Page 45 of A Vocation of Violence
Enjoy the blood sport, my pet. But do not forget who allows you lead rein. Remember what happens to women who sell themselves.
I crumpled the note in my fist, pulse racing.
The Ripper.
He loved to send me letters. To tell me what to do.
How dare he threaten me here? I searched the crowd for a face to match the menacing words, but found only a blur of unfamiliar features. He was playing with me, taunting me.
I wanted to scream in frustration. But I would not give him the satisfaction. I straightened my spine and lifted my chin,refusing to cower before his mind games. The next move was mine.
I forced myself to focus on the spectacle at hand, though my thoughts churned like the stormy Thames. Darcy and his opponent circled each other warily in the ring, their powerful bodies coiled as they fought for breath after a temporary respite between rounds.
At the bell, they collided with the force of rampaging stallions. Darcy’s fists hammered his opponent’s ribs with sickening thuds. Blood sprayed from the man’s smashed nose. The crowd’s screams battered my ears as fiercely as the blows battering the fighters.
Sensing the mob’s impatience, Darcy moved in for the kill. He unleashed a final devastating combo—left hook, right uppercut, left hook again. His opponent crashed limply to the canvas.
The bell clanged. Darcy raised his fists and bellowed in triumph.
The crowd erupted in a frenzy of fury. Their champion had been defeated.
Darcy didn’t need their adulation. He had victory to keep him warm.
I let out a shaky breath, too disturbed by the note burning in my fist to remember my initial thrill at the primal spectacle.
I searched the familiar faces yelling encouragement to Darcy.
Jorah stood surrounded by sycophants and Syndicate, cold but triumphant calculation in his flinty eyes.
Baron and Baroness Morton looked on with aristocratic disdain, though their cheeks were flushed with excitement.
Drumft leered drunkenly, waving fistfuls of banknotes he’d won playing both sides.
Only Tunstall watched with a somber air, his handsome face drawn with concern. Our eyes met briefly across the seethingcrowd. In them, I saw mirrored my own dread that events were spiraling beyond our control.
The final bell tolled. Darcy stood victorious, chest heaving, blood and sweat mingling in crimson rivulets down his straining body.
The crowd exploded in savage cacophony.
But I felt only the chill of the Ripper’s threat creeping down my spine. However this night ended, I sensed the bloody hand of Jack the Ripper lurking behind the scenes, preparing to pull the strings tighter around my throat. I steeled myself to confront the gathering darkness, though it might mean my end.
“Concentrate, Fiona,” I whispered through gritted teeth, an attempt to anchor my thoughts away from the Ripper’s forbidding message. But the ink of his words was like poison, spreading its tendrils through my mind, leaving me gasping for air amidst the stench of sweat and blood.
He was watching me, even now.
The swell of victory swept through the arena in a deafening roar. Bodies crushed against me, carried by the riptide of excitement. I struggled against the crush, panic rising in my throat. The world tilted, a kaleidoscope of leering faces and flailing limbs.
A heavy blow knocked me to my knees, and no matter how hard I struggled to regain my footing, the press of the crowd kept me down. Heavy boots trampled my dark skirts, pinning me. They tromped on my fingers while their knees knocked into me. I clutched my head, willing my senses to steady, but the ground pitched like a storm-tossed ship.
Jack the Ripper’s threat echoed through my mind, the scream of the crowd distorting into a demonic cacophony that threatened to swallow me whole.
A hand grasped my arm. I recoiled, certain the Ripper had come for me at last. But instead of a knife, I felt strong armsencircle me, pulling me close against a solid chest. The clean scent of leather and spice cut through the miasma of blood and sweat.
“Fiona.”
Night Horse. His deep voice smooth and cool against my cheek. I clung to him, anchoring myself against the chaos as he stood as my bulwark against the mob. I held tight, loath to leave the shelter of his embrace.
“Can’t…breathe,” I managed, each word a battle fought against the vise of panic.
