She picked it up. Even in the dim light the blood was evident. Just a few drops, dotting the collar. A smudge on the right sleeve.
She couldn’t breathe. It can’t be him, it can’t be him, it can’t be him . . . But how to explain this?
Calm down, Euphemia. Perhaps the barber cut him while shaving. Perhaps he pricked himself with a pin while affixing his collar. This isn’t a lot of blood, hardly any at all. Surely Leather Apron would have been covered in blood, bathed in it, if the tales she’d heard about the state of Annie’s remains were true.
“Euphemia? Are you well, dear?”
The shirt fell to the floor. “John!”
“Yes. At least, I am fairly certain it’s me.” He smiled. In the gloom she saw him look down at his bare chest, so beautifully cut with muscle and bone, a sculpture in white marble. “Is something the matter?”
“I – There’s been another murder.”
He didn’t move. Not a flicker of an eyelash, not a muscle. “Where?”
“Hanbury Street.”
“But that’s . . . ” He shook his head. “Come here.”
She did. It felt like treading through sewer slush. Was that terror making her blood pound, or something altogether more base? What was wrong with her? There could be blood on his hands, and yet she still wanted those hands on her body. He could be a cold-blooded murderer yet she still felt, as all silly women did when faced with such things, that it couldn’t possibly be him. Not this man, the one she’d started to think of as hers, the one she was falling in love with so rapidly it made her dizzy.
He pulled her onto the bed and tucked the covers over her, ignoring her protests about her shoes.
“I can’t imagine how this must hurt you,” he murmured into her ear. “I’m so sorry.” In the circle of his arms she could feel her heart pounding against her ribcage. Did he mean the murders, or her suspicions?
Surely he meant the murders. He couldn’t know why she was really here. “But that’s . . . what?”
“Hmm?” His lips tickled her throat.
“You started to say something. ‘But that’s . . . ’ You didn’t finish. What were you going to say?”
“That it’s terrible. I was going to say, ‘But that’s terrible.’”
She wasn’t sure she believed him. She wasn’t sure she trusted herself to believe him. But when his hand slid forwards to cup her shoulder, to gently encourage her to slide further under the covers to where his excitement awaited her attentions, she forgot everything.
Because she wanted to.
Whitechapel, London
17 September 1888
John adjusted his collar and headed out onto the chilly streets, with Euphemia’s hand tucked firmly into the crook of his arm. It would happen again soon, he knew it. He could feel it in the air. Time was running out.
He tried to ignore the looks on their faces as he passed. Members of the St Marylebone Female Protection Society, handing out their flyers, trying to use the crimes to get women off the streets. Members of the Mile End Vigilance Committee, trying to seem casual and looking at nothing but, watching them. Watching him. Suspecting him. They’d zeroed in on him faster than he’d expected; the residents may be poor and uneducated, but they were not stupid.
He hoped this little trip out might calm them, might let them see he was nothing more harmful than a gentleman of means, but it seemed to be backfiring. He appeared to be taunting them with his presence, flaunting his money as though it made him better than they. Unapproachable. Uncatchable.
Arrests had been made. The man everyone had suspected, whose nickname of “Leather Apron” had been given to the killer, had been caught and released. He had an alibi for the night of Annie Chapman’s murder, and for Polly Nichols’ as well. The killer was still out there, increasingly nicknamed “Jack” by a public desperate to put a name to evil. The similarity of that name to his own did not escape him.
The streets filled with edgy prostitutes and edgier men. Drinking both soothed and angered them, making them even more unstable than they already were.
In the middle of the night someone had thrown a brick through the front window of his home. John was starting to wonder if it wasn’t time to pull out. Let someone else take over.
But then he felt the warmth of Euphemia’s skin through his clothing, glanced to his side and saw her sweet profile. She felt it too, the glares of the crowd, but was as always unflappable. Breaking through her silent reserve thrilled him, and the thrill wasn’t getting old. Almost three weeks now he’d had her in his life, in his bed. The three best weeks he could remember.
