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.She had loved him despite his evil, loved him for his peculiarities.He had loved her for hers.She turned toward her desk and he resisted going to her and planting a kiss on her head before leaving.“I will see you tomorrow, George.”“Lil?”She didn’t turn.He craved to stroke her raven hair, to thread his fingers through it and nibble on her neck, to hold her so she could never get away.“Marie is in town,” he reminded her, just to be cautious.“You understand how tenuous things are, do you not?”“Yes.I will be careful.”“There is no amount of care that can be taken to guard against her.At least, not with our current numbers.You are unsafe out of my sight.”“Unsafe with or without you, so what does it matter?”Another knife thrust.They were hounded by a devil, and Lillian might be giving up on everything.As he left her house, George prayed for perhaps the second time in a century.* * *Lillian flattened out a page of her journal, intending to write about seeing Mr.Conan Doyle.She also listened for any commotion at the door that might be the hansom driver with information on the author’s whereabouts.Not telling George had been difficult.Very difficult.And yet, it hadn’t seemed the time or place to point out the presence of a man who had expressed an interest in vampires.She was still embarrassed about her mistake.God, how angry would George be if he learned she’d discussed a murder before one of the greatest investigative minds ever? And Doyle was a physician, she remembered, who might recognize more quickly the peculiarities of her person.Peculiarities.Her hand shook too much to write.Not all of her peculiarities were related to vampirism.Why had the voices returned? What would George think of her, should she tell him that the old delusions had resurfaced and were not related to her medicine? Would he believe her that she hadn’t yet taken a pill? He hadn’t hated her for it before, but he’d gone to great lengths to help her recover.Perhaps I am truly insane, she thought.And if I am insane, I am not worthy of George.I will certainly put him and his brother and all they care about at more risk than I already have.Mr.Doyle.I cannot even remember what I said to him!When feeling her best, she had been reckless in her letter to Mr.Doyle.What would she do to endanger George’s secrets if she were hearing voices, running down the streets of Baltimore, pushing past strangers and talking to herself? What choice would George have but to lock her away? God, how could she have imagined herself fit to be a mother?Perhaps…perhaps it was simply the stress of things, the constant worry, the recent changes in her body and mind.Not being able to speak honestly to her friends, not being able to do anything normal… It thrilled her to catch criminals in the act and dispose of them before they could do mortal harm, but sometimes, sometimes she chastised herself.Weren’t those criminals still human? Did she enjoy being judge and executioner a bit too much? Where was her former strict adherence to law and order? Was “justice” simply an excuse to tear into a neck and suck a body dry, to feel the life throb in her veins and strength stir in her limbs? It came close to the ecstasy she shared with George in their bed, and at times even exceeded it.Had her metamorphosis left her with any sanity, any humanity?Do you truly want me to find you, my child? She had already assigned a name to her missing girl: Jane.Lovely Jane—with long dark hair, no doubt.Lillian refused to believe the child had inherited any of her rapist father’s looks or temperament.But are you any better than he, Lillian? You’re a devil yourself.Where is she? Why can’t I find a clue? And there were no good choices about the future.Too much, too much.Lillian laid her head on her desk and wept until she had no strength to even change her clothes.She closed her journal and opened her desk drawer to return the book to its proper place.As she did, one tiny pill rolled forward.Her medicine.Lillian stared at it and wondered, for the thousandth time, if Jane would want to be found.If her own mother would want to be found.And what they would think of her should she be successful in her search.She should not have sent George away.But she would make it right tomorrow, she swore, and she put the journal back and picked up the pill.CHAPTER EIGHTAn unlikely friendship develops.Johnnie Moran tapped lightly on his commander’s door, his stomach turning with worry.Lieutenant Worthington rarely had good tidings to deliver in person, so this likely meant trouble.How would he support his brother if he lost this post? What had he done? What hadn’t he done? Damn it all, he’d been preparing to propose to Aileen, to take her two young brothers into his household—A grunt of acknowledgment and the sound of a chair sliding on the wood floor made him pull his thoughts together.He’d take misfortune like a man and do whatever needed doing.Hadn’t that been the case since he was a boy?He entered his commander’s room and took off his cap.“Moran, have a seat,” Worthington directed.The Walrus, named for his enormous whiskers, had company much to Johnnie’s surprise—a stranger, a well-dressed man who seemed to take him in with one quick glance.The Lieutenant made introductions and returned to his seat behind a cluttered desk.“Johnnie here will be able to tell you a bit more about the Rennard murder.It’s one of a half-dozen over the last year that come to mind.Despicable.We aren’t prone to such violence, I assure you, Mr.Doyle.These anomalies may be the work of a single man.A regular Henry Holmes he seems to be, although his targets are not only women and children.”“Ah, I’m only vaguely familiar with your famous Henry Holmes.Sensational cases, I understand.”“You didn’t name your Mr.Sherlock Holmes after America’s serial killer, did you?” the Lieutenant asked with wry humor.“Ah! Indeed, I did not! It’s a most unfortunate coincidence.”“Fortunately—and I mean that speaking as a native of this city—most of his horror was perpetrated in Chicago during the World’s Fair in ’Ninety-three, although he managed to collect victims on the eastern seaboard as well.Many of them children.Some estimates put the number of victims as high as two hundred.”“Dear Lord, he makes our Ripper seem a choirboy in comparison.”“Well, his execution brought some note of satisfaction.”Doyle nodded.“If I had written his story, I would have been accused of creating a profoundly unbelievable villain.”Johnnie sat up straighter, fascination overcoming his nerves [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]