Break the Night

by Stuart, Anne

  “I’m not sleeping with him,” she said. “I don’t have any claims on him.”

  “I didn’t think so. It’s not really your style. Still, there’s something that feels a little . . .” She let the sentence trail off. “It’s nothing, I suppose. I just wanted to check before I started something. Is he going to be resistant?”

  Lizzie had thought her sense of humor had just about deserted her, but it bounced back unexpectedly. “To you, or to what we’re doing?”

  “We’ll work on finding the answers for now,” Courtland said cheerfully. “We’ll get to me later.”

  “You’re wasting your time.”

  “It’s my time to waste. So what are we doing here? Tarot reading, the runes? I brought my crystals.”

  “I think you should do a past-life regression.”

  Even Courtland’s usual cheeriness abated somewhat. “That’s pretty tricky. Even dangerous, if the person doesn’t know what she’s doing. I usually let Hickory take care of those sorts of things. After all, he taught me almost everything I know.”

  “And you were his best pupil—the only one with a real gift, he said. You know what you’re doing.”

  “Do you think it’s something from a past life? Have you sensed anything?”

  “Nothing,” Lizzie said, knowing she was lying, though not quite sure why. “It’s just a thought. He has dreams, visions, though he denies them. I was hoping you could find out where they come from.”

  “Yes, but what if we don’t like where they come from? What if he turns out to be some kind of weirdo?”

  “Then you bring him out of it—fast.”

  “Wouldn’t the tarot be a lot easier?”

  “Certainly. You could just handily come up with the right card—The Lovers, say—and go from there,” Lizzie said in a sour voice.

  Courtland’s brow creased. “Are you sure you aren’t interested in the man? Sexually, I mean? There’s a first time for everything.”

  “Trust me, Courtland, it wouldn’t be the first time. There’s no such thing as a twenty-eight-year-old virgin in the state of California.”

  “Well, it’s the first in my memory. Are you? Interested in him?”

  She’d lied once; she wasn’t about to do it again. “As a matter of fact, Courtland,” she said, in a quiet, pleasant voice, “you’ll keep your damned hands off him. He’s mine. Always has been, always will be.”

  For a moment, Courtland looked startled. Then she let out a little trill of laughter. “Always?” she echoed. “I’m not sure if I believe in the concept. Maybe we should do the past-life regression on you.”

  “No, thank you,” Lizzie said stiffly. “It’s Damien I’m worried about.”

  “How the mighty have fallen!” Courtland said. “Don’t worry, darling, I’ll behave myself. If I were Julianne, I might not be so honorable. I suppose I can do a past-life regression. After all, it’s not as if our current lives are going to intertwine.” She delved into the canvas bag at her feet and pulled out a package wrapped in worn black velvet. She unwrapped it carefully, exposing a huge purple crystal. “Go get the guinea pig, Lizzie. I always like watching the skeptics struggle.”

  He was on the bed, lying there in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling. She stood there for a moment, watching, realizing that he hadn’t snapped his denim shirt yet, the shirt she’d ripped open in a frenzy. His chest was smooth, muscled, and she wanted to climb on the bed and touch him, run her hands along his rib cage, put her mouth against his neck and taste him.

  Such fantasies astonished her. Damien was a man who called to her on every level-physical, sexual, emotional and spiritual. Through panic and calm, through the ages, she could feel his pull, and she wanted nothing more than to climb on the bed with him and shut the world away.

  “Courtland’s ready,” she said, in a deceptively cool voice. “If you are.”

  He turned to look at her, and even in the darkness she could see the brilliance of his glance. “‘Keep your damned hands off him’?” he echoed.

  She could feel color suffuse her face, but she stood her ground, even as she tried to think of some offhand remark. “I thought maybe a little protection was in order,” she said.

  He rose from the bed in one fluid movement. “Who needs protection? Courtland? Or me?”

  “Take your pick,” she said, turning to leave.

