The Ripper (The Vampire Diaries 17)

“No, sir, let her go. I invited her to dine with me!” I said, quickly standing up. I clenched my hands into fists and stared into Alfred’s beady eyes.

“She’s not good enough to dine with my customers. Out on the street is where you belong,” Alfred yelled, his voice rising as he ignored my protests. ?

?You’re worse than them ladies over there,” he said, jutting his chin at the trio of women who still seemed to be surveying the crowd. “At least they’ve got something to offer,” he said, his face turning red.

“Please, sir!” Violet said, her entire frame shaking. Alfred loosened his grip on her hair, but his mouth was still set in a firm line. “I’ll do anything. Please don’t take away my job.”

“What job? Your sister doesn’t come in, so she sends you. You’re too small to lift anything and not pretty enough to keep the customers coming back. So I give you one task. Take the orders and bring them to the cook. And you can’t even do that!” Alfred boomed.

“Please!” I interjected desperately, placing a hand on his arm. I’d only meant for the gesture to stop him from grabbing Violet again, but in the moment, I’d forgotten my strength. His arm flew back, propelling him away from Violet.

I watched as he staggered backward into the table. The plate of fish landed upside down on the floor with a clatter. Violet looked terrified and I realized that the normal din had quieted to a churchlike hush. All eyes were on us.

Alfred scowled at me, rubbing his arm, as if debating whether or not to start a fight. “Well,” he said, clearing his throat.

“I apologize, but she wasn’t doing anything wrong. I asked her to join me. I offered her my meal,” I said in a smooth, low voice. I was furious, but I needed to control my temper. “Do you understand me?” I asked.

“Yes,” Alfred said, jerking his gaze away. He turned toward Violet.

“That true, girl?” he asked roughly.

“Yes,” Violet said in a small voice. “And I said no, but you say the customer is always right, and I thought that you’d want me to do what he said, so . . .”

Alfred raised his hand to cut her off and turned toward me. “Now I don’t know what you were trying to do, but Violet is not on offer,” Alfred said stiffly, still rubbing his arm. “If you wish to meet a lady, there are ones I’d be delighted to introduce to you. I know you’re not from around here, but this is my bar and my rules. Are we agreed? Now you,” he said, turning to Violet. “Out!” He pointed toward the door.

“Love, I can keep you warm tonight, if you know what I mean!” one of the bar patrons yelled as he reached to pinch her rear end. Another man followed suit, pawing at her. But she stared straight ahead, even as tears fell down her cheeks, and walked toward the front door.

“It’s for the best,” Alfred said roughly, crossing his beefy arms over his chest as the door closed with a thud. “You don’t run this bar. I do. And she was bothering you.”

“She wasn’t bothering me!” I said, angrily throwing a few shillings on the table before stepping menacingly toward him. A flicker of fear registered in Alfred’s face. I considered taking my frustrations out on him, but it was no use. Violet was gone. And every second she was outside meant she was in danger.

I stormed out of the bar without a second glance and walked into darkness. Only a few stars peeked through the tattered gray blanket of the London evening. I pulled out my pocket watch, a gift from Winfield Sutherland back in New York. After all those years, it still worked. It was nearly midnight. The witching hour.

A sliver of a moon hung high in the sky, and a layer of fog, so thick I could feel dewy condensation on my skin, swirled around the dilapidated buildings surrounding me. I cocked my head like a hunting dog. I could hear laughter emanating from the tavern, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t hear the ba-da-bump, ba-da-bump gallop of Violet’s heartbeat.

I’d lost her.

I glanced around, trying to get my bearings. Even though the tavern had been bustling, the rest of the area seemed desolate. It reminded me a bit of some of the towns I’d seen when I’d taken a train from New Orleans to New York City—places so decimated by the war that no one was left.

I walked through the maze of streets, unsure of where I was going. I wanted to find Violet. I had some money from my wages, and I was sure I could settle the price of a rooming house for her. But how could I find her in an unfamiliar city with streets and alleys that seemed to number in the millions? It was impossible.

After a few moments, I came to a park. Or rather, I came to a patch of greenery that at one point might have been a park. Now, the grass was yellowed, the trees were sickly, paint was peeling from the wrought-iron benches, and none of the gas lamps were lit. I shivered. If this was Dutfield Park, then it was the ideal place for a murder.

I tilted my head. I could hear heartbeats—of rabbits, and squirrels, and even a fox—but then I heard it: ba-da-bump, ba-da-bump.

“Violet!” I called, my voice cracking. I easily jumped over the peeling fence and ran toward the woods in the center of the park. “Violet!” I called again, the ba-da-bump getting closer.

And then, a shriek pierced the air, followed by deafening silence.

“Violet!” I yelled, my fangs bulging. I pelted through the trees as if my feet were running on air, not gravel, expecting to see Damon feasting on Violet’s neck. Damon, turning toward me with blood dripping down his chin. Damon arching his eyebrow and greeting me with the one word that made my brain almost explode with anger . . .

“Help!” a girl’s voice screamed.

“Violet!” I called, tearing through the trees, in one direction, then another, listening wildly for the ba-da-bump, ba-da-bump of her heart. And then I saw her, standing shakily near a dark streetlight. Her face was as white as her apron, but she was alive. There was no blood.

“Violet?” I asked, slowing down to a walk. My feet crunched against the dry underbrush. The path in the woods had obviously, in happier times, been designed for a Sunday afternoon stroll. A small brick building, most likely a groundskeeper’s cottage, long since abandoned, stood at the crest of a gentle hill. Violet was staring at it, her mouth formed into an O of horror.

I followed her gaze, the sliver of the moon providing just enough light that I could see red letters written on the side of the building, each oxidized character standing out against the muted brick as if it were illuminated from behind by candlelight: