by Lee Swift
Concerned, Octavian had sent his cousin to check on his brother. Belisarius Drake, known to the rest of the world as Commissioner Bill Poole of the City of London Police, had incredible influence and resources in Great Britain and beyond. If anyone could find out where Rom was, it was Belisarius.
One of the attendees standing behind him whispered, “A damn halfblood is behind this.”
Hearing the slur, anger swelled inside Octavian. But it was pointless to respond to him. The man was not on the council, but his sentiment was the same as most of the Morvicti.
Octavian’s grandmother had succeeded getting many antiquated statutes changed concerning the treatment of mixed lineage offspring. He had wanted to take her virtuous work to the next level, granting even more rights to the shunned children, but after the deaths of Nancy and Gail, his tireless work went up in smoke. Long held prejudices would remain inked in their laws for many years to come. But he would never give up trying for his own children, Luke’s niece, Cassie, and any others in hiding who deserved to be welcomed into Morvicti society fully.
“I do not know how my wife and I will survive losing our beloved Nadia.” Duke Grollin no longer had the air of his highborn blood. Instead, all that remained was a heartbroken father.
When Duke Grollin returned to his seat, the priest lifted the chalice, and the congregation stood. “And now, for our two fallen daughters whose blood ran pure, let us say the prayer of our ancestors.”
Everyone closed their eyes and remained silent for several minutes.
Pure bloods. The law was clear. Bastards were shunned.
The mourners recited the verse in the ancient tongue, the meaning of which was known to him since childhood.
We drink of the blood,
The life giving blood.
Though slumber comes,
We will walk on the ground above.
Several of the women wiped their eyes. Nancy and Gail’s lives had been cut short. They would never slumber again.
With the others, he drank down the warm dark liquid, signifying the end of the solemn service.
Everyone passed by Nadia and Galene for a final goodbye.
When he walked out of the chapel with the priest to join the others, he motioned to the members of the council, including the two grieving fathers. “My lords, I summon you to join me in the Imperial Throne Room.”
All seven lowered their eyes, and in unison answered, “Your will is my duty, Your Majesty. Always.”
A hush came over the crowd as the eight of them stepped down the hall to the second oldest room in the complex. He sent a text to Duke Vale, letting him know what was happening. Vale would join the council via videoconference.
When they arrived at the entrance to the room, the two sentries bowed and then opened the two massive wooden doors.
“This will be a private conclave.” He asked them to set up the screen for Vale.
“Your will is my duty, Your Majesty. Always.”
Once everything was ready—all the members were standing next to their respective thrones and Duke Vale was present electronically—Duke Marveaux gave the signal.
In a unison voice, they said, “Your will is my duty, Your Majesty. Always.”
Even though those words had been directed at him for several years, Octavian still found them uncomfortable. He sat down. “My lords and ladies, you may be seated.”
Duke Marveaux called the meeting to order. “The floor is yours, Majesty.”
He stood and faced them. “Duke Vale, can you see me?”
“Yes, Majesty.”
“I’ve called this meeting to discuss the measures we must take to protect our children and our bloodlines from this murderer until he or she is brought into our custody.” He paused, in respect, for Dukes Lupei and Grollin. They had lost so much. “I believe we must join together and use our combined resources to locate this butcher. I’ve already contacted our people at the Metropolitan Police Service and the City of London Police. They are doing everything in their power to make sure that if Nadia and Galene’s killer is discovered, he or she will be turned over to us. There is nothing more important than ensuring the safety of our people.”
“What can we do to speed up this search?” Duchess Sevann wore a cream colored suit. Her makeup was perfect, unlike the other females’ which had been ruined by their tears. Duchess Sevann did not cry, though her pain was deep being Nadia’s aunt and sister to her mother. It was clear that the duchess wanted to show strength to the other women.
“I want each of you to join me in London at my estate. We can coordinate our efforts from there.”
“Pardon me, but I have a submission to this proceeding,” Duke Lupei said.
“Acacius, this is not a formal proceeding. Speak freely.”
“I believe it would be best for one of the council to remain here.” The sadness in the man’s eyes broke his heart. “There are matters of state that still must be attended to.”
“Of course. I agree. It would be best to have one present. I would appreciate if you would stay.”
“It would be my honor, Majesty. My wife would like to return to London to collect our daughter’s things from her home. Would you mind if she joined you on the trip?”
He placed his hand on the grieving father’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t mind at all.”
A few more logistics were discussed, and then they exited the throne room.
When he opened the door, he saw a page standing by the guards.
The young man was frantic. “Lord Drake, an urgent message for you from London.”
CHAPTER 8
9:01 AM
When he got to the top of the stairs, Austin froze in place, using all his senses to detect what was on the other side of the door before going through it.
He could hear a low humming noise. The temperature was several degrees colder than below. His nose could not detect any scents. In fact, there was an odd absence of odors.
With Glock in hand, he glanced into the other room. The walls held miles of wrapped wires. The humming he’d heard came from computer monitors.
