Break the Night

by Stuart, Anne

  He didn’t answer her. “What did your flaky friend tell you?”

  “She’s not flaky.”

  “She’s flaky as hell. All that past-life mumbo jumbo,” he muttered, not meeting her eyes.

  “Do you remember any of it?”

  “Of course I do,” he snapped. “I was stringing her along. James Killian, boy reporter for the London newspapers.”

  “You’re telling me you were playing a game? You made it all up?” She clenched her arms around her legs, staring at him fixedly.

  “What do you think?”

  Her instinctive anger fled. “I think you’re too skeptical for your own good. I think she tapped into your past life, and it scared the hell out of you. Damien, what you might have done in another lifetime doesn’t have anything to do with your life today.”

  “Doesn’t it?” His voice was bitter.

  “Tell me the truth. I brought Courtland over to help. If you’re just going to hide away from what she found out . . .”

  “I’m not hiding from anything,” he snapped. “Particularly not the truth.”

  “Then tell me.”

  He shook his head, not in negation, but more in an effort to distance himself. He focused on a spot behind her head, and she knew with only a faint trace of discomfort that he was looking at her masks.

  “So she hypnotized me,” he said. “I’ll admit to that. Hypnosis exists. And while I was hypnotized, the combination of recent events, the research I’ve done and her suggestions made me . . . imagine certain things. Like a dream.”

  “Tell me your dream.”

  “Go to hell.”

  She didn’t even flinch. She climbed off the couch and sat on the floor again, at his feet. She didn’t touch him, but she knew he could feel her presence. And she knew, without being certain how she knew, that she gave him comfort.

  “Tell me your dream, Damien,” she said again.

  He looked down at her, out of bleak, dark eyes. “If I tell you, will you agree to leave Los Angeles?”

  She didn’t want to leave him. But she was asking for more than he was willing to give. She needed to offer something in return.

  “If you want me to,” she said.

  They stared at each other in a silence that spoke more than words could have. “I want you to,” he said. “Before it’s too late for both of us.”

  Chapter Eleven

  DAMIEN LEANED BACK in the chair, closing his eyes as if in pain. Lizzie waited, patient, letting him take his time. The lights were off in the apartment, except for the dim glow from the bathroom, and the postdawn shadows played across the floor in stark, geometric patterns.

  His voice came from far away, distant, detached, eerily calm. But it was his voice, not the cockney brashness of Jack Killian. “It was a dream,” he said, “and I was watching him. Hell, he didn’t even look like me. He was about five-eight, light brown hair, side-whiskers and a mustache. A flashy dresser in a bright plaid suit, and he wore a diamond pinkie ring.” He touched his own hand, in an automatic gesture, as if searching for the missing ring.

  “He thought he was so damned smart. He was going to make his career, he thought, on the heels of the Ripper. He wrote the articles, he even took the photographs, and he started to become famous. It didn’t matter to him that he was whipping the people of Whitechapel and Spitalfields into a vigilante frenzy. It didn’t even matter that he started getting letters, dozens of letters, from people claiming to be the Ripper. Until he got the real thing.

  “He knew it immediately, knew that it had come from the Ripper himself. Boasting. And instead of turning the letter over to the police, he published it first, knowing that he was interfering with one of the few leads the London police could work with.”

  Damien tilted his head back, closing his eyes. “Killian didn’t care about a damned thing but making his way. He came from a poor family in Shepherd’s Bush, and he was determined to better himself. When he saw the first victim, he went into an alleyway and threw up. By the time he photographed Cathy Eddowes, he didn’t even flinch.” His voice trailed off, and for a moment there was silence in the dimly lit room.

  “He knew them,” he said finally, opening his eyes to glance at her. “The last three victims. Liz Stride, Cathy Eddowes and Mary Kelly. He’d taken to hanging out at the Ten Bells, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Ripper himself. All the victims were last seen at the pub, and it stood to reason that the Ripper had been there, too. So he started hanging out there, chatting up the hookers, charming them.

