THE BLOOD IS THE LIFE
Book Three of The Redwing Saga
By Sharon K. Gilbert
The Blood Is The Life – Book Three of The Redwing Saga
By Sharon K. Gilbert
www.theredwingsaga.com
Published by Rose Avenue Fiction, LLC
514 Rose Avenue, Crane, MO 65633
First Print Edition December 25, 2017
Kindle Edition December 25, 2017
All Content and Characters © 2017 Sharon K. Gilbert
All rights reserved.
ISBN-10: 0-9980967-3-3
ISBN-13: 978-0-9980967-3-5
Table of Contents
From the Author
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
About the Author
Other Books by Sharon K. Gilbert
From the Author
When I originally conceived of this series of books, I wanted to teach spiritual warfare through the Jack the Ripper murders. I never imagined more than three books back then, but as I grew to love Sinclair, Aubrey, and the duchess—as their backstories and planned futures grew far too dense and rich for a mere trilogy—it became clear to me that I’d need to create many, many books. Therefore, I plan to release three per year in the form of ‘mini-trilogies’. Each of these will centre around a major theme. The first mini-trilogy (each title containing the word ‘Blood’) has served to introduce the primary plot and players, and it’s launched Charles, Elizabeth, and Paul on their journey. The next (each title containing ‘Realms’) will delve more deeply into the histories of the human and inhuman members on both sides of the spiritual battle.
Eventually, the entire series of mini-trilogies will run through 1948, and as we near the turn of the 20th century, it will become clear to the reader just why Charles Sinclair is so very special.
I’ll not spend much time in this section, for it’s my hope that you’re itching to jump into the action of the tale, but allow me to gently remind you that spelling in these books uses British convention. Hence, my American readers may initially stumble at words like ‘marvellous’, ‘mould’, ‘storey’, ‘judgement’, ‘travelling’, or ‘jewellery’. If ever you doubt the spelling I’ve employed, I suggest checking the Oxford English Dictionary. It is a wealth of information.
I’ve spent weeks editing this final version, but it’s impossible to ‘fix’ everything, so I beg your indulgence should you find something I’ve missed. If you’ve written to me about the books, allow me to say thank you—very, very much. Your encouragement helps during those arduous days of typing and editing.
Sharon K. Gilbert
15th December, 2017
This book is for my wonderful husband, Derek,
who daily acts as my knight.
I love you with all my heart.
“For the life of the flesh is in the blood, and I have given it to you upon the altar to make an atonement for your souls...”
– Leviticus 17:11
Prologue
6:53 pm – 8th November, 1888
Joseph Barnett had been sitting on the edge of Billingsgate Dock for nearly an hour, pondering the sorry state of his miserable life. Over his right shoulder, he could see two uniformed sentries, taking a leisurely break from their duties as night guardians for the Custom House. Inside the building’s imposing, limestone and marble façade, the famous ‘long room’ stretched from end to end; its enormous, unsupported canopy of architectural braggadocio soaring majestically overhead; whilst within the beast’s cavernous belly, an intricate labyrinth of secret vaults shielded dusty oubliettes stacked to the ceiling with seized treasures, each inmate held within awaiting liberation upon receipt of unpaid port fees and taxes.
In the upper storey regions, nearly two thousand clerks and government overseers buzzed like an efficient hive of worker bees each day, their uniform cubicles now fallen silent and empty in the evening’s dank chill. Higher still, claustrophobic attics provided cramped housing for chars, cooks, and bachelor clerks. Along the sloped, grey slate roof, a forest of brick chimneys belched smoke and grease from dozens of hearths, where mutton roasted and stew simmered.
In all, the building seemed more community than mere edifice, and the night watchmen saw themselves as gatekeepers of a miniature city. The pay was meagre, but the job brought one prime benefit: keys to unlock cloisters filled with casks of wine, barrels of whisky, and wheels of cheese; as well as sea cans bursting with chocolate, spices, tea, exotic silks, and even sparkling gemstones. So long as they kept their pilfering small and confined to lesser items, the governor of the house turned a blind eye. After all, his hands were soiled as well.
