His eyes tracked downward. Blood frothed out of her side. His slender reed of hope snapped. Her lung was punctured, collapsing inward with every breath.
He leaned in close, nearly touching noses with her, ensuring she could see him. There is nothing I can do.
She gave a slow nod. I…know… A wet cough. Watch…
Watch? Where is it?
Her left hand moved feebly to indicate the ground. He fell on all fours, rummaging in the patchy darkness.
The crunch of boots on pavement came closer, along with someone humming a tune. He saw a glint of yellow on the dark stones and grabbed at it, offering a prayer of thanks as he clutched the cold metal.
The boots stopped short a few feet from him. He stared upward into the eyes of a heavyset woman. Her gaze slipped from his face, to his bloody hands, to Jacynda’s dying body. Her mouth opened, but no sound came forth. Then a sharp shriek rent the air as she fled, growing higher-pitched as she skittered round the corner in a rush of petticoats.
Alastair held the watch out to Jacynda. I have it.
Open…it.
His blood-slicked hands took three tries to pry open the case.
Handing it to her, he watched her methodically performing a series of windings, each slower than its predecessor, as if she had difficulty remembering the sequence. She looked up and nodded.
Brimming with tears, he offered the only solace he could. I love you, he whispered in the closest ear. It felt cold against his lips.
Another faint nod, followed by a shuddering, gurgled breath.
Her free hand flailed in the direction of the Gladstone. He hefted it onto her lap and she leaned over it.
He waited, but nothing happened. A bubbly breath. She raised her head, her eyes wide.
They wouldn’t…leave me… A single tear rolled down her face. Her eyes closed, and she slumped against the bag.
Alastair’s heart broke. Had this all been her delusion? Had he not seen a glimpse of the future? Why were they not saving her?
Oh, God, no, he whispered, reaching out to touch her.
Astonishment overrode horror as an iridescent halo sparked into life, causing him to yank his hand back in surprise. The halo encompassed her and collapsed to a fine point, like an angel ascending to heaven. It left in its wake tenfold darkness.
Alastair remained on his knees. Drawn by morbid fascination to a piece of bloodied cloth on the ground, he plucked it up. The monogram appeared familiar.
ASM.
He knew it intimately. It was his.
Terrified screams attracted Keats’ attention. Discarding his own advice, he bolted across the street, shoving aside pedestrians.
A woman was fleeing an alley, howling at the top of her lungs.
Keats flew down the passageway to find Alastair on his knees, his hands crimson, staring at a bloodied handkerchief. In front of the doctor was a sizeable patch of fresh blood.
What happened? Keats demanded.
No reply. Keats dropped on his knees near the prostrate man.
Damn you, what has happened? Where is she?
Gone, was the hoarse reply. Gone forever.
Down there! someone cried.
Keats shot to his feet. A group of ten, maybe fifteen men marched toward them, some brandishing bricks or boards. He forced Alastair to his feet.
Run for it!
The doctor didn’t move. Keats grabbed his wounded arm and squeezed. The pain seemed to drive a wedge into Alastair’s befuddled brain. He swore, jerking his arm away.
Come on, you idiot! Keats urged, tugging him along.
Alastair stumbled forward and then broke into a run, the riotous mob in step behind them.
Three streets away, winded and staggering from the exertion, they ducked through a gateway into a side yard. Keats flailed his arms to indicate he could run no further without a rest and leaned against a post, his breathing ragged. Alastair bent over to catch his own breath. Their pursuers were relentless. Shouts of It’s the killer, lads! and We have him! only added to their number.
They took refuge behind a shed. Reaching into his pocket to mop his dripping face, Alastair discarded the idea. His hands were too bloody.
Her blood.
You must shift, Keats insisted. We can shake them if we change form.
Alastair shook his head vehemently.
You have to––
No!
Keats balled his fists in frustration. Hearing the shouts of their pursuers, he began to go en mirage. Effortlessly, he grew taller, his hair and moustache lightening until he matched the doctor precisely.
What are you doing? Alastair demanded.
You and your damned principles have left me no choice. Go to Bishopsgate Police Station. I’ll meet you there.
They’ll catch you, Alastair warned.
I know Whitechapel better than they do. Keats clapped a hand on Alastair’s shoulder. Bishopsgate, and don’t mention my name to anyone! He hurried back the way they’d come, toward the danger.
You’re a lunatic! Alastair shouted after the retreating figure.
You would know, Keats taunted. The instant he stepped onto the street, their hunters bayed like hounds, pounding after him.
May God keep you safe, Alastair whispered. He headed in the opposite direction, working his way toward the police station through the back alleys. He soon learned that Keats’ heroic gesture hadn’t decoyed everyone.
Come on, he’s here somewhere, a deep voice urged. We’ll have him and string him up before Johnny Law can find him!
We’ll show ’im a bit o’ fancy knife work, see ’ow ’e likes it.
Alastair ran blindly, careening through knots of people on the street. Barreling around a corner, he nearly collided with a carriage, the horse rearing as he flung himself out of the way.
A hand grabbed at him. What’s up, mate?
Alastair shoved the man away and shot into the street. He darted between a wagonload of coal and a hansom cab, causing both drivers to curse at him. Swinging through a gate, he found a dark corner and sank onto his haunches, his thigh muscles quaking from the exertion. His hunters wouldn’t tire; their desire for revenge was too deep. If he didn’t shift soon, Keats’ heroic gesture would be in vain.
