Cold Stone and Ivy (61 page)

She took Mary Jane’s arm and led her toward the coach. She didn’t know what to say, even less what to think. It was all true. Christien, her Christien. The man to whom she had pledged her heart, a murderer. Even as she walked, she began to shake as the horror of that thought sank deep into her bones.

Suddenly, a masked figure loomed out of the fog and into their path. The bulbous eyes glowed green, and slowly the man slid the mask up onto his fine forehead.

“Hello, Ivy,” said Christien, and he held up a pearl ring in the gaslight. “I believe you’ve lost something.”

Of Life, Death, and Those in Between

“CHRISTIEN!” SHE GASPED
.

“You . . .”
growled Mary Jane. “You killed ’er! You cut ’er into pieces like a bloody sow on market day! ’Ow could you?”

“Easy,” said Christien, slipping the ring back into his waistcoat pocket. “With a sharp enough blade, even tough meat like an East End whore carves like Sunday roast.”

The sound that came from Mary Jane’s throat was not a sound Ivy would soon forget, and she lunged at the man she knew as Christien de Lacey. But before she could get close, he swung the clockwork pistol in a smooth arc from behind his back, cocking the hammer and aiming it between her pretty eyes. She pulled up short, fists clenched, seething.

“Ivy,” he purred. “Come here.”

She swallowed.

“Come here or I will put a bullet in her head.”

“Run, girl,” growled Mary Jane. “I don’t care what ’e does t’me. But you run and tell yer dad who this bastard is. I want ’im to swing for what ’e did to Julia. In my bed.”

Through the fog, Ivy could see his gloved finger move on the trigger.

“In my bed!”
she screamed at him.

“Wait,” said Ivy, and her heart thudded in her chest. “I’ll come, Renaud. I’ll do whatever you say.”

His blue, blue eyes brightened a moment, and he cocked his head at her. “You know, girl?”

“I do, sir. I understand.” And she took a step toward him.

“I doubt it very much.” His perfect lips quirked but he grabbed her wrist and yanked her to his side, the remarkable pistol still aimed squarely at Mary Jane’s head.

“You will do two things for me, whore. Firstly, you will greet my brother in my name. Tell him Renaud Jacobe St. John Lord de Lacey sends his regards. Tell him everything I have done has been for him, a gift from brother to brother. You like the French, don’t you? Tell him,
une centaine de putes pour son seul.
A hundred whores for his one. Tell him that for me, will you? And secondly, for my bastard son—tell him . . .”

He yanked Ivy very close now, tucked her under his arm.

“Tell him to look for her head under St. Katharine’s dock.”

For a brief moment, the two women locked eyes, and while there was no friendship offered, there was one thing that was deeper, more intimate even than that.

Survival.

“I’ll tell ’em,” growled Mary Jane, moving side to side like a snake. “I’ll tell ’em and they’ll hang you from your neck ’til yer dead, they will.”

“Au revoir, petite putain.”

And he backed out of the alley, dragging Ivy with him. They were instantly swallowed by fog.

MARY JANE RELEASED
a long, shuddering breath, wiped her face with her sleeve. She looked over her shoulder, fought off the tears and the helpless fury, looked back now in the direction the killer had gone, dragging the young writer with him.

She was alone in the lane. It would be easy to slip away into the crowds of London, seek lodging elsewhere in the city. She could even find haven back with her relations in Ireland or Wales or disappear entirely across the Channel in the teeming streets of Paris. It would be so easy.

She raised her chin, just a little.

She turned and bolted back in the direction she had come.

RUPERT CLOSED THE
door quietly behind him, turned the skeleton key that had been left in the lock, and slipped it into his pocket. He had found Remy’s medical bag squared beside the neatly folded clothes, decided it would be best not to leave it for the police. He did not look inside, however. The unfortunate girl looked like she was missing some parts, and he didn’t want to see more than he already had tonight. And so he stood just outside in the gaslight and released a long breath, waiting for his nerve to return.

He had witnessed a scene like that only once before in his life. It was remarkably similar, in fact—the bed, the blood, the organs moved with great care around her body. Yes, remarkably similar, with the exception of the boys. He would never forget the boys. One lying as dead on the grass three stories down, the other fragile as a porcelain doll in the middle of it all. He would have died had it not been for the boys. They had needed him to live, and so he did. He would have killed himself that night had it not been for the boys.

Life, it seemed, was a mutual thing.

He turned and strode from the lodging, laying a hand on his nephew’s arm.

“Let’s go.”

Together, the men headed out under the long narrow archway that led to and from the yard. The fog was still thick, as the smoke from the countless chimneys sank to hover over the ground. It smelled of rotting eggs and made him glad they were not out for long tonight. Once in your lungs, the Pea Soup was a bugger to dislodge.

They made their way back down Dorset, past the many lanes, alleys, and narrow streets that rabbited this old part of the city. Finally, they spied Castlewaite and the coach parked nearby on Shepherd. There were a few carts as well, no steamcars at all, and the street was quiet as a tomb.

Which, of course, it was.

With his own mask hiding his face, Castlewaite was huddled in a blanket on the dickey seat, and he stirred at the sound of the dogs whimpering from within. He pushed the mask up onto his forehead.

“Aw, there y’are, sirs,” he said, climbing down to the cobbled street. “And Miss Ivy? Where’s she at, then?”

They slowed as the realization sank in. Sebastien stopped but Rupert continued to the coach. He took a quick glance inside, through windows fogged by dog breath. He straightened.

“Damnation.”

He passed the medical bag into the coachman’s hands and turned, looking over at his nephew, who was watching from the curb. Saw the gaunt cheeks and sunken eyes, the locket that beat a strong steady rhythm like a heartbeat. He felt his own heart break for both his boys. Damned the fascination with the arcane that had plagued his family for generations. It killed them every time, just as it was killing them now.

