Page 43 of Taken By the Ripper
And worst of all…
Clara had unknowingly pushed her sister toward this fate. Perhapsshewas the one to blame.
Drip. Drip.Sleep.Drip. Drip.Sleep.
Her routine consisted of listening to the echo of droplets of water splashing into a puddle somewhere in the corner of the room and fighting off the fatigue of a long night. She kept thinking she heard footsteps, and perhaps a couple of times she swore a pair of eyes blinked in the darkness.
But after some time, she convinced herself it was her own mind playing tricks on her.
Or perhaps not…
A pair of red dots blinked in the darkness, and Clara squinted to try to find the outline of someone’s profile, only to find nothing of note. It was unnerving to feel like someone might be watching her but not being able to see them clearly.
A shiver raked down her body as the chill of her surroundings seeped into her being. She tugged her sleeves farther over her wrists and even attempted to use her thin apron as a blanket, but nothing managed to push away the fierce chill growing colder by the moment. If this was where the vampires lived, she didn’t blame them for wanting something better.
What shedidfind fault with was their means of acquiring such a lavish lifestyle. Hundreds—perhaps even thousands—of people would die to achieve the perfect living conditions in this terrible economy.
Please stay away, she silently begged her ghoul. If the vampires got hold of his blood, no one would be safe.
But even as she prayed in her mind that he might keep his distance, she knew. Sheknewhe would not stay away while his mate was in danger in the center of a den of vampires. He would come for her, and she would not be able to forgive herself when he did.
What felt like only minutes later, Clara jolted awake when a fierce roar echoed down the stone hallway and into the prison. She shot upright and took the metal bars in a tight grip while intently watching the doorway.
She recognized that growl. She’d heard it before when Jack had protected her from the vampires in the city.
Shouts, cries, and roars reached her ears, followed by the deafening crash of splintering wood and breaking bricks. Vampires screamed. Others hissed, followed by cries of surprise or pain.
Another angered roar shook her prison, and she launched onto shaky feet when it grew closer, louder. She tugged and prodded on the bars keeping her captive. When her efforts proved in vain, she snatched one of her scalpels from the ground and shoved the sharp end into the keyhole. Although she knew nothing about picking locks, she pushed and jiggled without success.
When the lock refused to give, she braced one of her feet against the bars, her skirt riding up her leg until her stockings and underskirts were exposed. Then, she tugged on the door with all her might until her muscles protested the harsh strain and her elbows threatened to pop out of their sockets.
She needed to get out of here. She wasn’t about to become a placid duck waiting to get wringed and plucked.
She tugged hard again, but only the bottom of the door gave way while the rest remained shut as if welded together by strong iron.
And then the atmosphere turned quiet.
Clara’s head shot up, her eyes wide with panic as her gaze darted toward the door. The sound of something large being dragged permeated the eerie quiet. At least until a large mass of muscle, spikes, and ragged clothes turned around the corner…
…with two vampires dragging him like a lifeless corpse.
“Jack!” she shrieked, abandoning her efforts at the door to dart across the prison and cling onto the bars closest to him.
The vampires dragged his limp body toward the same cell, and in a quick movement, they unlocked the door, threw him inside, and locked the door behind them.
“If he touches those bars,” one of the vampires warned, a gash in his face seeping blood from cheekbone to cheekbone, “the metal is poison to him. It will kill him.”
Clara glared fiercely at the retreating vampires, her breaths coming fast and labored, filled with anger and hatred. But whenJack groaned, and his head shifted to the side, her attention turned entirely to him.
“Jack!” She rushed toward him and skidded to her knees at his side.
Another vampire she hadn’t noticed hissed and spit a yellowish liquid at the Ripper’s feet she could only assume was venom, because it looked like no saliva she was familiar with. In the man’s hand was a vial filled with a black substance.
Ghoul’s blood.
No, no, no!
“You shouldn’t have come!” she cried and, without hesitation, grabbed his hands and held on tight. The familiar sharp angles of his face and the deep color of his skin felt like a comforting glove slipping over her heart. She’d always felt safe with him. That had never changed. “They have your blood. Whitechapel is in danger.”
