The Diabolical Miss Hyde (38 page)

Not
Henry's daughters
.

And after all these years, in a starlit flash of
stupid
that staggers me cold, I get it.

Eliza reeled, her vision blurring.
Lizzie, where are you? I need you. Come back!

But Lizzie just laughed and sang, a caged lunatic.
Cockles and mussels, a-live, alive-OOH!

“We are, aren't we?” Eliza's voice croaked like rusted iron, crumbling and useless. “You and Madeleine were . . . We're your child. Not Henry's.”

“Henry's gone,” Edward Hyde said flatly. “Dissolved. E-
vap
orated. There's only me, his shadow.”

“But my father died,” she protested, sick. All these years, she'd believed . . . “How can you even exist? I attended the funeral, there's a tomb . . .”

“An empty hole. Fine show, though, weren't it? All those smart black horses with feathered plumes. Henry would've approved, I'm certain, if he'd been there.” A snort of glee. “Which he was. Sort of. Ha!”

“You forged his testament.” The realization rinsed her wits thin. “‘My friend and benefactor.' You wrote that.”

“A good ruse, eh? 'Twas Marcellus's idea. What was I supposed to do, leave you an orphan? You're my blood.” He
winked, devilish. “Didn't you figure it out, my sweet? Never wonder where Lizzie came from?”

“The elixir.” Her innocent trust seemed so foolish now. “You created her when you gave me the elixir.”

“I gave you the elixir because you were already splitting in two.” The ghost of anger long suppressed flitted dark wings over his face. “Don't you remember? She was fighting to get out. You were mad with it. I didn't break you. I
saved
you.” Light as a grotesque fairy, Mr. Hyde hopped to his feet, made an elegant if crooked gentleman's bow, and tossed his dented hat into the crowd. “Shall we dance?”

And he stole her unresisting hands and whirled her into his embrace.

The maudlin carousel organ erupted into a mad circus waltz. He was short, his chin on a level with hers. Dizzy, she clutched at him, ready to stumble . . . but as if by magic, her clumsy feet found the steps. The crowd parted to give them space, a drunken parody of the dance at a wedding breakfast.

He danced gracefully, despite his hunched back. His arm was strong about her waist, his scent—leather, tobacco, a whiff of sweet alchemy—redolent with memory. A little girl's memory, the gruff-voiced shadow behind the curtain. An adolescent's memory, a whirlwind of exhilaration and danger, the first taste of that dark and bitter drink. A woman's memory, cautious, eager to please, yet . . .

He touched his forehead to hers, oddly fond. Not lascivious. Rather, affectionate. “Told you we'd waltz by candlelight,” he murmured. “You're very pretty, Eliza.”

I can't abide ugliness,
whispered Mr. Todd in her memory.
She blinked, the scents and lights making her woozy. “Are you my angel of ruin, then? You and my mother . . .”

“I
loved
your mother.” Hyde's grip clenched tighter. “I'd have given anything for her. I wanted her to live, but she died. Oh, how she
died,
that woman. A proper damn tragedy.”

“But—”

He laughed and buried his nose in her hair to inhale. “Christ, you smell just like her. In love with my own wife. Pathetic.” He grunted, embarrassed. “Love hurts, when you're like us. Remember that. It's raw and it's ugly and it bleeds.”

Let me show you.
Her head swam, feverish.
Let me show you how I love you . . .

“But she didn't love me,” Hyde added brutally. “Not for long. She was young, she longed for adventure and excitement and wild nights of pleasure, but . . . I frightened her. In the end, she wanted
him
. After all I'd shown her, all we'd done together. And you, my beautiful girls.”

Eliza fought to catch her breath as he twirled her faster. “Did she know?”

“That you were mine? In her heart. It was Henry who refused to admit it. Afraid you'd inherit his . . .
affliction
.” A rough grunt of disgust. “That's what he called me. God-rotted hypocrite is what he was. Wanted to share in the fun without getting his hands dirty. Spend the night drinking and whoring and worse, then turn up next morning at Harley Street fresh as a daisy, with nary a wrinkle on his conscience.” Their lilting steps quickened, her skirts fanning out. “Doesn't work like that. I'm no one's plaything. Not Eddie Hyde.”

“And the night Madeleine died?” She hardly dared ask. “Do you know . . . ?”

