Blood to Blood (27 page)

"Now, here's a sorry sight," the woman said as she came toward him. "Are you able to speak?"

Head down, he nodded. "Yes," he replied.

"Do you have a place to sleep it off?"

"On Tower, 'cross the bridge. Not far."

"Come on, then. I'll see you home."

He looked at her for the first time. Tall and thin, with long, fair hair tied back beneath her modest bonnet, she hardly seemed the sort he would find on the streets so late at night. And her clothes were too well cut, too clean.

"I'm all right," he said. "I just need to catch my breath. You go home, yourself."

She looked at him doubtfully, let go of his arm, then headed away from the river toward the Gateway and the empty stretches of open land between the warehouses.

He watched her go, then went on his way, quicker now, seeking the sort of woman with no purity to her intentions.

There had been no easy victims that evening. An early storm had sent the drunks scurrying for whatever shelters they could find, and Colleen dared not hunt indoors. She'd almost decided to head for the market at Spitalfields and find a chicken or out-of-season lamb to satisfy the blood lust, when she'd spied the drunk near the river.

Not drunk enough, it seemed, and there was something about his keen interest in her that made her wary. She was glad when they parted company, and walked away from him as quickly as she was able.

She had not gone far when she heard a sigh, soft but distinct, coming from someplace closer to the river. She cut through a narrow walkway between two buildings and found herself back on the wharf. Thinking it might be the man she'd just met, she stepped back into the shadows and waited.

The couple came into view—the drunk and some woman, arm in arm. She leaned against him, her voice low. whispering in his ear. She seemed to be leading him at first, but when she stumbled, he caught her. Remarkably quick for one even slightly inebriated.

The woman did not notice the shift. Instead she laughed and moved closer to him, slipping an arm under his coat and around his waist. "You're the quiet one, aren't you?" she said and laughed.

He did not look at her but kept his eyes straight ahead.

"Don't worry. The police don't much come down here, and my room's right around the corner."

They turned onto a street so narrow that, by the time Colleen got to the corner of it, the blackness had swallowed the pair. She cocked her head and listened.

There was a sound—a faint moan. It might have been the sound of lovemaking; more likely the man had lived up to Colleen's expectations and robbed the poor woman of the last pennies she owned. In that case, she might be hurt, swooning and helpless.

The last thought gave Colleen a sudden jolt of pleasure, a feeling so beneath her that she felt sickened by it. Nonetheless, those feelings would likely increase as the change continued and, being practical. Colleen could only accept them. Besides, she wouldn't hurt the woman, not really. And she'd follow with the service of seeing her home.

She moved up the street, slowly so as not to trip and give her presence away. A light burned in a window farther up the block, and she saw a shadow move in front of the curtain.

Crouching low, she crept close to the window and peered inside.

The man sat at a table close to the window, his back to her, pouring himself a drink from the bottle on the table. The woman, what Colleen could see of her, lay on the bed. Only her feet were visible. Her boots were still on, and there was mud caked to the soles.

She might have been drunk, or didn't care, since the place was little more than a hovel. The bed had only a straw mattress, obvious since the stuffing was poking out of a ripped corner. The rest of the room held only a single ladderback chair and a table. An oil lamp on it shed a dim light in the space.

Colleen began to retreat, then paused when the man got up and walked toward the bed. The action allowed her to glimpse the woman's face—expressionless, as if she had passed out. The bleeding cut on her head said something more sinister had transpired. Holding her breath. Colleen watched the man raise a hand, saw the knife he held. He lowered it, only to cut through the fabric of her blouse and part the halfs.

The woman stirred, turned her face toward him, managed to grip his wrist. He jerked back, slicing across her palm. Blood flowed. Colleen, hungry, fixed on that, then on the pair.

The woman would surely lose if someone did not help her soon. Convinced that the two of them would be a match for the man, she rushed to the door, threw it open and ran inside.

Her arrival startled the pair, and as the woman lost concentration, the man sliced down. The knife moved through her shoulder, her breast, her belly.

Finished with his victim, the man turned to deal with the witness. Colleen backed up a step, and when he charged, she threw the table down between them. The oil from the lamp flared, catching the dry straw in the mattress. The woman did not stir when the flames brushed her leg. Already dead, or nearly so.

Colleen turned, tried to run, but he was quicker. Grabbing her by her hair, he pulled her close, clamped a hand over her mouth. "I'm sorry," he whispered as he dragged her outside and toward the shadows well away from the blaze.

