Capturing the Devil (Stalking Jack the Ripper #4)(109)

A figure with horns stood over me, and though I couldn’t be sure, it sounded as if he hissed right before the darkness swept in to do his bidding once more.





FORTY-EIGHT

CAPTIVITY: NIGHT THREE

MURDER CASTLE

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS





18 FEBRUARY 1889


Drip. Drip.

Drip.

The scent of gasoline mixed with mustiness and other noxious odors twisted my stomach. It was different from when I’d last awakened. Another smell greeted me, an old familiar friend. Copper and pennies and metal. Vaguely, I wondered if the dripping I heard was blood. Something clattered nearby. It sounded like bones. Too many. I imagined an army of the undead, coming to claim me. I thrashed about, furious, as the hissing began in earnest. I knew what that meant. He was dosing me again. Toying with me until he grew bored.

I screamed, the sound echoing around me, though there was an oddness to it.

As if I was submerged in a chamber beneath the sea. I had a growing suspicion that no one could hear me. No one but him. Wherever I was, no sounds escaped.

In the distance, I swore I heard the devil laugh in delight.

A nightmare. I was having a nightmare and would soon be awake.

It was the last thought I had before Satan dragged me back to Hell.





FORTY-NINE

CAPTIVITY: NIGHT FOUR

MURDER CASTLE

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS





19 FEBRUARY 1889


Drip. Drip. Drip.

An incessant dripping dragged me to the surface of a troubled sleep. Before I cracked my eyes open, I became aware of an icy chill seeping into my body. The surface below me was as hard as ice.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

I commanded my eyes to open, but they refused, the lids still too heavy to lift. Panic started at the edges, winding its way further into my consciousness.

Fatigue could not account for my inability to rouse myself. Several moments passed, my thoughts fuzzy yet buzzing with an undercurrent of urgency. A puzzle piece I was missing. Tremors raked my body as my unbound hair tickled my neck. When had I taken it down? I swore snakes or worms were crawling over my skin. Perhaps even maggots. And I couldn’t do anything about it.

Imaginary walls seemed to heave and crumble with each breath. Was I buried in a grave?

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Open your eyes! I thought, furious my lips refused to form the words. Was I no longer in my body? I couldn’t understand how nothing seemed to work. My mind was alert but the rest of me remained immobile. Then it locked into place.

I’d been drugged. I tried sitting up, but it felt like a malevolent force had its knees in my back, keeping me shoved down.

A few terrifying moments passed and my fingers twitched. Bolstered by the improvement, I splayed my hands against the mattress, only to realize I’d been deposited onto the floor sometime in the night. My fingers slid over what felt like packed dirt. I rolled to my side and patted the ground for more clues and jerked my hand back. I’d touched something wet.

“T-Thomas?” I finally managed to whisper, reaching into the darkness for an anchor to keep me in this life, this present, this time. I did not want to be torn back into that place of nothingness. I did not want to contemplate the blood I was certain now coated my hands.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Images of Thomas lying upside down, gutted and drained of blood, assaulted my senses. Were they fragmented memories? Fear propelled me up and out of the haze. Or perhaps it was love. There was no greater force on earth, nothing quite as powerful as love. Neither hatred nor fear could ever hope to possess the same amount of strength. I gathered those thoughts, clutched them close, and pushed myself into a sitting position, taking in the darkened room.

A lone candle flickered somewhere behind me. I blinked as my surroundings came into place. I seemed to be in some sort of storage chamber or cellar. From what I could make of it, the dripping noise, blessedly, was just an old leaky pipe.

I slumped down, focusing on the bigger worry of how I’d gotten here and why I’d been drugged. More images came back to me, though I was uncertain of them. A man with horns. Hissing. A room without sound. Now that I was awake, these seemed to be fantasy.

Except my current location was definitely a nightmare.

I glanced at my clothing—a thin nightgown—and froze. The trousers I’d had made in Romania were gone. As was my scalpel belt. Someone had undressed me. They’d touched me and I couldn’t even allow my mind to process the violation of my person or I’d spin wildly out of control. Revulsion twisted my stomach until I choked bile down. I closed my eyes, forcing myself to breathe.

To not lose myself to the horror. I would survive and I’d make him suffer.

I tentatively reached up, feeling for any lumps or injury. My hair was unbound and the bun had been removed, along with my hairpins. I frowned, running my fingers through the tangles, hoping to dislodge any of the missing pins. Nothing.

I forced myself to sit straighter, the motion prompting my body into a state of alertness. Followed quickly by nausea. I doubled over and concentrated on finding calmness again, breathing slowly until I was sure I wouldn’t vomit.

More of the room came into focus, my clarity improving the longer the drug worked its way out of my system. What I’d first thought to be a cellar was similar in appearance to a laboratory of sorts. A shard of fear lodged itself under my skin.