  He moved with unerring swiftness, catching her arm and turning her around, pushing her up against the bedroom wall, next to the open door. In the room beyond, Courtland was humming under her breath, oblivious of the tension in the bedroom. Lizzie could feel the hardness of the wall behind her, the hardness of Damien’s body pressing her against it, holding her there.

  “I’m yours, am I? Always?” he said, and there was no missing his bleak, self-mocking grin. “Lord, Lizzie, I only wish it were that simple.”

  She let her eyelids flutter closed as she absorbed the feel of him against her. She could feel the sudden increase in tension, the hissing intake of breath. “Damn you, Lizzie,” he muttered under his breath.

  She opened her eyes and smiled at him. “Only if you want me.”

  The feel of him against her hips left no doubt in her mind, despite the torment in his eyes. He pulled himself away from her, heading into the living room like a man facing his executioner, and Lizzie almost smiled.

  Damien threw himself into a worn old chair and glowered at the unruffled Courtland. Lizzie simply took a seat on the floor beside him, cross-legged, waiting.

  “There are other seats, Lizzie,” Courtland pointed out.

  “I know.” Her voice was deceptively tranquil. For one thing, she had a very basic, biological need to be near Damien. For another, she had no idea what Courtland’s psychic probing might reveal, and she wanted to be close by in case he needed her.

  She wasn’t afraid of what Courtland would elicit. What was frightening, terrifying, was the unknown. Even if what they discovered was unpleasant, it couldn’t be any worse than uncertainty.

  She’d watched Courtland often enough, so this time she concentrated on Damien. His dark eyes were full of mockery and contempt, and his mouth was twisted in a derisive smile. Courtland was used to derision. Within moments Damien’s mocking dark eyes were blank, dazed, as he stared at her rough-cut crystal and listened to her voice.

  “What do you see?” Courtland crooned in the singsong voice that never failed to make the skin on Lizzie’s back crawl. “Look at your feet. What do they look like?”

  “Feet,” Damien said caustically, with just the faintest slur.

  “Who are you?”

  “You know who I am.”

  “What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a reporter.” He sounded bored, as if he found these obvious questions exceedingly tedious. But his eyes were unfocused, and his voice echoed faintly, as if he were speaking from a long distance away. It sounded different from his usual deep drawl, but Lizzie couldn’t quite define that difference.

  “I know you’re a reporter. Who do you work for?”

  “Isn’t that obvious?” he said. “I work for the London Star. I have for the last seven years.”

  Then Lizzie knew with sudden horror that the difference in his voice was his accent. It was now cool, clipped—and British.

  “Do you like your job, Mr.—? What did you say your name was?” Courtland persevered, her voice gentle and non-threatening.

  “It’s all right, most days,” he said. “And the name’s Killian. James Killian.”

  “James Killian,” Courtland said, in a hollow voice. “What year is it, James?”

  “You know that as well as I do, missus. It’s 1888. November. It’s a time people aren’t likely to forget, with the Ripper roaming the streets.”

  “You know about the Rip
per, do you, James?”

  “Haven’t I been following his case?” Damien demanded, clearly outraged at her ignorance. “Haven’t I been the first reporter at the scene of the crime at most of the murders? Haven’t I taken photographs? Ghastly things.” He shuddered, and Lizzie wanted to reach up and touch his hand. “I don’t know which one was worst,” he continued in a darker voice. “Polly Nichols was bad enough. Cathy Eddowes was a right heartbreaker. But I think it was Long Liz Stride that got to me. Lying there in the blood, that bag of cashews still clutched in her hand. According to the prossies I talked to, Liz loved her cashews. Probably would have faced death rather than give ‘em up. Poor old tart.” He shook his head. “And he didn’t even get a chance to do his trick on ‘er. Someone must have caught him in the act. That’s why he was so bad with Cathy Eddowes, just a few hours later.”