She responded with a hard kick against the back of his knee. He went down sideways, dropping her. She kicked backward again, less effectively, then scrambled away from him on hands and knees. She'd just found her footing so she could run when he grabbed her and pulled her down again. Her head struck the pavement at his feet, leaving her dizzy but still conscious enough to cry out once as the blade descended. His hand shook but the blade was sharp, cutting upward across her shoulder, her breast and deep into the side of her neck.

Not a killing stroke, likely not intended to be. "It shouldn't have been you," he whispered, and raised his knife again.

She made one final weak and strangled cry, more of protest than of pain.

She had gone searching for blood. Now blood was all around her. The scent of it stayed with her as consciousness faded.

When Joanna spoke of the feelings the arias had raised in her, it was with an intensity Arthur had never glimpsed in her before. Seeing her passion, he had arranged a box seat for a special August performance of the London Symphony. After assuring her that the seats would be just as private as the ones at the opera house, she agreed to attend.

She had no way of knowing that the program—a blend of Mozart and Tchaikovsky—was odd, only that the music ran an emotional gauntlet that exhausted her. She commented on that as they rode away. Arthur, ever diligent to her needs, suggested another trip to Impostors, speaking casually, as if he were discussing a late supper. She placed her hand on his and nodded. He called a Holburn address to the driver, and the coach lurched forward.

She said nothing as they traveled, but in spite of her weariness—a weariness that should have raised only hunger—an odd and disquieting emotion seemed to have taken hold in her, one that could not be dispelled by thoughts of the music or the meal to come. She glanced sideways at Arthur, but his serene expression told her this wasn't some feeling she'd acquired through proximity to him.

The emotion stayed with her at the club. Even those moments when she lay with the pliant Antoinette—such an innocent in her way!—could not dispel it. Arthur must have sensed her uneasiness because he showed no desire to remain with the girl after Joanna had finished with her. Instead he seemed in a rush to get them on their way.

They'd traveled only a short distance when she thought of Colleen and decided that tomorrow night she would definitely visit her again, and stay if the girl were not at home. Decision made, she tried to relax but found that impossible. She shivered, nerves on edge, waiting for something worse, something terrible. A scream cut through her mind. She winced, squeezed Arthur's hand so tightly he cried out in pain for both of them.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Colleen," she replied.

"In Chelsea?"

She hesitated, shook her head. "The river… near the bridge by the prison."

"How can you know?"

"The blood we shared makes a bond. I know. Find me there. Come soon."

He wanted to ask something more, but she was already gone. Leaning forward, he rapped his cane against the driver's box. "Take us to Tower Bridge instead," he called.

"No good part of town this time of night, sir," the driver called back.

"Just go, and quickly."

Arthur sat back in time to brace himself against the hard right of the coach. He thought of Renfield and of Mina's tie with Dracula and understood what possessed Joanna now. And sadly, he understood all too well what possessed him to follow her.

Joanna moved as quickly as she was able through the narrow, silent streets. The cries in her mind grew louder as she approached the river, then stopped altogether. The shadows hid her as she took on human form once again, and with all senses alert, cocked her head and listened.

Her hearing, so much keener than a mortal's, detected a distant sliding of fabric on stone; and in the opposite direction, a woman's cry for help followed by a man's bellowed, "Fire!"

She glanced in the direction of the voices, saw a faint flickering glow between the buildings. People, most half dressed or covered with ragged blankets, were coming out of nearby buildings, forming a crescent around the blaze as they waited for the firemen with their water truck and buckets. She could smell charred flesh, burning hair. Moving as close to the fire as she was able, she saw the body. Badly burned already, but the knife strokes were still visible. It wasn't Colleen.

Had Colleen felt that surge of fear for the woman inside, or was it something more? Not sure, Joanna scanned the street, noticing the line of blood stretching from the front door to the turn at the next corner. So much of it! Too much!

She followed it, arriving just in time to see a man bending over Colleen, the golden reflection of distant flames off the blade of his knife as he raised it for another stroke.

Rage stole any shred of caution or fear. With the quickness of thought, Joanna was behind him, her hands fumbling for his neck.

He jerked forward, whirled and saw her. His recognition strengthened her own. Yes, they had met before. Would that she had killed him then.

He sliced the knife across her body; this time, prepared, she didn't even wince. He took a step backward, slipped on the bloody stones and fell across Colleen's feet. As Joanna reached for him, she detected no pulse in her servant, no heat of life rising from the flowing blood.