Sebastien would do it. He only had to ask. He would call on that accursed clockwork locket, lose himself in the blackness of the spirits, and die just a little bit more. He would do it if asked. He would do it in a heartbeat.

“Laury,” he began. “I think you need . . .”

But Sebastien had turned his head away, cocking it like a dog hearing a faraway sound. Presently, Rupert heard it too, footsteps running hard down wet cobblestones, and soon a figure in dark velvet and woollens appeared in the fog, blonde curls damp and weighed down by the night.

“’E’s got ’er,” Mary Jane panted, and she grabbed Rupert by the hand. “Come on, quick now. To the river!”

And she pulled him off his feet and together the three of them headed back into the fog.

IT WAS A
terrifying thought that in such a modern age a man could still drag a woman around the dark streets of London undisturbed. Then again, this was the East End. There was more crime on one street in Whitechapel than in the rest of the city combined. Union Jack. Saucy Jack. It was all the same in Whitechapel.

He was taking her through the back lanes and alleys toward the river and she knew that he was taking her to the docks, where he had told Mary Jane Kelly that he would take off her head. He was an expert in the streets, knowing when to pull her in close like lovers on a late night stroll, knowing just when to pause to avoid the click of an automabob or the sweep of a copper’s pocket torch. He had slipped the mask down over his face, so he would be unrecognizable in either event, and the sight of him with huge green-goggled eyes was terrifying.

St. Katharine’s Way now, and she could smell the water as he led her, could hear it as waves lapped against the hulls. The cables of huge cranes creaked in the breeze and bells from moored ships carried across the water. The fog was lifting over the river and she had a clearer view of the sheds, shanties, and warehouses that littered the piers. She wondered if he was searching for a secluded spot. The quays, she reckoned, were a good place for a murder, but honestly, not so good for dismemberment.

“I would like to speak to Christien,” she gasped. “Please, sir. May I speak to Christien?”

“Shut up, girl,” he growled, voice hollow through the mask. “Or I will take out your tongue right here, right now.”

“You are about to do far worse to me, sir. Why shouldn’t I ask?”

He swung her around and brought the pistol up very close to her eyes.

“Because you hope, girl. Because if I cut you now, then you know for a fact how it ends and you don’t want to believe that. And so, you hope.”

She swallowed, knowing it to be quite true.

He turned and yanked her off her feet once again.

The sound of their boots had changed, so she knew at some point they had exchanged the cobbles of the Way for wood. Wood meant the pier, the shantytown that was the dock and her death. So very near the place where her brother had died and her mother had stayed. She could smell tar and coal and the sharp tang of iron, and she wondered if there were shipsmen still at work on the docks at this hour. And there it was, the faint flicker of hope that someone might be around to come to her aid. But she needed more than a willing longshoreman or dockworker.

She needed a miracle.

He was dragging her between the cranes that unloaded the ships from Spain, Portugal, the West Indies, and the Caribbean. To her left, the basins and the docks, the Ivory House, full to brimming with tea, feathers, shells, sugar, and rugs. As they neared the door to the engine-works house, she noticed an iron bollard with an inscription—St. Katharine by the Tower. She had seen these bollards before, had once told Davis the story of St. Katharine of the Wheel, a young martyr who was forced to choose death by beheading or death under a massive iron wheel. While Renaud’s blade was most certainly sharp, she sincerely doubted it would take her head off in one go.

Their boots clanged as they crossed the gangwalk over the canal toward the engine-works house. Inside, massive steam engines pumped thousands of gallons of water for the locks and the basins. There were oars leaned up against the walls, captain’s wheels on the ground, buckets. Her mind spun as she thought about using something, anything, against him.

Suddenly, he froze and she could hear footsteps echoing on the pier. She spied the shapes of three people in the darkness, picking their way over the ropes and cables as they moved across the quay. Her heart gave a little leap as she realized that Mary Jane had not abandoned her after all.

Renaud pulled her in close, slipped the mask up onto his forehead once again.

“Which one shall I kill first?” he whispered. “My brother, the bastard, or the
petite putain?”

She swallowed. In the distance, she could see the lights of the locket flashing across the faces, across the water, across the pier. It was like a beacon, calling a ship to shore.

“Yes, you’re right. The bastard, I think. He’s the dangerous one.” He looked down at her, smiled. “He is a crackerjack shot, don’t you agree? Does he have an iron with him?”

“Christien, hear my voice. Stop this. Please.”

Renaud lifted the pistol in his gloved hand, cocked the hammer, took aim.

“My . . . bastard . . . boy . . .”

Her eyes flicked once again to the oars.

His finger moved across the trigger.

THE LOCKET WAS
spinning madly, flashing lights across their faces, across the water, across the pier. Sebastien paused as, one after another, figures began to appear from the damp night air. Silver figures of mist and shadow taking shape before him. Women and men, some familiar, some not, all dead and very angry.

“Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen . . . Good lord, Rupert,” he moaned. “How many has he killed?”

“I don’t know, Laury,” said his uncle. “Ren wasn’t in his right mind for years.”

The Mad Lord narrowed his eyes past the shantytown of wooden planks and sheet metal to the dark silhouette of the engine-house. “He’s there . . . Right in there . . . I can feel him . . .”

And he raised his palms to the dark sky. Snowflakes began to circle and bend.

“No, Laury,” said Rupert, and he reached for his nephew. “Not here. It’s too exposed. I don’t like—”

Suddenly, there was a cry from the shanties and the sound of wood hitting bone.

Rupert lunged into Sebastien as a pistol shot broke the quiet of the night, and both men staggered.