by Kim Lenox
“I am indeed. You have news, I suppose?”
“I do.” Leeson took up a notebook and read aloud from some scribbled notes. “Today’s discoveries along the river include a right foot attached to part of a leg. This discovery occurred at”—he peered down his nose through a round monocle—“Wandsworth Bridge. And then we’ve got a left leg recovered at Limehouse.”
“All the way down by the West India Docks?”
“That’s correct. Both were carefully wrapped in sections of clothing, and tied with string.”
Mark nodded. “Have you been able to locate Selene?”
“No, sir. Wherever she’s residing, she doesn’t wish to be found.”
Mark nodded. “What else do you have for me?”
“There’s a postmortem viewing of the body parts recovered thus far scheduled for this afternoon at the Battersea Mortuary with police surgeon Dr. Felix Kempster. Dr. Kempster worked the Rainham dismemberment murder of 1887. Very thorough. Very smart. It will be a pleasure working with him again . . . ah, even if he does not realize we are working together.”
Mark pulled out his pocket watch and assessed the time. With everything else he needed to do, he’d just have time to attend the postmortem. Certainly he would encounter Selene there. He needed to tell her everything he’d learned about the Dark Bride. Despite everything, he couldn’t forget he was no longer a Shadow Guard. The Thames dismemberment mysteries, from the beginning, had been her official assignment, bestowed upon her by the Primordial Council. Whatever actions he undertook against the Bride upon returning to London would have to be done in cooperation with his sister.
He looked out the window, assessing their location. “Thank you, Leeson. If we are finished, you can let me out at the next corner.”
“Actually, we’re not finished yet.” The little man put his notebook aside and rubbed his hands together. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”
“I’ve got a busy afternoon.”
“You must make time for this. I’ve already arranged for the driver to take us there.”
“You know I don’t like surprises, so just tell me.”
“I’ve found a house for you. A place I think will be a haven, and . . . perhaps protect you to some extent from these spells. From that voice working on your head. I know the Transcension can’t be stopped, but perhaps this shelter might slow the effects when you’re in your more vulnerable state.”
Leeson’s description piqued his interest. However, if his voyage went as planned, he wouldn’t need any such sanctuary. “That’s very interesting, but I’ll be departing London on Tuesday and won’t need a house.”
“Just have a look,” Leeson suggested, adjusting the strap of his eye patch. “That’s all I ask. It would be nice to have a place prepared for your return with Lady Alexander.”
Mark supposed he was right. He’d never had a real home, a true base of operations. He’d preferred the transient accommodations of the Thais or elegant hotels. The idea of setting up house with Mina held a secret, satisfying appeal.
Yet Archer, Lord Black, had a monopoly on the best address in town, a massive mansion he’d constructed nearly a century before around the only portal to the Inner Realm existing in London. How could any other property come close?
The carriage turned down a side road, conveying them to a small neighborhood south of Mayfair, not far from the river. From the windows, Mark saw they traveled along a densely overgrown, once-grand street. The houses, for the most part, had succumbed to disrepair.
The hansom rolled to a stop in front of a large manse. Leeson led him up a short walk toward an immense black door. Many of the windows were missing. Weeds and grass protruded from the earth, knee-high.
Leeson fumbled in his pocket, and produced a large, fancifully shaped key. “All I ask is that you see everything before making your decision.”
Mark hesitated at crossing the threshold. “When you said you’d found a place where I might be safe—a place of protection—this isn’t exactly what I imagined. I’m not a vampire, Leeson. It’s not my style to lurk around in drafty old mansions.”
“Come inside,” the little man insisted curtly.
Mark followed reluctantly as Leeson led him from room to room. There were two drawing rooms, a library, a study and a ballroom, all grandly done up with stained and peeling wallpaper and sagging ceilings. Clearly some sort of large animal had spent at least a few days living in the kitchen. And recently.
“I hate it,” he announced, covering his nose with his handkerchief.
