by Ash Krafton
It appeared she’d been bred to bury the ones she loved.
She wandered the streets waiting for night to fall. At the Christ Church, she left a generous handful in the donations box before lighting an entire row of red candles for her fallen friend.
It had been years since she’d gone to a church with sincere intention and, for the briefest moment, she considered lighting a candle for all the others she’d lost.
A painful squeeze crushed the air from her lungs. There would never be candles enough.
She sat in the back of the church long after dark, only leaving when the acolyte apologized for needing to lock up. Out on the steps, she looked slowly around at the broad expanse of Commercial Street. What an apt name. Around the corner to her right stood Dorset Street, where more fortunes were stolen and more dignity was sold than could ever be imagined.
Life was business here. Everything had a price.
She narrowed her eyes and scanned the area, the shadows deep and crawling. Everything, that was, but one. And that one was so valuable as to be truly priceless.
Senza tucked the hem of her skirt into the sash around her waist, in the way that Mary had done to announce her occupation. Ripping off her collar and the modesty lace from her neckline, she stuffed the fabric down into her corset, adjusted her bosom, and went out in search of one man, for one reason.
Revenge.
Her beauty did not go unnoticed. She was clean, and fresh, and fairer than a rose in the Queen’s garden. And she was for sale.
She endured offer after offer, shaking her head and scoffing. None of them were the right one. She’d know him when she saw it.
She remembered the long knife Bannick had flashed at her, and the reports in the papers. A long knife was the probable murder weapon. Bannick hated Strickland, and would try to ruin him—what better way than to kill off Strickland’s workers?
Senza sauntered down street after street, pausing beneath every lamp, shaking her hair out to catch the light, and making sure every man saw her.
A voice from behind. Strickland. “So. You decided to take a wage after all, poppet. Shall I assume you and I are in business together?”
“Never assume anything, Mr. Strickland. You’ll only end up disappointed. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m waiting for someone.”
“Oh, my. I detect a tone. Perhaps we should continue this discussion in private. Right this way, my lady.” He grabbed her by her shoulders and shoved her backwards down an alley. A brick alcove dead-ended the route, the pale moonlight casting a ghastly pallor on the damp ground.
“Perhaps I will sample your wares, give you a bit of professional feedback. A coupla pointers, free of charge.”
Senza smiled, cold and stiff, and dragged her fingers along his jaw, letting her pinky finger snatch away a beat from the rude pulse in his throat. Maybe she could drain him if she played him long enough, beat by beat until his well ran dry. “I never expected such gentility in this rough place.”
His heart banged like a bull, so much life in a most unworthy vessel. The naked theft didn’t even give her pause. She had no regard for this man. This man deserved to lose every last beat, even if only to the gutter.
And the gutter was where those beats belonged. The power left a greasy feel on her skin, one that lingered even after she rubbed her fingers in her skirt. The gutter was too good for his heartbeats.
“What are yeh about, now?” He narrowed his eyes and glared at her, holding his cheek. “What did you just do?”
Senza backed up a step. The glint in his black eyes caused a faint alarm to spread through her chest. “I did nothing—”
“You did something. I knows me body and I knows when something is amiss. You did something to me. A poison? Hmm? On your skin?” He leaned in close to her, nosily inhaling against her neck. “Disguised as a perfume?”
She twisted her neck away. He reeked of sweat and tobacco and something sweet, almost cloying, like rotting fruit. “I told you, I didn’t do anything.”
“You did. And now…” He grabbed her by the shoulders and walked her backwards, knocking her off balance. “I’ll do yeh like a bleedin’ strumpet needs done. Yer girly friends, they got cocky, too. I don’t need no sass, not when there’s plenty of fanny to be traded here. I’ll do yeh like those other dogs needed done.”
“If you do me, do I get to do yeh back?” She played the part of the coy whore, sassing him with her batting lashes and cocksure grin. Had to distract him from the stolen beat. If he knew what she did—
He chuffed a gravelly sound, mean laughter. He knew something. All the charm in the world couldn’t smother his suspicion.
