Gallowglass ducked the flying body and slid on her belly across the floor, the revolver extended before her. The Webley-Fosbery growled continuously as she emptied its cylinder into the Ripper. The Ripper’s laughter punctuated the click of the now-empty weapon and the athame drove down. Gallowglass rolled aside and the blade pinned her coat to the floor. She rolled backwards, squirming out of her coat, driving her heel into the Ripper’s groin as she did so. Its only reaction was to laugh louder, and its hand snapped down, catching her ankle. With a bellow, the Ripper flung her across the room, to crash against an empty cot.
“That’s my apprentice, chum, and I’ll thank you not to break her,” St. Cyprian said, charging forward and driving his fist into the Ripper’s jaw while the latter was bent away from him. He immediately regretted it; it was like punching a sack of concrete. “Ah—God!—brass knuckles, next time, brass knuckles,” he hissed as he stumbled back, clutching his aching hand. The Ripper whirled about, stick-pin teeth gleaming in a madcap grin as it seized St. Cyprian’s lapels and swung him about. “Oh my giddy aunt,” St. Cyprian yelped as he was swept off his feet. The Ripper’s strength was incredible.
The Ripper’s eyes blazed, as if in recognition and St. Cyprian knew, with a chill, that it somehow remembered him from their brief moment of contact in the garret. He didn’t waste time wondering how—for such entities, time was less a linear progression than a suggestion. Fear seized his heart as the red glare burned through him. He hoped he was wrong. It was bad enough having a chance encounter with one of these things—he’d rather hoped to avoid being on a first-name basis with any extra-dimensional horrors. Such acquaintances were rarely beneficial to either party in question. He thrust his hand in his greatcoat pocket, searching for something, anything he might use. He had amulets and vials a-plenty, but he’d never faced something like this.
His fumbling fingers closed on a vial and he jerked it out and, without removing the stopper, smashed it against the side of the Ripper’s leering face. The effect was as surprising as it was immediate. The Ripper’s laughter choked off into a screech as it released St. Cyprian and staggered back, its form shrinking back to normal proportions. Steam hissed and escaped from between its fingers as it clutched at its face. “Don’t care for the taste of the old oil of hyssop, do you?” St. Cyprian said as he drew his Bulldog and fired.
The Ripper’s only reply was the purr of the athame as it tore through the air towards him. He threw himself aside and the blade gouged a divot out of a support beam. St. Cyprian rolled to his feet and fired again. The Ripper barrelled across the all-too short distance, hissing like a steam locomotive, its weight causing the floorboards to bow.
Then Gallowglass leapt onto the Ripper’s back, her legs scissoring around its chest and the butterfly knife clicking as its blade sprang free. “You like knives?” she hissed, “Here, have this one!” The balisong sank into the Ripper’s neck and it keened like a dying wolf. A shot rang out, and the Ripper reeled, nearly dislodging Gallowglass from her perch.
St. Cyprian turned and saw Morris lower his smoking pistol. “Fire,” Morris barked, and his men hastened to comply, levelling their own weapons and cocking them.
“No!” St. Cyprian rose, thrusting himself into the line of fire. “You’ll hit Gallowglass!”
Morris hesitated. “I can live with that,” he said. “Fire—”
The Ripper’s snarl interrupted the order as it tore Gallowglass from its back and hurled her into St. Cyprian, sending them both to the floor in a tangle. Then, with a laugh and a bound, it was over them and sprinting towards Morris and his men.
Morris squawked and ducked, but his men weren’t so light on their feet. The athame slid across a line of waiting throats, painting the air red. The Ripper chuckled, skull wobbling with a serpentine side-to-side as it watched the bodies tumble like string-cut puppets. A noise caught its attention and it turned.
St. Cyprian, still on the floor, saw Jadwiga stagger from his berth, pipe in hand. The fraudulent spiritualist saw the Ripper and for the first time, some sense of the danger he was in seemingly penetrated the poppy haze he’d become mired in. St. Cyprian rose to his feet and said, “Run, you fool!”