  “And the damnable thing was, the Ripper picked the women Killian liked particularly. Oh, he hadn’t slept with them—our boy was too fastidious for that. But Cathy Eddowes had a certain bawdy sense of humor that reached beyond his self-importance, and Liz Stride was a rather scattered old lush, with a fondness for cashews and violets. She was really quite sweet and motherly, and when they found her body he almost wept.

  “But Mary Kelly was the worst. Killian wanted her. Half fancied himself in love with her. The Ripper sent him one last letter. It taunted him, told him he’d seen him with Mary. And that Mary would be the last.”

  Damien shuddered, and Lizzie wanted to reach out, to put her arms around him to comfort him, but she didn’t dare. She was afraid that if she moved, if she said a word, she would break his concentration, and he wouldn’t finish telling the dream that haunted him.

  His voice changed, not back to the earlier broad cockney, but to an accent somewhere in between. “I didn’t give that bloody note to the police,” he whispered. “God knows why. I guess I thought I could catch the Ripper, stop him. I had a gun, and what good was a knife against a gun? I could keep Mary safe. She didn’t like it on the streets, and if the two of us were able to expose the Ripper, she’d become famous. She’d have chances, opportunities, that the others wouldn’t have. She wanted to be an actress, and she was pretty enough. So pretty.” His voice faded for a moment.

  “But I was wrong. Stupid, murderously stupid. And Springheel Jack was far too clever. She didn’t make a sound, they said, after one brief cry. She must have been dead before he did those things to her. She would never know what he’d done. What I’d done. By failing her. By waiting too long.”

  As Lizzie watched, in shock, slow tears began to slide down Damien’s lean, dark face. There was no expression of grief, of sorrow, just the tears, testifying to his pain.

  Lizzie waited as long as she could. When it seemed apparent that he wasn’t going to say anything more, she risked speaking. “What happened?”

  He started, as if he’d forgotten she was there. He stared down at her, seemingly oblivious to the dampness on his face. “Killian had to photograph the scene of the crime. He couldn’t very well refuse to, any more than he could turn in the letter at that late date. He’d be accused of obstructing justice, he’d lose his job, and, after all, he’d brought about Mary’s death for the sake of his career, hadn’t he? Silly to throw it away, after the price she’d paid. She would have agreed with him, if she’d still had a tongue.”

  He shook back his long hair, and his expression was stark, emotionless, in contrast to the salty tracks of his silent tears. “No one ever found the Ripper. Mary Kelly was his last victim, and without ghoulish murders to report, Killian didn’t have much success. He started drinking heavily, and he died two years later. Drowned, in the Thames.” His voice trailed off. “They thought it was an accident, but it wasn’t. He just couldn’t live with himself any longer.”

  “And that was you,” Lizzie said. It was half question, half statement. “In a previous life.”

  He seemed to rouse himself with an effort. “Don’t be ridiculous. It was a dream. The power of suggestion. Of course I’d think I was a reporter in a previous life. Of course . . .”

  She moved then, on her knees, confronting him, putting her hands on
his thighs, staring up at him earnestly. “Why do you keep fighting it? Don’t you see, that explains things? Explains your obsession. You were a reporter, involved with the murders almost a hundred and fifty years ago, and you feel responsible, frustrated. You need to make peace with the past in this lifetime—it’s too late for the last one. This time you have to save Mary Kelly. You have to find the Ripper and stop him.”

  “I’m not able to save anyone,” he said harshly. “Women keep dying.”

  “You’ve saved me. Kept me safe.”

  “So far.” His smile was mocking, derisive. “How long do you think I’ll manage that?”

  “Long enough, I hope.”

  He reached out and touched her, his long fingers threading through her thick hair. “Long Liz Stride,” he murmured. “What about your destiny?”

  “My destiny?”

