Capturing the Devil (Stalking Jack the Ripper #4)(103)

“It appears— Uncle!” I cried as he collapsed against the table, the medical tools clattering onto the floor around him. “Uncle!”

I moved swiftly to his side, slipping my hands under his arms, trying to lift him back up. It was of no use; he’d lost consciousness. His head fell forward, his spectacles askew. I shot a look in Thomas’s direction. “A little assistance, Cresswell?” I tilted Uncle’s head back, my fingers searching out a pulse. It was faint, but it was there. He must be more ill than he’d let on. His lids fluttered, but he did not open his eyes again. “Thomas?”

I glanced up. Thomas stood against the wall, his fist gripping his stomach, his face screwed up in pain. The world became a narrow corridor, void of sound.

Irrational horror spread through my limbs, weighing me down as much as my uncle’s body.

Poison.

“Thomas!” I shouted, watching helplessly as he staggered forward, trying to get to me. I gently set my uncle on the floor, making sure he was on his side in case he began vomiting. I did not want him to asphyxiate on it. I sprang up, my heart now beating ten times too fast as I limped over and caught Thomas the moment before he slammed to the ground. I gripped him to me fiercely, as if I could protect him from this invisible demon. “You’re fine,” I said frantically, smoothing his damp hair back. “You’re going to be all right.”

A cough racked through him and he wheezed a laugh. “Are you commanding that?”

“Yes.” I held his face between my hands, staring into his eyes, watching his pupils dilate. I forced the tremor from my voice, not wanting to scare him. “I command you, and if there’s a God, then I command Him and His angels, too.

You will not die on me, Thomas Cresswell. Do you understand? I will kill you if you die!”

Another coughing fit had him trembling in place. He could no longer speak.

“Help!” I screamed as loudly as I could. “Come immediately!”

I clutched Thomas tightly, forcing my mind to become the leader my heart desperately needed. It was clear they’d been poisoned. I focused on identifying which kind. Uncle twitched from his place on the floor, his breath coming in deep wheezes. His face was splotchy, as was Thomas’s. I almost lost my battle

with tears as I studied him.

Thomas gripped his stomach, indicating they’d ingested it. Think. It was both a command and a plea to myself. If I could identify the poison, I could find an antidote.

“Miss?” The maid from earlier stopped short, her attention bouncing from Thomas to Uncle to me, sitting there, cradling my dying love. A look of unadulterated fear entered her features. I wondered if she thought I was the monster who’d done this. “Are they…”

“Ring for a doctor immediately!” I said, thanking the marvels of technology for having a telephone in this old house. “Tell him there’s been two poisonings.

Possibly arsenic, given their symptoms, but it’s working through their system at an advanced rate. It might be belladonna or something similar. Maybe even some strange combination of them all. Tell him he must come at once. Do you understand?”

She nodded too many times, her own body trembling. I made my voice harsher than it needed to be to wake her from her own daze.

“Hurry! They haven’t got much time left.”





FORTY-FOUR

AN AVENGING ANGEL

GRANDMAMA’S ESTATE

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS





16 FEBRUARY 1889


A heart was a curious thing. So contradictory. The way it ached in both good and bad ways. The way it leapt with joy and ceased with sorrow. It could beat madly and wildly during both pleasure and pain. Currently, my heart was steady. Too steady, as I watched blood drip into a waiting bowl, the rhythmic splatters hitting in time with my breaths. Perhaps I was in shock. It was the only rational explanation for how calm I was.

The doctor must have felt my gaze on him, probing. He flicked his attention to me, his fingers covered in wet blood— Thomas’s blood—before returning to his patient. His name was Dr. Carson and he appeared to be one million years of age.

Each of his movements was slow and deliberate—an excellent trait in a doctor, but a horrible thing to witness when there were two people I loved in need of immediate attention. I wanted to shake him into action but forced myself to stand still, without any motion at all. Fearful of what I’d do should I begin moving.

He’d seen to Uncle first. I didn’t wish to consider how torn I’d felt when he’d made that choice. He dabbed at the wounds he’d made on Thomas’s forearm, his lined face tense. My grip on my cane tightened, as if I could crush my worry with my fist.

Worry wasn’t the only emotion I felt. The more I considered how someone

had tried to murder Uncle and Thomas—and likely me—the brighter the flame grew in my center. Anger was good. It meant there were still things left to fight for. I nursed it, coddled it, begged for it to surface, to kindle the fire I needed to raze the murderer to ashes. There were no guarantees that either Thomas or Uncle would live.

If Thomas died…

The doctor cleared his throat, the sound annoyed, as if it wasn’t the first time he’d tried getting my attention. I shook myself from swirling thoughts.

“Pardon?”

“Bloodletting is the best method to remove the poison,” he said, voice gruff.