T
he woman thrown into the rushing river with a stake protruding from her chest was a monster who would have killed her own sister if given half a chance. She was bloodthirsty, angry, and savage; a beast in the guise of a beautiful girl.
Twenty years ago, my father created his own history for Damon and me, one in which we were glorious, fallen heroes. He’d wanted Jonathan Gilbert to write in the town ledger that Damon and I had died fighting in a skirmish against Union soldiers. He had wanted his sons to be good, upstanding men. Not protectors of monsters, which was how my father saw my brother’s and my desperate attempts to save Katherine, the woman we loved.
I knew how he felt. Because more than anything I wished Violet had died as the epitome of evil incarnate. But I knew I had to think of the true Violet. Yes, she was a bloodthirsty monster, but she’d also been the young, idealistic girl who had set sail across the Irish Sea with her sister in search of fame, fortune, and romance.
The thought led me again to Katherine. She was the truth at the center of an infinitely complicated riddle. Because of her, I no longer knew good from evil. After all, there was an undeniable monstrous, murderous streak within me. I only hoped I could draw on it to bring down Samuel and live a legacy of honor and victory.
The next morning, I woke up and found myself staring at a vaulted, rotting ceiling high above me. I was back in the witches’ slum, and although Damon was free, Samuel had escaped into the Thames. A few feet away, I could see that Billy, Vivian, and Jemima were sitting around the open fire.
“They need to leave,” a voice near the fire murmured. The witches clearly weren’t aware I was awake. I knew the voice belonged to Gus. He must still be wrapped in blankets and shivering in front of the fire after his fall in the river.
“They have nowhere to go,” Mary Jane’s voice said firmly.
“But Gus and Vivian were almost killed last night. We spent long enough forming this family. I won’t just watch it be destroyed.” Jemima didn’t bother keeping her voice down, and the message was clear: We weren’t wanted and she wanted us to know it.
I struggled to sit up, surprised to see Cora sitting next to the fire, flanked by Jemima and Mary Jane.
“Stefan saved Mary Jane’s life. He deserves your help,” Cora piped up.
“We settled that debt. We helped him get his brother back—and we’re close to pneumonia for our efforts. At the end of the day, Stefan is a vampire. Look where helping him got you,” Jemima said to Cora, not unkindly. “You took a chance on him, and he forced you into battle with your sister.”
“
He
didn’t
force
anything. And I wouldn’t have killed Violet if she’d truly been herself. But my sister died weeks ago—that was a demon who died back there,” Cora countered.
“Whatever gets you through the day,” Jemima said dismissively.
I staggered to my feet. “There’s no need for us to stay. We’ll go. Thanks for all your help,” I said. In truth, I was eager to get back to the tunnel. It may not have had creature comforts, but I felt like it was far safer than a room full of witches.
Just then, Damon unleashed a guttural groan from the corner of the room. Sweat poured from his hairline and Cora rushed to tend to him. “He’s burning up. He should be healed by now. I’m going to give him more blood.” Cora slicked back the hair from his forehead. Despite my suggestion at the bridge, he’d never properly fed. Even when Cora had cut her skin and held it up to his mouth, he’d only taken a few tentative sips. Ever since we’d saved him, Damon had been quiet. And a quiet Damon always made me uneasy.
I didn’t stop her as she pushed up her sleeve and unwrapped a muslin cloth from her wrist, uncovering the wound she’d made yesterday. She scratched a scab, and a small trickle of blood ran onto her skin. I quickly turned away. I wondered if she’d hidden the unhealed wound from me on purpose, so I wouldn’t be tempted. My heart twisted at the thought.
“Damon,” she said, shaking his shoulders slightly. “Wake up.”
“Heart,” he murmured, thrashing. “He needs a heart.” I leaned down and tried to listen to the words. What did Damon mean?
Who
needed a heart?
“Shh, wake up,” Cora murmured, holding her wrist to his mouth. Damon began to drink, but his eyes were still squeezed shut. Cora winced as Damon’s fangs grazed her skin, and I was aware of the rest of the witches watching
us as though we were performing a macabre play. They shifted uncomfortably. Jemima huffed, and I knew she didn’t want blood-drinking to take place under her roof.
Damon paused mid-drink and a grimace crossed his face. Then, he curled his upper lip, as though readying for an attack.