“If yeh got the guts to do it, sure.” He pressed her back against the wall, the rough stone scraping her shoulders beneath her thin scarf. The silver blade in his hand glinted when he held it close to her face, a sliver of moon in a cold, careless night. A long blade. Just like the papers said. “But I don’t think you wi—”
His words ended in a gurgle as a long red-sheened blade pushed out through the front of his throat. Hot, sticky blood sprayed out, drenching Senza in a copper-scented sheet of scarlet.
She couldn’t even scream. The horror, fast and inevitable, played itself out inches from her person and all she could do was watch.
Strickland clawed at his neck, unable to stop the blade as it sliced all the way out the side, partially severing his head. His eyes fixed upon hers before they blanked. Senza clutched his wrist, ripping away the last struggling beats of his heart.
He dropped into a rumpled heap, dead before he struck the ground.
Standing behind him was a well-dressed young man, holding a bloodied knife.
Her legs tingled from the shock of seeing Strickland slain. The gentleman stood askance, idly cleaning his knife on an embroidered handkerchief. How could he be so nonchalant?
Then—then his face came into focus, as the blood rush slowed. His face, familiar.
“Evans!” She struggled to draw a big enough breath to speak. “You saved me!”
“I just can’t fathom what a woman like you is doing in this wretched town.” He tossed the handkerchief onto Strickland’s body.
The linen square landed on Stickland’s face, partially obscuring the neck bent at an impossible angle, eyes staring, mouth open. Senza could still see those wretched features. She always would.
“My sister was most distressed when you turned up missing.” He flipped the handle of the blade around in his hand, rolling it through his fingers. “But you are a beautiful, remarkable thing. Too unique to overlook.”
Senza heard the subtle tone. Compliments, she was used to hearing. This was darker. Different. “That disgusting man was a pimp. He killed my friend, and her friends. You saved every woman in Whitechapel from the threat of this vile murderer.”
“He was a pimp, but he was no murderer. He actually did try to keep his girls alive. Dead women don’t earn, you know. But when I saw you slumming around with my bangtail, well. I knew it was just a matter of time until you realized who was sharing her room. And I can’t have you going back to Chelsea, bearing tales.”
“What are you talking about, Evans? I’m not going back to Chelsea.”
“No, you definitely are not. You, dearie, are for the pigs. Did you know? Pigs are remarkable creatures. They will eat absolutely anything put in front of them. Some men are like that, too. Too bad you didn’t learn that before you learned how to muddle up someone else’s secrets.” He looked at her, his expression a mix of pity and bruised anger. Slowly, he stalked a semi-circle around her, pinning her in place. “I can’t do you here and leave you; your gorgeous face would be all over the papers and it’d be only a matter of time before it all came back to me. No, you are going to be trimmed into a neat pile of tiny bits, and then I’m going to serve you up to the pigs in the market.”
Sudden clarity made her blood cold. The horror of it, that someone who lived a life of such wealth and privilege could be capable of such depravity,
made her stomach roll. “It was you, wasn’t it? You killed those women. Annie, and Lizzy, and Kate, and—”
“And Mary Jane, that most deviant and pliable creature.” Regret lowered his brows for the briefest moment. Senza knew there was no contrition in his shriveled heart. He felt no regret for what he’d done—only that he’d destroyed his plaything, and would now do without. “I’m going to miss that one. You see, she—”
He lunged toward her, closing the distance between them. Lifting his hand, he brandished the blade close to her face, emphasizing his point. “Now, she was worth every penny. Cleaned up nice, bit of a sassy banter, actually had a brain. Could have been so much more with just a little push in the right direction. You knew that, didn’t you?”
He grabbed her chin, puckering her lips between his thumb and forefinger, and pressed the knife against her cheek. The blade bit in, sliced a shallow line. Blood streaked down her cheek like tears, cooling to a sting in the November air.
