Page 38 of A Vocation of Violence
The revelation seemed to settle upon Darcy and Tunstall like ash from an extinguished flame, a stark reminder of the precarious nature of existence in our shadowed corners of society. Disbelief etched itself into every line of their faces, a testament to the woman who’d walked among us, her true identity veiled behind a carefully constructed façade.
“Survival,” I echoed softly, the word tasting like iron on my tongue.
The room, cloaked in shadows and the smoke from Jorah’s pipe, seemed to shrink under the weight of our collective resolve. I found myself standing, my spine a rigid line against the oppressive silence that had fallen over the Velvet Glove’s Shiloh room.
Yet even as the agreement passed our lips, the air remained thick with disquiet. A glance between Jorah and Night Horse spoke volumes of discord—their stances rigid, the space between them charged with silent animosity. I knew not the root of their quarrel, but its presence was like a serpent, coiled and ready to strike at any moment.
Tunstall shook his head, still grappling with the revelation. “All this time, right under our noses.” He looked to Jorah, then to me, a dawning comprehension in his gaze. “There’s more to this, isn’t there? More you’re not saying.”
“Perhaps,” I allowed, but offered nothing further. In the dance of truth and lies, it was wise to keep one’s cards close to one’s chest—even amongst allies.
“More will be revealed in time,” Jorah stated, a cryptic note coloring his baritone. “For now, we must tread carefully, Fiona. There are eyes upon us, hungry for the slightest misstep.”
“Agreed,” I conceded, feeling the weight of those unseen eyes upon my back. In my nightmares, those eyes belonged to the Ripper.
I bade them goodnight and left the Shiloh room, happy to be rid of an excess of brooding, tense, and emotionally stunted masculine company.
The cobbles were slick beneath my boots, a treacherous sheen of recent rain reflecting the gray skies like a dull mirror. The Velvet Glove’s heavy door closed behind me with a muffled thud, as if sealing away the fragile alliance we’d just brokered. London wrapped around me, a cloak woven from shadows and secrets, its chill seeping into my bones.
I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, watching it form a spectral wisp in the air before vanishing into oblivion. My footsteps were soft whispers against stone as I hastened down the alley, yet something pricked at the nape of my neck—a sensation that I was not alone, an instinct honed by years navigating the underbelly of this city.
A footfall echoed mine, a half-beat out of sync. I quickened my pace, heart pounding a staccato rhythm that thrummed in my ears. Another step, heavier, more deliberate, shattered the silence behind me. My blood turned to ice. Fear’s icy tendrils clutched at my throat, throttling the scream that dared to escape.
I glanced back to find a hulking shadow at the entrance to the alley.
Panic lent wings to my feet as I broke into a run. The alley stretched before me, an endless void swallowing my hopes of sanctuary. I could hear the ragged breath of my pursuer, feel the proximity of danger breathing down my neck. Was it the killer who had silenced Vivienne so brutally? A shiver cascaded down my spine at the thought.
Right before I would have burst onto the safety of the Strand, a strong arm locked around me like an iron band, cutting off my ability to scream for help.
Chapter Twelve
“Fi-Fiona, it’s me.” The voice, when it finally cut through the murk, was a balm to the frisson of dread skittering along my spine. Recognition dawned, though not without its own brand of disquiet.
“Darcy Brendan O’Dowd, I should box your ears in for startling me so!” I put a palm over my still-racing heart.
He stood before me, his familiar form somehow misplaced within the slim alleyway. “Sorry, Fi… I didn’t mean to scare you.” His face, cast half in shadow, bore lines of worry and something else—an unspoken burden that weighed heavily.
“It’s all right. I’d already worked myself into a lather.”
Why had I seen an enemy before I recognized a friend? I pondered this silently, even as relief shuddered through me. Alleys were the haunts of death, where women disappeared into the night, never to return, save for in horrified whispers and loud headlines. Where Jack the Ripper did his work, all except for the room in which he’d killed Mary.
For that room had allowed him to take his time.
“What’s wrong, Darcy?” I asked, sensing something was urgent. “Why follow me into the dark?”
He shifted, a gladiator uncertain of his arena. “I have a confession to make, Fi. But if it goes further than this alley, it could mean ruin for us both. Do you understand? It could mean the end of everything.” Those words, ominous and fraught with potential malevolence, stole the warmth from my blood.
“Why tell me at all, then?” I asked through the trepidation still knotting my guts.
His fingers dug into my arms as he gripped them, eyes wilder than I’d ever seen them. “We need your help, Fiona.”
“Help?” I echoed. Trust was a currency in short supply these days, and even Darcy’s earnest gaze could not purchase it outright. “We? Who are you talking about?”
His eyes searched mine, beseeching me for understanding, and I knew that whatever secrets lay buried within his heart, they must be akin to the shards of glass littering the grimy alley underfoot—sharp enough to wound deeply. “Aye, help. There’s more at play here than you know. More than anyone knows.”
“Calm down,” I replied, my voice steadier than I felt. “Speak your piece, Darcy—anything you say will be safe with me.”
His fingers twitched, and he exhaled a breath that had been held captive by some unspeakable burden. The dim light from the street flickered, casting his features into stark relief, revealing the torment etched into the lines of his once-familiar face.