Keats. Oh, God, I hope you’re safe. The moment the words came out of his mouth, they felt absurd. Of course, his friend would survive. To think otherwise was too much for him to bear.
Down here! someone called. He heard gates slamming and the sound of someone hammering on a door, demanding entrance.
Panicking, he rose, searching for an exit. There was none. He had trapped himself.
Feeling the bile rising in his throat, Alastair closed his eyes and visualized the form he would take, cursing himself for his weakness. The prickling began at the back of his neck, and then traveled downward like a sea of molten lead. He gritted his teeth and bore it out, the pain excruciating—penance for not shifting in over three years.
In time, the boiling sensation ended. He opened his eyes and stared downward, turning his hands first one way, and then the other. They were delicately small. He could feel the blood drying beneath the illusionary black kid gloves.
There was no need to look in a mirror. For a few minutes longer, Jacynda Lassiter graced the streets of Whitechapel.
The low, vibratory hum of the Thera-Bed was Cynda’s first clue she’d survived. It automatically adjusted as she took a deeper inhalation, monitoring her oxygen level while increasing the amount of neuro-blockers to reduce the pain. Despite all the hightech coddling, each breath hurt like someone jamming a wooden stake into her chest. Is this what vampires had to look forward to?
Another breath, along with a corresponding beep from the bed.
She hated these things. They healed you, but she’d always thought there was something creepy about them.
Must be alive. I’m already bitching about technology.
She opened her eyes; the bed beeped three times to signify the change.
Hey!
Ralph? she whispered, still not sure if she dare take a deeper breath.
You got it. So how’s it going? The dark circles under his eyes told her this hadn’t been a picnic for him, either.
Okay. What’s my pain level?
He leaned over, peering at a screen located next to the bed.
Seven.
Euuu…
Yeah. Well, it’s better than when you came in.
What the hell happened? The transfer didn’t work. At first I thought…
Silence.
…I thought they’d left me to die.
More silence.
She glared at him. Ralph?
TIC denied the transfer. They wiped the Interface Attributes.
Oh, my God. Why?
He looked at his hands. They planned on orphaning you.
The terror in the alley washed over her again, the blunt force of the knife slamming between her ribs. Who brought me home?
We’ll talk about that later.
How’d you get the attribute for my watch?
A satisfied smile. Remember the customer rep with the designa-tush?
Cynda delivered a cautious nod.
You owe her a thank-you. She got a copy of the attribute file from Thad. Apparently, he’s got a thing for nostalgia heels and well-padded behinds.
I owe my life to Thad and the blonde airlock brain?
A finger waved in front of her nose. Ah-ah, be nice.
Why did Thad have them?
Covering his ass for when the government starts issuing indictments. He turned serious. How did you get hurt?
The tourist knifed me. He admitted killing Chris.
Ralph blinked in stunned astonishment. Whoa…
Yeah, tell me about it. I barely got the watch out of my pocket, and he nails me. It just doesn’t make sense. She remembered her other task. Chris?
We delivered the urn and a copy of the photograph to his family this morning. I kept the original for you. I thought you’d like to have it.
She nodded. Who’s ‘we’?
Later.
Is TIC still in business?
No.
She jammed her lips together to keep the tears from appearing.
Ralph rose. Get some rest, and we’ll talk about this later.
Then he was gone, the door whooshing closed behind him.
Her right side flamed, causing an instant teeth-gritting grimace. Once she could catch her breath, she commanded, Neural-blocker on full. The resulting rush of sleep-inducing painkiller let her drift into a dark haze. The last thing she remembered were the faces of the two men she’d left behind.
Mindful to keep his stride in check, Alastair moved like a diminutive woman, focusing on each step. His heart thundered so loud he swore his pursuers could hear it. The mob’s wave charged toward him, fanning out into the yard, wrenching open the door to the privy to the right of him. Having no faith in his abilities, Alastair steeled himself for discovery.
You seen a bloke? one of them called.
Alastair shook his head and kept moving. Behind him, the mob scattered in search of their prey.
A short distance from the police station, he found a deserted niche and shifted back to his usual appearance. The shock of the change made him retch until his stomach emptied. Standing upright, he wiped his sweaty forehead on his coat sleeve. The sight of Jacynda’s blood on the cuff made him double over and retch again.
His heart sank the moment he drew near the station. A crowd clustered on the street, their mood volatile. One fellow had raised himself above the masses on a costermonger’s cart, expounding on the ills of the East End, how the police did not intend to find the killer until all the women were dead. The outrageous claim drew shouts from the mob and demands for vengeance.
Alastair jammed his hands into his pockets to conceal them.
Why hadn’t he stopped and washed them along the way? Was it because the blood was the only thing he had left of Jacynda?
Angling around the crowd’s periphery, he intended to remain outside until Keats arrived. A couple of men eyed him and he moved to a different location. He kept glancing around, searching for Keats, but there was no sign of the man.
He kept close to the front door, no more than twenty feet away, in case someone recognized him from the alley. Two constables flanked the entrance, truncheons in hand, eyeing the assemblage uneasily. Alastair kept his hands in his pocket, avoiding eye contact.
Suddenly he stumbled over a broken brick in the street and pitched forward, bracing his fall with his hands. Eyes turned in his direction. As he rose, a burly man pointed at him.
Hey, what’s with your hands, mate?
A woman leaned closer. That looks like dried blood. She stared at him and then backed away in horror.
It’s him! another shouted.
Grab him before he scarpers!