Page 37 of Razors & Ruin

You think I don’t want to eat the rich? Fucking think again.

The upper crust.

I go to Sweeney’s side and tug his blood-drenched sleeve. “Now, hear me out, but I have…a notion.”

He arches a brow. “Indulge me, treacle.”

“It seems to me—well, as you said. Eat the rich. Or the poor. I can’t get my hands on good pie filling to save my life, not even for cash, and does it really matter once they’re dead anyway?Cleanerthan bloody rat, or most of ‘em should be.”

I pace the floor. “I’ll need better herbs and probably some new tools, but it’ll be far less work and outlay. No reason for anyone to catch on.”

I glance up to see Sweeney staring at me with open admiration in his eyes, and I bask in it, triumphant.

“To be clear, pet,” he says, a slow smile creeping over his handsome face, “you are talking about grinding up the various human-ish animals of this city—high and low, rich and poor—and whacking their seasoned mince under a pastry lid. Then serving said fare to customers who will trough away, blissfully unaware they’re digesting their fellow men, betters and worsts alike?”

I nod, and he begins to laugh.

Of course this is a good idea.It’s the greatest idea ever.

Not just because it appeals to Mr. T’s sense of justice, if he has one, but because he will be inexorably bound to me by a shared secret so depraved, so delicious, that he will never be able to leave.

All he has to do is agree, and he’s mine. Johanna and all she represents will fly apart like dead leaves in his mind, replaced by Death's own playground. Just forus.

“Why, Nellie.” Sweeney’s voice is as soft as a summer breeze as he takes my hands in his. “You’re as practical as you are charming. Iama lucky man.”

20

Sweeney

The idea certainly has legs. The apparatus is all here; a vast and hot oven, a basement bakehouse away from prying eyes, and the best ingredient of all, the impermeable veil of implausibility.

It’s too disgusting for most people to contemplate, even in this depraved city, and it’s that fact that will protect us from discovery.

“We do have a bit of an issue, as my friend Uriah pointed out,” I say. “Getting dead people into the grinder. The stairs are literally on the side of the building, open to the world, so that’s a bit of a fucker.”

Nellie looks rueful. “Agreed. And chopping them to pieces up here isn’t practical either.”

I spot a hole in the floorboards, a knot in the wood that’s fallen out, just at the boundary of the viscous blood puddle that’s presumably oozing deep into the slats.

Kneeling down, I close one eye and peer through the gap with the other.

“What am I looking at here?”

“It’s the storeroom floor. Trap to the bakehouse is right there.”

I stand and give the floor a kick with my heel. “Right. This chair is already a bit shagged, so all I need to do is over-loosen the ratchet, and it’ll tip all the way back.”

“Certainly will.” Nellie puts her hands on her hips. “You almost gave me a fucking concussion just now.”

I smile. “I didn’t, though, did I? And honestly, treacle—who the fuck would notice?”

“Oh, you’re in fine fettle now,” she scolds, a mischievous grin breaking out over her face. “A kill and a fuck got you all mellowed out. So what are you getting at exactly?”

“I’ll cut out a space, whack a slow hinge into it to make the door into a chute, and I can dump the stock straight down into the bakehouse. You must just remember to leave the trap open down there, too. And obviously, keep the fucking storeroom door locked.”

Nellie raises her eyebrows and nods. “Elegant. Can you do things like that?”

“I was in the colonies for over a decade, my pet. I learned a few things out there, including a bit of engineering and whatnot. I’ll get it done before I go out tonight.”

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