Tonight’s excursion had taken the guards into a holding area filled with casks of Boutelleau cognac. Though considered a premium wine, they reasoned that one small cask amongst many dozens would never be missed. Standing now beside the western doors, the underpaid watchmen whispered together as they shared tin cups of purloined cheer and coarse amusements—most at Joe Barnett’s expense, for they cast their inebriated eyes upon him often, sometimes pointing in his direction.
The Custom House perched upon the Thames shoreline like a grand goddess of the waters. Architect David Laing’s impressive design ran for nearly five hundred feet along the river and featured two wings that branched from a protruding central base, decorated with six ionic columns and terra cotta bas-relief figures, representing the world of commerce. Atop this magnificent edifice, rested a massive, nine-foot tall clock dial, supported by marble statues of the chief gods of economy, ‘Plenty’ and ‘Industry’. The gods’ frozen faces looked down upon the lonely figure of Joe Barnett as if contemplating his isolation. The unemployed fish porter cared nothing for fine architecture or pagan imagery, content only that he’d found a solitary place in which to think.
Joseph shivered in the cold night air, his bumpy, florid nose wrinkling at the pungent reek of Indian spices, rotting fish, dead flowers, and horse muck. A light rain cut through the thick mist, spattering upon the rough cobbles that lined Lower Thames Street, and the clip-clopping of horseshoes echoed against the pea soup fog like a familiar drumbeat, percussing a dissonant refrain of endless toil and agony.
“Got some for me?” a thin woman asked, startling Barnett, as she emerged out of the grey haze like a pale ghost.
“Cor blimey, Ida! You’ll give a man an ‘eart attack, you will, appearin’ like tha’!”
he exclaimed.
The woman stared, motionless in the night air, as if she were nothing more than a renegade statue, escaped from the Custom House façade; her pale eyes mere orbs of painted ceramic. Then she blinked, thawed from her frozen state as though touched by an unseen, warming hand.
“Sorry if I gave you a fright, Joe. I wonder if you’ve got a bit o’ gin to share; that’s all.”
“Bit o’ gin ta share?” he repeated, showing her an empty bottle. A lifelong speech tic caused Barnett to repeat the last few words he heard in conversation before forming his own reply, but his friends had grown accustomed to it. “Sorry, Ida. I done drunk it all away.”
Ross sat down beside him, the thin folds of her cotton skirt billowing across emaciated legs like a pale blue shroud, making her seem more ragdoll than human being. “That’s all right. Mary’s not with you tonight?”
Joe shook his head. “Not wif me tonight? No, no she ain’t. Mary’s go’ no need o’ me, I reckon. Took up wif another o’ them trashy women friends. I don’ understands it, Ida. Mary used ta love it when I come ‘round. Now, she go’ no time fer the likes o’ Joey Barnett.”
“Don’t give up on her, Joe,” Ross urged him gently. “Mary’s worth it. Really, she is.” Ida grew silent for a moment, her eyes on the grey waves below them.
A watchfire burnt in an iron barrel near the southwest corner of Custom House Quay. The stoop-shouldered guard had finished his wine and now warmed gloveless hands against the damp, the bright flames painting his round features in flickering shades of yellow and orange.
“Have you seen any more of those strange animals about?” Ross asked as the sentry glanced her way.
“Strange animals about?” Joseph repeated. “No’ you as well! Like I done told Mary, there ain’t no wolves in London. Not ones what walks abou’ on two legs, anyhows. Now, iffin ya wants ta talks ‘bout them wha’ preys upon the poor o’ this city, then tha’s another thing. Like them men buildin’ this ‘ere bridge,” he said, pointing to the skeletal frame of Tower Bridge, begun two years earlier. “Bunch o’ la-dee-da layabouts, iffin ya arsk me! Fancy boots an’ fancier clothes. Lily white skin an’ all. No’ a callused ‘and amongst ‘em. It’s enough ta make a real man wanna drown ‘imself in a barrel o’ gin, it is. Where you been, girl? I ain’ seen you in nigh on a month.”
