Page 60 of A Vocation of Violence
We were strangers again.
The weight of everything—the hatred a man like Drumft could carry for an entire people, the brush with death, the loss of a friend through no fault but my own, and the haunting visage of an unavenged Mary Kelly—pressed upon me with the heaviness of a shroud. Each breath became a struggle against the tide of despair, each tear a testament to the fragility of hope in a world so rife with darkness.
I cried until pain shot through my shoulder with every shallow breath. The starched hospital linens were a poor comfort, rustling like autumn leaves with each turn and toss in the narrow bed. Night had fallen once more over London, and with it, a somber stillness seeped into the ward.
Lying amidst the antiseptic scents and shadowy silhouettes of medical apparatus, I found myself adrift in thought, my consciousness threading together the tattered remnants of recent events. The visceral fear that had coursed through my veins as I fled Drumft’s malevolent grasp was now transmutedinto a simmering rage, fueling a determination that no blade or betrayal could diminish.
Strength wove its way through my sinews, undeterred by the wound in my back. This city had seen too many shadows dance upon its cobblestones, too many cries muffled by the thick fog that rolled off the Thames. There wasstilla devil amongst us, his signature carved into the flesh of those he took. Jack the Ripper—a name that echoed in the darkest corners of my mind, a macabre litany that would not be stilled until justice was served.
A rap at the door jolted me from my reverie, casting a sharp contrast against the solitude that had become my refuge. It was Darcy, the Dublin Destroyer, his frame filling the doorway, eyes awash with concern. He was a stalwart presence, an anchor in the tempest that had become my life. His loyalty was a balm to my weary spirit, and in the unspoken language of old friends, we shared a moment of solace.
“Ye look like hell, Fiona,” he remarked, the ghost of a smile playing upon his lips.
“Ever the charmer, I see,” I managed, my voice but a whisper. “But truly, it’s good to find you here.”
“I can’t tell you how happy I am you’re all right,” he said, taking a seat beside me. “How grateful I am to you, not just for clearing my name, but for—for being a friend. Even after you learned certain things.”
His words were a salve, a reminder that despite the treachery that danced like specters around us, there remained a constancy in our bond. There was comfort in the knowledge that Darcy stood with me, that he was glad I stood with him.
“You can rest for a bit,” he said, gingerly tapping me on the good shoulder. “If you don’t mind, I’ll stick around a wee bit. Catch up and keep you company while you recover?”
“Rest is a luxury afforded to those without demons at their heels,” I replied, my gaze never leaving the window. “Mary’s ghost won’t rest until I find Jack.”
“Your demons can wait,” Darcy huffed, adjusting my pillows with more force than necessary. “Especially that one. He’ll be here. But I knew Mary to be a kind girl. She’d tell you that the living have need of you still.”
His words, meant to comfort, only served to chisel away at the tomb of uncertainty I found myself ensconced within.
The living…
Darcy, his loyalty a beacon in the tempest of betrayal. Night Horse, the enigmatic lover, whose motives were as shadowy as the alleys he owned. Croft, Phillips, my household, my allies, my adversaries—the lines between them blurred like ink on damp parchment as tears threatened me once again.
I realized, as I looked over at the one person who could anchor me to my past…the living had need of me, and as much as I hated to admit it, I needed them, too.
Epilogue
A MONTH LATER…
Iperched upon the edge of my worn mahogany chair, the quill trembling between my fingers as I etched words onto paper—a futile endeavor to weave a tapestry of apologies without revealing too much. The ink bled into the parchment like a guilty conscience staining a pure soul. Croft and his sister deserved truth wrapped in layers of protection, not the deceit that had become my shroud. Each word was an agony, a reminder of the wrong turn taken despite my best intentions.
Dear Croft,I began, only to pause and press my lips together in frustration. How could I express the depths of my torment? That my silence was not indifference but preservation? I scratched out the words and tried anew,My dear friends,but it still rang hollow, false.
A gust of wind rattled the windowpane, mirroring the tempest within me. Jorah’s absence loomed like a specter in the darkest corner of the room. Why had he not come after learning of my injury? Was his heart so callous, or did his silence cloak a deeper turmoil?
We might have been lovers, entwined in passion’s most delicate dance, yet fate—and my own fickle heart—had severed what could have been. I wondered if whispers of my closenesswith Night Horse had reached his ears, and whether jealousy or indifference painted his thoughts.
What had sparked the conflict between Jorah and Night Horse? Two titans clashing in shadows, their enmity a puzzle missing vital pieces. Could it be related to the very secrets that I kept ensconced within my chest, as heavy as the silver locket hanging from my neck?
As the candle flickered, casting dancing shadows upon the walls, my mind wove through the labyrinth of my relationships with these men—each a strand in the web of my existence, each capable of unraveling the fragile balance I maintained. With a sigh, I set the pen aside, the letter unfinished, incomplete as the emotions that besieged me.
“Perhaps tomorrow,” I whispered to the empty room, my voice a ghostly echo, “clarity will come with the dawn.” But even as I spoke the words, I knew that some truths were destined to remain cloaked in the fog-laden night of London, elusive as the whisper of silk against skin or the softest sigh of a broken heart.
The inkwell lay abandoned, its obsidian contents neglected as my thoughts strayed to the echoing halls of Night Horse’s residence—a mausoleum of whispered secrets and hidden desires. I had traversed there, cloaked in the audacity of daylight, only to be met with news that cleaved through my hopes like a blade.
“Mr. Night Horse has embarked on travels abroad, Miss Mahoney,” the butler had intoned, his face an impassive mask belying the tumult his words conjured within me. “The duration of his absence remains…undetermined.”
I pressed my lips together, tasting the bitter tincture of longing and curiosity. The chambers of my heart resounded with unanswered questions, each beat a dull thrum against the void left by his sudden departure. Night Horse, the enigma, hadvanished into the mists of uncertainty, and I, bound to London’s grimy cobblestones, could only wonder at his purpose.
The door creaked open, snapping me back to the stark reality of my dimly lit chamber. Darcy stood framed in the threshold, his fighter’s physique incongruous against the delicate tapestry adorning the walls. Concern furrowed his brow, but his eyes held a warmth that coaxed a fragile smile from my lips.
