The Whitechapel Fiend (4 page)

Will nodded.

“I have one further suggestion. As the beast seems to be attracted to a certain class of woman, we should use glamours . . .”

“Or shape-shifters,” Tessa said.

“. . . to attract the demon.”

Will’s eyes caught blue fire. “You are suggesting using my wife and my sister to lure the thing out?”

“It is the best way,” Gabriel said. “And your sister is
my
wife. Both Tessa and Cecily are more than capable, and we would be there as well.”

“It is a good plan,” Tessa said, forestalling Will and Gabriel’s next argument. (They would always have time for another one.)

Gabriel nodded. “Again, are we agreed?”

Tessa looked into her husband’s bright blue eyes.

“Agreed,” she said.

“Agreed,” said Will. “On one condition.”

“And what condition is—” Gabriel broke off with a sigh. “Ah,” he said. “Brother Zachariah.”

“This monster is violent,” said Will. “We might need a healer. Someone with the power of a Silent Brother. This is a special situation.”

“I cannot recall a situation you did
not
think was special and required his presence,” said Gabriel dryly. “You have been known to call upon Brother Zachariah for a broken toe.”

“It was turning green,” said Will.

“He’s right,” said Tessa. “Green doesn’t suit him. Makes him look bilious.” She smiled at Gabriel. “There is no reason for Jem not to accompany us. We may yet need him and it does no harm to have him there.”

Gabriel opened his mouth and then closed it again with a click. He hadn’t known Jem Carstairs that well before Jem had become a Silent Brother, but he had liked him. Still, unlike his wife, Gabriel was one of the people who (clearly) thought it odd that even though Tessa had once been engaged to Jem, she and Will considered him part of their family and tried to include him in everything they did.

There were few people in the world who understood how much Will and Jem had loved each other,
did
love each other, and how much Will missed him. But Tessa did.

“If we might be able to save one of these poor women, we must try,” said Tessa. “If Jem can help, that would be wonderful. If not, Cecily and I will do all we can. I hope you do not think either of us lack the courage.”

Will stopped glaring at Gabriel, and turned to Tessa. He looked at her and his face softened: the traces of the wild, broken boy he had been vanished, replaced with the expression often worn by the man he was now, who knew what it was to love and be loved. “Dear heart,” he said. He took her hand and kissed it. “Who knows your courage better than I?”

*    *    *

“That October,” Tessa Gray said, “there were no Ripper murders reported. The London Institute made sure to patrol every evening, right through until sunrise. It was believed that this kept the demon at bay.”

It had gotten dark outside, even though it was only around three in the afternoon. The hall had gotten considerably colder as the sun had faded, and all of the students were hunkered down in the seats, arms wrapped around themselves to keep warm, but utterly alert. Tessa had been talking for some time, showing maps of London, describing truly horrific murders. It was the kind of thing that kept you awake.

“I think,” she said, rubbing her hands together, “that it is time for a short break. We’ll resume in half an hour.”

During long lecture classes, the Academy was merciful enough to allow one bathroom break every few hours, along with some more of the murky tea, which was put out in one of the large halls in steaming, ancient urns. Simon was cold enough to take a cup. Again, some benevolent Shadowhunter had provided a tray of small cakes. Simon was able to get a fleeting look at them before they were snatched up by elites, who were excused first. Some sad little biscuits were left on the side. They looked like they were made of packed sand.

“Good stuff today,” George said, picking up a dry biscuit. “Well, not good, but more interesting than usual. I like the new teacher as well. You wouldn’t think she was—how old is she?”

“I think a hundred and fifty or something. Maybe older,” said Simon. His mind was elsewhere. Tessa Gray had mentioned two names:
Jem Carstairs
and
Brother Zachariah
. Apparently they were the same person. Which was interesting, because somewhere in Simon’s shifting memories, he knew those names. And he remembered Emma Carstairs, facing Jace—he couldn’t remember why, but he knew it had happened—and saying,
The Carstairs owe the Herondales.

Simon glanced over at Jace, who was seated in an armchair, being waited on hand and foot by students.

“Miss Gray looks very good for a hundred and fifty,” said George, looking over at where Tessa was examining the tea suspiciously. As she moved away from the table, she cast a quick glance toward Jace. There was a wistful sadness in her expression.