“I spent several weeks in hospital,” she sighed. “But I’m better now, and I got work. I’m back with Mrs. Hansen, up on Columbia.”
“Up on Columbia?” he repeated, absentmindedly. “Say it ain’t true, girl! I thought you was done workin’ on yer back.”
“Don’t scold me, Joe. Whorin’ at the Empress means clean sheets, a few coppers in my pocket, and regular meals. And it’s a sight lot better than working the streets.”
“Better ‘n workin’ the streets? You don’ look like a girl what’s sleepin’ sweet, Ida. Is them bruises on yer face? An’ them ain’t silks on yer limbs, my dear. Don’ Meg Hansen pay you enough, so’s you can buy a new frock now an’ then?”
Ross smoothed the creases of the blue muslin, and Barnett could see that she shivered. “I don’t like to wear those pretty clothes when I take a walk, Joe. B’sides, I’ve got other plans tonight.”
She grew silent again, her thoughts far away. Finally, as the chimes of St. Margaret’s Church tolled the hour of seven, she took a deep sigh, changing the subject as if trying to distract her own mind. “I heard Liz Albrook say that Mary might be meeting her and a couple o’ friends at Ten Bells pub later. Why don’t you go see if she’ll talk to you, Joe? I got a real bad feelin’ about tonight, and I’d hate for Mary to be alone.”
“Mary ta be alone? A bad feelin’? What sort o’ feelin’, Ida? You get another one o’ yer visions or summat?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered, her voice nearly lost in the night wind’s howl. “Joe, would you do me a kindness? Nothing that’ll cost you much. Just a bit of time.”
“A bi’ o’ time? What’s tha’, Ida?”
She opened the drawstring of her crocheted handbag and removed a slim white envelope. “Post this for me, will you? I’ve already put a stamp on it. All it’ll cost you is the time it takes to walk to a pillar box. There’s one at Mitre Square.”
“Mi’re Square? Cain’t you do it?” he asked. “No’ tha’ I minds, ya know, Ida. I don’. Jus’ tha’ I migh’ forget. My memory’s no’ the best—no’ since tha’ accident in the fish market down at Shadwell las’ year.”
She grew pensive, and he noticed that her eyes followed the path of a rusting trawler as it steamed past, bound for the dock beneath London Bridge. “Don’t you wish you could board one of those boats, Joe, and sail away to another country? Put all the bad choices behind you and start all over?”
“Star’ all over?” he repeated as he scratched his pockmarked nose. “You shore is funny tonigh’, Ida. Nah, I ain’ never wanted ta visit nowheres else. London’s all a man needs. Tha’ an’ a warm woman ta come ‘ome to on a winter’s evenin’. Why don’ you lemme buy you a drink over at the Ten, eh? It’s gettin’ migh’y cold out ‘ere, an’ I ain’ so sure it’s safe.”
She shook her head, causing several of the restrained, strawberry locks to tumble from their pins. The fallen strands whipped about her face in the rising east wind. “It’s not all that cold,” she lied. “If you’ll just post that letter for me, Joe, it’d be a blessing. And tell Mary how much I appreciate all she did for me. Tell her I tried to get away. I really did.”
“Ge’ away? Whatcha mean, girl? Ge’ away from wha’?”
“Get away from him,” Ross answered as the trawler sounded its horn. Overhead, the shadow of a large bird skittered across the iron grey waves of the river, and a seagull’s cry split the air in chorus with the fishing boat’s call. “It’s not safe out here anymore,” she said mournfully, looking towards the inky vault overhead. “Something’s coming, Joe. Something hideously dark. Darker than any night.”
Barnett tucked the envelope into the right pocket of his moth-eaten coat. “Darker ‘n any nigh’? No’ safe no more? You’re startin’ ta sound like them women down at Shadwell! Them wha’ crosses themselves like some ghost’ll get ‘em iffin they don’. It’s just gulls, girl. Naught bu’ one o’ them seagull’s nibblin’ on a dead fish or summat.” He placed a brotherly arm around her slender shoulders to offer warmth and fellowship. “I don’ like ta leave ya, Ida,” he said gently. “Come wi’ me, won’ cha? We’ll share a buttered tater an’ a pint o’ bitter. My treat.”
