The Queen of Swords: A Paranormal Tale of Undying Love (15 page)

There’s no need to fear
. Underdog is here!

All Wallace and Bruce lacked were the capes. The thought provoked a smile, quickly supplanted by a pang of guilt. She
scrolled through the file, which was massive, stopping this time at the heading
London, 1940.
She took a breath and let it seep out. London was not the place to be in 1940.

1
st
October. I’d been watching the sunset when tonight’s air raid began. A cacophony of horrors assaulted my ears: wailing sirens, buzzing planes, whistling bombs, booming blasts, the pop of gunfire, shattering glass, the screams & cries of the frightened & injured.

With the war on, we lacked the resources to remain in the countryside, so we’d leased a brownstone in Soho. Unfortunately, it had no cellar, so, when the bombing started, we had much to consider. Were we impervious to bombs and fire? It wasn’t as tho’ there was a survival manual for
Unseelies trapped in a war zone. Collectively, we agreed we could not go into the shelters. The allure of flesh & blood would prove too tempting.

When the sirens stopped, I stepped back to the window. In the flickering glow of the blazes, I saw humans pouring out of the shelter, stumbling over the rubble of fallen buildings, making their way back to their homes, praying no doubt their homes would still be there.
More than a million had been destroyed so far. How long until ours suffered the same fate?

“The worst is over
.” I turned to the O’Lyrs, who sat white-faced on the davenport behind me. “For now, anyway.”

Gut in knots, she threw another glance at his sleeping form. Did she dare read anymore? As much as she yearned to, she still needed to come up with a way to keep him from going back to Scotland. She checked the clock in the bottom right-hand corner of the computer screen. It was after two. She really ought not to read anymore, but temptation was heaping tinder on the fire of her curiosity. S
crolling again, she stopped when she reached 1941.

19
th
January. I can’t go on watching from the sidelines while Hitler perpetrates his evil on the world. It’s still my world & I’m still able-bodied. I mean, bloody hell. Don’t I stand a better chance of surviving the war than most? & what if I don’t? So bloody what? Who is there to mourn the loss? So, after weighing the pros & cons of military life, I’ve decided to take the plunge.

He
’d enlisted? What a brave, selfless, and incredibly stupid thing to do. She bit her lip as she read on about him going back to Scotland, joining the Argyle & Sutherland, training at Stirling Castle, and shipping out to Singapore.

5
th
September. We’re under almost constant attack by planes, tanks, & snipers. The sound of exploding grenades & machine-gun spray has become the background score for the drama of daily survival. Already, I’ve learned to block most of it out. I had to, especially after my friends started taking bullets all around me. Otherwise, I’d lose my mind. I can’t think about what’s happening or what it all means. I can only think about what’s right in front of me & what I have to do to get through the next thirty seconds...

She
took a deep breath to calm her nerves. So, that was the war he’d fought in. World War II. She had mixed feelings about it. On the one hand, she didn’t approve of war. Most were no more than the senseless slaughter of young men over ideological and territorial disputes. On the other hand, someone had to do something to stop the Nazis.

The weird
est part is not all of it’s bad. Don’t get me wrong. Most of it is pretty bloody horrific. The savagery—but also the bloody jungle. Slogging through muck up to our knees, slashing through dense foliage with naught but a bayonet. A noxious stench hovers like a permanent cloud. And the bugs! Bloody hell. They get in our eyes & noses & bite like midges. At the same time, I’ve never felt more alive, never felt anything as heady as marching into battle behind the stirring drone of the bagpipes or so rousing as the roar of the battle cry as we charge the enemy. It always brings to mind my Granda’s stories about the Highland charge & how it used to make the sassenach soldiers quake in their boots. I adored his stories as a lad, but appreciate them even more now. The crying of the wounded, tho’, is pretty hard to take. I’m just glad I’ve got special talents to help ease their suffering. One way or the other.

She could guess what he meant. Draining those with mortal wounds, healing those without. Bully for him. She believed in euthanasia, believed people shouldn’t be made to die a slow and painful death because of upside-down
thinking about the will of God.