“She broke my heart.” A growl, rough on Eliza's cheek. “Accidents happen. Let that be a warning.”

Icy claws tore into her chest.

We had the devil's own trouble . . .

An accident, Henry. Happens all the time . . .

Shadow doesn't always behave . . .

Why does everyone assume it's the husband?

“You killed her.” She fought, but he crushed her tightly, whirled her faster, the music galloping wilder, more frantic. “You killed her, and Henry and Marcellus covered it up. And then you killed Henry . . .”

“Henry killed
himself
.” He twirled her at arm's length, then pulled her close. She was breathing hard against his chest. He seemed to relish it. “With
aqua vitae,
my sweet,” he whispered in her ear, and a smile licked his voice with glee. “He tried to get rid of me. They all tried. Here endeth the lesson.”

“Let me go.” She wriggled, but he was too strong. Her head throbbed, organ notes pounding her skull in discord. She'd made a life out of seeking justice for murdered women, trying to save a mother who could never be saved. And now her own father—God help her—her
real
father had turned out to be the enemy.

“Henry and I could've lived together, Eliza. We could've shared her. But no, he had to have everything
his
way.” At last, the music crescendoed and Mr. Hyde bowed to her, coat skirts brushing the floor. The crowd cheered, raucous.

He kissed her hands, one after the other. “I took care of you, daughter.” His words nearly escaped her in the din. “I made you respectable. Don't forget that.”

“Then why?” Her throat ached, stubborn. “If you don't
want this for me, then why have Marcellus spoil my remedy? Why let me suffer?”

Someone threw Hyde his hat, and he jammed it on and tweaked the brim. “Because you need to realize that you can share, too. Lizzie loves you, in her way. Don't shut her out.” His gaze blackened, thundery. Such an evilly handsome man. Such corruption. “Don't make my mistakes, Eliza. Mine and Henry's. It'll only end in blood.”

Eliza's eyes stung, and she yanked her hand away and fled.

Now that she was out of the King's sight—beyond his strange, invisible aura—the crowd closed in, careless. Eliza fought her way through, barely noticing the elbows and knees and sharp fingers that jabbed at her body. Her hair hung in knots, torn loose by the
change
. She didn't care.

Raw emotion clogged her throat, blinded her, filled her ears with screaming. Justice be damned. She burned for revenge. To make him scream and burn and suffer for what he'd done.

Her life was built on a lie. Her scientific rigor, the murders she'd solved . . . none of it meant anything. And it was all his fault.

Don't shut her out.
Hyde's words rang an ugly carillon. She despaired. What was she supposed to do? Set Lizzie free whenever the mood struck? Let her do whatever she pleased?

Things like stalk Billy Beane. Attack anyone who threatened her. Frighten the tripe out of Marcellus Finch, who for all his lies had stood by Eliza when she'd had no one else in the world.

And as for the other thing . . . Her cheeks burned, even though no one watched. Lizzie was a flirtatious, worldly woman. Never even mind her friends in Seven Dials—could Eliza be Lafayette's lover? His mistress? Tempt an evil fate in some rust-ringed dungeon—or a bloody one at the mercy of a wolf?

Stop it,
Lizzie hissed.
That's mine.
He's
mine.

Eliza's head throbbed inside, bruised. As if Lizzie punched and kicked, a struggling animal trapped in a sack, clawing, bleeding . . .

Dazed, Eliza shook her head, but it wouldn't clear. Lafayette was a mistake, a moment of weakness. One of those accidents that happen . . .

Or had she secretly wanted it all along? Had she sought it out, tempted like Henry to enjoy dark pleasures without consequences? Did
we
seek it out, hell,
I
sought it out, yes,
me,
us-I-her-we-
me,
and if I do it again, who's gonna stop me, Eliza? You?

She fights me, but I swipe her aside. I rake out the rest of my hair, and her twisted pins drop to the floor, lost. Could you stop me, sister? Do you even want to, sweet girl?

Because in truth, we don't give a rat's arse what they all think, neither of us. Eliza with her funny gadgets and doctor's bag. Me and my cherry skirts and saucy grin.

And you know what? Remy Lafayette might be a strange one—a dangerous one, for all his manners—but he don't judge us for being different. He accepts us.