His breath was pungent, old tobacco and cheap liquor. “That’s why she told me she wouldn’t be having me anymore. She was leaving Whitechapel. She was going to be a proper lady, she said. And it was no gentleman that was stealing her from me. Oh, no. It was her best girlfriend, a beautiful angel with hair even redder than her own. She spent nearly an hour telling me all about your good and generous heart.”
Evans sighed. “And that’s when I couldn’t take it anymore. All this talk about hearts and, well, I needed to wrap my fingers around hers, get in close and deep and warm, so she knew no one would ever love her the way I did. I opened her up and spread her out and all I saw in there was me. Not you. So, it’s your fault, you see. You should have stayed in Chelsea. You forgot your place. Now, it’s too late to regret it.”
He flipped the knife around in an arc and jabbed it into her side. With a grunt, he jerked it hard toward her ribs.
Pain lanced through her, too massive to even mount a scream. She clutched at him, eyes wide, and mouth agape. Her lungs burned, her back, her side. All burned in a flash fire of screaming, silent pain.
He smiled down at her, watching her sink to the ground. Gasping, like a fish on the pier. The pain, the pain—
“Oh, oh, oh, oh.” He clucked his tongue. “That’s a good girl, now. Not much fight left in you. That’s good. Makes the rest of this easy. Soon, I’ll be the only thing I see inside you, too. But just to be safe. Let’s wreck that pretty scream of yours before it ruins our fun, shall we?”
“Please.” She gasped, clutching at his hand. One heartbeat. Two. Evans was excited, triumphant, and his heart pounded, and she took a stream of beats, crimson pearls on a string. “Please.”
“No need to beg, dearie.” He panted, wearing a wolf’s grin, and rubbed his mouth with his free hand.
“You did me.” Strengthened by the life she stole from him, she held her side, and pushed to her feet again. The sluggish seepage of blood soaked the ruins of her dress. Licking her lips, she slid her blood-slicked hand up and around his grimy neck and tugged his face down until his forehead rested upon hers. “Did me good, Evans.”
“I did.” A tease lightened his voice. He smiled, genuine pleasure twisting his wretched lips, and pressed against her. His lewd intentions were more than apparent. “But I’m not done.”
“Yes, you are.” She slipped her own knife out, a small, sharp blade, one she’d stolen from Molly’s kitchen, and pressed it up into the hollow niche under his chin. “It’s my turn.”
She shoved hard, the blade slicing thickly up into his mouth. Twisting the knife, she pulled it out, her fist thumping into his collarbone.
Blood sheeted down his neck, turning his collar dark. He gurgled and dropped his knife, clutching at his throat. Astonishment painted itself across his paling face.
She shoved him away. “You’re done ripping’ girls, Jack.”
Deprived of speech, he spit out a mouthful of blood and staggered away.
Senza watched his uneven stumble as he lurched back out to the street. The wound would not immediately kill him. But it would bleed fiercely, and it would drain him drop by drop, and it would kill him. They’d find him in a gutter, a victim to yet another senseless act of violence. London was full of them.
She slid to her haunches, skirts soaked scarlet and swaddled about her legs, and let her head fall back against the wall. Each breath dragged a white shooting pain in its wake. Just needed to catch her breath, try to sneak one mouthful of air around the impossible sharp hotness in her side.
Tired. So tired. The loss of blood made her lethargic.
She blinked, trying to focus her eyes, struggling to remember the last time she’d truly felt fatigued. The thought of making her way back to the inn seemed a distant impossibility. A moment, just a quick rest—she needed to close her eyes, surely no more than an eye blink.
But when she next snapped open her eyes, the cold glow of sunrise was seeping through cracks in the circle of buildings. Dawn. Hours had passed while she huddled in a blood-stained heap in a filthy alley. Had no one seen her? Had no one called for help?
And what would they have found, if they would have?
