Tenfold More Wicked (30 page)

“I agree that Todd makes no sense for it.”

“Then we must get on with it, instead of wasting time on wild speculation.”

Remy surveyed the dimming skyline. “I must go, I'm afraid. Business with François tonight. Tomorrow we'll ask around, see if we can't identify that body.” He helped her put on her cape, kneading her shoulder muscles lightly. “You're overwrought.”

“A little. Oh, that's nice. Thank you.” She wanted to lean back, let him rub the tension from her muscles.

“Eliza . . .”

“Mmm?”

“You'd say so, wouldn't you, if you knew where Todd was hiding?”

Her shoulders cramped afresh. She couldn't see his expression. “Is that an accusation?”

He kissed her hair, just a fleeting whisper of warmth gone too soon. “Just take care you don't protest too much.”

And before she could retort—or flush the true color of Todd's hair—he'd gone.

Curse it.

As she stomped down the alley towards brighter-lit High Street, bumps broke out on her arms, and her insides chilled. As if some awful catastrophe were imminent, and not only the looming specter of the Pentacle Killer.

Reeve was an effective police officer when he stuck to what he was good at. Bribing witnesses, extracting confessions
with beatings and threats, tracking down villains with old-fashioned legwork. And Todd—Shadow—was growing reckless. Deranged. Careless about the evidence he left.

What if Todd were caught? There'd be no trial, not a second time. No chance to prove he wasn't of sound mind. They'd simply hang him.

A hot ache stabbed her temples. Did she even care? Why was her scalp crawling, as if her hair were infested with ants?

Impatiently, she dragged back a wriggling wisp. Remy was right to question her judgment. She was too close to this. Todd was deadly dangerous. Likely she didn't know half the ghastly things he'd done.

But he wasn't the Pentacle Killer.

So who was? And when would they find the next victim?

Something about that letter—
Dear Chief Inspector Moron
—jabbed needles into her mind, some hint she wasn't latching on to.
A pretty new picture in RED. Ha ha!
The killer was gleeful, mocking. Starting to enjoy himself.
Searching for something,
whispered Mr. Todd in her ear,
and not only revenge. A cunning fox with a desperate need.

Oh, yes. There'd be another, certain as the sun would rise. And another, until Pentacle found whatever he was looking for.

Cold grease sickened her stomach. If Todd were arrested, Reeve would close the case, and more innocents would surely be killed. And she couldn't shake the creeping irony of blaming Mr. Todd for a murder he
hadn't
committed.

She had to warn him. Now.

B
Y THE TIME SHE REACHED FLEET STREET, THE DAY
had turned tail like a coward on the battlefield, fleeing sinister purple twilight. Doors were barred, blinds tugged over shop windows. Even the traffic ran sparse, just a few electric cabs and a horse-drawn carriage, animals snorting in impatience for home. Chill breeze whistled, stirring coils of fog across the cobbles,
ah-ooh!

She squinted at the conjoined buildings. Soot-stained bricks, copper storm pipes snaking down, sills spiked to deter pigeons. In one damp hand, she clutched Todd's card.
Odysseus Sharp.

A red-painted door, almost lost in shadow. Fire and ice mingled like dark alchemy in her blood. Steeling herself, she reached for the slick copper handle.

For the first time in hours, Lizzie stirred.
Don't . . .

Memory prickled, that wet midnight in Chelsea when she'd first laid eyes on Mr. Todd. For months, she and Harley Griffin had followed the traces he'd left, looking for patterns, trying to anticipate the killer's bafflingly motiveless moves. That night, Lizzie had deserted her, and what Todd said and
did in that strange attic studio had addled Eliza's wits ever since. Poisoned her reason.

Time to follow her head, not her emotional heart. Last night, Eliza admitted, disappointment at her failure had made her lash out. She couldn't just give up on a sick man because he'd shocked her. She owed Todd—and herself—one more chance to learn the truth: Was he treatable, deranged by a dark, unstoppable parasite that could be eradicated? Or just a beast without conscience who delighted in murder?