Her body, so small and light and alive in his arms. Her voice, ragged with thrilling, ever-rising need. It had started as a curiosity, a desire. It was becoming a compulsion.
And more than that. He . . . liked her. He cared about her. The story of her life was all too common – shopkeeper’s daughter from the South-west, married, moved to London, left a widow. Never enough money. Never enough food or warm clothing. But through it all she had the dignity of a duchess.
Then he would make her laugh and suddenly she was a mischievous child, and he would laugh too. She made him feel young again. Carefree. Good about himself.
He knew she had her suspicions. He knew he would have to explain soon, to tell her what he did and why, and hope she would see what really lay beneath his actions here in Whitechapel. That she would be able to forgive him for not telling her.
For now, though . . .
“You look lost in thought,” she murmured, squeezing his arm.
“I am.”
“What about?”
He hesitated. “I was thinking about you.”
“Me?” She smiled, but it only took a second for that flicker of doubt to enter her eyes.
“About how lovely you look this evening.” He glanced around them. They were passing St Mary’s Church, and the pedestrian crowds were smaller. He thought he saw a few women behind them who looked familiar. Hadn’t he seen one of them every time he went out lately?
No matter. He leaned over and gently scraped Euphemia’s ear lobe with his teeth. “But how much lovelier you look without your clothes on.”
Even in the dim light cast by the moon he could see her blush. “John . . . ”
He kissed her again, on the lips this time, not caring who saw them. What difference did it make? Who cared about his social standing in Westminster, when this beautiful woman stood before him and bit her luscious lower lip, her eyes darkening with desire?
He’d have to leave London soon anyway.
“Who’s in charge, Euphemia?”
“You are.” No hesitation. Her hand slid a little on his arm, rubbing against his chest.
“Step into that alley.”
Her eyes flicked back towards the women – ah! – that explained it. But she obeyed. He could smell her desire already, warring with the faint touch of nervousness and fear in her eyes. She squared her small shoulders as she walked ahead of him.
Her entire body shook as he placed her back against the high stone wall of the building behind. “Are you cold?”
“No.” The word was barely a whisper.
“Euphemia . . . are you frightened?”
She shook her head. He knew it was a lie.
“Look at me.”
She did, her big eyes glittering with tears. His heart nearly broke. Not just because she doubted him, but because he hadn’t told her everything. He was falling in love with her, but still lying. Hiding.
“You’re in no danger, my dear.” He leaned forwards to kiss her, tasting her passion and worry, and the faint sweetness of her mouth. It intoxicated him, made him reckless. He wanted her, now. He’d meant to talk to her. It could wait.
He bent down, kissing her chest through the stiff fabric of her gown, kissing down her stomach, until he could lift her skirts up to her waist.
“John!”
“Hush.” He returned to standing and kissed her lips again, and again, cat
ching her thighs in the crooks of his arms and lifting them. His lips travelled down her neck, over her pulse, over the delicate smoothness of her skin. Her fragrance filled his nose. He was lost. Lost in her body, in her hands fumbling at his trousers and opening them. Lost as he tore away her drawers. Lost as he drove himself into her.
A soft cry escaped her. He barely heard it over his own, just as he barely heard the gasps of passers-by as they saw the two of them, against the wall, with her legs wrapped around his waist and his hat fallen off onto the cold ground at his feet. He didn’t care, because inside she was all soft wet heat, gripping him, encouraging him to go harder, faster.
He didn’t. He slowed down. Her fingers dug into his back. Her hips pushed helplessly forwards, begging him for more.
He wanted to give her more. Wanted to give her everything, anything, as long as she promised they could do this again, do this for ever. Her curious mix of passion and restraint, her clever mind, the way she challenged him everywhere but in bed. She was everything he’d ever wanted.
