombie hit list? Here, why don’t you ask him?”

I pulled the phone from my mouth. As Clay reached for it, Xavier’s voice rang down the line.

“No, that’s okay! Tell him I have no idea what’s going on, but anything I can do to help, just ask.”

“How about coming here and dispatching the zombies yourself?”

“Except that. But anything else, I’m your man. Oh, and don’t worry about the letter. You can keep it.”

“You’re too kind. Now start by telling us everything you know about it.”

It wasn’t much. The buyer was a human with no supernatural connections, and he’d wanted it for the very reason Xavier had given: DNA analysis and a book/movie deal. Plus, Xavier had been the one to approach him with the offer—through his black market contacts, Xavier had heard the man was in the market for Ripper letters, and paying well.

“I could set you up with the original thief, Zoe Takano,” Xavier said. “Maybe she knows more.”

“The thief who stole it eighty years ago? Where is she? Shady Acres Home for the Supernatural Aged? She must be at least a hundred—oh, wait. She’s a vampire, isn’t she? Any idea where we’d find her?”

“Right there. Toronto born and bred. That’s how the letter got there. The Shanahans are clients of hers. Have been for decades.”

The thief knew Patrick Shanahan? Then we definitely wanted to talk to her.

“Do you know her?”

“Zoe and I don’t move in the same circles. But I can tell you where you might find her. She’s been doing her business out of the same bar forever. Creature of habit. Vamps are like that.”

He promised to call back with an address and whatever details he could scrounge up.

Two minutes after I hung up, the phone rang again.

“Fast work, demon,” I said as I answered it. “Keep that up and you might find your way out of my bad books.”

Silence.

I glanced at the call display. I’d seen a semifamiliar long-distance number before answering…but now realized it wasn’t the one I thought it was.

“Uh, Robert,” I said. “Sorry about that. I was expecting—”

A soft chuckle. “Another demon?”

“Right, and one with a contact name and address, so I got a little overeager.”

“No doubt. Wrong demon, perhaps, but I’m calling for the same reason. With a contact name.”

“Oh?”

“I was making some calls myself asking about Jack the Ripper legends and supernatural connections, and someone suggested Anita Barrington. She’s a witch running a bookstore in Toronto, and quite an expert on such lore. I know her only by reputation, but I thought if this was a potential shortcut to bypass my rather slow research…”

“We’ll take it.”

Lore

HECATE
’
S HAVEN WAS A TINY BOOKSTORE ON YONGE
Street, wedged between a candy shop and a Korean takeout. When we arrived, a plump woman with a long silver braid was flipping the open
sign
to
closed
.

She looked out at us, her faded blue eyes crossing our faces with a questioning look, as if we weren’t her usual clientele. Then her gaze dropped to my stomach, and her lips parted in a silent “Ah.” She hurried over and opened the door.

“Let me guess,” she said. “You’re looking for something to protect you against the water contamination.”

Before I could answer, she leaned forward, hand on my arm, and continued. “In times of trial, many of us feel the need to turn to the mystical. To be blunt though, dear, there’s no ward that can protect you as well as common sense. Follow the health bulletins and avoid tap water, and that will serve you far better than any charm or amulet.”

“Anita Barrington?” Jeremy asked.

She looked up at him. “Yes?”

“You were recommended to us by Robert Vasic.”

A frown line appeared between her eyes, then she let out a small laugh. “Ah. Well, that’s different, isn’t it? Come in, come in.”

She ushered us into the shop and locked the door, then closed a beaded curtain over the front window.

“You must think me a dotty old lady, jumping to conclusions, but you would not believe the day I’ve had.”

She waved me to a stool pulled up to a counter stacked with used books.

“Is that too high?”

I hopped onto it.

“Excellent,” she said. “Now, there’s another one there if you gentlemen care to fight over it.”

She headed behind the counter. “Such a day. Mind you, when one runs a bookstore with ‘Hecate’ in the name, one comes to expect shoppers looking for charms and wards and other New Age nonsense.”

Still talking, she climbed onto a stool behind the counter. “Today, though, the phone hasn’t stopped ringing, nor the chimes over the door. We consider ourselves such an enlightened society and yet, when our most basic fears are aroused, where do we turn? Magic and superstition.”

She pulled the plastic wrap off a plate of bakery cookies and pushed them toward me.

“Eat up,” she said, eyes twinkling. “While you still have the excuse.”

I took two.

She continued. “Now, if Robert Vasic referred you, then I know you aren’t here for charms against the water contamination. While humans are scrambling for supernatural cures, we supernaturals are renting cottages and stocking up on bottled water. So, how can I help you?”

I started by asking her about supernatural stories related to Jack the Ripper.

