“The murderer?” I asked. I hoped it didn’t sound too eager. At the horrific word, several couples turned to stare at me.
“They think he attacked again, last night. The Ripper is what all the papers call him. They think he might be a butcher, the way he cuts the bodies up.” Charlotte wrinkled her nose as she strode over to us from a willow tree, where she’d been holding court in the center of a group of women. The group shuddered. Just the name—the Ripper—had the effect of a storm cloud over the idyllic summer day. It felt like the temperature had dropped twenty degrees.
The Ripper. I tried to catch Damon’s eye, but he avoided my gaze. He was at the party last night. Unless . . . my thoughts were whirling.
Charlotte possessively slipped her arm around Damon’s waist. “I’m glad I have someone to protect me. It’s so awful.”
I glanced over at Violet. She was listening, rapt, the vervain charm still gleaming around her neck. Good.
“Who was the victim?” I asked.
“Another prostitute. No one, really.” A broad-shouldered girl sniffed, as if the entire affair was far too torrid to discuss.
Samuel pulled a newspaper out of his waistcoat pocket and made a big show of opening it. “Jane’s only upset because the murderer is pushing her off the page. Suddenly, all the society news has been cut for murder coverage,” Samuel said, smiling sarcastically at the woman.
“What was her name?” Violet asked tremulously.
“The name of the victim? Why should that matter?” Jane shrugged derisively.
“Annie something,” Samuel said, flicking through the story in the paper.
Violet’s shoulders sagged in relief, and I closed my eyes in thanks. Cora was still alive. For now.
“Whatever her name is, it’s quite awful, isn’t it?” Lord Ainsley shuddered, joining our conversation. “Thank God he’s at least picking off the East End. Once he gets to our kind, then we’ll worry,” he said with a loud guffaw. I shot a look at Violet, who’d sidled up to Charlotte. Her dress and mannerisms were almost indistinguishable from Charlotte’s, and no one would dream that she was not one of their kind. Still, Lord Ainsley’s casual flippancy about the lower class—Violet’s class—made my stomach turn.
“He wrote a letter to the Courier,” Samuel said. “Let me find it.” Samuel sat down on one of the white chairs and, crossing his legs at the knee, cleared his throat and began to read.
“The return address reads ‘From hell’ . . .” he intoned.
The words thudded in my ears and I staggered to find a seat. I couldn’t breathe. From hell. Maybe it was some sort of terrible prank, but I couldn’t help but wonder if there was some truth to it. Was it Klaus—or someone even worse? I held on to the edge of the table for support, and I could sense Violet turn to stare at me.
“‘From hell’ . . . but is that a worse address than ‘Whitechapel’?” Samuel snorted.
“I’ve never been there,” a pretty, redheaded girl said as she took a large swig of champagne. “Is it as awful as everyone says?”
“Worse!” Samuel said, amid laughter. He glanced back at the paper. “Scotland Yard and the London police force have been working round the clock, but clues to the grisly murders are few and far between . . .”
I stopped listening and took a few steps away from the group. From here, the unfolding scene looked idyllic: just a group of wealthy and carefree young friends enjoying their privileges. What would they do if they knew there was a monster in their midst? And not the one they were currently laughing about?
From hell. With every clue, I was more sure that Klaus was in London. The big question was:
Why didn’t Damon care?
Klaus was indeed from hell—it was his legacy. The majority of us vampires had been turned at the hand of another vampire. Lexi had been turned by a lover, Damon and I had been turned by Katherine, and there were millions of other stories, just like ours, within the vampire world. But then, there were the Originals, from hell itself. They’d never experienced any years as a human. They had no humanity to temper their instincts and, as such, they were brutal and dangerous.
I shivered, even though the air was still, with no breeze rustling the elm trees above us.
“Are you all right, sir?” a butler asked, stepping up to me, holding out a plate of cucumber sandwiches.
I took one. The cucumber was slimy going down my throat and I almost gagged at the sogginess of the bread. The sandwich did nothing to quell my hunger. Of course it didn’t. But at this point, the idea of blood sickened me.
I turned on my heel and went back to join the picnic, the sandwich sitting like a rock in my stomach. By the time I’d returned, the conversation had drifted to lighter fare: the unusually hot summer, the fact that no one seemed inclined to go to their country homes for the weekend anymore, and the recent establishment of secret parties down at the Canary Wharf docks.
“A word?” I asked, pulling Damon from the group and walking a distance away, toward the manicured garden that surrounded the house. The scent of roses was heady in the air, and for an instant, I was transported back to our Mystic Falls labyrinth. It had been where the two of us would teasingly fight for Katherine’s favor while escorting her on afternoon walks, before we had any idea what a dangerous game we were playing.
“Yes, brother?” Damon asked, sighing impatiently. I forced myself to look into his dark eyes, nothing like the eyes of my human brother. Damon was different. I was different. It was time for me to stop thinking of the past.
A slow grin broke onto his face, and I followed his gaze to the sheet I’d tossed aside when we’d come in. “Is that yours?” Damon asked. “Aren’t you fancy? That’s genuine Egyptian cotton, fit for a king.”