It’s a server room.
There were no people.
Straight ahead was another door.
He bolted through the space to the second door, pointing the barrel of the gun in every direction. Still, no one.
Cautiously, he opened the door and discovered it led to a narrow street. He placed the gun in the overcoat and stepped out onto the lane.
The London Eye peeked over one of the buildings off to his right, which told him he wasn’t far from the Thames. To his left, another street was filled with pedestrians and double-decker red busses.
From the busier street, an attractive blonde walking a dog turned in his direction.
He plastered a smile on his face. There had been no mirror below to check how he looked. He reached up and touched his chin. No beard. Someone had kept him shaved all these years.
The woman smiled back.
I must not look too bad even if I am over a decade older.
In his most unthreatening tone, he said, “Excuse me, I’m a little lost. Do you know how I can get back to King’s College from here?” Angelique had written him that her flat was a couple blocks from her school.
“It’s easy to find.” Her British accent had a lightness that he found pleasant. “King’s College is less than a half hour walk from here and a little less than that by public transport.”
Thirty minutes? Quite the coincidence he would wake up so close to Angelique’s flat. Or is it a coincidence?
He bent down to pet the woman’s black German shepherd, trying to appear casual but also to keep her from getting a clear view of the blood on his pants and his bare chest under the overcoat. “Is it okay if I pet her?”
She nodded. “You’re American, right?”
“I am. From Texas.” He’d been around military canines a few times. It was obvious to him the dog was picking up the scent of the blood. The German shepherd wasn�
�t sure what to make of him yet. “Good girl. It’s okay.”
“Here on business?”
The overcoat and pants. I must look like a businessman.
“Truthfully, I’m in London visiting my sister.” I should have come to see Angelique years ago. The old guilt resurfaced. “She’s at work, and I decided to do some sightseeing. That’s how I got turned around.”
“What do you think of London so far?”
“Very impressive.” With its headless corpses and cavernous rooms with people in comas, what’s not to love? Petting the dog, he sensed the German shepherd remained on guard, but had relaxed some. “She’s a real beauty. What’s her name?”
“Sugar. What’s yours?”
“Michael,” he lied, using his friend’s name. Was Remington alive? Had he been taken, too; hidden away at another secret underground location?
“I’m Mindy.”
He looked into her hazel eyes. “Can you point me in the right direction?”
“I can do better than that.” She reached into her purse, pulling out a notepad and pen. “Let me write them down for you.” When she finished scribbling, she ripped out a page and handed it over to him. “Nice to meet you, Michael.” She offered her hand.
He shook it. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” she smiled.
Under other circumstances he would have asked Mindy to coffee. But that wasn’t possible. His focus was on finding Angelique.
Mindy walked past him with Sugar.
He headed off in the other direction, his mind spinning with a million questions—but no answers.
The vehicles driving on the road reinforced the fact that he was no longer in 2003.
He passed a parked car and spotted his reflection in its windows. By what he could see, he realized he hadn’t changed much since his mission in Iraq.
The Londoners walking on the sidewalks didn’t seem to pay him much notice. Still on high alert, he scanned the street ahead for any sign of an enemy, someone who might have connections to the scene he’d just escaped. All clear.
Trying to appear casual, he turned back the way he’d just come from.
With a cell phone in hand, a man in a dark suit stood at the corner where he’d just been talking with Mindy a half a block away.
His and Dark Suit’s eyes met.
CHAPTER 9
9:07 AM
Dr. Angelique McCord-Remington glanced at her half-eaten bagel and pushed The Telegraph to the side. She was one of only three customers in the entire café.
She’d finished reading the piece about London’s most recent serial killer, and the only thing she could think about was seeing Dr. Wilson’s name attached to the hideous slayings. She had been aware of the murders of the young women but had not known Dr. Wilson’s connection to the story. There had been no time to read the newspapers.
Even now, she needed to get home to grade her students’ essays, but instead, she got another cup of coffee and reread the article.
Scientist Questioned in Connection with New Ripper Slayings
By Caroline Blake
THE CITY of London Police are interrogating the scientist who was the recipient of a letter purported to be from the New Ripper.
Dr. Thomas Wilson, a geneticist who owns a private laboratory on his estate, allegedly received the note 11 November, the same day police discovered the victims of the double murder, Nancy Black and Gail Simmons. Wilson waited a full day before turning the letter over to the authorities.
The contents of the letter are being analysed by police forensic document examiners, who did not wish to comment based on the on-going nature of the investigation.
Dr. Alice Parker, a history professor at University College London, and noted Ripperologist, said the author of the letter is intimate with the details of the Whitechapel killings.
“Whoever wrote Wilson’s cryptic message did have some knowledge of two communications from 1888 that many, like myself, believe actually came from the original killer,” Parker said. “The Saucy Jacky postcard was sent to Scotland Yard on 1 October 1888, following the Dear Boss Letter which was sent on 27 September. The person who wrote the letter sent to Wilson made a concerted effort to copy the language and handwriting used by Jack the Ripper.”
