The red velvet seats below were slowly filling; the murmur of the crowd mixed with the tones of the musicians as they set up their instruments. The electric lights of the grand chandelier flickered and died out, only the candles and the gas lanterns glowing like lost souls in the heavy air. Then, the stage erupted in light, and everyone held their breath. When the Prima donna—Nellie Melba—entered, the building shook with applause.
I clapped until my palms bled over the soft armrests, but I couldn’t hold back. Nellie raised her bare arms, glittering with heavy golden jewelry, and sang.
The world faded.
And just when Alfredo entered the stage, and my skin prickled in anticipation, some commotion below snapped me out of my reverie. Irritated, I looked down and saw a tall man, his top hat in his hands, trying to get to his seat. I rolled my eyes. How people could be late to the opera was beyond me. I risked breaking my neck to get here and was still on time. It all changed when the man looked up and scanned the balconies. He froze, and the fingers on his hat tightened. When our eyes met, my stomach plunged.
He shook his head as if refusing to believe what he had just seen. My fingers dug into the armrest. “Daphne,” he mouthed and slowly raised a monocle to his eyes.
My stomach dropped.
Then he bolted for the stairs.
I ran.
I’d rather jump in the cold, dark waters of the Thames than let him reach me. For the man was no other than Charles, my brother’s best friend.
I dashed down the stairs, baffling the ushers and the cloakroom attendants.
The crisp night air rushed to meet me. The Devil might stalk the streets of London at night, but he was a far better option than letting Charles get me and the terrible punishment which awaited me if Arthur found out.
Daphne
Speak of the Devil
Iran past the carriages for hire, swarming the opera house. Charles would look for me there first. Instead, I headed into the darkness, letting my legs carry me as far away as possible. The cold air pinched my skin, and I was grateful that male attire did not include any corset or heels.
Damn it, I left Arthur’s hat in the Opera! A problem for later. My ridiculous mustache was gone, too. The pavement was slippery, but I was making good progress. The thick fog behind me closed in, swallowing the Opera, and I exhaled with relief. Charles was not behind me. Maybe there was still hope. If I made it home on time, I could still convince them it wasn’t me. This added a spring to my step, and I let the dark streets claim me.
The gas lanterns’ glow barely reached me now, flickering before vanishing into the mist. London felt like a memory—swallowed whole by the gloom. The alleys became less crowded. A drunken song spilled from a tavern nearby, and the angry shouting of a wife scolding her husband was the only other sound disturbing the eerie quiet. I paused, considering my next move.
Steps echoed behind me—fast and deliberate. I whipped my head back, expecting to see Charles. Nothing, just the mist swirling in thick cotton balls. A soft exhale in the fog made me shudder. Someone was behind me. And was that a shadow shifting closer to the wall? No way was I waiting to find out. I ran into a narrow, reeking street. Silence hung around me, thicker and heavier than the mist.
I cursed under my breath. I had no idea where I was. Thick, slippery mud covered the floor, and the tall grey walls pressed in from all sides. A dead end. I leaned on the rough wall, panting. No one was following. Just as I was about to turn back toward the main street, a tiny sound made me freeze.
It was almost inconspicuous, but something about it was wrong. A quiet gasp followed by a prolonged gurgling.
A chill ran down my spine. I needed to leave. Now. But some twisted instinct made me take a step deeper. What if someone needed help? The cursed mist thickened even more, and then—another sound, one that made me doubt my sanity. The tearing of cloth, followed by a sickening crunch, then a hiss. I knew it in my bones—this was someone’s final breath.
The tip of my boot touched something, and I looked down.
It was a foot. Some poor drunken sod, probably. I exhaled—until I saw the skin. Pale, almost sickly, a deep scratch over the foot’s arch.
Merciful Heavens.
The hairs on my nape stood up.
It was a bare female foot. I could see the dirt under the nails, the droplets of blood on the big toe. It was shaking as if the body it belonged to was being torn apart.
My stomach lurched, and I pressed my hands to my mouth. I needed to get out of here as fast as possible, and retching loudly wouldn’t help. I took a small step back.
Then the mist before me moved, parting like the waters before Moses.
And there was no prayer I could whisper, no saint to help me when I saw what loomed over me.
And what it had done to that poor woman lying in the dirt.
It looked like a man, tall and broad-shouldered. Blood droplets stained its perfectly tailored black suit. The tie was elegant, and a needle with a symbol shimmered on the black velvet. The detail was so artful, so strange, it branded itself into my mind: a cracked skull circled by a serpent biting its own tail. But it wasn’t a true serpent—its body was made of human vertebrae. The image struck a chord of eerie familiarity. I’d seen that symbol before, though I couldn’t place where. I shoved the thought aside. I had to get out.
