Capturing the Devil (Stalking Jack the Ripper #4)(113)

I turned slowly, remembering this corridor of skeletons led to yet another room. It was dark in there; no light glimmered except for a strange orange-red glow.

My bravado vanished. Images of demons with hooves for feet and tails with tufts entered my thoughts. I forced myself to steadily breathe in and out. It would do no good to lose my nerve now. Pushing against my growing fears, I slowly moved down the corridor of bones. No matter how careful I was, they still rattled as I passed by.

Little hairs along my arms and neck rose. I was almost in the next chamber and there was a new, strange combination of odors to contend with. I paused on the threshold, trying to adjust my vision to the strange light. It took a few moments, but dark objects slowly took form. The hellish glow was not a fire from Hell, but a long, coffin-shaped metal box. It took only a second to piece together what it was—an incinerator.

I bit down on my lip to keep from making a sound. No wonder he hadn’t left bodies in the streets of Chicago. He’d created the perfect playground for himself.

One where he might torture and dispose of his victims without ever being caught.

I inhaled sharply, immediately regretting it. The tang of gasoline was faint but there. I squinted up at the ceiling, where pipes crisscrossed like spiderwebs. I followed them, trying to sort out why there were so many and why they extended in different directions. Up close, I spied what appeared to be spigots. I cursed under my breath.

These gas pipes were his new weapon of choice. He no longer needed to dirty his hands with knives and blood; he could simply target the hotel room of his choice by turning on a spigot and his prey would be rendered unconscious from the toxic carbon monoxide fumes. Just like I’d been. I hadn’t been drugged at all.

I’d been brought to the brink of death time and again.

A boot scuffed against the floor, the sound raising the hairs along the nape of my neck. It wasn’t hard to picture monsters dragging their talons over the ground, their nails caked in gore. If I wished to make it out of this murder castle

alive, I needed to become what terrified me. I took a deep breath and stepped fully into the incinerator room.

At first I didn’t notice him, standing near the corner, his body nothing more than a dim silhouette. He’d been here the whole time. Silent and still. Waiting.

That frightened me more than the thought of impending death. Something in his hands glittered in the darkness, conjuring images of metal claws. I forced my gaze up his form, swallowing panic as I took in the tall, twisted horns. It was the scene of my recurring dreams made flesh.

The devil was here.

He’d finally stepped out from my nightmares and had come to claim me.





Goat Skull with smoky background





FIFTY-ONE

SATAN EMERGES

MURDER CASTLE

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS





19 FEBRUARY 1889


He stepped from the shadows into the burning light cast by the incinerator. His skin was tinged red from the flames, which seemed to grow in his presence, his eyes dark from the shadows, which had yet to relinquish their hold in this underground dominion. It took a moment for my mind to cast my demons aside and realize he’d turned the fire up on the incinerator. He was planning on burning another body.

Mine.

In a sudden panic, I stumbled toward the corridor of bones, cursing wildly when I noticed what I’d tripped over—a dismembered torso. I’d interrupted him disposing of another victim. I fell to the ground, ignoring the pain that shot up my spine as I scrambled back, away from the White City Devil.

My fingers dug into the packed earth, my nails splintering as I searched for purchase. Something sliced my palm and I nearly cried out as warmth flowed down my hand. I bit my tongue instead, taking the blade with me as I moved backward. I didn’t dare glance at it, but it felt like a long, thin dinner knife. It was the exact weapon Uncle had described during that first lesson I’d attended about Jack the Ripper’s kills. I held on to it like it was my only salvation. I was almost certain he hadn’t seen me grab it. Since it was covered with dirt, he’d probably dropped it a long while ago and forgotten it was there.

He left his dark work and stalked after me. I was grateful for the dim light—it

would make it hard for him to notice the trail of blood I knew I was leaving.

He was silent in his pursuit, taking steady, unhurried steps. I needed to become fearless, but it was hard when faced with my personal nightmare. I finally managed to heave myself into a standing position and stopped in the center of the bone corridor. My sudden halt made him pause. I didn’t think he was used to his prey growing their own claws and striking back.

He stood just inside the doorway between the incinerator and the skeleton corridor, giving me time to think. I needed to come up with a plan. And it needed to happen this instant. I knew the door in the room I’d woken up in was locked.

There was no getting out of there. If he cornered me in that space… I refused to think in those terms. I was not prey, but predator.

“A devil mask is a bit theatrical,” I said, surprised to hear how smooth and unafraid my voice sounded. He canted his head to one side, seeming as surprised by my statement as I was. “I didn’t think you’d enjoy such things. But then I recalled your letters to Scotland Yard. You’ve always had a flair for the dramatic.

The devil… I suppose I understand in theory why you chose it, but it seems a bit contrived.”