Other experts, such as Dr. Kenneth Boyle, a historian with the Museum of London, disagree. “The original letters have been almost decisively proven to have been written by a 19th century newspaper reporter looking to sensationalize the story even further,” Boyle said. “Whoever wrote the message to Wilson, while certainly deranged, is a copycat of a fake.”
Wilson, 70, is the author of “Our Human Cousins,” in which he posits his theory that a subspecies of the human race is currently living in secret among us. He was involved in a disastrous archaeological expedition to Guatemala in 1973, where of the seven members, he was the only survivor of political violence.
Dr. Wendell Cook, a geneticist who worked with Wilson in the 1970s, said the experience changed the man.
“He was a brilliant scientist; gifted, really,” Cook said. “After he came back from the expedition, he was a completely different person. He became obsessed with the idea of there being another species that look just like humans, living in the shadows.”
The City of London Police is working on the case together with Scotland Yard, according to Commissioner of the City of London Police Bill Poole.
“We are chasing down every lead in order to apprehend this dangerous killer,” Poole said. “Dr. Wilson is cooperating fully with our investigation.”
The police are trying to ascertain what connection, if any, there is between Wilson’s note and the recent murders. They are also continuing efforts to recover the bodies of the victims, which were stolen from the city morgue two days ago.
“Wilson is not a member of the media or law enforcement,” Cook said. “The man is a geneticist with a mixed reputation. What work of Dr. Wilson does the killer admire? And, more importantly, why would this copycat of Jack the Ripper contact Wilson?”
Wilson has not responded to numerous requests for comments.
In the photo accompanying the article, Dr. Wilson stood behind a podium. Seeing his gray hair and the lines in his face, Angelique realized how many years had passed since she had last seen the man; it had been during her first year at university. His words had left an indelible mark, answering so many questions that had always troubled her. At eighteen, she’d been dazzled by Dr. Wilson’s hypothesis, needing him to be right. His beliefs had eased her concerns about how quickly her body healed from any injury and that she’d never experienced a normal, everyday illness. Not even a common cold.
During his allotted uninterrupted fifteen minutes of the program, she’d been thoroughly intrigued.
“Why is it that some of us heal more quickly than others? Could it be that some of us carry more of the genetic markers of another subspecies—a cousin, so to speak, of Homo sapiens?”
Dr. Wilson was one of five speakers discussing the state of genetic research and where the field was heading. It was easy to sense the disdain the other speakers had for Dr. Wilson, though they kept their statements and questions civil.
The bald scientist to Dr. Wilson’s left stated, “I must humbly disagree with Dr. Wilson’s statement that there is a high probability of a sub-species of the Homo genus other than modern humans that exist in the world today. Dr. Wilson’s ideas take to the extreme a segment of thought in the field of paleontology that Homo neanderthalensis is a subspecies of Homo sapiens. But he takes that idea even further, suggesting there are at least two more subspecies of Homo sapiens and that at least one of these continues to evolve alongside modern man.”
Wilson’s tone sharpened. “As I have stated earlier, my hypothesis is that other hominid species with traits that vary from Homo sapiens are likely in the DNA of people who may or may not be aware of that part of their heritage. The United States Human Genome Project should expand its scope to sequence the DNA of
Homo neanderthalensis, Homo erectus, Homo rhodesiensis, and Homo habilis.”
The only woman on the panel shook her head. “I must wholeheartedly disagree with my colleague on that proposal. The project is already estimated to take fifteen years. It is critical that it continues as planned. Chasing a flight of imagination, no matter how alluring, would be counterproductive and only expand the years necessary to complete this important work.”
After the lecture concluded, the speakers remained behind to answer questions.
Angelique was the only one who approached Dr. Wilson. “I enjoyed what you had to say, sir. Very interesting.”
“Thank you,” he said, placing his papers into a briefcase. He seemed in a rush to leave, which was understandable after the verbal beating he’d taken from his peers. “Do you have any questions for me?”
“I do. I am very curious about your idea of advanced healing. How many people in the world do you think have those unique genes you mentioned?”
He smiled; his green eyes lit up. “I do not know, but I can imagine it would not be a great number. Perhaps ten thousand. Maybe less.” As Dr. Wilson answered her questions, he became more and more animated. “Mark my words, young lady, there is evidence, as yet undiscovered, that will support my hypothesis. More importantly, once we identify people with greater percentages of these hominids’ DNA, we can begin synthesizing their blood and find the cures to most of the diseases plaguing the world.”
“You really believe that, Doctor?”
“Yes. Imagine a day with no cancer, no heart disease, no dementia, no Parkinson’s.”
Her flat mate Amy, whom she had come to the lecture with, came up beside her. “Angelique, we still have to study for Professor Pattay’s test tonight. We better go.”
She looked at her watch. “She’s right. Thank you for answering my questions. I really appreciate it.” She and Dr. Wilson shook hands.