“No, thanks, Joe. That’s kind of you, but I’d like to stay,” she insisted. “Just post that letter for me. It’s important.”
High in the sky, the lengthening shadow lingered upon the murky waters, its form impossibly still, as if the night bird hovered just over their heads. Ross glanced up, and a shiver ran through her bones. “It’s getting late. You’d best go now, Joe. Find Mary and see if she won’t make up with you this time. She needs a man with her, Joe. She needs protecting.”
Barnett pushed himself up by steadying his right hand against the stained brickwork that lined the dockside. “She needs protectin’,” he repeated, the persistent tic sticking stubbornly in his brain. “Don’ stay ‘ere too long, Ida. Keep close ta them watchmen. Does ya need money fer a ride ‘ome? I go’ a copper in me pocket. It’s yourn, iffin ya wants it.”
“That’s generous of you, Joe. I’ve got a little money, so you keep it,” she assured him, though she had none. “Go on. I’ll keep safe,” she promised.
Reluctantly, he turned to go.
As Barnett left the dock, Ross could hear the sharp echo of his thick-soled, black boots upon the limestone setts. The watchmen for the Custom House shared one last laugh, but within ten minutes, they, too, had departed, leaving Ida Renée Ross all alone in the freezing fog. The twenty-seven-year-old could hear the rhythmic waves slapping against the sides of the concrete stairs below
her vantage point, as if the hypnotic voice of Old Father Thames, the river god, beckoned her to leap and join him in eternal sleep.
High above her head, on the east side of the massive clock dial, a winged figure perched upon the head of Plenty. He’d been watching the entire time, listening to the conversation, calculating the woman’s intent. Now that she sat completely alone, the spirit entity wrapped himself in human form and descended to the street.
“Why do you sit by yourself?” he asked, causing Ross to turn around. He stood tall and regal, dressed in elegant attire, and the silvery moonlight fell upon his perfect features, revealing ice-blue irises and long, raven hair.
“I’m not working tonight, sir,” Ross replied. “I hope you’re not looking for anyone just now.”
“I look only for you, Ida,” he answered gently. “May I sit?”
His voice bore a strange accent, yet it sounded familiar to Ross, although she could not fathom why. “Do I know you, sir?”
“In a way,” he told her, his voice entrancing and sweet as he sat beside her. “You are quite lonely, aren’t you, my dear?”
“Not really,” she insisted. “My memory’s not the best, sir. Not since my illness. How do I know you? Did we meet at the Empress?”
“No,” he answered, placing his warm cloak about her shoulders and touching her frozen hand. “We did not meet there. I’ve known you for a very long time, Ida. I’ve been watching you since you were a small child. That letter you asked Mr. Barnett to post; why didn’t you place it in the pillar box yourself?”
“How do you know about that?” she asked, finding her mind strangely fragmented.
“I know a great deal about your life, Ida. I know that you left home because your father molested you in the months after your mother died. You were only twelve years old when you arrived in London. A woman named Isabel Crighton took you off the streets, and she sold you to rich men. She taught you to perform degrading acts for them. Taught you to please them, and how to convince each of your maidenhood, selling you night after night as a perpetual virgin. Mrs. Crighton shared very little of her income with you. Isn’t that so? And when you could no longer convince the wealthy bankers and businessmen of your innocence, she tossed you back onto the streets, where you slept in overgrown graveyards and church doorways for almost two months before encountering the woman who would become your friend. Irene Winters. Little Irene who shared her food, her lodgings, and helped you to find employment; though not the respectable sort. It was she who introduced you to Margaret Hansen, wasn’t it? Hansen convinced you that whoring was your only skill—that it was the only way a solitary woman could survive the unforgiving streets of London.”
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