“Cora!” I hissed.
“That’s enough,” Cora said firmly, extricating her wrist from Damon’s fangs.
Damon sat up and blinked, pushing the blankets away.
“Where am I?” he sputtered.
“You’re somewhere safer than hanging from the Tower Bridge, that’s for sure,” I said. Damon lifted his gaze to meet mine and nodded imperceptibly. His normally blue eyes appeared muddy, as if they had witnessed a host of unspeakable horrors. My mind drifted to the latest theory the papers had printed regarding the Jack the Ripper murders: Some doctors believed people’s eyes recorded the last image they saw before they died. Physicians from London University Hospital postulated that all the London Metropolitan Police had to do to catch Jack the Ripper was to photograph the faces of his victims, examine the negatives, and identify any hazy figure reflected in their eyes. So far, they hadn’t had any luck with the theory, but looking at the despair in Damon’s eyes now, I could understand where the idea came from.
“Are you all right?” Mary Jane asked with concern.
“I will be,” Damon said. His voice sounded rough and scratchy, as if he hadn’t used it in a long time. He spotted the crimson trickle of blood on Cora’s skin and reflexively bared his fangs. Not meeting his gaze, she carefully retied the muslin, which immediately bloomed with a rosette of fresh blood. I glanced away, but not before a terrible, unbidden thought once again crossed my mind:
Why not drink human blood?
“I have a spell that might help,” Vivian said shyly. “It’s just some lilac water and words,” she added, pulling a few sprigs of purple flowers from the pocket of her dress. She took a few of the leaves and dropped them in the pitcher that had held the eleuthro the night before. She swirled the mixture, muttering under her breath, then passed the concoction to Damon.
“You want me to drink your flower water?” he asked skeptically. I was relieved to hear a trace of his old, caustic self in his voice.
“I do,” Vivian said, rocking back on her heels. Her voice was soft but steady.
Damon shut his eyes and gingerly took a sip. Damon, the man who could easily down a few stiff whiskeys, was nervous about drinking a potion.
“Finish it off,” Vivian urged.
He choked down a few more sips. Already, he looked
better. The color had returned to his cheeks, and his eyes had lost their haunted look. He was definitely well enough to make the journey back through London.
“I never thought I’d have to depend on witches to save me,” Damon said. “But I suppose we live in strange times.” He turned to Mary Jane. “Let’s just hope you continue to stay safe from Samuel.”
My ears pricked up. “What do you mean?” I asked urgently.
“He wants her,” Damon said. He jerked his elbow toward Mary Jane. “That’s why he’s been ripping humans apart. He’s hoping one of his victims might be a witch.”
“What? Why me?” Mary Jane asked, her voice rising in panic. “I didn’t do anything to him.”
“It’s not what you did, it’s who you
are
,” Damon said cryptically. “Apparently, you’re a purebred witch. And your heart is of great value to them.”
“A purebred witch?” I repeated dumbly. “What does that mean?”
“It’s a witch descended from the very first coven—the Original coven. Samuel and Seaver researched the blood-lines of purebred witches and discovered the last known descendant had been living in an East End orphanage. They believe
you
, Mary Jane, are the one they’ve been looking for.”
“It sounds like a load of nonsense, vampire,” Jemima said. “And I won’t have you saying things like that
under my roof. Spreading lies and frightening everyone to death.”
“You don’t have to believe me.” Damon shrugged. “All I know is what I heard them say.”
Mary Jane’s face turned white. “But I don’t know who my family is. How could Samuel?”
“Vampires are craftier than you’d think,” Cora said. I glanced sharply at her. “And Samuel can be relentless when he wants something.”
“You’re right.” Jemima nodded tersely. “If there’s a vampire after our Mary Jane, we need to get out of here as soon as possible. I’m sure he knows where we live. Mary Jane, you need to hide. I’ll come with you.” She turned to me expectantly.
“We’ll head to the tunnel now. Will the others come?” I asked. It seemed the more witches we had, the easier it would be to protect Mary Jane from Samuel.
“No, it’s best if we split up,” Jemima said, then turned to the remaining witches. “You lot, stay behind and protect the house with vervain.”
“Vervain won’t work,” Damon said flatly. “He’s immune.”