12
th
September. Ours seems to be one of the few British units prepared for the hardships of jungle warfare—thanks to our commander. We’ve performed heroically, slowing the enemy advance & inflicting heavy casualties, but are frequently called upon as buffers to protect the retreating army. I don’t get it. Why wipe out your best men trying to save the rest? I can’t help thinking it’s because we’re Scots—just so much cannon fodder in kilts, in other words, as far as the English command’s concerned.

25
th
September. We’re royally fucked. Not only have we suffered heavy losses, they’ve now pulled our bloody commander—so he can teach the others how to better prepare their men for jungle warfare, if you can believe it. It’s a day late & a quid short, if you ask me. But such are the ways of so-called military intelligence.

She
made a face. Wasn’t military intelligence an oxymoron? Like jumbo shrimp or living dead?

24
th
October. Heading back to base camp from Slim River, I burst into a clearing strewn with gore—severed arms, legs, torsos, & heads; contorted faces frozen in agony; disowned hands; dead, staring eyes. Our guys. Ambushed. As I turned to warn my platoon, a bullet screamed out of the bush. The force of the shot blew me back. I landed in slop, barely conscious & racked with pain. Somebody knelt beside me & checked my neck for a pulse. “Sniper,” I croaked, “in the trees.” They took off, leaving me for dead, which I would have been were I mortal. An hour or so later, when I arrived back at base camp, nobody said a word. I’m known as a bit of a miracle in my battalion, tho’ no one makes a fuss. We all ken by now unexplainable things can happen in war.

18
th
January. The enemy came at us from every direction in every kind of rig: shorts, sarongs, ten kinds of uniforms. We couldn’t tell who was who in the thick undergrowth, so we opened fire. They fell like bowling pins. When it was over, those left headed into the jungle & set up camp among the trees. Nobody slept. The enemy was near, hidden in the bush. All night long, they shouted, “Any British here? Come out, come out. The war is over.’” We stayed put, knowing they were full of it.

15th February. Heading back to base camp, we got held down in a rubber plantation. Bombers in the air, tanks on the ground. Heavy casualties. The regiment scattered. A few of us made it back—just in time to see the camp decimated in an air attack. Some got out. The rest, myself included, stayed to help evacuate the nurses & wounded.

Feeling a bit shell-shocked,
she licked her lips, checked to ensure he was still asleep, and skipped ahead.

Don’t know the date. Those of us left—only about fifty—kept to the trenches around the burnt-out camp until the enemy routed us out & marched us behind our piper to some shithole prison camp. The British surrendered Singapore, apparently. Un-bloody-believable, but true. I could have “transported,” but didn’t feel at the time it was the honorable thing to do. I’m beginning to feel differently now. We’re treated worse than dogs. Starved, stripped, beaten, humiliated, forced to work like slaves. They think we’re all spies. The lads who’ve been interrogated say there’s no line they won’t cross to get a confession. I dread the day they come for me.

Still don’t ken the bloody date, but I try to keep track of the passing days. By my calculations, I’ve been here about a month. I’m gaunt, filthy, & beyond fatigued. But I look positively robust compared to my comrades, who get only enough rations to keep them alive. I’ve been making do with rats, but can’t hold out much longer. I have to get out of here before I do something shameful, but feel so dreadful about leaving my friends behind. Taking them with me, tho’, is out of the question. Even if we could break out of here, white men stand out in Asia. The few who did escape were caught & beheaded in front of the rest of us—a warning & gross violation of the Hague Conventions. Not that our captors give a fuck. Especially the Jap Gestapo, who beat, burn, shock, ballbust & nearly drown us to force a false confession. Many have been shot dead or transferred to labor camps.

With a lump in her throat,
she threw a backward glance at him. He was still asleep, thank the goddess. He’d obviously survived the ordeal, but most Allied POWs had not. A mixture of compassion and sorrow swelled in her heart. She’d given little serious thought to how much history he’d lived through, but now it weighed down on her so heavily she could hardly breathe. Ghastly images flashed behind her eyes. She blinked hard to wipe them away and set her hands in her lap.

“What are
you doing?”

The sound of his groggy voice gave her heart a shock. “Searching for spells
...to use on Fitzgerald.” The truth, though perhaps not
in toto
.

“Any luck?”