He could never expect Mina to live here. Not only was the manse in extreme disrepair, but all the surrounding properties were as well. There was no telling what vagrant criminals would be their neighbors.
“Let me show you the first floor.” Leeson went to the stairs. His foot crashed through. He tested the next one. “Wait until you see the master suite. Once we get the swallows out—”
Mark pulled off his coat. He was starting to perspire. “I’m leaving. With or without you.”
“Fine.” Leeson rolled his eyes. “I’ll just skip to the heart of the matter. Come on.”
His mood growing fouler by the moment, he followed the elder immortal to the back of the house. Leeson tromped outside, leaving a crushed path through the weeds. Patches of overgrowth punctuated the garden, along with several discarded barrels and even a sofa and chair.
“Come on. Step up.” Leeson arrived at a low stone wall, one encircling a large gazing pool, and hopped up onto the ledge. Filled with clear, sparkling water, the pool apparently sourced from a healthy spring.
Mark rubbed at the crown of his nose. “You’re right. This is a very lovely feature, but it’s not enough to make up for the rest of the house.”
Leeson glared through his one eye over his shoulder. “I said step up.”
Mark complied, though he grew exceedingly tired of humoring the man—a man who claimed to be in his service.
Leeson produced a coin from his pocket. “Here you go. Make a wish.”
“I’m not a child,” Mark retorted.
“You’re ruining the moment,” Leeson snapped. “Could you please just do as I’ve asked?”
Mark’s patience grew short and his temper hot. “So be it.”
He snatched the coin. With a flick of his thumb, the small disc went airborne, spinning through the air. Its metal glinted in the sunlight. Plunk.
“Did you make a wish?”
Let me live. Mina’s beautiful face flashed across his mind.
“Now watch,” instructed Leeson quietly. “Watch.”
The coin descended into the murky green depths, its polished face flashing on each revolution . . . growing dimmer and dimmer as it sank through curious darting carp.
Mark saw something.
He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes.
“Oh.” He caught his breath. “I see.”
Chapter Ten
After leaving the ecclesiastical court, where he put in the necessary paperwork for the special license, Mark instructed the hansom driver to cross the Thames and take him to the Battersea Mortuary.
He had left Leeson at the house, waiting to meet with the present owner. In fact, he’d given Leeson authority to negotiate the purchase of all the houses on the street. Their collective worth—at least on the mortal market—could never approach the value of the gazing pool. Once Mark defeated his state of Transcension and regained his status amongst the Shadow Guard, he’d return to London with Mina and oversee their renovation—taking the necessary breaks for Reclamation assignments, of course. He vowed that within two years the address would be the most exclusive in the district, one from which he would earn a tidy profit.
What were these thoughts inside his head? Optimistic thoughts of a future with Mina? The city passed by his window, and he smiled to himself. He did not know how long such a future could last, but he vowed to make it good.
After a half hour’s travel, he arrived at the mortuary. He paid the
driver and passed beneath the central archway. There, shadowed in dim light, he transformed into shadow. From there he followed the scent of death until he arrived at the mortuary room.
Dr. Kempster held court with two dark-suited gentlemen. Mark brushed against them, drawing forth their names: Detective Inspectors Regan and Tunbridge. Moving farther inside, he bumped directly into Selene’s shadow. Sensing the sharp edge of her fury, he took a position on the opposite side of the room.
“Thank you for coming, gentlemen,” said Dr. Kempster, a distinguished-looking gentleman with a mustache. “I suppose we should get on with our terrible business.”
He moved to the center of the room, where a series of shallow metal tubs occupied a lengthy table.
“Prepare yourselves,” he warned. “We’ve kept the recovered parts in spirits to slow their decay.”
The room didn’t smell all that delightful in the first place, but both detectives produced pocket handkerchiefs with which to cover their noses and mouths. When everyone had braced themselves, the police surgeon lifted the cover from the first container. The strong stench of spirits, underscored by decomposition, cut through the room.