  “You think your name’s a coincidence? What about the others? Eddowes isn’t a common name, but he could probably find a Mary Kelly, a Polly Nichols, an Annie Chapman. But he hasn’t gone after them. He’s coming for you. Haven’t you wondered why?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “He wasn’t able to mutilate Liz Stride. Someone must have interrupted him while he was at work. She was in one piece, her body untouched except for her cut throat. That was one reason why he was particularly savage with Cathy. He cut out her liver and sent part of it to Killian, you know. He said he ate the rest of it.”

  I won’t get sick, Lizzie told herself faintly. “I thought Killian was a dream.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment, and he looked unutterably weary. “Hell, Lizzie, I don’t know. I don’t know what’s truth and what’s a dream, what happened last week or last century. I know I’m John Ripley Damien, reporter for the Los Angeles Chronicle, not James Killian of the London Star. I’ve done my share of evil, including watching Mary Kelly immolate herself when I could have stopped her.”

  “Not Mary Kelly,” she said. “You said her name was Betty.”

  He stared at her in shock. “Oh, God,” he said. “God.” And he pushed her away, stumbling out of the chair and into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

  Lizzie stood in the living room, uncertain what to do next. Part of her wanted to run out the door into the early morning streets and flag down the first taxi she could find, one that would take her to LAX, far away from all this.

  She had the money now; Hickory had given her enough cash to get her across the state line at the very least. But she didn’t want to leave, not even if her life depended on it. If Damien made her, she would go. But only if he made her.

  She was afraid to leave him. His torment ran so deep, through the decades and the lifetimes, that she didn’t know what would happen to him if he was alone. Not knowing would drive her crazy.

  She wasn’t in love; the idea was absurd. But she had a need, a very real need, to save Damien, as much as he seemed to need to save her.

  She moved back to the couch, stretching out on its lumpy length. While she wanted to go to Damien, something told her that he needed to be alone.

  She was so tired, so very tired. She closed her eyes as the murky morning light grew around her. In the distance she thought she heard a faint sound, like a cry, one that was abruptly shut off. And then she slept.

  IT WAS DARK WHEN Damien awoke, dark and hot. Despite the torpor of the room, he was covered with a cold sweat of terror, one he refused to give in to. He glanced at the digital clock beside the bed. It read 6:33 p.m. He’d slept the day away, in a deep, dreamless state, and he’d slept alone.

  His whole body ached when he rose from the bed. He felt as if he’d run a marathon, something he’d been capable of doing in better times. Exhausted, every muscle protesting, he wanted nothing more than to stand under a hot shower and let the water drown his pain, drown his memory.

  By the time he finished, he felt marginally more human. He tied his long, wet hair behind his head, pulled on baggy jeans and an old T-shirt that had once been black but was now an indeterminate shade of gray, and opened the door to the living room. It was shrouded in darkness, an ominous, eerie darkness, and for a moment he stood there, feeling the panic.

  He could see her, stretched out on the couch. Lying on her stomach, her red hair spread around her, and he knew, he just knew, that when he reached to turn her over he would look into dead, staring eyes, just above a slashed throat. And in her hand she would be clutching a bag of cashews.

  He moved in a fog, in slow motion, telling himself he could stand it. He touched her shoulder beneath the fall of hair, and it was still warm, still resilient. She hadn’t been dead for long.

  He turned her gently, and the eyes that stared up at him weren’t wide in death. They were dazed, sleepy, and there was no blood, no bag of cashews, no smell of butchery, but instead the faint flowery fragrance of her perfume. “Lizzie,” he said, no longer able to keep the feeling out of his voice. “Oh, God, Lizzie,” he said again, and pulled her into his arms.

  She went sweetly, willingly, warm and fragrant and endearingly innocent, wrapping her arms around him, pulling his head down to her breasts, her breath hot against his hair. Suddenly she was everything to him, hope and despair, wife and mother and lover, child and enemy. He knew he was wrong to take her, and he knew nothing on this earth could stop him. Not in this lifetime, and not in any past lifetime. He’d lost her once—he wasn’t going to lose her again.