Without even being aware of the act, air filled her lungs, released with a loud and terrible keening. The killer slid crab-like away from her, soles slipping on the wet and bloody pavement until he found his footing. Reaching for him, she caught the hem of his coat. He shrugged it off his shoulders and ran, leaving it in her hand, not turning to see if she would follow.

She started to, but her cry of grief and pain had attracted the attention of some of the spectators gathered around the fire. Much though she wanted to find the killer and give back more agony than he had caused, she had no choice but to abandon the chase for now. There were more important matters.

She ran a hand over Colleen's bruised face, then covered her body with the killer's coat. Lifting her servant, she retreated farther down the street, vanishing into the shadows by the time anyone turned the corner. Moving down the darkest streets as quietly and quickly as she was able, she traveled in the direction of Tower Bridge, reaching it moments before Arthur arrived in the carriage.

Seeing her, the driver reined in the team and started to get down. "Stay where you are," Arthur called to him and helped Joanna lift Colleen inside, thankful he'd hired a brougham instead of the more common small hansoms. They lay Colleen on the seat facing him, her head in Joanna's arms. "To Chelsea," she whispered, her trembling voice revealing all the hysteria she'd managed to keep in check.

He did not have a vampire's senses, but the reek of blood and death was unmistakable. "How was she killed?" he asked.

Joanna's lips brushed the forehead, the blood-soaked hair, the open, sightless eyes. "She isn't dead," she replied, punctuating the remark with a soft titter of hysteria.

She's gone over the edge, he thought. Or perhaps she hadn't. Perhaps he was going to witness the most wondrous thing of all.

If their driver had noticed Joanna's sudden departure from the carriage, her just as sudden reappearance and the nature of the burden she'd carried, he gave no indication. When they reached the Chelsea cottage, Arthur helped Joanna lower Colleen from the cab, then tipped the man handsomely.

The driver whistled at the amount. "Should I come back for you later, sir?" he asked.

Arthur shook his head. "I'll be staying the night," he said and went inside.

Joanna had laid Colleen on the table and begun to remove her bloody clothes. She undid the buttons on her servant's blouse, parted the sticky folds of cloth from the body gently, then raised the head and shoulders slowly so she could pull the blouse off her. She worked as if Colleen might still feel the caresses, the pain.

With the first real sight of the wounds, her hysteria increased. Silent sobs shook her, interspersed by bursts of quick, sad laughter. If this had been any other woman, Arthur would have rushed to comfort. But now, faced with madness and grief in a creature so deadly, his courage failed, and he dared not speak to her, let alone approach her.

He heard someone on the street outside, forced a comment, "It's late. You ought to be quieter. This is hardly a time to have your neighbors decide to pry."

The keening stopped. She raised her head, eyes glowing through the long hair that had fallen over her face. Her breath was audible, broken. "Late?" she asked.

He checked his watch. "Nearly four."

She still trembled, but silently kissed the cold forehead and lay Colleen flat on the table again. Her own body became transparent, words seeming to hang in the air, coming from everywhere. "Clean her. Find something for her to wear."

"And what—"

Of course he got no answer. With Joanna those nagging little questions always seemed to be left hanging in the air. The habit was, he thought, the one obvious sign of her noble blood. He took off his coat and shirt and set to work.

Colleen's skirt and undergarments were filthy—the excrement that came with death mixed with blood and dirt. He stripped it all off. Not certain how to proceed, he filled a pail with water and began to clean the wounds first; then, trying to think of her less as a woman or a corpse than a helpless child, he cleaned the rest.

Joanna returned, but only long enough to drop off a pair of flower boxes from the neighbors' windows. She returned some time later with three more. Working with one box at a time, she pulled out the flowers and carried the earth into an inside room. When she returned, she replaced the flowers in the empty boxes and set them outside.

When she'd finished, she left. He heard the clatter of the wooden boxes as she moved down the street. He glanced out the doorway and saw her replacing each of them, soiless, on their windowsills.

By the time she'd finished, Arthur, who had managed to clean the body by himself, was wrapping the wounds with strips of cloth. Joanna found a dress in the closet, a loose empire design in deep crimson. With his help, she put it on the body, then combed out the wet hair.

By then the sky was already light. "Come and help me," she said, the first words either of them had spoken for well over an hour.

He did as she asked, helping her mix the added earth with that already in the box in the windowless room. "Her soil," Joanna explained as they smoothed the folds of soft cloth over it.

"If you put her in there, where will you sleep?" he asked.

She looked at him as if he were a fool. "This was my brother's. He was quite a large man."

As he watched, she lay the girl inside. "Will you stay?" she asked.