With a worried groan, she pushed to her feet. The blood had darkened and dried, making her skirt stiff with deep wrinkles. She had to beat the material against the brick wall to get it to soften enough to lay right. She lamented the fraying of the material as it snagged on the rough stones.
She slipped her fingers in through the gash on her dress, feeling the flesh beneath. Intact. Her fingers came away dry, the bleeding stopped. Just as she knew it would. A bit cramped from spending the last few hours crouched lifeless in an alley, but even that discomfort didn’t last. By the time she’d walked out to the street, the pain was merely a memory.
She took off her black shawl and wrapped it around her waist to hide the blood and walked to the corner. Across the street, a hansom. Salvation.
Hailing the cab, she gave the address of the inn, and sank her head back as the horse trotted off. The sun climbed unfailingly, heatless rays that never seemed to penetrate all the way down to the streets. A rogue sunbeam flashed across a bright patch on the seat opposite her. Curiosity got the better of her and she reached for it.
The moment her fingers came in contact with the rough parchment, she knew. She closed her eyes on a long exhale before looking at the paper.
His spindly script.
Time to move along, bien-aimée. I think you’ve had enough fun.
One day sooner. If only it had come one day sooner when Mary was alive and able to go with her. One damned day, one life, one chance. Just one.
The tears were hot and sudden, the rage even hotter. It swelled like a tempest and she screamed at the top of her lungs, grief and anger because he’d denied her that one damnable day.
By the time the cab stopped in front of the Iron Lion, the tears were dry, the rage completely burned away. Her soul felt hollow and charred. Up in her room, her bags were packed and standing by the door.
The tavern was dark and still, Molly and the barkeep still asleep in their beds. No one saw her leave. No one said goodbye.
No one had ever hoped to have the chance.
And so, in 1888, Senza left Whitechapel and all of London behind, hoping to never return.
Years passed. Senza stopped counting them.
She drifted away from the cities, growing ever disenchanted with the crowds and the crush of overwhelming superficiality. She travelled through the country, seeking solace in simplicity. So many parchment slips had appeared as she wandered, so many destinations.
Senza would merely glance at them and set off, no anticipation in the journey, no bright expectations of the broad endless future ahead. Her destiny was shaping up to be a lonely one, a hollow victory.
Every night before she closed her eyes, she pictured each face, every friend, every loved one, and said a prayer for them. Grandmother. Felicity. Her parents. Mary. So many others, several lifetimes’ worth of faces, a world full of th
em.
The years never dimmed their features, never diminished a single memory. She fought diligently to remember their smiles, their dancing eyes, the countenances of her beloveds at their very best. Sometimes, it was a struggle to avoid thinking of them at their worst. Each of their faces she’d memorized, both in life and in death.
Stop, Senza. Don’t think of those times. Think of the joy, the life—
Yet, when she tried to picture Knell, her memory stumbled. He hadn’t appeared since she ran away to Whitechapel, where the streets held more of the horrors of repulsive death than anywhere in her world. Each year dimmed his features a bit more, as if he had decided he must not be remembered and took back her recollections of him.
Why not? He was a creature of magic, was he not? He’d pulled the very life from her chest, turned her into a creature that subsisted on the life of others.
It was completely plausible that such a phantom could deliberately dissolve his image from her memory, as easily as he’d turned into a swirl of fog on a Woking train platform one spring day, so very, very long ago.
She retained only the vaguest impression of him, the pallor of his skin, the dark hair sweeping back from a stern brow. A peculiar scent she could never quite name but would often catch, a tickle on the memory. The only thing that she’d been able to hold onto was the sound of his voice, every word, every chuckle, clear and unmuffled.
Should he ever come back for her, speak her name and beckon her to his side, she would know him, and run to him.
Industrial advances chased her from even the simplest of cities. She did not want to see the world changing so quickly, so harshly. England had become commonplace and monotonous and very, very empty. And then the Great War began—