I like you just the way you are . . .
A shiver spills through me, warm yet chilly, the spidery kiss of absent crimson hair . . .

Christ. And
I'm
supposed to be the depraved one? But I can't think about romance tonight. Not after finally meeting my father. My FATHER, God rot his blackened hunchbacked soul, who threw his wife down the stairs when she wouldn't have him and then cried over her corpse. Who gave Eliza a reason to live, but with the same careless hands snatched it away.

The rage bubbles inside me, a boiling volcano ready to explode. I want to rip his lying throat out and bathe in his BLOOD. I want to run laughing beside him under blazing stars, live as he lives, do as he does. I want to fall weeping at his feet and beg him to love me, just for an hour, the way he loves
her
.

Jesus on a purple-arsed donkey. Where the hell's the gin in this madhouse? That's what I'd like to know.

Behind me, the carousel organ has broken into a fierce fairy reel that makes me shudder and hurry on. I've heard the stories. Is this Rats' Castle that kind of place? Don't drink the wine, don't eat the fair folk's enchanted food, or you'll be stuck here for years at some uppity fairy bitch's whim like Tam friggin' Lin. Dance to their magical melody, and you'll dance forever.

I push through the jabbering masses to what looks like a bar, a ragged wooden bench lashed between two poles. Behind it, barrels and vats, bottles of liquid pink and green and gold, bales of strange gear. A fat leprechaun teeters on a stool, solemnly poking his fingers into a yellow-faced bloke's long droopy ears. A scaly snake-faced girl licks my shoulder with her forked tongue, and I shove her away . . .

Wild black hair, mismatched dark eyes.

Johnny pushes a cup of gin towards me. “Never thought to see you here.”

I can't help but stare. The strange fey light gloats over him, lights up his
weird
with an eerie radiance, and I'm damned if I know how anyone ever thinks this man is ordinary. His hair's shredded velvet, his skin shines like pearls, and between his long fingers, shadows whisper and dance. He's luminous. Magical.

“You neither.” I finger the cup, odd reluctance circling like hungry sharks in my head. I ache. I'm weary, and I long for a friend. I want to open my soul, tell him everything, lean on his warm sweet shoulder and say, my father's a murderer and I'm going right the same way, let's drink ourselves stupid and love each other to black-scarred oblivion.

But all of a moment, I'm twitchy. He's cagey, silent. Not so charming as usual. Something ain't right.

His cock-eyed gaze rolls away, just for a second. And I know.

“Oh, hell.” My mouth parches with a thirst so deep I want to scream, and there's a ragged black hole where a moment ago my heart used to be. I shove the cup aside, and it spills, dark on the wooden bench like blood.

“Lizzie—”

“All this time, you knew.” My eyes burn, acid-bright, and something inside my head
squeezes
. I grit my teeth. “Why didn't you
tell
me?”

“I wanted to!” He rakes at his hair, his bone-china jaw tight. “He bade me protect you. The King's the King. Ain't no defying him.”

He never could convince me with a lie. I believe him, and I love him for it. But the devil take me, I hate him, too. And Lizzie don't never forgive.

“So what, you been spying on me, is that it? All these years.”

Johnny don't answer.

I know it ain't fair, but my hair crackles with spite, and I say it anyway. “And what about fucking me? Did he bid you do that, too?”

His black gaze melts. “It weren't like that—”

Smack!
I've hit him. Like a girl, right across his delicate fey cheek.

He don't hit me back. He just stares, shadows and pain. Already, an angry red splotch blooms on his skin.

And I walk away.

I don't much care where I'm going. I shove bodies aside, not fussed where they fall. Down, down, along rickety galleries and twisting corridors into the stinking bowels of this place, where it reeks of dead breath and even the light is weak and frightened. There's dirt on the floor here, tunnels carved from the very earth, centuries of civilization piled upon itself and crushed to death in the mud.

Eliza yells, hammering at the inside of my head. Go away, sweet girl. You won't like it here.

Water splashes under my feet. I duck under a moldy wooden lintel. A cavern, where a fire burns in an ironclad hole. Acrid smoke drifts at eye level. In the shadows, figures mutter and stretch, the dark shapes of men . . . and
things
. Someone's groaning. I glimpse misshapen limbs, a distorted face, the fleshy stumps of wings.