Bitterness filled her mouth. Call herself a physician? She'd sworn an oath. How could she refuse a patient in need just because she was afraid? She had potions, medicines, remedies. Perhaps Mr. Finch could help, they'd get rid of Mr. Shadow forever, and . . .

. . . and maybe I can be cured, too.

The thought popped up like a boil. Was that why she was so desperate to cure Todd? Not for his sake, or for justice, but to prove
she
wasn't a lost cause?

Did she really
want
to be cured?

Her thoughts clanged, discordant bells. What on earth could she say to him?
You have to disappear, they think you killed someone.
Hilarious.
I can't help you, turn yourself in or it'll be the worse for you.
Better, but useless.
I
can
help you. I
want
to help you. Come away with me . . .

Dim-witted all of a moment, are you?
Lizzie yelled, suddenly wide-awake and chewing Eliza's innards like a trapped rat.
Todd's bewitched you! Walk away, before he flicks that pretty razor and slices our throat apart . . .

Defiantly, Eliza turned the handle, and the red door creaked open.

Inside, a dark stair twisted upwards.
Criick! Craack!
Eliza climbed, one floor, two, three. Dusty shadows crawled. The smell of oil paints thickened. Wind whistled, rattling a windowpane. At the top, a narrow curtained doorway, a crooked finger of moonlight beckoning beneath.

She pushed aside the curtain. “Mr. Sharp?”

Slanting attic windows, bare floorboards. Empty desk, easel folded in one corner. No art, no papers, no books. He'd gone.

Eliza wandered in, bereft. The last person on earth. She could feel him, a misty haunting on the back of her neck, the plaintive ghost of something beautiful lost.

She lit a candle with a broken match. A glass jug glinted on the washstand. In it stood a single blood-red rose.

Compelled, she lifted the bloom to her nose, inhaling that fragrance. Imagined his fingers sweeping the stem, brushing the soft petals across her cheek.

The jug's water was tainted, not clear. A stained towel lay tossed aside. He'd washed his hands in water, not solvent. Those stains weren't paint . . .

Sting!
A hidden thorn stabbed. Blood oozed from the tender base of her thumb. Tears sprang to her eyes. It hurt unaccountably, like a paper cut.

From beneath the jug peeked a folded note. Left-slanted letters, an angry splash of ink.

You have broken my heart

She covered her mouth, sick. He'd kill her. He'd kill Remy, for God's sake. She had to stop him. Talk him out of it. Help him . . .

“Have you lost your god-rotted MIND?”

Eliza whirled in alarm. “Lizzie, for heaven's sake. You frightened me.”

Lizzie grabbed her shoulders, and
shook
her. “What are you thinking? Just kill the screeching crackbrain and be done.”

Eliza's brain imploded, her teeth rattling. Lizzie was
here.
Not just a specter. Flesh and blood. “You're not real. This isn't happening.”

Lizzie shook her again, suffused with fury. “You can't
fix
him, Eliza. He can't
be
fixed.”

“You're not
real
. Leave me alone!” Wildly, Eliza struggled free, and smacked Lizzie in the face.

Wham!
Lizzie gasped, clutching her reddened cheek. “You two-timing skank.”

Eliza's heart stung, and she reached out. “Oh, Lizzie. I'm sorry. I didn't mean—”

Lizzie snarled, and clawed for Eliza's eyes.

They grappled, a flurry of scratching nails, wild hair, red and gray skirts flying. Eliza went down kicking, and Lizzie dived atop her. Grabbed her throat, and squeezed.

Eliza choked, her eyeballs swelling.
No air. Can't breathe
. . . She struggled, ramming one knee in hard.

“Oof!” Lizzie gulped like a hooked eel, bending double.

