“But did she leave with anyone, or was there ever a man you saw her with?” I pressed.
“I saw her with a lot of men over the years. But none that stood out. Most of ’em were the blokes who worked down by the docks. Rough types, but none that would do that. Those blokes aren’t looking for any trouble, just a good pint and a good girl. Besides, she left by herself that night. Sometimes, when there’s too many girls here, they go out to the streets. Less competition,” he explained, noticing my confused expression. “But before she left, she’d had a good night here. She had some gin, a few laughs. Was wearing a new hat she was so proud of. Felt like it drew the men over to her. The good kind, too, not the ones who only pretend to have money. I wish she’d stayed, God bless her,” Alfred said, raising his eyes piously to the ceiling.
“And her body . . .” I asked.
“Well, now, the body was found in Dutfield Park. It’s where the ladies sometimes go when they can’t afford a room. I don’t say nothin’, whatever goes on outside the premises ain’t my business. But that’s where he got her and slit her throat.”
I nodded, my mind racing back to one of the many overgrown squares of grass that dotted the area. The weeds, garbage, and peeling paint of the iron fences surrounding the parks all made the area seem more dismal than simple city squares.
“And if you are one of them newspaper boys, then I didn’t say nothing. What’s your name anyway, boy?” Alfred asked.
“Stefan,” I said, taking a huge swig of whiskey. It did nothing to calm the dread in my stomach. A soulless killer was loose, and he would stop at nothing.
“Well, Stefan, welcome to Whitechapel,” he said, raising his second glass. “And remember, better whiskey down your throat than the murderer on it.”
I smiled tightly as I held up a glass to my new friend.
“Here, here!” one of the drunk men at the other end of the bar said. I smiled at him, fervently hoping that too many whiskeys drunk at the pub wouldn’t lead them all to their doom.
The devil you know is better than the devil you don’t. The phrase floated into my mind. It was one that Lexi would often in
voke, and it was one I’d only found to be more and more true as time passed. Because as horrid and soulless as the crime was, if Damon had done it, at least I wouldn’t have any other vampires to worry about. But the longer I stayed at the bar, the more another thought tugged at my brain: What if it wasn’t Damon, but another vampire?
Down at the other end of the bar, Alfred had drifted into conversation with a few of the other customers. Rain pelted against the windows, and I was reminded of the fox den at the far side of the Abbotts’ farm. Entire families of beasts huddled there, waiting for the moment when they thought it was safe to head into the forest. The unlucky ones would be hit by a hunter’s bullet.
I glanced around again. A woman in a lilac dress allowed her hand to slide down a man’s shoulder. The real question was, who were the foxes and who were the hunters? All I could hope was that I was a hunter.
Chapter 4
The longer I spent at the pub, the more crowded it became—but there was no sign of Damon. I told myself I was staying to try to find more clues. But the truth was, I didn’t know what I could do. Stand outside the supper club? Plod up and down the streets of London until I happened to run into Damon? Sit in Dutfield Park myself until another attack happened? The last was the one idea I kept toying with. But it was ludicrous. For one, why would the murderer strike twice at the same place? For another, what would I do if I saw the murder? Scream? Call the police? Find a stake and hope for the best? None of the options seemed ideal. And if the murderer wasn’t Damon . . . well, then I could be dealing with a fiend from hell. I was strong, but not that strong. I needed a plan.
I watched as customers poured in. Each seemed seedier than the last, but all were reassuringly human. Some men, the ones with cracked nails and dirty shirts, had obviously just gotten off their construction jobs, while others, reeking of cologne and furtively glancing at the women at the corner tables, were clearly there to consort with ladies of the night. And indeed, I couldn’t help but notice each time a garishly garbed woman stepped into the tavern, the crowd surveyed her as if they were gamblers at the racetrack sizing up the horses.
These women stood in stark contrast to the serving girl who seemed in charge of the entire room. She couldn’t have been older than sixteen or seventeen, and skinny as a jaybird, but every time I saw her, her arms were laden with plates and pint glasses. At one point, I watched her hurry toward the kitchen, but before she got there, she paused to clear the plates from a nearby table. All that remained on one plate were a few scraps of meat, some potatoes, and a half-eaten roll. She stared hard at the plate, before cautiously grabbing the meat and slipping it into her pocket. Then, she crammed the roll into her mouth, her cheeks puffing like a chipmunk’s, before scurrying back to the kitchen.
I closed my eyes. I’d long ago given up praying, and I didn’t think any sort of God would want to hear my requests, but I did wish that no matter what happened, that this helpless seventeen-year-old would stay far, far away from Dutfield Park. Or, for that matter, any bloodthirsty vampire.
“Lookin’ for a good time, love?” A woman with blond curled hair and crooked teeth perched on the wooden seat opposite me. Her white bosom was overflowing from her bodice.
“No. Sorry,” I said roughly, waving my hand away. A memory from New Orleans flooded back to me. It had been in my first few weeks as a vampire, when I’d been bloodthirsty and bullheaded, and had dragged Damon to a house of ill repute. There, I’d feasted on a young girl, sure that no one would notice or care that she’d disappeared. I couldn’t even remember her name now, and I wondered if I’d ever even bothered to learn it in the first place. It was details like those that would cause me to sink into the depths of misery, and here, in this dank tavern, I couldn’t escape these split-second flashbacks. All of them were reminders that no matter what I did, and no matter who I helped, I’d never do enough good deeds to wash away all the blood I was responsible for—and would be for eternity—off my hands. All I could do was try. And I would do anything to ensure that these women would not die at the hands of a demon.
I glanced back down at the paper, now creased and smudged from my hands. I could almost recite every word of the article, and none of it seemed to make sense. Why had the killer just left her like that? It was almost as if he’d wanted her to be found. But if the killer had wanted her to be found, he had to be very, very careful to cover his own tracks.
“What would you like to eat, love?” a lilting voice asked. I looked up to see the skinny, wide-eyed serving girl. She was wearing a tattered and stained rose-colored dress that was covered by a filthy white apron. She had wide blue eyes and long auburn hair that hung in a single braid down her back. A smattering of freckles dusted her angular face, and her skin was as smooth and pale as ivory. She kept nervously biting her lips, a habit that reminded me a bit of Rosalyn, my fiancée back in Virginia. But even Rosalyn’s extreme caution hadn’t prevented her from getting killed by a vampire. My heart went out to this girl.
“Whatever you recommend,” I said, putting down the paper. “Please,” I added. My stomach was growling, but what I most wanted wasn’t on any menu.
“Well, a lot of people have ordered the fish . . .” she said, trailing off. Even from where I was sitting, I could hear her heart beating, as fast and lightly as a swallow’s.
“That sounds fine,” I said. I tried not to think of the dwindling coins in my pocket.
“Yes, sir,” the girl said, turning quickly on her heel.
“Wait!” I called.
“Yes?” she asked, concern in her eyes. She looked so much like Oliver when he was worried that Mrs. Duckworth would scold him. There was something about the deliberate way she spoke, her ultra-cautious movements, and those wide, seeking eyes that made me feel she’d seen or heard something in connection to the murder. It was more than just an air of teenage self-consciousness.
She seemed haunted.