She gripped the hair at his nape with her right hand, tugging gently. He sped his pace, harder and faster, until he couldn’t think or breathe or do anything but feel her around him. Her muscles contracted, hard, not on the wave but getting ready, and he was ready too.
“Come for me.” He pulled his head back to watch her, her mouth open, her eyes closed, but did not slow his movements inside her. “Come for me, Euphemia.”
“I . . . I . . . oh John!”
Her hips moved forwards as her back arched so violently he thought for a moment they would fall over. And then he didn’t care, because she was exploding, and so was he, and it was the closet thing to magic he’d ever felt in his life and it wasn’t until he managed to set her down some minutes later that he realized two things.
One, they’d attracted quite a crowd; and two, he’d forgotten to pull out of her as he came. He’d never forgotten to do so with any other woman.
Chapter Four
Whitechapel, London
30 September 1888
3.30 am.
“Send him out!”
“Send him out!”
Euphemia sat up in bed and instinctively felt for John beside her. The empty expanse of cold sheets taunted her. He wasn’t there.
They’d gone to sleep together early. When had he gotten up?
The pounding on the door finally galvanized her. She slid from the bed and grabbed the silk wrapper he’d given her, tying it hurriedly around her waist as she ran down the stairs.
The light coming in through the gaps in the drapes looked eerily bright. Lurid.
Not daylight, but fire.
She glanced at the clock, and cold fingers squeezed around her heart.
“Euphemia!” Peggy’s imperious voice carried through the windows. “Is he in there? You send him out!”
With the firelight hurting her eyes, it was hard to see Peggy at first, but there she was, on the street, only a few feet from the front door. Behind her was . . . what Euphemia would have termed a “crowd”, if the word “crowd” had not implied innocence. This was a mob, an angry one, carrying torches like a sixteenth-century woodcutting.
“Two of ’em!” shouted a man from the back. “Two women he’s kilt tonight!”
Two! It couldn’t be possible. It couldn’t be John, it just couldn’t. No man so tender and caring could also be so vicious and cruel, so monstrous.
She dropped the curtain and stepped back, wishing the room wasn’t so chill. She thought she might never feel warm again. They’d had dinner. They’d made love twice, once here, then again in bed, his fingers so gentle on her body, his mouth so warm . . .
They’d fallen asleep. And now he was gone and two more women – two! – were dead.
Mrs Langley wasn’t in the house. No one was. Just her, facing a horde of drunken, angry people with torches.
She had to get dressed, at least. She would not, could not, open the door, not until she knew what was really happening. She felt too vulnerable with only the thin silk to cover her nudity.
“Euphemia.” Something about his voice sent tremors through her body. It was not cool, not smooth, not amused. Not even rough with passion, but with something else.
She turned, her eyes adjusting to the darkness, and saw him standing in the hall beyond the stairs. He hadn’t been there a moment ago, she was sure of it.
Nor was he usually covered in blood, but he was tonight. Dark smears of it decorated his face and shirt. She thought she might faint. Dear God it was him. It was him all along, you stupid, love-struck fool . . .
“Send him out, Euphemia! You give him to us!”
Euphemia didn’t move, not even when the first brick sailed through the window with a terrible, high crash.
“How could you?” she whispered.
“How – my God, Phemie, you don’t – Oh, no.” He took a step towards her. She took one back. “Please, listen to me! I tried to stop him, I tried to catch him, I was too late—”
“Don’t lie!” The scream ripped itself from her throat before she could think about it. “Don’t lie to me!”
She’d noticed before how smoothly and silently he could move – just like a killer – but she’d never realized he was so fast. He was in front of her in less than the blink of an eye. Blood soaked his shirtfront and his coat, and slicked the knees of his trousers. He put his hands on her shoulders. She shuddered as blood seeped through her robe. “Look at me, Phemie, look at me! I know what you suspect, but I swear to you it’s not me.”
