The Asylum (The Vampire Diaries 18)

“At least you’ll have a roof over your head. More than we have, at any rate,” Damon said, breaking the silence.

I shot an annoyed glance at Damon, but Cora broke out into nervous giggles. “It is awful, isn’t it?” she said. “And yet, if I had to choose between here, Whitechapel, or the tunnel, I suppose I’d choose here. At least I know they’ll offer meals that aren’t rat’s blood or Alfred’s horrible Ten Bells fish special. Don’t be too jealous, lads.” She flashed a smile, but I could tell she was uneasy.

I was, too. “I’ll come visit every day. We both will,” I said as I steeled my courage and rapped sharply on the door. The three of us stood in anticipation as it slowly creaked open.

An enormously tall man wearing a priest’s robe opened the door and stared down at us. A crucifix hung from his neck, swinging back and forth like a pendulum. I averted my eyes. While it was a myth that crucifixes could be used to torment our kind, they never failed to remind me how unholy and evil my past had been.

“Yes, my children?” he asked stiffly. “What brings you to the Magdalene Asylum?”

Damon stepped forward. “I’m Damon de… Croix,” he said, catching himself just before he introduced himself as Damon DeSan

gue. “And this is my brother, Stefan. Like everyone in London, we’re shocked by the rash of murders in our city and wish to help keep potential victims off the streets. We found this young girl at the Ten Bells Tavern and offered her our help by guiding her here.”

“Quite good,” the man said, his gaze flicking to Cora, standing on the step below us. She’d crossed her arms over her chest and was rocking back and forth on her heels. I couldn’t tell if she was acting or if the stress had simply become too much for her to handle. Whatever the reason, it was effective.

“Come in.” The priest ushered us through the heavy black doors, shutting them behind us with a thud. Inside, the entrance had a vaulted ceiling. Directly in front of us, a saint stared out sorrowfully from a stained-glass window. The air smelled like dust and incense and antiseptic. It reminded me of a church, with its many statues and candles.

I could hear pipes clanking, and the shuffle of footsteps. A girl hurried by, her head bowed. She was wearing a gray dress and bonnet and muttering to herself. I watched Cora’s eyes follow her. I reached out to squeeze her hand to let her know everything would be all right, but stopped when I noticed the priest’s disapproving gaze.

“I’ll fetch Sister Benedict to assist you. She’ll assess the girl’s … suitability,” the priest said, as he headed up a set of stairs.

“Home sweet home,” Cora murmured shakily.

Just then, a small woman in a nun’s habit glided down the staircase. Her face was red and wrinkled, and she wore small spectacles over her watery green eyes. She stared at Cora with an inscrutable expression on her pinched face.

“Hello, Sister,” Damon said, bowing to her.

The nun swiveled toward Damon. “Good day,” she said, a small smile lighting up her wizened face. Typical Damon. He could charm anyone. “I’m Sister Benedict. Please, come with me,” she said, nodding to a small annex underneath another stained glass saint. The room was furnished with a desk, a bookshelf, and several chairs.

She sat at the desk and blinked up at us expectantly. “Gentlemen, please sit.” As we got settled, Sister Benedict pulled a well-worn leather Bible from a bookshelf and wordlessly handed it to Cora. Cora took it, curtseyed, and perched on a rickety chair in the far corner of the alcove.

“My brother and I have taken an interest in your fine institution,” Damon began. “We’ve been reading the news of the Ripper with horror, and want to protect any vulnerable young ladies we come across. This seems the place to carry out our mission. We believe that there is providence in the fall of a sparrow.”

“Yes, thank the Lord,” the nun said piously, crossing herself. I glanced sharply at Damon. Providence in the fall of a sparrow. That was from Hamlet. Since when did Damon quote Shakespeare? But he only half-shrugged at me, as if to say, You don’t know everything about me, brother.

“We intend to be generous benefactors of the Asylum,” Damon said in a low, charismatic voice, holding the nun’s gaze with his own. “Would one thousand pounds per annum be suitable?”

Watching Damon use compulsion reminded me of when, as a child, he would turn a magnifying glass on the ants that marched around the porch of Veritas. They’d be minding their own business when all of a sudden, they’d be caught and writhing in Damon’s grasp. It was as terrible to watch then as it was now, even though I knew it was necessary.

“One thousand pounds!” Sister Benedict gasped. “Why, that would do so much for our girls. And, of course, for this girl you found, whom we’re most eager to assist,” she said, shooting a look at Cora, who kept her eyes downcast. “We have much experience reclaiming the souls of the wicked.”

“The girl’s name is Co… Cordelia,” I lied. Cordelia had been our maid back in Mystic Falls. She’d been wise and watchful, and I’d always suspected she knew of Katherine’s true nature. In many ways, Cora had similar attributes. “And she’s not wicked. Not like that. We found her outside a tavern where she worked as a barmaid. She had been thrown out on the street for refusing the tavern owner’s advances.”

“Well, I do appreciate two generous, God-fearing men like you taking an interest in her and in our mission. We’ll set her on the path to a better way of life. And to thank you for your generous donation, of course you’re invited to our benefit at the end of the week.”

“A benefit?” Damon asked, leaning toward her. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a photograph on the wall, underneath a picture of a sorrowful Saint Anthony. The photograph was of Samuel, smiling triumphantly as he cut a ribbon in front of the same heavy black doors.

“Why, yes,” Sister Benedict said. “All the girls get to go; it’s a very exciting event. Samuel Mortimer arranges it. I’m sure you know of him?” she asked expectantly.

Damon’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “I do. Mr. Mortimer is a shining beacon of philanthropy, a truly inspiring man. Unfortunately, our family got into a bit of a messy disagreement years back, and there’s still some bad blood between our clans. I’d just as rather be … silent donors,” Damon explained.

“Of course,” Sister Benedict said quickly.

“Thank you,” Damon said as I pulled at my collar. The room was boiling, and I felt uncomfortable in more ways than one.

“I know you’re both busy, so let’s get Cordelia taken care of and up on her feet.” Sister Benedict snapped her fingers, and immediately I heard the clicking sounds of footsteps on the wood floor. A tall nun, nearly my height and twice my girth, stormed into the room. Her face was long and horselike, with a pointy nose and lips so thin and pale they almost disappeared into her face. She had a few errant black whiskers sticking out from her chin. I recoiled. Nun or not, she was the ugliest woman I’d ever seen.

“Sister Agatha, we have another girl. And she’s come to us in the nick of time.” Sister Benedict pointed at Cora. “Don’t worry, gentlemen. You did well to bring her to us. By the time she’s rehabilitated, no one will even recognize her.”