  “You knew these women, James?”

  “I knew Liz and Cathy. See, I been down in Whitechapel, at the Ten Bells pub, ever since the second murder. The first one was no big deal—whores get murdered all the time, either by their pimps or their customers or their girlfriends. But two of them, that made me start to wonder. The police were getting interested, too, and James Killian’s a man to keep his eye on the police.”

  “So you’ve been watching?”

  “I’ve been watching,” he said. “And I’ll tell you another thing. I’m going to catch that bleeder. I’m gonna nail him, just for the edification of the Star’s readers.” He leaned forward, crafty and confiding. “He’s been sending me letters, see. We printed some of them—nasty they were, talking about eating her liver and all. But I’ve kept the last one. My editor hasn’t even seen it.”

  “Wouldn’t it help the police?”

  “Why should I help the police? I look after meself, you know, Mrs. Killian’s little boy James. I’m not about to queer the scoop of my life.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s going after another one. He told me, enough so’s that I know who she is. I’m going to catch him in the act, I am.”

  “Aren’t you afraid?”

  “I have a gun, and I know how to use it. If need be, I’ll blow his bloody brains out. It’ll make me a hero. Sell a thousand copies of the paper.”

  Courtland glanced at Lizzie, a troubled expression on her face. “Help me here, Lizzie,” she said softly. “I don’t know enough about the original case to ask the right questions.”

  “Neither do I,” Lizzie said helplessly. She looked up at Damien. He looked very different. Younger. Arrogant. Even downright cocky. And he looked eerily, impossibly familiar. “How many people has the Ripper killed?” she asked in a hesitant voice.

  “Haven’t you been reading the papers?” he demanded, plainly affronted.

  “I have. I just don’t usually read the Star. “

  “Bleedin’ aristocrat,” he muttered. “Four women. Polly Nichols, Annie Chapman, Cathy Eddowes and Liz Stride.”

  “What about the last one?” Lizzie said, certain Damien had told her of five.

  “What last one? There aren’t going to be any more. I’ve got my eye on Mary Kelly, and there’s no way anyone’s going to get to her.”

  Lizzie turned a horrified face up to Courtland’s, and Courtland shook her head. “It’s two months later, James,” Courtland said gently. “It’s January. Where are you?”

  His voice was muffled, slurred. “Drunk.”

  “Where, James?”

  “Ten Bells. I did what I was supposed to do. I took the photographs. There she was, what was left of her. On the bed. On the table, as well. Pieces of her, everywhere.” His voice broke in something akin to a sob.

  “Who, James?” Lizzie asked.

  “Mary Kelly.”

  “Who killed her?” she forced herself to ask.

  He looked down at her. She’d reached out to clutch his hands, and they were icy cold, bloodless beneath her grip. “I killed her,” he said. “I killed Mary Kelly.”

  “YOU COULD HAVE warned me,” Courtland said, in a querulous voice. She was standing in the deserted hallway, beneath the bare light bulb that illuminated Damien’s door.

  “Warned you about what? You must have guessed this would have something to do with the Ripper.”

  “I didn’t expect it to be quite so graphic. I just wish I hadn’t had to pull him out of it so fast. I was afraid of what he might do. If only Hickory had been here. He wouldn’t have panicked like I did.”

  “Does Damien remember what he said?”

  “I imagine so. Unless he’s got the kind of mind where he can blank things out that he finds unacceptable.” She ran a hand through her thick mop of blond hair, and in the harsh light of the single bulb she looked strained, drawn.

  “Do you think he was telling the truth?”

  Courtland shrugged. “People don’t usually lie when they’re under hypnosis, unless the lie goes so deep it feels like the truth to them. If he says he killed Mary Kelly, then he probably did. I think you should call the police.”

  “And tell them what? That Damien committed a murder over a hundred years ago? I can just imagine what Adamson would say to that.”

