The Ripper (The Vampire Diaries 17)

Outside, the clouds shifted, and a shaft of moonlight reflected through the filthy windows at one end of the warehouse. My eyes fell upon a crumpled heap in the corner. At first, I hoped it was nothing more than a discarded pile of fabric, pushed aside for the party. But it wasn’t. The material was bright green.

I blanched, already knowing what I’d see before I turned the figure over.

But when I did, I still couldn’t hold in my strangled cry.

It was Violet, her throat slit, her inquisitive blue eyes gazing, unblinking, at the throng of people dancing only yards away from her cold, white figure.

Chapter 13

I had to get Violet out of there, before the killer came back to finish her off with his customary mutilation. I hastily lifted her up and heaved her over my shoulder. Her body grew colder every minute and the touch of her skin against mine sent a shiver down my spine. She was dead. And the killer was nowhere to be found.

I glanced around wildly. The band had shifted into a waltz, and the front of the warehouse was crowded with couples dancing in the darkness. It looked gaudy, like an act from the two-bit carnival I’d worked at in New Orleans. The murderer was somewhere in that throng, bowing and weaving through couples.

My fangs throbbed, and my legs ached with the urge to run or fight. But I could do neither. I stood, frozen in place. Droplets of blood scattered across the bodice of her dress, and the kohl she’d used to line her eyes had run, making her face look like it was painted with tears.

I didn’t feel sorrow. What I felt was deeper, more primal. I felt anger at whoever did this, as well as despair. This would always keep happening, and more victims like Violet would perish. It wouldn’t matter if I journeyed back to America or went to India or just traveled nomadically throughout every land. How many deaths could I witness, all the while knowing death would never come to me?

I glanced back down at Violet’s limp body and forced myself to stop thinking those thoughts. Instead, I thought of Violet’s short life. Her wide grin when she’d put on one of her fine dresses, the way her happy face shone with tears at the end of the musical review, the way she truly believed that there was good in the world. I’d miss her. Violet had been spritely and passionate and alive. She’d also been stupid and trusting and so vulnerable. And she’d given up her vervain to her sister. Of course, she hadn’t known it to be anything but a good luck charm, but still—if she’d had the vervain, she’d be alive now.

“‘May flights of angels sing thee to thy rest,’” I said, quoting Shakespeare for lack of a prayer as I laid my hand against her cold brow and smoothed her loose curls off her forehead. The phrase echoed in my head, the words far more familiar to me than any of the sermons I’d sat through or psalms I’d heard when I was a human. I leaned down and grazed my lips against Violet’s cheek.

Suddenly, she reared up, her body trembling all over, her eyes wide, her mouth frothing, as she lunged toward my hand.

Hastily, I fell backward, scrambling to my feet and retreating to the shadows.

“Stefan?” Violet called in a high and reedy voice that sounded nothing like her Irish brogue. Her hand frantically clawed at her throat, and her eyes widened in fright when she pulled her hand back and saw it covered with blood. “Stefan?” she called again, her eyes gazing wildly in all directions.

I watched in shock. I’d seen death countless times at this point, and I knew that Violet had been dead. Yet now she wasn’t. This meant only one thing: She had been given vampire blood and then killed. She was in transition.

“Stefan?” she asked, grasping the air in front of her and gnashing her teeth against each other. Her breath was loud and raspy. She kept licking her lips, as though she were dying of thirst. “Help me!” she called in a strangled voice.

Far off in the warehouse, I could make out the faintest sound of the band striking up another song. Everyone inside the party was blissfully unaware of the gruesome scene occurring in front of my eyes. I clenched my jaw. I wanted more than anything to be strong for Violet, but I was still in shock.

I knew she wanted to feed. I remembered the agonizing hunger I’d felt when I’d woken up in transition. She was breathing in loud, staccato gasps as she rose to her knees, then her feet. I moved forward to help her.

“Shhh,” I said, wrapping my arms around her body. “Shhh,” I repeated, running my hands through her tangled hair, wet with sweat and blood. “You’re safe,” I lied. Of course she wasn’t.

A few yards away, on a neighboring dock, I saw a small skiff, most likely used to transport cargo from one side of London to the other, bobbing in the gentle waves of the Thames. I had the wild thought to take it, to head as far as we could down the river, to just get away.

“What’s happening to me?” Violet gasped each word, clutching her throat.

“You’ll be okay, Violet. But please, tell me, who did this to you?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said, her face crumpling. Blood was running from her neck, drying into a pattern on the side of her dress that would have been almost prett

y if one hadn’t known how it was formed. Her face was white and chalky, and she kept licking her lips. “I was going to the bar. And then he pulled me to him for a dance, and . . . that’s all I can remember,” Violet said, wringing her hands together and gazing imploringly at me.

“Who’s ‘he’?” I asked urgently.

“Damon,” she said, hardly able to stifle her cries. A scene flitted into my mind: Violet, so excited to have Damon pay attention to her. Violet, allowing Damon to escort her to the bar and order her a drink. Violet, nervous and coquettish, waiting to hear what Damon had to say. And then Damon licking his lips, lunging, and drinking, leaving Violet behind for me to find.

You always help a damsel in distress. Damon’s mocking phrase rang in my ears. He’d left her for me to find, just as if we were children playing hide-and-seek.

“I’m so thirsty,” Violet said, leaning over the edge of the dock and cupping her hands to capture some of the dirty water flowing in the Thames. I watched as she put her hands to her mouth, and saw an expression of disgust cross her face. She knew something was terribly wrong. “Stefan . . . I don’t feel well. I think I need a doctor,” she said, cradling her head in her hands and rocking silently back and forth.

“Come with me,” I said, pulling Violet into a hug. I could feel shivers wracking her body, and saw tears were falling from her large eyes. I knew she was confused and disoriented, and this filthy dock was no place to explain to her what was happening.

I hoisted her up and walked us to the skiff that was resting in the water. I gently placed her on its floor. She blinked a few times and let out a shuddery sigh.