The Ripper loped towards Jadwiga, its grin so wide it threatened to split its head in two. St. Cyprian attempted to interpose himself, but the black-clad juggernaut simply swatted him aside, as if he were no more impediment than a fly. He struck the wall hard enough to drive the air from his lungs and to send tendrils of pain coiling about his spine. The Ripper snatched up Jadwiga and hefted him by his throat.
FOUND YOU, it said, in a voice like a rumble of thunder. It wasn’t a human voice. It was more akin to the squeal of some monstrous bat, and it spoke in images and sensations as much as words. EAT YOU, it added, with apparent relish.
Jadwiga screamed as the Ripper’s jaw unhinged like that of a snake, revealing a gullet like that of a deep sea trench worm. With a brittle chortle, the Ripper dragged Jadwiga close and bent forward, fastening its malformed jaws over the struggling man’s head. Jadwiga’s struggles grew more violent and his cries, though muffled, were audible. The air around the gruesome tableau wavered and bristled with darting, phantom shapes and sounds.
In the watery quiver of the air, St. Cyprian could see gaslight streets and crawling fog. A London that-was, or never-was, depending how literally you took Dickens and Conan Doyle. Where the shadow of the Ripper stretched, things warped and changed, becoming something out of Sax Rohmer. In the snap and curl of the Ripper’s cloak, the opium den was, for a moment, transformed into an oriental house of horrors, before once more becoming only a drab, seedy dive.
Little by little, Jadwiga’s form seemed to shrivel, like a slug dusted with salt. His cries faded and his struggles became weaker and weaker as the Ripper’s inflated gullet and belly bobbed and pulsed obscenely. Gritting his teeth against the pain, St. Cyprian thrust himself into a sitting position. Before he could get to his feet, however, it was done.
What was left of Jadwiga tumbled from the Ripper’s clutches and the cat-meets-cream grin was back in place as red eyes swept the opium den. A pale tongue darted from between the Ripper’s lips to dab at the blood that had splattered across its features like war-paint. Its roving gaze came to a halt as it spotted St. Cyprian and it giggled as it started forward, the boards creaking beneath it weight as it moved.
The lights went out one by one as the Ripper passed them, snuffed by the curling frond-like edges of its cloak. Its grin was inhumanly wide and curved, like a scythe blade and its eyes were twin balls of flame. St. Cyprian caught sight of Gallowglass rising to her feet behind the Ripper. As he scrambled backwards, she lunged for the Ripper’s legs. It gave a yowl of surprise and fell. Wood cracked and splintered as the trapdoor it’d fallen on gave way beneath it, and in a single flailing motion, the Ripper was gone, taking half the trapdoor with it into the Thames.
Breathing heavily, St. Cyprian met Gallowglass’ gaze and nodded his thanks. She sniffed and shoved herself to her feet. “We’d best get after him,” she said, snatching up her revolver and holstering it. “Who’s for a swim?”
“Are you insane?” Morris snarled, picking himself up from where he’d fallen. He looked shaken and pale. His eyes glazed slightly as he caught sight of what was left of his men. The Ripper had killed them all with no more hesitation and effort than a man might take to kill a gnat. “That thing’s unstoppable!”
“No, it’s just going to be very difficult to do so,” St. Cyprian said, glaring down at the dark waters of the Thames moving swiftly below. The Ripper didn’t seem likely to come storming back to the surface any time soon, but he reloaded his Webley just in case. Not that the revolver had done any good. Fear still hummed along his brainstem and his body quivered with excess adrenaline. Morris might just be right, but there was no way he was going to admit it, not this early in the match. “I misjudged how bad it would be in the flesh. We can stop it, but we need to find the other survivors. Jadwiga mentioned
something about Bow.” He looked at Gallowglass. “If you were a woman, on your own, and running from trouble, where in Bow would you go?”
“I know a place we could find out,” Gallowglass said, grinning slightly.
“As do I,” St. Cyprian said, nodding in satisfaction.
“What are you talking about?” Morris said, grabbing St. Cyprian’s arm.
St. Cyprian ignored him. “We’ll go there now. We’re on someone else’s schedule, I’m afraid, and our knife-wielding friend is going to be assiduous about sticking to it. Best we get to her first, if possible.”