Triumphant, Eliza scrambled up. Her bruised throat already ached. Her scalp trickled blood where her head had hit the floor. But her mind tumbled, rocks bouncing away. Lizzie
wasn't here. Lizzie
couldn't
be here. So how did this seem so real? “Strangle me, will you? You can't kill me. This is
my
body. If I die, so do you, and good riddance.”

Lizzie's eyes glittered, snakelike. “I'm dead already! What kind of life d'you call this? I'd
rather
die than live one more minute in your poxy skin.”

Eliza gasped. “That's not fair—”

“You've always hated me.” Lizzie's snarl twisted, feral. “Fess up: you're jealous. You want to
be
me, but you're a god-rotted coward, Eliza Jekyll, and you won't never be
free
.”

Rage roasted Eliza's reason. “At least I'm not a harlot,” she snapped. “Always flirting and flashing your ankles and . . . and
fornicating
where you shouldn't. And d'you know why? Because flirting and fornicating are all you've got. You're a whore, Lizzie Hyde, and it's no wonder Remy loves
me
and not
you
!”

She dragged in a breath, ready for more . . . but in a blink, Lizzie vanished.

Aghast, Eliza staggered about, searching. Checked the stairwell. Only empty floorboards, a lonesome puff of dust.

As if Lizzie had never been.

“Fine,” snapped Eliza into cold silence. “Run and hide like a cur. It's what you're good at.”

No answer.

Her gaze fell once more on Mr. Todd's note. If Lizzie wouldn't help her? She'd just have to deal with him herself.

She fumbled in her skirts for a pencil, a charcoal scrap, anything. Curse it, why didn't she bring her bag? Remy's ring caught on her pocket, tearing a ragged hole. Her bleeding thumb soaked a sticky red print into the fabric . . .

Inspired, she scrabbled at the wooden windowsill. Her nails stung and bled.
Crack!
A splinter snapped free.

She squeezed her pierced thumb, and blood welled. She turned Todd's letter over, dipped the splinter and wrote. By the time she'd finished, her palm was streaked with crimson.

Please
don't let him do anything.

We can fix this, you and I.

I beg you, meet me here at midnight.

Forgive me
.

Trembling, she tucked the note under the jug. What would she do if he came? Take him home like a lost puppy? Lock him in her basement and feed him potions until he was cured?

What if he
didn't
come?

It didn't bear thinking about. But she'd too much invested in this to give up. Too many lives were at stake.

She turned to go. She must warn Remy he was in danger. Tell him the truth. He'd understand.

“You numbskull!” yelled Lizzie. “Are you
trying
to get us killed? What if it's
us
he comes for?”

Eliza whirled. Lizzie wasn't there. “Come out where I can see you, coward!”

“You're a fool, Eliza Jekyll.” Lizzie's disembodied whisper burned her ear.

Shivering, Eliza stumbled downstairs. Evil helldrums pounded in her ears. Sweat soaked her bodice. Her teeth chattered, and her eyes crawled with monstrous black silhouettes. This was it. She'd finally lost her mind.

Chilly with dread, she broke into a run.

Blam!
She tripped on the first-floor landing. Her knees jolted, her palms slapped the splintery boards . . . and Lizzie's cruel, beautiful face leered into hers. Fingers grappled with Eliza's jaw, forcing her mouth open, and like a rabid snake, Lizzie whiplashed and dived down Eliza's throat.

Horror throttled her. She screamed, but no sound emerged. Scaly flesh invaded her, squirming ever deeper, and Lizzie's voice croaked nonsense from her throat,
Erk! Erk! Erk!,
the mindless grunting of a reanimated corpse.

Eliza's flesh writhed, dragged in all directions, ripping itself asunder,
we've only got one body, Eliza, and it's MINE, you won't get it killed because you're so god-rotted STUBBORN . . .

Someone—
something
—shoved her in the back. She shrieked, tumbling down the last few steps.
Crackk!
Evil pain-teeth munched her anklebone . . . and
splat!
we hit bottom, like the stupid sack of shit we are.