He nodded, wondering how much the killer had learned about his victim and if they were in any danger here or elsewhere. After the lid was closed over the pair of them, he went to the outer room and turned the chair to face the locked door. He had his cane, and thanks to Colleen's well-stocked pantry, a sharp knife. Certain he'd sleep with one eye open, he sat down and tried to rest.

In late afternoon, a sudden burst of sound woke him. He all but leaped to his feet before realizing it was thunder rather than someone beating down the door. The air felt thick and charged, the darkness intense. Joanna, and possibly her servent, would likely wake soon, and as he looked at the room in which he slept, he realized he could be making better use of his time than in uneasy slumber.

Cleaning was something he'd last done during his brief time at Eton, but even in Kensington it would be up to him to clandestinely dispose of this much blood. Servants could be discreet, but even Ian had his limits.

He carried the bloody pail of water around the cottage, dumping it onto a small patch
of
flowers. It puddled on the ground, then sank in slowly. By the time he returned to the house, the rain had started. He found a basin to set on the stoop, then filled the pail from the last of the water jug in the kitchen and began to clean.

The table was spotless when he finished, a glass pitcher in the center of it. The floor was a worse problem. He washed it as best he could, laying the ripped and bloody clothing by the front door. He looked around for something to wrap those in before he carried it to the trash pile and noticed the coat they'd used to cover the body.

It might be wise to get some idea of the murderer's identity, so he went through the pockets. He found a knife, a bit of money, and a sealed and rumpled envelope. Unaddressed, but there was a note inside. Moving close to the dim light of the window, he ripped the envelope open and read quickly:

Dear Doctor,

I have heard from Arthur. He assures me that he is quite all right and I have every reason to believe him. He tells me he will be inviting me to London soon. When he does, I shall see for myself if you have any reason to be concerned.

You might accuse me of being a fool for not taking his situation more seriously, but it is what I must do. Mina

Arthur read the note again, trying to deduce who might have possessed it. Not Van Helsing, surely. Though he might easily kill Joanna should the chance arise, he would hardly attack an innocent girl.

Then he thought of Colleen's own letter and of Lucy and how her teeth had already grown to a lethal length before she died. Might that have happened here? If so and in the darkness. Van Helsing might have been confused.

It was time to face the professor—and ask him directly if he was a murderer.

Before he could leave, he heard the floorboards creek behind him, turned and saw Joanna standing in the doorway; still, silent.

He knew her moods well. Such intense calm was not a good sign. "Is she… all right?" he asked.

She took a moment to answer. "I don't know. I know so little," she said. "They never told me. I thought they kept their power from me. Now I wonder if they really knew themselves."

"Van Helsing says it only takes a drop of vampire blood." He knew he sounded foolish. A drop would take a long time to complete its arcane work. Yet he had the sudden vision of Joanna spending months sharing a coffin with a rotting corpse, waiting for that miracle. He went and took her hand, for his sake as well as hers he added, "And Mina was with your brother only twice, we believe. She would have changed."

She noticed the cleaned table and floor, the pile of bloody clothes beside the door, the coat—the killer's coat—on top of them.

She moved beside it, fingering the collar. "I almost killed him once. Out of fear, I let him go. Now he takes her life, as if he wanted to curse me again. Human life is so precious, Arthur. Being in London has taught me that."

He hardly heard her, focused instead on the fact that the man had crossed paths with Joanna before. He thought of Van Helsing again. "You saw the man. What did he look like?" he asked.

"Older than you. But only a little."

She frowned, as if she could sense his relief. "What is it? she asked. When he did not reply, she repeated the question more insistently.

"Nothing. I just wanted to know, since you've encountered him twice. Go on."

Thankfully, her description was of no one he knew. "And how did he act when he saw you?" Arthur asked.

She detailed their first meeting. Apparently the man was only a killer, another night hunter whose path had crossed hers. The only unanswered question was how he'd come by that note.

"I need to go out for a little while. I'll be back as soon as I am able. Tonight. I promise. Before I go, may I look at her?"

"It will not harm?"

"It didn't with my Lucy."

She let him pass into the little room. He lit a candle and opened the box.

Colleen lay on her side, placed that way to make room for her mistress. Her hair was tousled—Joanna's caresses, no doubt. Yes, she looked like Lucy; as if she were sleeping, not dead. And the wound on her neck seemed much smaller, far less raw. "Do you sec?" he said to Joanna, showing her the things she had not observed.

She held him, trembled. This time the emotion, so strong she could not contain it, was relief.