Page 17 of The Business of Blood
I struggled to inhale. To produce a scream that might bring whichever constable was on foot patrol in this district. But the grip crushed my ribs as a gloved hand clamped over my nose and mouth.
My vision alternately swam with violent sparks of light and blotches of darkness as my eyes latched on to a tall, red-brick building little more than half a block away.
The Velvet Glove.
I was only steps from the invisible perimeter of the Hammer’s domain. Had I made it maybe three or so more buildings, I’d have been within sight of the many brutes and brigands the Hammer employed to protect himself and his province.Oh, God. Whoever had me in his clutches must realize that. Had he predicted my intended destination?
As he dragged me deeper into the alley, I fought to get my feet beneath me. To find purchase. To suck breath into my burning lungs. If my assailant took me beyond the glow of the gas lamps, I’dneversee the light again. Of this, I was certain.
Doing my best not to flail, I fumbled with the sleeve of my pelisse where I’d sewn a sharp, cylindrical pick, no longer or wider than a pen. A good jab with it had gotten me out of my fair share of scrapes. A small, spring-coiled knife that once belonged to my father was in my pocket, but I didn’t have time to reach for it. I cursed at how violently my cold fingers shook with terror, clumsy and stiff.
The hand over my nose and mouth blessedly released, and I gasped in what desperate breath I could, intending to give strength to the primal scream crawling up my throat.
The kiss of a cold blade beneath my chin turned my scream into a whimper.
“Show me your hands.” The dark whisper warmed my ear but turned my blood to shards of ice. My every muscle froze, my hand halfway into my sleeve. “By the time you find what you’re reaching for, I’ll have already drained you.”
I flinched as the knife bit into me and lifted my hands to demonstrate their emptiness.
My assailant laughed when he saw how they trembled, and the glee in that laughter made my eyes sting with tears.
My heart shriveled as the heel of my boot dragged out of the reach of the light.
He had me in total darkness. A knife against my neck. I expected, at any moment, the sharp glide of it across the thin skin of my throat. Would it hurt? Would I be sentient for long, struggling to breathe against the warm spill of blood into my lungs?
Through the windows of the darkened haberdashery, the Strand beckoned—no, taunted—past cheery shadows of feathered hats and tasseled frippery. Just out of reach.
Dear God, let this be a robbery.
“My purse hangs at the left side of my belt,” I stammered in a labored whisper. “My broach has a sapphire on it, though the pearls are paste, and there is a little gold bracelet beneath my right glove.” That would be enough to keep a desperate man in whatever vice he desired for at least a week, maybe more.
“I’m not after your jewelry, Miss Mahoney.”
Every part of me tensed with such strain, it ached. He knew my name.
Could it be Jack? Was this how I met my end? My throat slit in a dark alley. Just like Martha Tabrum. Just like Catherine Eddowes, Annie Chapman, Mary Nichols, and Elizabeth Stride. Was I to join their ranks? Another unfortunate woman lost to the clutches of vice and villainy in this, the greatest city in the world.
Only, I was not unfortunate. Not in the way the Ripper victims were. I did sell services, yes, but not sex.
“I do believe I’ll take the liberty of calling you Fiona.”
Even though it was silly to think so in such a moment, I fully expected the Ripper’s words to slither into my ear like a serpentine fiend. Instead, the breathy tone clung to the air in moist, cultured immensity. The pitch was all wrong, closer to alto than baritone, with a slight lisp. Thiscouldn’tbe the Ripper, could it? He sounded like a Nancy, all told.
As it often does, especially for us Irish, my terror turned to fury.
“Who are you?” I demanded.
His sound of delight washed my skin in vicious insects. “You know me, Fiona. You know what I’ve done.”
No, I didn’t. He didn’t sound familiar in the least.
“I don’t care what you’ve done,” I lied. “My only care is for what you’re about to do.”
“Can you hazard a guess as to what that is?”
My eyes squeezed shut, but the sight of Mary Kelly’s final moments presented themselves like a gory portrait, forcing my lids open once more. At least he’d killed her first, so she didn’t have to feel her flesh being carved from her bones. If it came to that, I prayed he’d afford me the same mercy.
“Tell me what you want, or get on with it,” I hissed, wishing fear didn’t shake the strength from my voice as I uttered what may be my last words on this Earth.