At that moment Jace stood up from his chair, scattering hangers-on. The elites all moved to make way for him, and there was a quiet chorus of “Hi, Jace” and a few wheezing sighs as he made his way over to Simon and George.

“You did really well today,” he said to George, who was flushed and appeared speechless.

“I . . . oh. Right. Yeah. Thanks, Jace. Thanks.”

“Are you still sore?” Jace asked Simon.

“Mostly my pride.”

“That’s supposed to goeth before a fall anyway.”

Simon winced at the joke. “Really?”

“I’ve been waiting to say that for a while.”

“That’s not possible.” Jace’s expression showed that it was indeed possible. Simon sighed. “Look, Jace, if I could talk to you for a second—”

“Anything you want to tell me can be said around my good buddy George here.”

You’re going to regret that,
Simon thought. “Fine,” he said. “Go talk to Tessa.”

Jace blinked. “Tessa Gray? The warlock?”

“She used to be a Shadowhunter,” said Simon carefully. “Look, she was telling us a story—more a piece of history, really—and do you remember what Emma said? About the Carstairs owing the Herondales?”

Jace put his hands in his pockets. “Sure, I remember. I’m surprised
you
remember.”

“I think you should talk to Tessa,” said Simon. “I think she could tell you about the Herondales. Things you don’t know already.”

“Hm,” Jace said. “I’ll think about it.”

He walked off. Simon looked after him, frustrated. He wished he could remember enough about how he and Jace interacted normally to know whether this meant Jace was going to ignore his advice or not.

*    *    *

“He treats you like a friend,” George said. “Or an equal. You really did know each other. I mean, I knew that, but . . .”

Unsurprisingly, Jonathan Cartwright sidled up to them.

“Just talking to Jace, huh?” he said.

“Are you a detective?” Simon replied. “Your powers of observation are amazing.”

Jonathan acted like Simon had never spoken.

“Yeah—Jace and I will catch up later.”

“Are you really going to keep up the pretense that you know Jace?” Simon asked. “Because you know that’s not going to work now, right? Eventually Jace will just come over and say he doesn’t know you.”

Jonathan looked glum. Before he could say anything, though, the signal was given for everyone to return to the hall, and Simon shuffled in with the others. They took their seats again, and settled in to listen to Tessa.

“We had decided to do nightly patrols of the area,” Tessa began. “Our duty as Shadowhunters is to protect the mundane world from the influence of demons. We walked, we watched, and we warned all those we could. As much as it was possible, women working in the East End tried to take more care and not walk alone as much. But for women in that profession, safety was rarely a consideration. I had always assumed their lives were hard, but I had no idea . . .”

London, November 9, 1888

Tessa Herondale certainly knew what poverty was, that it existed. In the time when her aunt had died and she was a young girl left friendless and defenseless in New York, she had felt the cold breath of poverty like a monster stalking at her back. But in the month she and Cecily spent walking the streets of East London under the guise of prostitutes, she knew what it would have been if poverty had caught her and torn at her with its claws.

They dressed the part—old, tattered clothes, heavy rouge on the cheeks. They had to use glamours for the rest, for the true mark of the prostitute was want. Missing teeth. Jaundiced skin. Bodies tight from malnourishment and bent from disease. Women who walked and walked all night long because there was nowhere to sleep, nowhere to sit. They sold themselves for pennies to buy gin because the gin kept them warm, took away the pain for an hour, numbed them to the terrible, brutal reality of their lives. If these women could get the money to have a place to sleep for the night, that didn’t mean a bed. It could mean a spot on a floor, or even just a bit of wall to sit against, with a rope run around the room to keep the sleepers from falling over. By the crack of dawn, they’d be tossed out on the street again.

Walking among them, Tessa felt dirty. She felt the remains of her supper in her belly. She knew that her bed in the Institute was warm and contained someone who loved her and would protect her. These women had bruises and cuts. They fought over corners and bits of cracked mirror and scraps of cloth.

And there were children as well. They sat in the fetid streets, no matter their age. Their skin was so dirty as to never be clean. She wondered how many of them had ever had a hot meal in their lives, served on a plate. Had they ever known a home?

