Stalking Jack the Ripper (Stalking Jack the Ripper, #1)(83)

Whirl-churn. Whirl-churn.

A closed wooden crate, as long and wide as a coffin, lay on the floor, tubes disappearing into it like worms burrowing into the earth. I did not want to know what that box contained. I paused, feeling the sharp tug of self-preservation dragging me back.

But I cut it away, silencing it.

I mustn’t reach for the lid, but knew that was impossible. I was sick with dread, knowing, somehow just knowing, what I was about to uncover and being unable to walk away without seeing the truth. I watched as my hand shakily reached down, of its own volition, and lifted the creaky lid.

Inside the makeshift coffin lay my mother.

Her gray flesh—a patchwork of decayed skin with pieces of new—glistened with a sheen of unnatural sweat. The skin over her jaw had rotted away, giving her a permanent sneer. Beneath the grafted skin, something bubbled with artificial life.

Father wasn’t trying to complete a successful organ transplant. He was trying to bring Mother back from the dead—five years after.

All the fear I’d been containing shattered like glass. I screamed, letting go of the lid and backing away, bumping into the table. The soft whirl-churn of the machines grew louder. Or maybe I was about to pass out. I covered my eyes with my hands, trying to rid myself of the image burned there. It couldn’t be. He couldn’t have done such a thing.

No one, not even the most scientifically mad, would attempt something so ungodly. We’d been so wrong about Jack the Ripper’s motives. Even Thomas couldn’t have predicted such a thing.

I kept trying to drag myself away, prevent my gaze from lingering on the rotten face and decayed body. But I couldn’t move. It was as if the horror was so intense it had frozen me in place. Time didn’t seem to move. Life outside of this hell didn’t exist.

But the worst part was my emotions. I was disgusted, through and through, but part of me wanted to finish the work he’d started. I hated that piece of me, hated that I yearned for my mother back so much I’d condone this madness. Who was more a monster, my father or myself?

I was going to be ill. I turned, finally listening to my primal instincts, and ran for the stairs. As I rounded the steps, I slammed into a mass of flesh. Warm flesh.

It gripped me back hard and I screamed again. Only when I lifted my gaze did I breathe a sigh of relief.

“Oh, thank God,” I panted, clutching on for dear life. “It’s you.”





Human Hand Anatomized and Preserved, 19th century





TWENTY-EIGHT


JACK THE RIPPER


WADSWORTH RESIDENCE,

BELGRAVE SQUARE

9 NOVEMBER 1888

“Hurry,” I urged, tugging my brother toward the staircase with the kind of super strength awarded those in the throes of deathly terror. “We must leave before Father comes back. Oh, Nathaniel. He’s done terrible things!”

It took several moments to realize my brother wasn’t moving. He was standing, frozen in place, eyes drinking in our surroundings. I grabbed the front of his long overcoat, shaking him until his wide gaze landed on me.

His hair was a wreck, standing out every which way, and it appeared as if he hadn’t slept in days. Dark shadows hung beneath his eyes, giving him a sunken expression. He looked no better than the corpse of our dead mother.

Or whatever that creature was in the coffin. That abomination.

Another shudder wracked my body, almost dropping me to my knees. I couldn’t let him see that. He’d never be the same again. Getting ahold of myself, I stood straighter, easing the boning from my ribs.

“Nathaniel,” I said sternly, taking hold of his hand. “We must leave here at once. I’ll explain on the way to Scotland Yard. Please, let’s hurry. I do not wish to meet Father down here.”

My brother nodded, seeming too shocked to do much more. I led him toward the stairs, our feet reaching the first blessed steps, when he stopped again.

I turned, exasperated, unable to convey the importance of leaving swiftly. If I had to slap him unconscious and drag him up the stairs, so be it. “Nathaniel—”

He latched onto my wrist with a viselike grip, yanking me away from the stairs and deeper into Jack the Ripper’s lair. I struggled against him, not understanding his need to be difficult, when he threw his head back and laughed.

Gooseflesh too terrified to even erupt lurked just under my skin, tinkling with the promise of new fear. He tossed me into a chair near the corner of the room, still chuckling to himself. I blinked. My brother had never handled me so roughly before. Father must have drugged him somehow. It was the only explanation. I rubbed my lower back. A bruise was already forming where I’d hit the chair when he’d thrown me into it.

He didn’t seem to notice. Or care.

“Nathaniel,” I said, trying to sound as calm as possible while he paced in front of me, slapping the side of his head as if silencing voices only he could hear. “Once we leave, I’ll fix you a tonic. It’ll cure whatever’s ailing you. Whatever Father gave you, we’ll make better. Uncle will know precisely what to do. You have to trust me, all right? We stick together. Always. Isn’t that right?”

Nathaniel stopped laughing, his gaze zeroing in on me with an icy precision. He lowered his hands from the side of his head before cocking it. Right then he was a predator in every sense of the word.