He’s got himself another whisky too.
‘So where were we?’
‘London, 1888,’I blurt out suddenly. ‘You’ve heard of Jack the Ripper, I take it?’
Damian nods. ‘Of course. It’s one of the most famous murder cases in history. What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘He was my height. His breath smelled like fish. He was right-handed. The blade was going to draw from left to right—here.’ My eyes are closed, my palm perpendicular against my neck.
‘It was almost intimate, the way he whispered in my ear, telling me to keep still and it wouldn’t hurt a bit.’
I open my eyes to find Damian staring at me, white-faced. ‘What the fuck, Florence? Are you having a past-life experience?’
‘No, I was there. I was nearly one of his victims.’
Damian’s eyes almost bug out of his head. He takes a sip of whisky, then another larger one and returns the glass to the table with a shaking hand.
‘I’m not crazy, Damian, and I’m not into woo-woo mumbo jumbo.’
He jerks as I feed back to him what he’s just been thinking. ‘How did you do that?’
I shrug. ‘Mind reading is one of my powers. But only with you, it seems, and only within a certain range.’
‘P-powers?’ His face drains of colour further, and hefumbles with his phone. He brings up a photo, and I twitch. Here we go, he’s going to confront me with hard evidence. But it’s not the photo I think it is.
He brandishes it in front of my face.
‘Is this you? And your flatmate?’
I take his phone and look at the photo with nostalgia washing over me.Wow, I’d forgotten I had short hair in the 1980s. I was really into Siouxsie and the Banshees back then. Sadie looks badass too. That was when she was with Tim.But how the hell does he ... ?
I look closer at the teenager on the other side of Tim and see the resemblance to Damian immediately. I let out a surprised laugh. ‘Oh fuck! Seriously? Is this your dad? That’s so wild. He has got a good memory for faces.’Shit, what are the chances? Now I’m going to have to memory-wipe his dad!
Damian groans and places his head in his hands and shakes it violently. ‘This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening.’
‘Damian—’
I reach out to touch his hand, and he jerks away from me. ‘It might be easier to deal with if you have another whisky. It’s my round anyway,’ I say stiffly.
I leave him at the table and go up to the bar, trying not to feel upset by his reaction. It’s not surprising under the circumstances, but still ...
Maybe I shouldn’t have led with the Jack the Ripper story, it’s a bit extreme. But it’s also one of my defining moments, and I’m quite proud of the way I handled myself.
Chapter 23
Florence | London, 1888
What was Alexander thinking leaving me in Whitechapel, alone, with no money and a killer on the loose? Trying not to think about that, I start walking quickly in a westerly direction—or what I think is west since I have no idea where the bloody hell I am. If this is an initiation test, I don’t think much of it.
At least I can see in the dark, and I’m glad I’m wearing sturdy boots if the need to run presents itself.
The stinking street is devoid of people at this late hour, and a thin misty fog hangs in the air. There’s no sound, but the tap of my muffled footsteps on the cobblestones and the faint rumble of chatter from a drinking establishment a few streets over. My original family live in Whitechapel somewhere, but I haven’t seen them since Aunt Ivy plucked me from an even worse poverty at 8 years old. They washed their hands of me and left us to it. How would my parents and siblings react if I turned up on their doorstep now, as a vampire?
I’m amusing myself with thoughts of how that would go when a lone carriage appears, horse hooves clopping loudly on the cobblestones. It slows as it reaches me, and I turn away in annoyance, cursing Alexander for leaving me here like a harlot. The carriage resumes its steady pace when I don’t approach it.
I unclench my fists and take off at a faster trot in the opposite direction.
I’m passing by a stretch of wooden fencing when something seizes me around the waist, and I’m pulled through a narrow opening. It happens so quickly I don’t have time to react. My face is squashed roughly against the fence and my wrists wrenched behind my back. When I start to scream, a meaty hand slides over my lips and I bite hard into a fleshy finger. The owner gives a yelp. ‘Bitch!’ a male voice growls in my ear. Before I can punch his lights out, I’m yanked backwards by the hair and dragged across a courtyard with a hand clamped across my mouth. None of this hurts, but it is making me incredibly angry.