“Not really.” She turned around and let her gaze wash over him. He was so beautiful—and so brave. She wanted to tell him he’d been wrong to think no one would mourn his loss. Somewhere, somehow, she’d been missing him for a hundred years.

“In that case, come back to bed, eh?”

She rose from the chair and moved toward him, a bemused smile blossoming. “You really are insatiable, aren’t you?”

“D
o you hear me denying it?” He rolled onto his back to demonstrate he was ready for more. The devilish smile he wore liquefied her knees. “Come, fair Echo, and let lusty Pan have his way with you, eh?”

Chapter
12: Pandora’s Box

The next time she opened her eyes, she found light streaming through the crack in the drapery panels, but no sign of Graham. The dogs also were gone and the door stood open. She heard something then. Music. The brooding wail of a cello. She listened for a moment, intrigued. The tune was heartrending. A Scottish lament of some sort. Was he listening or playing? He’d not mentioned playing the cello, but then, she still had much to learn about him.

Her mind leapt to his
manuscript. She was dying to read more. Getting up, she pulled on her clothes and buttoned her blouse as she crossed to the desk. The cello was hypnotic, haunting. She was almost sure it was not a recording. Did he play other instruments? Speak other languages? He’d earned multiple degrees, fought in a war, killed someone out of a sense of justice. Who? What? When? Where? How? Why?

The
laptop whispered like Pandora’s Box:

Have a peek inside.

What will it hurt?

Who will know?

Did she dare? Was there time? She threw a stealthy backward glance toward the door, listening for the cello. He’d stopped playing for a moment, but had started again on a new piece. This one, she recognized as the Saint-Saens concerto—one of her favorite classical works. Camille Saint-Saens composed in Paris during
Le Belle Époque
. Had she known him back when she was Catharine? The thought sent a shiver through her. Who else might she have known? Maurice Ravel? Claude Debussy? Matisse? Modigliani? Picasso? Still hearing the cello, she pulled out the chair at his desk and sat down.

Her pulse quickened as she opened
the lid and started to scroll, stopping this time at the year 1888—the Victorian era, though nearing the end. Trembling under a mixture of emotions, she began to read:

1
st
October. Feeling peckish after an evening at the theatre (
School for Scandal
performed scandalously), I wandered down to the east end to sup. No sooner did I cross into White Chapel than a pickpocket tried to nick my watch. I dragged him by the scruff into an alleyway & filled my gullet. One hunger sated, I moved on in search of a strumpet to satisfy the other. I found a promising candidate outside a dodgy looking pub by the name of The Ten Bells. She wore a tight-fitting velvet jacket—purple & bald in patches—& a boldly stripped skirt with a bustle. Perched atop her mop of red curls was a flattish black straw hat.

“Well, look at
you,” she slurred as I approached. “What a fine gentleman. Fancy a little company this evenin’ do ya?”

She’d evidently noticed the fineness of my evening costume. I tipped my hat as I took in her bouquet: ale, body odor, blood, cunt, semen. I licked my lips. Oh, aye. She would do very well.

Her name was Maggie—Drunken Maggie, to her familiars. I followed her down the road & through a low doorway. I removed my hat & ducked to clear it. The space was poorly lit and reeked of stale porter, tobacco, sex, & piss. I held my breath as we climbed a narrow staircase, the treads creaking under our weight. She proceeded down a dark hallway to one of several identical doors.

She took me into a fetid-smelling room as dark as a coal shaft. The furnishings were sparse
—just a small bed & a rickety table on the far wall & a washstand & wooden chair near the door. The curtains on the only window were no more than tatters.

She struck a match & flamed a wick. In the candlelight, I could see she was thin & malnourished. Oil & grime shone waxen on her face, which under better circumstances, might have been bonny. My eyes moved to her bosoms—buxom despite her small frame. I turned away from her & removed my hat & cloak, hanging them on a peg near the door. When I turned back, she was pulling the long pin from her hat—a small female ri
tual I observed with pleasure.

“Normally, I don’t allow no kissin’
...but in your case, I might be persuaded. For the right price, of course. Same goes for knockin’ at the back door, if you catch my meaning. But I don’t mind a good nosh, if that appeals.”

“Just
lie down upon the bed and lift up your skirts. I need naught but a fuck. And it will not take long.”