Dark water shimmers overhead. We're drowning, we gasp and kick, sinking under, and the world blackens . . .

I scream, a razor scraping glass. Free. I'm real. It's me, the harlot. Lizzie Hyde.

And Eliza's gone.

For now, at least.
Whoosh!
My lungs expand, clearing away the cobwebs. The pain in my injured foot swells, howling, louder than I can bear . . . and then it dissolves to silence. The bones crackle and heal. All good. I scramble up, renewed.

Sorry, Eliza old bean. Nothing like a
change
to heal our wounds. Part of the magic.

I don't got much time. She'll soon be wriggling her way back out, like she always does, a worm from a rotting eyeball. I turn to sprint up those stairs and burn that stupid note. Wash our hands of the whole stinkin' business, run for the hills, and never think about Todd and his bloodied steel lover again.

But I stop in mid-stride, a sly grin spreading. Leave him her letter in blood, oh yes. Let him think she's returning at midnight, and the two of 'em can piss off into the sunset. That he'll lay roses at her feet, make wild monkey love, dip his brushes in her blood and paint the Virgin Mary, or whatever unhallowed games the loon wants to play with her.

Aye, let Todd come for her at midnight . . . and Miss Lizzie'll have him right where she wants him.

I hurry into the street, where that fat grinning orb rises, just a whisker past full, to wreak sly moonlit fuckery in my blood. Ha ha! I pirouette, waving my arms in the glittery mist, and the light catches Remy's ring. My lungs scorch like acid. I want to hurl that fat jewel into the river, and wildly I tear at my finger, hacking at it with my nails.

But then I let go. I like it, my blood seeping into those tiny golden claws. It reminds me how she loathes me. How it hurt me when she said
whore
. How every time Remy favors her with that besotted smile, a piece of my heart rots bitter black.

Well, fuck her. Now his pretty jewel's mine. Ha ha!

A cab clip-clops by, a black one with a real horse. I yell for it, but the fat driver makes out he's deaf. I spit him a curse, and run on. My boots slip on fog-slick cobbles. By the time I reach Russell Square, I'm drenched in sweat, my lungs aching
with rusty-bladed fire. E
LIZA
J
EKYLL
M
.
D
.
, says her shingle. I spit at it,
plop!
Not for much longer, sister.

Catching my breath, I burst in.

Clunk!
Smack-bang into someone. I stumble into the hall stand. A vase smashes, the silver mail tray clangs to the floor.

Mrs. Poole.

I goggle at her. She goggles back. My knotted hair, my drab gray skirts. Eliza's skirts. Shit. “Well,” says I, “this is awkward.”

My fingers twitch, ready for anything. Will she attack me? Scream? Run into the street yelling “thief”?

The old lady opens her mouth, and I clock her skull with my elbow.
Boink!
She wilts, and I lower her softly to the floor. Sorry, old thing, but I've no time for your idiot questions.

I run upstairs. Eliza's private study shimmers in darkness. The mantel clock ticks, counting down the seconds until Mr. Todd slits another throat. Until the Pentacle Killer carves up another victim. Until Becky's red-caped murderer hunts me out and sews my skin into shoes.

Until Eliza fights her way back.

Not a moment to waste.

The heavy drapes lie parted. Dust skates along the moonbeams, putting me in mind of long ago, when Eliza would creep down at midnight, wrapped in pearls and her best golden silk, to wait for Mr. Hyde. His rough-sweet voice behind the curtain, his monstrous shadow on the wall.

Such romantic notions she had. That her mysterious guardian were an odd sort of gentleman, tender-hearted beneath that gnarled skin. A mentor, a friend. Even a lover.

Laughter hooks my belly. Mr. Hyde turned out to be a maniac, lord of a fucked-up fairy-lit empire as sick and corrupted as the one up top. Cruel, hunchbacked, spoiled by sin . . . and her
father,
what's more, her
real
father, not the nice safe lie she'd grown up with, and how'd you like
them
apples?