  He kissed her then, softly at first, nibbling at her lips, coaxing her. She stiffened in surprise, and he knew that one little moment of denial should stop him. And he knew it wouldn’t.

  He cupped her head with his hands, slanting his mouth across hers, and deepened the kiss, using his tongue to taste her, hungry for her, starving. It had been so long, so damned long, since he had tasted love. Almost a hundred and fifty years.

  She clutched his shoulders with her hands, her strong artist’s hands, and he could feel her giving in, falling into acceptance, eagerness, delight. Her tongue touched his, sliding against his, and he could feel the rapid pounding of her heart through their combined clothing.

  He broke the kiss, staring down at her in the murky twilight. “Come to bed with me,” he said. Why did he ask, he thought. Why did he give her a chance to say not?

  But she didn’t. “Yes,” she said, without fear or hesitation.

  He scooped her up in his arms and carried her into the bedroom, laying her down on the bed, following her, covering her body with his as his mouth traced random patterns over her eyelids, her cheekbones, the fragile beauty of her ear. She was soft and warm beneath him, rounded hips against his lean ones, long legs entwined with his, breasts pushing against the cloth of the shirt she wore so that he could feel her nipples in the darkness.

  He sat back, straddling her, watching her as he began to unfasten the small buttons of her shirt. Her face looked dazed, wary, her mouth soft and bruised, and he wanted to lose himself in her mouth, her body, drown in her. His hands grew clumsy, impatient, and he ripped open the rest of her shirt, knowing he’d done this before.

  She had beautiful breasts, small and perfectly formed. He leaned over and put his mouth on her, drawing the nipple deep and hard against his tongue, and her body jerked in reaction. Her hands were clutching the rumpled sheet beneath them, the clean sheets she’d put on his bed, and he pulled one away, bringing it to the front of his jeans, holding it there, feeling the exquisite agony of a desire so strong he didn’t know how long he could make it last.

  He could feel the darkness closing around him, could feel the blood beating in his ears. His hands were rough as they stripped off her jeans, but if she protested he was beyond hearing, lost in some black, dangerous place of his own. He could taste blood when he kissed her, and it fed his appetite, as if he were some crazed vampire. He stripped off his own clothes, and when she tried to reach
for him, to put her arms around him, to slow him down or to stop him, to protect him or to kiss him, he wouldn’t let her, catching her wrists and turning her over, his arm under her waist, holding her up.

  He could feel darkness and death all around, and he thrust into her from the back, deep and hard, hearing and ignoring her cry of protest. She wasn’t ready, and he didn’t care, he simply wanted to take her, take her, to thrust into her body again and again.

  And suddenly he could see the knife in his mind’s eye, thrusting, bloody, sexual, and he made a hoarse cry as he came, one of pain, of despair and he forced his body, to pull free from her tight, hot depths, to turn her over so that she lay back on the sheets.

  He was still achingly aroused, damn his soul. He looked down at her, saw the shock and hurt and fear in her green eyes. He wanted to calm her, to reassure her, to tell her he was sorry, but there were no words to answer that look in her eyes.

  And he was still hard, damn it. Her mouth was bleeding from the force of his, and he brushed his lips against hers, so gently that she couldn’t have responded even if she’d wanted to. And then he kissed her eyelids closed, seeing with a distant kind of horror that he left traces of her own blood on her lids.

  He reached down and started to pull her legs apart, and her deathlike stillness evaporated as she struck at him, trying to push him away.

  “No,” she said fiercely. “Don’t. I don’t want you to touch me.”

  He wasn’t going to listen to her, and neither was her body. He slid into her again, and she was wet from his orgasm, slick, and whether she wanted to or not she arched against him, pulling him in deeper. Despite her hurt and anger, she was aroused, her dark, rosy nipples hard, her heart pounding, and he was deft, determined, as he reached between and caught her clitoris between his fingers, somehow knowing how to touch her in just the right way, and she climaxed, fighting it, her body tightening and rippling around his aching hardness, as a helpless little cry filled the darkness.