Accursed (10 page)

When it had first been delivered, she and Frederick had stood staring at it for what seemed the better part of an hour, in part repelled by the subject, yet admiring the detailed workmanship. Frederick actually touched it, but Helena could not bring herself to do so. She knew she was being silly, but something about the thing made her skin crawl.

Frederick had teased her, of course, but she didn’t resent him for it. They were very close despite the difference in their ages. Frederick’s mother had suffered from cholera until he was two years of age. Helena’s mother, Rose, had nursed the dying woman, and when the ailing woman had finally succumbed, Rose had won the widower’s heart.

Frederick had grown up almost believing that Rose was his own mother, and when Helena had been born, there was never any animosity or jealousy. The children had been treated as equals in the eyes of their parents, and had grown close in the face of their parents’ frequent absences. Now adults, they still lived under the same roof, but it rarely bothered Helena. She and Frederick had never found much to quarrel about—until this past week.

She knew Frederick spent his days suffering in the employ of a bill discounting house, and lived for his evenings at play with the other so-called intellectuals he had studied with at Cambridge. Helena found them all rather trite, even boring, but she would never dare say as much. She knew that she would offend him deeply with her dismissal.

Yet the past few nights he had eschewed his usual pursuits and languished about the house—generally in his own rooms—seeming unusually pale and cantankerous. Helena had warned him that he was transforming into an ill-tempered lout, and rather than skewering her with some snide riposte, as was his wont, he had only glared. She had no idea what had him so aggrieved, and could only assume that his abhorrence of the financial world been exacerbated by some recent occurrence.

“Helena?”

She jumped at the sound of her name.

Frederick stood in the doorway, watching her. His thinning, light brown hair was rakishly disheveled, so that he looked a bit like a peacock. He was of middling height and carried his gut low on his hips, just like their father. She did not think him a handsome man, but there was a kindness to his face upon which her lady friends had often remarked.

Those same young women would not have been so quick to admire him this evening, though. For days he had not looked himself, and tonight there was a yellowish tint to his hazel eyes. His skin had darkened to an unhealthy gray that was disturbing to see.

“Yes, Frederick?” She smiled broadly as she spoke, hoping that her own conviviality would rub off on him. Her brother was ill, that much was clear, but she felt certain that his despondency was at the root of it.

He didn’t smile in return.

“Helena, I must have words with you.” His voice was more precise than usual, even clipped. And she did not understand what he meant. Was he upset with her about something she had done? She could think of nothing that would require that they exchange “words.”

Determined not to add to his agitation, she simply waited as he crossed the room and came to perch on the side of her chair. The look he gave her as he scooted in close to her shoulder made her nervous. It wasn’t the kind of look one gave a female, and especially one who was a blood relation.

“Frederick, you do not look at all well . . . and your eyes . . . have you been drinking?” She meant to continue, but he cut her off by running his hand across the side of her face. The touch made her feel sick to her stomach.

“You have such beautiful, smooth skin, sister.”

Helena stiffened in her chair. The sketch she had begun slid to the floor. She moved to retrieve it, but Frederick moved more quickly. His hands closed around the sketchbook, and something about his actions carried a finality that filled her with dread. He put the book back in her lap, his hands purposely grazing across her waist.

Her mouth grew dry and she tasted copper—tasted blood—as she unconsciously bit too hard on her lower lip.

“I hardly think the state of my skin should be of interest to you,” she said, her voice cracking.

Frederick smiled, then, a wide, teeth-baring grin that somehow didn’t seem human. She realized with complete certainty that he was
enjoying
her discomfort. Enjoying it greatly.

Helena tried to stand so that she might place some distance between them, but Frederick grabbed her wrist. This time the sketchbook fell to the floor without interruption. She whimpered, heard herself telling him to let go of her, and struggled to no avail as he pulled her to him.

He stood up, and his gut pressed into the softness of her belly.

“Frederick, please . . .”

Her whimpers seemed somehow to inflame him, so that as her struggles grew more ferocious, his smile widened and his fingers dug into her. His grip became more powerful, and more painful.

He dragged her toward the love seat and, when she tried to stand her ground, hoisted her off the floor and carried her the rest of the way. He threw her onto it so hard that Helena’s head struck the wooden frame with enough force to momentarily disorient her. But the moment passed, and she looked up to find him advancing upon her.

“Frederick, no!” she cried as he came at her. “Something’s got hold of you! Please—”

“No, you’re wrong, sister,” he said, his eyes feasting upon her as he brought his weight to bear. “Something’s got hold of
you.
”

Helena screamed as he pulled at her nightgown, tearing her bodice and exposing her soft, white breasts to the lamplight. She tried to cover herself, but he grabbed her arms and held them above her head. His strength was uncanny.

As he undid his breeches, she closed her eyes, praying that this was all a nightmare, or an episode of insanity. Perhaps
she
was the one who was ill, and she would wake any moment, safe in her own bed.

With one hand he pinned her arms against the love seat, and with the other he raised her nightdress above her hips. He tore away the cotton undergarment that was his last obstruction, forced her legs apart, and thrust himself inside.

Something tore in her. Her mind shrieked in denial as she was violated.

Then Helena screamed, blackness billowing in her mind, swallowing her. As she slipped into unconsciousness, the reptilian eyes of the jasper-and-lapis figurine looked on, dolefully enjoying the show.