Detective Tunbridge coughed.
Dr. Kempster didn’t appear affected at all. Mark knew it wasn’t the first time he’d viewed such vicious handiwork. “Come closer so you can see.”
The detectives edged closer and peered into the murky liquid. Mark was already there. His sister jostled him for position. Given that the torso killer—the killer he knew to be called the Dark Bride—was Selene’s assignment, he ceded the space and again relocated to the other side of the table.
“What is that?” asked one of the detectives.
The doctor pointed with his finger. “The thigh discovered at Battersea. This is the upper section and this the lower. Do you see here? There are four bruises that appear to have been made by fingers clenched into the skin. I believe this would have occurred while the victim was still alive.”
The doctor guided the detectives through the remainder of the recovered body parts, opening and closing each lid as they moved along. A trunk . . . a section of right leg with attached foot . . . and finally a left leg.
“There’s no head?”
“No.”
“Just like the torso that was discovered at New Scotland Yard last year, on the Thames Embankment in 1887?”
“That’s correct.”
“You can see here . . . the bruising. She wore a ring on this finger.”
“It must have been removed shortly before, or even just after she was killed.”
“Her hands. Her nails are bitten down to the quick, but there are no calluses. They aren’t worn from work. It’s clear she was not a manual laborer.”
Even though Mark already knew the identity of the killer—at least to the extent that she was the Dark Bride—Mark felt he owed the woman his reverence, and his attention. After all, her body had been deposited along the river in a bizarre act of homage to him.
The doctor returned the lid to the final tray. “I think you’ll be very interested to see the clothing she wore. I do believe the scraps will help us identify her. There is actually a name marked on one particular piece. If you’ll follow me.”
The two detectives, shadowed by two invisible immortals, followed him to the next table. There, large sections of fabric—pieces cut from clothing—lay spread out for their examination, each bearing the faint stains of blood diluted by river water.
Mark closed his eyes, then gritted his teeth. Two of the pieces—one cut from a dark ulster, and the other a square of brown linsey—matched the clothing worn that night by the girl on the bridge.
“Do you see the initials stamped into the waistband of this linen piece?” the doctor said.
“ ‘ L. E. Fisher,’ ” read Detective Regan.
Tunbridge scratched out the name into his report.
But Mark knew differently. The girl’s name had been Elizabeth. Elizabeth Jackson. Likely, upon investigation, they would find her clothes were purchased secondhand and stamped with the name of their previous owner. Mark didn’t want to look at her anymore. Yes, he had spent two centuries as a Shadow Guard, and during that time he’d seen corpses—so many of them, in the worst of conditions. But he’d looked into this young woman’s eyes. He’d given her hope . . . and she had given him the same. That she’d been reduced by some monster into a puzzle of jagged pieces filled him with rage.
Leaving Selene with the officials, Mark hurtled through the hall. He swept into an empty office only long enough to transform into human form, and then he strode to the street. There, with his palm planted against a brick column, he inhaled the smells of the city, replacing the scent of death in his nostrils and in his lungs. Even so, the stench clung to his clothes and skin, just as strongly as her memory claimed his mind. She had been a simple girl, but she had not deserved such a horrible death. Was her blood on his hands?
He had helped that girl out of arrogance as a way to show the Dark Bride that he was in control. By doing so, had he marked Elizabeth for death? Yes, she’d been intent on killing herself, but certainly the Dark Bride had to know he would eventually learn the victim’s identity. Could she send any clearer message that it was she who held the upper hand?
“Don’t ever do that again.”
Mark turned. Selene stared at him from the top step.
She wore a rich brown silk dress, and a fetching straw summer hat, luxuriously trimmed with orange and green flowers and ribbon. As always, his twin sister looked like a queen in even the most macabre of surroundings. Who else would wear something like that to view a corpse?
“I knew that girl,” he retorted darkly. “Now I’ve a personal stake in this too.”
