Page 8 of Taken By the Ripper
“Hurry it up,” he urged. But when she remained in her seat, he pushed himself to his feet first before holding out a hand.
She huffed and stood on her own, refusing to take the man’s hand. She didn’t need his help. With anything. And certainly not with standing.
The slight seemed immediately forgotten as he dropped his hand and rounded the table toward her. A part of her wanted to back away when she worried his battiness might be contagious. But she stood her ground and refused to be cowed.
“I know you have not seen wounds like your patient’s before,” he began. “That was clear by your expression when you first showed the man to me. They are fang marks. Created by a vampire.”
Crossing her arms, she peered around him with the intention of making a timely exit. Enough of her time had been wasted for one afternoon.
“Give me a chance to explain.” He leaned to the left to block her view of the exit with his body. “And if you think I’m a raving lunatic, then fine. I still have questions about my case.”
“Fine.” She dropped her arms to her sides and peered up at him. Her stomach dipped again when she realized just how tall he was when he stood at his full height rather than hunched over his cane.
But then she frowned. She needed to have a few words with her stomach. The detective was possibly insane. And rude. It didn’t matter how handsome his face might be.
Immediately, her stomach fluttered again, and this time her heart followed as he stepped closer and loomed over her with his intimidating height. “Your patient is only a bit taller than you, and my height is wrong for the demonstration. But it will suffice.” He took either arm and turned her around so her back faced him. “The position of the wound on the man’s neck indicates he was attacked from behind by someone taller than him. Another man. The angle of the fang piercings show he was twelve centimeters taller. About…” He stooped lower. “Here.” And then his hand hovered over her waist. “Permission to touch you?”
When her voice refused to work when the heat from his body seeped into her with its proximity, she simply nodded.
One of his hands rested on her waist, and with the other, he brushed wisps of hair away from her neck. “The vampire moved quickly. There were no other signs of fang scratches or clawmarks to indicate the victim found the time to fight back. He was taken by surprise.”
And then he moved closer until his breath caressed her neck, sending gooseflesh crawling across her skin.
He spoke again with hardly a whisper. “There is a scuff mark on his cheek. He must have been pushed against an alley wall, trapped as the vampire fed on him.”
“There are no such things as vampires.”
“Then what other reason do you offer to explain the man’s wounds?”
Yes, the wounds were curious, indeed. Like nothing she’d ever seen. The perfect size for incisors. And the detective’s statement made sense. But she wasn’t about to believe creatures of fables were real.
“I think you are a mad, raving lunatic. That’s my reasoning.”
Before he had a chance to counter her words, light footsteps entered the room behind her, followed by a gasp and something heavy falling to the floor. Clara pushed Detective La Cour away and spun around to find Mazie’s gaze darting between them, her eyes filled with hurt, betrayal, and anger.
“I-i-it’s not what it looks like!” Clara stuttered. She cut the detective a scathing glare. Now she would have to deal with her younger sister and her delicate feelings all because of an infuriating demonstration.
Mazie sniffed and stuck up her nose. “I am able to see exactly what it is with my own eyes. If you need me, I’ll be out with my friends.”
Clara released a long breath of frustration as her sister turned on her heel and threw open the front door. “Don’t forget to pick up the delivery on your way back! I need those medicines tonight.”
And then the door slammed shut with a resounding bang.
All at once, the entire infirmary seemed to come alive when a baby wailed, a man cried out for help, and a woman screamed. Others begged for a doctor, their voices emanating from the infirmary wing.
Clara thought of nothing but her patients as she rushed down the hallway, into the infirmary, and first tended to the wailing infant. She picked up the child in her arms and bounced him gently while watching the mercury in the thermometer rise to match his temperature.
Still too high.
With the baby tucked in one arm, she dug into her cabinet of medicine, only to frown. Meadowsweet would bring down the fever, but she was all out. It was supposed to be in the delivery Mazie was to pick up today. Without a way to bring down the fevers, both the baby and the mother could die when they might otherwise make a full recovery.
“Don’t you worry,” she murmured as she placed a cool, damp cloth over the infant’s forehead. He whipped his head from side to side until the crying grew loud enough to drown out all other begging voices in the infirmary. Thankfully, Norma helped tend to the patients as Clara minded the child. She propped him up against several pillows and popped the mouthpiece of a bottle into his mouth. Milk from the glass bottle traveled up the short tube and through the mouthpiece, into his mouth as he sucked ravenously. It was only a temporary relief from his pain, but she could do little more without that medicine.
She checked on wounds, administered laudanum and opium from what was left of her stash, and offered food and water to those recovering from their infirmities. Only when she glanced over her shoulder did she notice the detective trailing her with his gaze.
She pulled off her apron and replaced it with another with the intention of seeing to her smallpox patients upstairs, and only then did La Cour follow with his long, limping stride.
“Did your patient say anything else?” he asked, bringing the attention back to his case. “Mazie mentioned he was with Stride before she was murdered.”