As she backed toward the bed, the smell of fear pricked my nostrils. Why was she suddenly afraid of me? Had she somehow sensed what I was?

“You ain’t ’im, are ya?” she asked, eyes wide.

I set a hand on my aching erection, urging patience. “I don’t know whom
you mean.”

“The Ripper.” Eyes glassy & on me, she stepped back, nearly toppling the candle as her bustle bumped the table. “He got Long Liz last night, he did. Cut ’er throat so deep he nearly took off ’er whole bloody ‘ead. It was a grizzly thing, it was.” She swallowed. “
You ain’t him, are ya?”

I gazed into her eyes, a
ssuring her in silent words she was safe—leaving out, of course, that I was capable of doing to her in a heartbeat what that fiend had done to Long Liz & the others . . .

She
let out her breath, unaware until that moment she’d been holding it. She listened for the cello, returning her eyes to his prose when she heard it.

Once finished, I sorted out my clothing & set the agreed-upon sum on the bedside table. She sat up, jerked down her skirts, & snatched up the money, counting it before stuffing it into her cleavage. As I turned to retrieve my hat & cloak, she said, behind me, “Please, gov’ner
...might you spare an extra bob or two so a poor girl can get herself a pint?”

Pitying her, I pulled the money clip from my pocket, peeled off a note, & held it out to her. “Buy yourself something to eat as well, eh lass?”

She took the money. “Bless you, sir.”

It was the least I could do. She might have been a whore, but she was still a human being—which was more than anyone could say for me. She stank not of evil, but of desperation, poverty, & neglect. She had performed for me an invaluable service—however much I
loathe my avaricious needs & the revolting way I am forced to gratify them.

The morning paper is once again filled with speculations about the killings of the demon they’re dubbed Jack the Ripper. His methods are incredibly gruesome. He slashes the women’s throats nearly to the spine, rips open their abdomens & removes their female organs. Meanwhile, the police seem no closer to catching him than when the killings began.
The O’Lyrs remain convinced he is like me, though I have my doubts. Perhaps the time has come to test my theories. If the fiend is human, as I suspect, he will not evade me for long.

She
felt strange about what she’d just read. Not shocked, since he’d confessed he went to prostitutes, but bothered at some level. Was it jealousy? Revulsion? Moral outrage? Did it offend her feminist sensibilities? Turn her on? All of the above? She couldn’t really say. Still, she’d gleaned one new piece of information: he’d lived with the O’Lyrs at least as far back as 1888. Returning to the memoir, she scanned over the next few passages chronicling his nightly hunts for the killer.

11
th
November. Tonight, while making my tour of the slums, I caught a whiff of a fouler stench of evil than any I’ve encountered to date. I began to follow the dark figure attached to the odor. After a few blocks, he sped up & started throwing anxious glances over his shoulder. I hung back, keeping out of sight.

The street was dimly lit, thick with fog & deathly still. I could hear only the scuff of his shoes against the cobbles. At an alleyway, he stopped to check his pocket watch, casting about nervously as he did. In the gaslight, I got a look at him. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties & was considerably shorter than
I was—no more than five-foot seven by my calculations. He was pale & wore a slight moustache turned up at the corners. Dark hair & eyes were only just visible under the brim of a bowler. A long, dark coat trimmed in astrakhan concealed the suit underneath, but I could see the cuffs of checkered trousers & dark spats over boots. In his right hand, he carried a pair of dark gloves. Black kid, probably. A heavy gold chain held the watch to his waistcoat. The fob had a large wax seal set with a red stone. As he put the watch away, he turned sharply into the alleyway. I followed, keeping back. The reek of garbage & urine was enough to make me wretch.

Just as he began to scale the riverbank, I lunged, catching the arm of his coat. I threw him to the ground, dropped on him & shoved his face into the dirt. Blood gushed from his nose, flooding the air with its tantalizing scent. As my fangs broke free, a dark rage took hold. All at once, I craved retribution
—not just for his heinous crimes, but also for every injustice done to me. I found his jaw &, with a quick jerk, snapped his neck. The fog & the hissing waters of the Thames swallowed the sharp crack. With all the smiting power of an avenging angel, I ripped open his shirt & plunged my fangs into his chest, striking heart blood. I drank & drank, reveling in the sinful pleasure of it.