C
HARLIE WATCHED AS
the last remnants of purple faded from the sky, creating an inky backdrop that offset the pale glow of the moon. The night brought with it a chill wind that ruffled his hair and raised gooseflesh on the back of his neck.

The winter had been long, and he was used to the night coming early. Now the spring had arrived, and though the evenings were still chilly, daylight lingered longer. It was after six o’clock when he left the flower shop and started the long walk toward home.

Still, the night was coming on fast. He hadn’t thought much of this at first, but as the wind and darkness grew, wariness crept into his mind.

The whole area by the river played host to many a criminal deviant. Before the home secretary, Robert Peel, had created the Metropolitan Police Force just a decade earlier, the criminal element in this part of London had made it almost uninhabitable. There were still areas down around the docks that were unlivable, though far too many
did
live there. Beggars, thieves, and harlots, mostly. Men wrapped in stinking, filthy rags, shrill women, and barefooted children with blackened eyes and bloodied cheeks.

Charlie had been one of them, once upon a time. But he had left the filth of Shadwell behind.

Not very far behind, of course. He still walked through those streets every morning and every night, getting to and from the shop. Conditions in the city had improved, but the danger of such lost, ignored districts remained. Even now, only the very stupid or the very wicked dared walk these streets alone. Knowing the peelers patrolled the city was cold comfort in Shadwell, where even the quiet echo of a footfall in an otherwise empty street would be cause for alarm.

Charlie put his hand in his pocket now, and felt the hilt of his dagger. There weren’t many in this neighborhood brave enough to mess with Cold Metal Charlie’s business. He wouldn’t have categorized himself as the murderous sort, but there might be others, long since dead, who would decry that opinion. Still, Charlie picked up his pace as he passed the yawning mouth of a dark and fetid alleyway. There was risk in every moment of his life, but there was no sense in taking unnecessary chances.

Charlie’s no fool.

The smell of the Thames was rich and meaty in his nostrils as he hurried down the cobblestoned street, avoiding eye contact with passersby. The stink of gutted fish and human waste at times made him want to gag, lending speed to his feet. As a young, towheaded boy, he had wandered the twisting streets near the docks, always looking to stay one step ahead of the law. His petty thieveries might well have consigned him to a long, dark stay in Newgate Prison.

Now that he was eighteen, and knew the ways of the world, he wasn’t so terrified of being caught. He was smart, and knew how to wield a knife. He had only one weakness—women—of which he was well aware, and therefore stayed clear of the music halls and other immoral houses where prostitution was commonplace. Time spent with the ladies took his coin and left him no better off than he started.

But then, around the next corner, he saw a small, dark head and a petite body clothed in shimmering gold and red. The figure slipped out of a darkened alleyway up ahead, so that he found himself collected in her wake. He began to follow her as she made her way languidly down the street. Surely, this was no prostitute, Charlie mused hopefully. Indeed, he had no qualms about removing his trousers, as long as he didn’t have to empty his pockets first. Fortunately for him, there were ladies as could be counted upon to be cooperative, if they took a fancy to him. And a handsome lad he was, or so he had been told.

The woman—more like a girl, really—must have realized that she was being followed, but she gave no sign that she cared. Charlie kept his distance at first, but as she turned in to another darkened alleyway, he picked up his pace so that he wouldn’t lose sight of her in the maze of backstreets.

I’ll just follow her to her destination, make sure she gets herself to where she’s going, safe and sound,
he thought. But he knew in his heart that he was hoping to at least get a closer look at this shimmering creature who so carelessly made her way through the festering boil that was Shadwell Street.

Through a window he heard the sounds of a fight, of men and women celebrating the violence, cries of pain and fury.

He hurried on after his quarry.

It might have been a trick of the half-light, or the lack of same, but Charlie found his eyes drawn to the swing of the girl’s hips as she walked. It was as if she was purposely slowing her gait, to tease him with the nearness of her sex, to excite a lust inside him. He found his body responding, falling into rhythm with hers, riding her from fifteen feet behind.

She turned her head, and he caught a glimpse of honey skin and delicate bone structure; coal-black eyes bored into his own. She mouthed the words,
Come with me . . .

Abruptly, she turned down a blind alley, disappearing into an inky darkness. Charlie could feel his loins tighten, all the blood in his body pooling there expectantly.

He made a mental note of how much money he had with him. He had no doubt now that she was a high-class prostitute who had been, for some unknown reason, forced into working the slums. She had been purposely leading him toward some anonymous darkened alleyway, where she would spread her legs and take his money. So with a smile on his pockmarked face, he moved toward the alleyway. In his mind, he could already feel the smoothness of her naked hips pressed up against his own.

When he arrived at the end of the alleyway, he stopped to allow his eyes to adjust. All that awaited him were three monstrous, contorted shadows. He looked around wildly, trying to locate his prize and an escape route at the same time.

The girl was nowhere to be seen.

Before he could turn and run, the three shadows emerged into the moonlight.

So Cold Metal Charlie, who had endured all the horror and ugliness, the cruelty and debasement that Shadwell Street had to offer, just screamed. Long white, saliva-flecked teeth gleamed against the darkness. Yellow eyes appraised him hungrily.

“No—” Charlie began, but no sooner was the word out of his mouth than the horrors descended upon him, ripping him to bloody shreds, savoring every piece of Charlie until there was nothing left of him but a pile of picked-over bones.