Page 85 of The Little Shop of Curiosities Cursed Object 1, The Music Box

Obviously sensing I need some time to process, he nods. “I’ll give you a lift⁠—”

“Can’t.” My mouth twitches. “No car, remember?”

“Shit.”

“I’ll be fine, honestly. Go back to the party, Sam. Your friends are waiting for you.”

He frowns. “They’re your friends too.”

I shake my head. “I can’t. Their emotions are too much for me right now, and I need some space.”

“I could⁠—”

“What? Come with me? Hold my hand and keep me safe?”

He studies my face like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle. “Is that such a bad thing?”

“I’m not a child, Sam.”

“I didn’t say you were,” he replies. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want to be there for you if you’re having a bad day.”

It would be so easy to say yes, to let him come home with me. But I can’t.

I shake my head. “Go back to the party, Sam,” I repeat. “There will be other days.”

He looks torn between what he really wants to do and respecting my wishes. “Will you at least message to let me know you’re home safe?”

I nod slowly, staring at him for a long moment. On impulse, I lift my face up to his and press a soft kiss to his lips. “Goodnight, Sam,” I whisper, bending to retrieve my jacket.

“Goodnight,” he murmurs, his dark eyes filled with something I’m not sure I can name.

I turn and head in the direction of the station, not looking back.

No matter how much I want to.

19

London 1850

Ipull the hood of my cloak further over my head to hide my face in its shadow.

As the heavy material shifts, I catch a hint of my brother’s scent in its folds, and I close my eyes for a brief moment.

I can never go back. Not after tonight. My love for my brother and sister will never diminish, but my path is clear.

Whyte and his demons must pay for every single act of cruelty and agony they have inflicted on those weaker than them. I’ve stalked my first target all day. I won’t call him a victim. He isn’t. The young men he raped and tortured were victims, and I…

I am their angel of vengeance.

The hour is late. I watch the dim glow in one of the upstairs windows and know he is readying himself for bed. The last servant has just left, so he is all alone. He’s far too cheap to have a live-in staff, and besides, he likes his privacy.

Whyte used to snatch patients from their beds and have them delivered to this house in the dead of night. Young men were the owner’s particular choice, the younger the better, and by the time they were returned to Crowscroft in the small waking hours…

Well, there wasn’t much left of them to return. Those who were fortunate died before the dawn.

It sounds heartless, but better that than to not only bear the agony of those physical wounds but to relive the atrocities that were forced on them against their will. And they would relive them, every minute of every day thereafter or until the next time Whyte decided to peddle their flesh to one of his cronies.

No one should have to live with those kind of nightmares. I should know.