“You don’t have anything,” she hissed. “Don’t you ever step foot into my territory again. You’re not even a Guard any longer, so you don’t have the right.”
“I’m not trying to steal your assignment.”
“You couldn’t if you tried.” She gave him her bustle and stormed away.
He caught up, walking alongside her. “Do you even know who your killer is?”
She cast him a dark glare.
Mark said, “I met her last night.”
She whirled to face him. The silver purse on her arm flashed. “Did you meet her whirly, bug-eyed little toadies too?”
Lifting her arms, she wiggled her index fingers over her eyes.
“The Dark Bride. She wishes to meet you,” she mocked.
Selene had always been good at impressions.
Mark straightened, disappointed. “I see you’ve already met her.”
“Fleetingly, and on several occasions. She’s only after you because”—Selene lifted her hand beside her mouth, as if sharing a secret—“she doesn’t like girls, if you understand my meaning. Oh, and you’re also losing your immortal mind, which makes you prime manflesh in her eyes. I’m sure your pedigree and familial good looks don’t hurt either.”
“What do you know of her true identity?”
Selene answered sharply, “None of your blasted business.” With her finger, she jabbed his chest. “She’s my target. Mine. Not yours. You, of all . . . well, excommunicated Shadow Guards, should understand that the boundaries must be respected, unless you’re too far gone already to remember.”
“I’m not,” he retorted. “And I do remember.”
Jack the Ripper had originally been his assignment. After a personal request from Her Highness, Queen Victoria, Archer, her longtime favorite, had interceded in the hunt. The wholesale invasion of his hunting territory had stung.
Selene blinked, and looked off across the street. “I suppose that’s all we have to say to each other, then.”
“Not quite.” He sidled around, bringing them nose to nose. “You’re right. The hunt belongs to you. And I’m leaving. Leaving England. When I return, I’ll be as good as new. Fully reinstated into the Guard. If you haven’t Reclaimed her by then . . . I’m going to d
o it. Fair warning, Selene.”
She snorted. “Have a pleasant mental decline. I expect you’ll only see me again once I’ve received firm orders for your assassination.”
Just then, an enormous black carriage, pulled by four monstrous team horses, rolled to the curb beside them. A polished crest gleamed on the door, a black raven at its center. Inside the shadowed interior, Mark perceived the outline of a tall man with broad shoulders.
“It’s time for me to go,” said Selene, backing away from him toward the vehicle.
Mark scowled in displeasure. “One of the Ravens, Selene?”
The Ravens were a specialized regiment within the Order of the Shadow Guards. They consisted of eight immortal warriors who, in the year 1066, had taken an oath to protect the kingdom of England from destruction and anarchy, and her ruling monarch from harm. Through the subsequent centuries, the Ravens had continually bumped heads with their fellow Shadow Guards over territory, favor and prestige.
“Good-bye, Mark,” she responded firmly.
“You’re certain, Lucinda, that you want me to wear your wedding dress?” Mina sat on the edge of her bed, staring down into the large, glossy box. Nested in pale pink tissue paper was the most beautiful gown she’d ever seen.
“I insist on it,” said Lucinda pleasantly.
While still not particularly joyful about the morning’s intended ceremony, Lucinda had softened considerably, and thrown herself into the task of making sure Mina had a proper wedding day.
“Thank you, your ladyship.”
“It’s by Jacques Doucet,” the countess announced proudly, lifting it out by the shoulders.
She draped the gleaming silk satin across the coverlet. “The diamonds and pearls are indeed real.”
Astrid and Evangeline moved closer to admire the gown as well.
There had only been two days to shop for Mina’s trousseau. She had not, of course, gone to Paris, but the woman at the lingerie counter had assured Lucinda that the ready-to-wear corsets, chemises, corset covers, petticoats and chemises de nuit they’d purchased all bore a tag proving a Parisian origin.
“It’s time,” Lucinda said, pointing to the clock. “Let us help you dress.”