Page 24 of The Business of Blood
“As a…purveyor of flesh, you can see why the return of Jack the Ripper would trouble me, especially if he struck not a stone’s throw from my establishment.” He turned to me with a hard stare, confident that it wasn’t necessary to repeat his previous directive.
As I related my frightening encounter in the alleyway, the Hammer strode behind the golden screen and reappeared, carrying a few implements along with a blue and white woolen wrap. The latter he settled around my shoulders before he reclaimed the seat next to me, soaked the corner of an absorbent cloth in fragrant oil, and made to press it against my neck.
Without thinking, I caught his arm. “What is that?”
He glanced at my hand, small enough to barely span the forearm above his wrist.
As did I.
I expected we both considered how he planned to react to the physical challenge, even one as thoughtless and feeble as this.
Every interaction with the Hammer was about power. Sometimes, power a roar. Other times, it was a whisper. With the Hammer, it was a dance, one to which he always knew the steps and forever took the lead. So long as he remained in control, there was less to fear from him.
“I-it hurts to touch,” I demurred, relinquishing my hold on his wrist, and on my own sense of fragility—perhaps a bit more than strictly necessary.
The razor glint in his gaze softened. “Olive oil, lavender, and frankincense.” He held the cloth beneath my nose. “Good enough for your Messiah, but not for Fiona?”
I sniffed the cloth and wrinkled my nose at the camphor-like essence but then tilted my head slightly to give him better access.
“It will protect you from infection, and even help with the pain…”
I could sense the warmth of his elegant fingers even through the cloth and, yet again, I shuddered, wondering if the roaring fire in the marble-white hearth was purposely burning up the chamber’s available oxygen.
“So tonight, Jack the Ripper followed you from a murder in Whitechapel and dragged you into Crossland Alley, where you proceeded to rebuke him for killing your friend while he had a knife to your throat…and he still let you live?” He summarized my story with what I considered to be inappropriate levity.
“It wouldappearhe tried to slit my throat,” I needlessly reminded him as he tended to the wound. “And I wouldn’t say Irebukedhim. I just…”
“I would not tolerate one of my girls speaking to me thus.”
In a way, I was grateful when he said such things. It reminded me who he was: the man who held the sword above my head. My life depended on his tolerance.
Standing, I pulled the shawl tighter around me. “I am no whore.”
“Everyone is a whore, Fiona.” I felt rather than heard when he unfolded himself from the settee. He wasn’t so much a warmth or an essence behind me, but the absence of either. “We each offer different parts our ourselves for use, do we not? Our sex. Our blades. Our muscles. Our minds. Our time. Our souls.”
He might have been right, in a way. I didn’t allow myself to contemplate the bleak note beneath his composure, however.
“I’ve never sold…that.”
“We must assume this is why all of your organs remain inside you, and your throat is, for the most part, intact,” he speculated.
“A reasonable assumption.” I’d be a liar if I claimed the thought hadn’t crossed my mind.
“That you are a virgin has likely kept you alive all this time.”
Unconsciously, I crossed my legs. “How do you know I’m a virgin?”
That dangerous smile again. Did he borrow it from the devil? “Categorically, I did not…until now.”
I blushed and glared and scowled at him.
Mostly blushed.
Pleased with himself, he continued, “What we must wonder, then, is why the Ripper killed this Frank Sawyer, and what he wants withyou.”
A chilling question, that. I contemplated it for a moment, doing my best not to focus on the towering man at my back. What if my visiting a known pimp upset the Ripper enough to strike out at me? Yet, how could he have known the Velvet Glove to be my destination? Had he been watching me? Did he know my habits?
My secrets?