  “I don’t think you should stay here. There’s something going on, more than I could discover, and it’s too big for my puny gifts. I think you need to get away him. I don’t think you’re safe.”

  “If I’m not safe with him, then who can protect me? Obviously not the police—they haven’t managed to do anything to stop the murders. I’d rather take my chances with Damien.”

  Courtland just stared at her, and a wry smile curved her perfect lips. “Oh, Lord, Lizzie, what a time to fall in love . . .” she said softly.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Lizzie said hotly. “I’ve only known him a couple of days, and he’s hardly the stuff dreams are made of.”

  “Depends on your dreams, Lizzie. You forget, I know you. You never were attracted to the straightforward type.” Courtland reached out and put her arms around her, hugging her tightly. “It’s more than a couple of days. You know it as well as I do. We should have done your past lives instead of his. You’ve never let me try it with you. It might have given us the answers.”

  Lizzie shook her head. “Forget it. I’m already feeling schizophrenic enough as it is. I know who I am. I’m Lizzie Stride. I just don’t know which Lizzie Stride.”

  Courtland shook her head. “I don’t think so.” She let out an exasperated sigh. “I mean it’s not that simple. Just because you have the same name doesn’t mean you’re the same person. There’s more to it, more to you, than I can figure out. I’m going to go find Hickory and see what he makes of it.” Her face softened. “Take care of yourself, kid. If you won’t come back home with me, at least watch your back. I can feel . . .” She pulled back, and suddenly her beautiful face looked old and skeletal. “I can feel death,” she said in a hushed tone.

  “Courtland . . .”

  “I’m getting out of here,” the blonde said, starting down the deserted hallway. “If I were you I’d call Adamson.”

  “Be careful out there,” Lizzie called after her.

  Courtland paused as she stepped into the elevator. “It’s morning already,” she said brightly. “Don’t you worry about me—I’ll be more than safe. Worry about yourself.” And the elevator doors creaked shut behind her.

  The light in the apartment was shadowed, eerie, in the early dawn. Damien was still sitting in the chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him, and Lizzie stood there, watching him surreptitiously, turning over in her mind Courtland’s unsettling words.

  She’d never been in love in her life. Naturally, she’d thought she was, so long ago, but Mark’s betrayal had quickly shattered that romantic notion. And with Freddy, she’d been hoping that a vague attraction might blossom into something more
intense. When it hadn’t, she’d simply given up on the idea. Better to live in peaceful celibacy than to waste her time chasing after mediocre relationships and the wrong sort of man.

  If anyone was the wrong sort of man, John Ripley Damien was a prime example. Tormented, dangerous, he had room in his life for only one thing—his obsession with the Ripper. He’d warned her straight out that he had nothing to offer her. The more he warned her, the more drawn she was.

  She should have spent her early twenties reading those silly books about women loving the wrong sort of man, instead of concentrating on her mask-making. She was certainly showing no sense at all in being attracted to a man who was so patently bad for her. It must date back to her insecure childhood, and her unhappy early experiences with romance.

  It was an easy explanation, but it didn’t feel right. She’d learned how to take care of herself over the years, to protect herself from pain and disillusionment. She’d taken one look at Damien and seen all the trouble in the world, and she knew he might very well be far more dangerous to her peaceful existence than a butchering serial killer.

  But when she took a second look at Damien she wanted to go to him, to touch him. She wanted to lie naked with him, to kiss his mouth; she wanted to draw his head down to her breasts and comfort him. She wanted to clean his apartment, and feed him; she wanted to make him laugh. She wanted to do all sorts of impossible, stereotypical female-lover types of things with him. She wanted to experience everything, love and pain and laughter. And, rational or not, she wanted all those things with him.

  “We’re going to have to go out,” he said, his voice rusty in the darkened apartment. “I need cigarettes.”

  The prosaic statement was oddly reassuring. She curled up on the sofa, watching him, her knees up to her chest. “Are you all right?”