“Ah, our folklore,” she said, eyes lighting up. “My specialty. I adore stories—they tell us so much about ourselves and our world, and our particular world has some of the most fascinating ones. However, in this case, I suspect you’ll be disappointed. What fires the imaginations of humans does not necessarily fire our own.”

“Because we’ve seen far worse than Jack the Ripper?”

“Exactly. If you look for human fiction and folklore speculating that Jack the Ripper was a supernatural, you’ll be absolutely swamped by it. There’s a wonderful story by Robert Bloch—” She laughed. “But that’s not what you’re here for, is it? Let’s stick to our folklore. Now—”

“Nana?”

We turned to see a girl with a light brown ponytail peeking from behind a beaded curtain leading into the back rooms. She looked about twelve.

“Erin,” Anita said. “My granddaughter.” She smiled at the girl. “Done with your homework and thinking this sounds more interesting? Come get a cookie, then.”

The girl took one, then Anita whispered to her, telling her she could listen from the back room, but not to disturb us.

Of the four stories Anita told us, two postulated that Jack the Ripper had been a sorcerer and the dead women were ritual sacrifices. In other words, the obvious angle, but very unlikely, she said. Brutality wasn’t necessary for sacrifice, and even if a sorcerer preferred doing it that way, he’d never take the risk of performing the murder and the ritual in a public place.

The third story said the killings were done by a werewolf and were part of a territorial dispute. One werewolf had been trying to scare another out of London, and hoped the killings would do the trick. Nice theory…if you didn’t think about it too much. If you’re a werewolf who wants to spook a fellow wolf with the threat of exposure, why make the murders only vaguely werewolf-
like
? Why not just change to wolf form and make them the real deal? Whoever started this rumor knew nothing about werewolves except for their reputation as the thugs of the supernatural world—very violent and none too bright. Typical.

The last tale was apparently the most popular, with multiple variations dating from the time of Jack the Ripper himself. According to that story, Jack had been a half-demon who’d made contact with his father. Not that easy when Dad lives in a hell dimension, but I guess an enterprising son can find a way.

According to the lore, the half-demon had made a pact with his father, trading sacrifices for a boon. The nature of the boon varied—invulnerability, immortality, immeasurable wealth—pretty much all the regular wishes. The demon connection, the stories claimed, explained why the killings had been so brutal and why Jack had corresponded with the media rather than commit his crimes in silence. Demons feed on chaos. A demonic sacrifice isn’t about bloodletting, it’s about the chaos caused by death. This, then, would have been Jack’s true offering to his father—not the five lives themselves, but the fear and panic they’d caused.

“Now that one makes the most sense,” she said. “Though it is, of course, almost certainly only a story.”

“And not…really what we’re looking for,” I said.

“Well, perhaps if you put this into context for me…”

I glanced over at Jeremy. He nodded, and I told her what had happened.

For a moment, Anita just sat there, staring at me.

“Jack the Ripper’s
From Hell
letter?” she said finally. “As a dimensional portal trigger?”

“I know it sounds preposterous—”

“No, it makes perfect sense.”

She slid to the floor, then came out from behind the counter and paced to the far shelf and back, shaking her head.

“Mrs. Barrington…” Jeremy began.

“Anita, please. I’m sorry. I’m just…exasperated. I knew there was a supernatural story behind that letter. Why else would Shanahan have had it stolen? I haven’t been in Toronto long. I came five years ago, when my daughter died and her husband needed help with Erin. But my reputation as a folklorist is impeccable. So, when I heard the infamous
From Hell
letter was here, in the collection of a man known for gathering supernatural oddities, I presented myself to young Mr. Shanahan and requested permission to see it, and learn the story behind it. He—”

Spots of color lit her cheeks and she glanced toward the back room as if remembering her granddaughter listening in.

“He was…not accommodating.” She paced to the shelf and back again. “It is
so
frustrating. I don’t know what race you young people are, and I won’t ask, but I hope you don’t have any such prejudices to deal with. They can make life quite intolerable at times. Sorcerers and witches—” A sharp shake of her head. “A ridiculous feud rooted in events so far back in time—” Another, sharper shake. “I’m sorry. You didn’t come to hear me rage about that. But, yes, I don’t doubt that the
From Hell
letter has a supernatural legend behind it, and that Patrick Shanahan knows all about it.”

“If he does, we’ll get the story from him, and we’ll give it to you.”

She smiled and nodded. “Thank you, dear.” She turned slowly to face me. “I don’t suppose—I shouldn’t ask but…well, at my age, I’ve learned to pursue opportunities when they present themselves to me. Is there any chance I could examine that letter? Presuming you still have it…”

“We do,” Jeremy said. “And when this is over, we’d be happy to show it to you. In the meantime, may we contact you if we have questions?”