“Damn it, you will tell me what you’re talking about!” Morris snarled as he jerked St. Cyprian around. St. Cyprian spun and caught Morris by his lapels and thrust him backwards, until the smaller man’s back connected with a support beam. The impact, though muffled, was satisfying and St. Cyprian felt the raw fear of the previous moments drain out of him.
“Morris, I am aware that you are under an inordinate amount of stress at the moment, so I’ll forgive you attempting to shoot my apprentice,” he said calmly, meeting Morris’ glare with a bland expression. “But lay hands on me again, and I’ll dump you in the drink, savvy?” Morris spluttered incoherently as St. Cyprian released him. “Right now though, you are going to roust every person on the Ministry’s payroll and get them on this case. That thing is not going to be happy when it eventually surfaces. I don’t think we’ll have to worry about it going after the citizens of our fair metropolis while it’s on the hunt, but that doesn’t mean it won’t get peckish. Do you think you can handle that?”
“And just what are you planning to do while I’m doing that?” Morris growled.
“Me? I think I’m for Bow.” St. Cyprian tapped his stomach. “There’s a bakery there I’m fond of, and I missed breakfast.”
Andraste woke with a start. Her mouth tasted of Thames water and blood. Breathing heavily, she fought to control the fear that flooded her. It wasn’t coming for her, not yet. That was good. It gave her time. She needed all of that she could get. She sat up on the cot and scrubbed at her face with the heels of her palms, trying to wake herself up.
She’d been so exhausted when she’d arrived that she’d gone to sleep the minute her head had hit the flat surface of the cot. She looked around blearily. The room was barren, save for the cot, a chair and a small writing desk. There was an old-fashioned water-closet, behind the second of the room’s two doors. It didn’t have a window, which would have defeated the purpose of the room. It was a hidey-hole, for agitators, agent provocateurs, and socialist champions of all stripes, nationalities and infamies. It was a pilgrim’s rest, for those brave souls tilting at society’s windmills. She’d heard Edith Margaret Garrud had stayed here once, just before the War, after flipping one too many policemen over her tiny shoulder.
She wasn’t much of a suffragette. Equal rights sounded good, in a general sort of fashion, but she was also quite happy for the weaker sex to underestimate her, especially when it meant they weren’t so alert around their valuables. She’d plucked many a wallet, after pretending to swoon. And she was no Bolshevik either. Sharing was not a virtue she possessed, and her revolutionary instincts were, at best, vestigial.
Still, one found one’s friends where one did.
Andraste swung her legs out of bed. She’d shed her Balkan princess outfit in favour of a sensible skirt and an over-large sweater, left behind by some Leftist firebrand. The room was cold, and she snatched up her coat and hauled it on. She stood, her eyes drifting to the yellowing copies of Worker’s Dreadnought on the writing desk. Someone knocked on the door. “Aife, are you awake?” a muffled voice inquired.
“Unfortunately,” Andraste said. “Come in Bobbie.” The door opened, allowing the benevolent odor of baking bread to waft into the room. It harried the chill back into the cracks and crevices and Andraste sighed in pleasure.
The Bow Road Bakery had begun as front for the Sarah Pankhurst’s East London League of Suffragettes. When the group had navigated the choppy seas of gender parity into the harbour of Leftist politics, the Bakery had changed hands and backers. It was run by volunteers, to raise funds for various Socialist and Communist groups, and the quality of the product tended to vary. It smelled as if they had a good bunch this time. As if reading her mind, her visitor said, “Harriet is a dab hand with a measuring cup, I will say. And her tea-cakes are the result of a Faustian pact, or I’m a dire wolf.”
Andraste chuckled. The young woman who’d entered was the sort of person for whom the word ‘sporty’ had been coined, and it wasn’t much of a stretch to impart lupine qualities to such a rangy shape. Roberta Wilde was tall and broad shouldered, and dressed like a man. Or rather, what she thought a man ought to dress like. Coco Chanel Bobbie was not, Andraste thought, though she’d never dared say so. Wilde grinned. “Sleep well?”
“Not remotely.” Andraste ran a hand through her tangled hair and yawned. “I feel rubbish. Have I said thanks for letting me flop here yet, Bobbie?”