I lay there afterward for several minutes, engorged, euphoric,
and intoxicated. When my head began to clear, I felt for the first time ever, not so much as a twinge of remorse. I gathered rocks, leaves & debris, and then lit a fire. From my boot, I withdrew my dirk &—with a few quick cuts—removed the heart & dropped it into the flames. Finally, I dragged the corpse to the river & hurled it over the side, but not before nicking the pocket watch—a lure for future prey. The corpse landed with a splash, bobbed on the surface for a moment or two, then sank into the depths—unknown, unwept & unsung.

A shiver crept through her.
So, that was number two, then. The one who deserved what he got. She agreed, despite opposing capital punishment in general. A sinister smile twitched. Did he still have the pocket watch?

The cello warbled on, roving from ringing tenor to growling bass. She paused to listen, impressed by his artistry. She’d always loved string instruments best and the cello was her favorite. He’d started the second movement—the
andante sostenuto
. A poignant musical prayer. The concerto only had two movements. To continue reading was too risky. Besides, she had other curiosities to satisfy.

* * *

Shutting the laptop, she rose from the chair and crossed to the nightstand, a pretty French antique on curved feet with a marble top and three drawers. She kept her masturbatory material in hers. Did he do the same? Sliding out the top drawer, she found folded handkerchiefs, extra batteries, a gold pocket watch (was it Jack the Ripper’s?), a half-empty packet of
Gauloises
, and a cellophane bag filled with dog treats.

Closing the drawer, she
opened the one below it.
Bingo.
Skin magazines. With trembling hands, she shuffled through the pile.
Mayfair. FHM. Zoo.
Knave.
Nothing too kinky, thankfully. Lifting a copy of
Mayfair,
she began to thumb through it. The centerfold model had freakishly large breasts and a hairless muff. She wore a lacy corset with suspenders and thigh-high black stockings. When the spread started, anyway. Her name was Heather and her hero was Beyoncé.

With narrowed eyes, she studied
Heather’s mammaries. They couldn’t be real, could they? Not that he probably cared. Most men didn’t seem to for whatever reason. She bit her lip. Was he into big boobs, shaved pubes, and trashy lingerie? If so, why had he said he liked her “lovely wee tits” and native bush? It must be the truth because he couldn’t lie at the time. She shrugged it off. Maybe he just liked all sorts.

She returned the magazine and closed the drawer. He was halfway through the concerto’s second movement. If she didn’t get down there, she might miss seeing him play. She followed the music down the staircase, through the foyer, and into the doorway of a stunning room. The ceiling was high and the white walls covered in moldings and gilded flourishes, lending it a palatial feel. A matched pair of French sofas flanked an ornate fireplace on the far wall.

In the middle, on an armless chair, was Graham with a cello between his thighs. He wore only a pair of jeans, torn at the knees, and an intense expression. She watched in awe as his hand traversed the neck, pausing now and then to violently vibrato. A quiver of longing snaked through her as she imagined herself as the instrument he played.

Finishing with a flourish, he opened his eyes, blinking in surprise upon seeing her in the doorway. He gave her a heart-warming smile. “Oh. Hello. Did I wake
you?”

She shook her head. “That was beautiful. How long have
you played?”

Meeting her gaze, he
loosened his bow. “Not long. Only since the Fifties.”

“Are
you finished? Playing, I mean.”

“Aye
.” He set his bow on the lip of the music stand. “For now.”

Her gaze traveled down his bare torso, following the auburn trail southward to his jeans, which hung low on his narrow hips in an alluring way.
As her eyes found his fly, sparks sizzled low in her abdomen. Lifting them to his face, she took her best shot at a come-hither look. “Might I persuade you to come back upstairs?”

His mouth quirked and an eyebrow twitched, but he didn’t speak. He sat there for a long moment, drinking her in, eyes smoldering. Desire flared, melting her insides. He stood and stretched, gaze fixed
as if she was prey. Drawing closer, he gathered her in his arms and fused her mouth with his. He gave her his tongue, ran his hands down her body, cupped her buttocks, and pulled her against him. She could feel through his jeans he was hard.