Tears ran down her face. She should be more afraid than she was, she thought, but perhaps it was resignation that made her stand and cry instead of fighting. She could not fight any more. She loved him, and if through her love she’d allowed him to commit more murders, she deserved to die at his hand. “I can’t believe you. Look at you. How can I trust you when you’re covered in blood, when that hairpin wasn’t mine, when—”
“Because I love you.”
“I heard ’im! He’s in there!” The crowd outside started roaring, cursing. Another brick shattered a windowpane and clattered on the wood floor.
“I love you, Euphemia. Please believe me. You don’t have any reason to trust me. I’ve been lying to you, I admit it, and I’ll tell you the truth when we have time but we have to get out of here. You have to come with me now.”
She could barely speak. “I can’t.”
“You must. He’ll kill you if you stay. He knows who you are.”
This time it wasn’t a brick. It was a bottle. A bottle with a flaming rag stuck in the top. Fire leaped over the carpet. Euphemia screamed and tried to pull away from John, but he was too strong for her. Outside the crowd roared.
“We have to get out of here!”
“I can’t, I can’t go with you. Not after what you’ve done . . . ”
“God damn it. We must go. The house will burn down around our ears if we stay!”
The curtains had caught now. Orange light flickered eerily off John’s face; the blood on his clothing was a hellish design.
“I can go,” she said. “I can walk out that door, and let you burn.”
He recoiled as if she’d slapped him. “You could.” He paused. “If you don’t love me.”
“How can I love a fiend? I don’t even know you. You’re not the man that I – the man that I thought—”
She wanted to finish the sentence but couldn’t, because his arms were around her and his lips on hers. Feverish, tempting as a pact with the devil and ten times more arousing, he took her mouth without mercy, and she kissed him back with every bit of passion she owned.
“I love you,” he whispered fiercely. “By God, Euphemia, I love you. And I’m not a killer. I tried to catch him. I’m here to catch him. I almost had him but he got away. He’s too powerful for me . . . ” His lips moved to her throat. “Believe me, I didn’t hurt those women.”
“But the blood on your shirt . . . ” She wanted to trust him. Hearin
g his words of love made her ruined heart sing. She loved him, she did, and it might have been enough for her if only she hadn’t trained herself to be quite so practical, so collected.
He pulled away, and looked down. His chest still rose and fell with his rapid breaths.
It was almost as bright as day in the room. The fire was growing, consuming the draperies and furniture. Sweat beaded on Euphemia’s forehead and trickled between her breasts.
He spoke, but the words made no sense.
“What?” She couldn’t quite make out what he’d said.
“I’m a vampire.”
“What?” Dear God, was there no end to it?
He opened his mouth wide, and her fist flew to her lips. His teeth . . . so long, so white. How was this possible?
“I’ll explain later. We have to go. Please, my darling, my love. Please come with me.”
Her gaze flew back to the front door. Outside it lay freedom, from the fire and from blood and from the sight of John’s unnaturally long . . . fangs. There was no word for them but fangs.
But inside was John. The man she loved and the man who, despite everything, she believed. And if he led her to her death, surely God’s mercy awaited her on the other side.
Her neck felt stiff as she nodded.
His eyes widened. “You’ll come with me?”
“Yes.”
She expected him to kiss her, to tell her again how he loved her, but he did not. Instead he touched her hand and said, “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”
She watched him run up the stairs, her chest heaving. Somehow she’d been so focused on him she hadn’t noticed the room filling with smoke. It was hard to see, hard to breathe. She coughed once, twice, and then she couldn’t stop coughing; couldn’t catch her breath.
“John?” She tried to shout, but between the crowd shouting and cursing outside, cheering as the flames grew, and her lack of air she didn’t think he would hear her. No one would hear her. She’d made a mistake, a terrible mistake, and she was about to pay for it with her life . . .
Love Bites UK (Mammoth Book Of Vampire Romance2) Page 42