Over it all, the smell. The smell was what really ground itself into Tessa’s soul. The tang of urine, the night soil, the vomit.

“I’m getting tired of this,” said Cecily.

“I think everyone here is tired,” Tessa replied.

Cecily sighed sadly.

“One carriage ride away and the streets are quiet and spotless. It’s a different world in the West End.”

A drunken man approached them and made an overture. Since they had to play the part, Cecily and Tessa smiled and led him to an alley, where they inserted him into an empty oyster barrel and left him.

“A month of this and no sign,” Tessa said as they walked away from the flailing, upturned legs of the man. “Either we’re keeping it away, or . . .”

“Or this simply isn’t working.”

“Magnus Bane would be useful at a time like this.”

“Magnus Bane is enjoying New York,” Cecily replied. “You’re a warlock.”

“I don’t have Magnus’s experience. Anyway, it’s nearly dawn. Another hour and we can go home.”

Will and Gabriel had taken to posting themselves in the Ten Bells pub, which seemed to be the central place for news of the killer. Indeed, many locals said they had seen him there with the victims before the murders. Sometimes Jem would come by with news from the Silent City. It wasn’t unusual for Cecily and Tessa to return exhausted to the pub at the crack of dawn, and find Gabriel gone and Will asleep, wrapped up in Brother Zachariah’s parchment robes, head on the table.

Jem would be reading a book, or quietly looking out the window. He could see, in his own fashion, despite his closed eyes. He was glamoured, so that his appearance would not shock the tavern’s denizens. Tessa could always feel Cecily tense when she first saw Jem: black runes scored his cheeks, and there was a single white streak in his dark hair.

Sometimes, after Cecily and Gabriel left, Tessa would sit with her hand in Jem’s and Will sleeping against her shoulder, listening to the rain on the windows. It never did last for long, though, since she did not like leaving the children alone so much, though Bridget was an excellent nurse.

It was hard on both families. The children would wake to find four exhausted parents who drew endless runes for wakefulness and yet still could barely keep up with Anna, running about in her uncle’s waistcoat, or James, waving his spoon and trying to find the dagger he had seen and loved. Lucie woke at all hours needing milk and embraces.

And here it was, another dawn walking the streets of the East End, and for what? And the dawn was coming later and later. The nights were so very long. As the sun rose over Christ Church in Spitalfields, Cecily turned to Tessa again.

“Home,” she said.

“Home,” Tessa replied wearily.

They had arranged for a carriage to come for them that morning on Gun Street. They met Will and Gabriel there. They looked a bit worse for wear, as they often had to drink gin all night in order to blend in with the locals. There had been no Jem that night, and Will seemed restless.

“Did you find out anything?” Tessa asked.

“The same as usual,” Gabriel said, slurring a little. “All the victims were seen with
a man
. He varies in stature and all manner of appearance.”

“So likely an Eidolon,” Will said. “It’s so generic that it might even be a Du’sien, but I don’t think a Du’sien could get that close and convince a woman he was an actual human male, no matter how drunk she was.”

“But that tells us nothing,” Cecily said. “If it’s an Eidolon, it could be anyone.”

“It’s being remarkably consistent, though,” Will said. “It always comes as a man and it always takes women. We’re getting nowhere with this.”

“Or we’re getting everywhere,” Gabriel replied. “It hasn’t come back.”

“We can’t do this
forever
.”

They’d been having this same conversation every night for the past week. This one ended as it usually did, with the two couples leaning against each other in the back of the carriage and falling asleep until they reached the Institute. They greeted their children, who were having their breakfast with Bridget, and they listened with half-closed eyes as Anna rambled on about her many plans for the day and James banged his spoon.

Tessa and Will started the climb up the steps to their bedroom. Cecily waited for Gabriel, who was lingering in the front parlor.

“I’ll be up shortly,” he said, his eyes bloodshot. “I just want to read the morning papers.”

Gabriel always did this—always checked, every morning. So Tessa, Will, and Cecily returned to bed. Once in their bedroom, Tessa cleaned her face in the basin with the hot water Bridget had left. Their fire was burning, and the bed was turned back, waiting for them. They fell into it gratefully.