“No, but you never have darling, so why break the streak now? Who’s after you this time? The rozzers on your trail, or is it creditors?” Wilde said, leaning against the door frame. “I figured it was even odds on either, given how quickly your foreign pal toddled off.”
“Either would be preferable, given the alternative,” Andraste said. Wilde had never warmed to Jadwiga. She liked her fellows as lissom as noodles and with a personality to match, Andraste recalled.
Wilde’s eyes narrowed. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s not, but I’m not planning on hanging around here long enough for it to splash over on you or the others,” Andraste said quickly.
Wilde flapped a hand. “Tosh, we can handle ourselves, thank you kindly.” She made a fist and thumped it into her palm. Andraste believed her. Wilde had been an ambulance driver in the War, and had thumped more than one soldier boy, wounded or otherwise, with either a fist or a wrench for getting too frisky.
“I’m sure you…” Andraste began and then trailed off as the world lurched around her. She’d felt sick since the night before, but had thought it was just a reaction to seeing…what she’d seen. Nausea surged through her, and her legs felt as if they could no longer support her weight. She stumbled and Wilde lunged to support her as she pitched sideways.
“Whoa there old girl, you look a bit wobbly on your pins,” Wilde said, helping her to sit down on the bed. She pressed the back of her hand to Andraste’s forehead. “You’re burning up.” She frowned.
“Am I? Because all I feel is cold,” Andraste said, hugging herself. She felt as if there was something missing. As if a piece of her had been cut out, like a slice of pie. There was a hollow, squirming sensation in her gut.
“Could be plague,” Wilde said matter-of-factly.
“Bobbie, it’s never plague,” Andraste said. “Not once, at any time you have suggested that it was plague, has it, in fact, been plague. And don’t sound so damned hopeful when you say it is, please.”
“Could be the flu, then,” Wilde said grudgingly, pushing her down on the bed. “Legs up, head down, Aife, while I fetch tea and something for breaks, what?”
“Marmalade,” Aife said hopefully.
“No marmalade, marmalade is for the bourgeoisie,” Wilde said, heading for the door. “You’ll get jam and like it.”
“Just so long as it’s not red,” Andraste murmured, as she lay back on the bed.
Andraste watched Bobbie leave and clutched at her stomach. There was no pain; just the emptiness, the feeling of things not being quite right. She felt it, in her belly. The Ripper had carved her up, just like the others, but he hadn’t left a mark on her.
It was getting worse as well. The entire time they’d been talking, the emptiness had grown. She felt like she couldn’t catch her breath. She rubbed her face. Her skin was hot and there was a dull pressure in her temples. She closed her eyes.
She—red, painting the air in a curlicue—opened her eyes an
d—the athame whistled, separating a head from a neck—gasped as the emptiness surged. She—a woman screamed, and clutched her child as she darted for a window, but too late as long fingers caught her hair and her neck snapped—curled up, gagging as the hot, sour taste of blood filled her mouth.
The Ripper was at his work, and enjoying himself, by the nasty feel of it. She didn’t know whether they were memories, or dreams or something in between. Tears streamed down her face and the room spun as she tried to push herself up. She massaged her aching temples. Despite the fulsome haze of rising dough, she could still smell the stink of the Ripper—of the blood.
Jadwiga’s blood, she knew, though she hadn’t recognized it at first. The dream, if it had been a dream, wasn’t fading, as they usually did, but was instead growing stronger and more vibrant. It was as if she had been watching the whole ghastly affair from just over the creature’s shoulder. As if she was somehow tied to it. She had watched as it had butchered those men, and then as it had—had…
She didn’t cry, though she dearly wanted to. Crying wouldn’t bring the poor fool back, or ease the pain she felt. He’d been a good man, in his way. He’d been weak, but aware of his weakness, and not afraid of it, like many men might have been. And he’d been a good partner, always ready to follow her lead, or take charge when necessary. He’d saved her some distress more than once with his knobkerrie and his fists. And now he was dead and that was all there was to it.
“You stupid, kind, clever man,” she hissed as she bit down on her knuckle. “Why didn’t you just listen?” She scraped her thumb painfully across the corners of her eyes, dashing away the thin trickle that had escaped her best efforts. “But you didn’t, and now I’m on my own.”
The Whitechapel Demon Page 7