Jemima nodded once. “All right then. I’ll leave it to you to come up with something else. Maybe the
impervio
spell. The protective spell,” she added for our benefit. “But if he’s after Mary Jane, I doubt he’ll stay around long once he realizes she’s not here.”
“I can do that spell,” Vivian said uncertainly, as though convincing herself. Her face had drained of color. Billy, on the other hand, had risen to his full height and pushed his shoulders back, as if to show his strength was a match for Samuel’s.
“I’ll come back each day to check in. I’m sure we’ll have a plan to defeat Samuel soon,” Jemima said matter-of-factly. A shiver ran up my spine. Involving the witches meant even more lives were at stake, and we were past the point where running away was an option. Soon, someone would be dead. And I only hoped it would be Samuel—not one of us.
We made our way out of the house and emerged into sunlight. I pulled out my pocket watch. It was two o’clock. We’d slept for hours.
Silently, we walked along the Thames toward the tunnel. The docks weren’t nearly as sinister in daylight as they were at night. Now, instead of being ghostly quiet, they were crammed with girls selling flowers, vendors hawking meat pies, and sailors jockeying for work. We easily blended in with the masses, and I was glad for it.
Cora fell into pace with Damon, and Mary Jane walked beside me, although none of us spoke. Jemima trailed behind us. All I could do was stare at the rippling water, wondering where Violet’s body had come to rest.
We got to the tunnel, and Cora hustled Mary Jane and Jemima over to start the fire for a cup of tea. I think Cora also sensed that Damon was holding back what he knew about Samuel’s quest for a purebred witch. With Mary Jane out of earshot, maybe he’d be more likely to talk.
“Are you sure Samuel wants Mary Jane? How would he know he had the right girl? The purebred witch could be anyone,” I said.
“He already made five mistakes,” Damon said, arching an eyebrow. “But somehow, I think Mary Jane’s heightened power is a pretty big clue, don’t you agree, brother?”
I ignored him and walked over to tend to the fire, using old newspapers that Cora and I had collected. One of the pages caught my attention.
RIPPER RESPITE?
read the headline, written in bold capital letters. It was followed by a line drawing of Damon. I skimmed the article.
“I’m committed to finding the beast and killing him,” says Samuel Mortimer, a generous benefactor of East End charity initiatives and a frontrunner in the election for councilor for the City of London. “Or else, rest assured, the beast will kill us.” Mortimer is not alone in this sentiment. Scotland Yard, the Metropolitan Police Force, and the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee
are all working around the clock to catch the killer.
I crumpled the paper and threw it onto the fire. I watched the flickering flames, wishing some sort of clue for how to fight Samuel would appear. But there was only smoke.
“I’ve been thinking,” Damon said, lowering his voice to a whisper more quiet than the crackling fire. “Should we speak to James?”
“I’m not sure if that’s a good idea,” I said, glancing meaningfully at Cora. Jemima was eyeing us suspiciously. “James is a merchant who sells to vampires
and
witches. We don’t know where his loyalties lie; he might not be trustworthy. Besides, last time he sent us to Ephraim, and we have witches of our own now.”
“Plus, with Ephraim, we had to pay a price,” Cora piped up, turning to us from the fire.
“I gave him my blood,” I admitted. Before he would tell us where Violet was staying, Ephraim had demanded a vial of my blood as payment. At the time, I’d been so desperate that I’d given it gladly, but now I feared I’d been too hasty. After all, if a witch’s heart was in such high demand, could it be possible that vampire blood also had its own nefarious purposes? I wasn’t sure, and I hoped that I wouldn’t come to regret having given mine to him.
“I turn my back on you for one week, and that’s what
you do?” Damon asked, raising his voice. “We’re vampires, brother. We
take
blood. We aren’t supposed to give it away.”
Jemima cackled in the corner, but the laughter didn’t break the tension. “What would you have done?” I asked irritably.
“I don’t know. But I’d have thought twice before giving my blood to a raven-toting lunatic.”
“You never think twice. You’d probably have lunged at him with your fangs out and gotten into even worse trouble. Created another mess that I’d have to clean up,” I said.
“You were quite the fighter yesterday,” Damon noted.
“Thanks,” I said stiffly. Damon and I didn’t do well when we spoke earnestly, and usually all it took was one misinterpreted statement to ignite a quarrel that would last for days.