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Her astute features falter for a moment as she looks up from the ground to stare at my brother.
“You,” she softly says. Her gaze changes, and it almost appears to look back at Edward with recognition. Confusion inhabits the back of my mind. The woman glances around at myself, Jack the Ripper tied up, and then the Slaying Sickle, her eyes perplexed as she assesses the scene.
Bloody hell, she is going to bolt and tell the bobbies, isn’t she?
Edward tries to step toward her once more, but she reaches within her bag to pull out a snub-nose pistol. The pit of my stomach drops, panic lurches inside me, and something scratches at the back of my mind. The lady now stands poised, exuding confidence as she holds a pistol toward Edward’s cranium. His breath becomes uneasy as the cold barrel glares back at him.
“No, I think I came just at the right time.” Her tone is defiant, and for some reason it elicits excitement.
The Slaying Sickle’s mouth is agape as I peer down to see my hands have formed a small tremor. I try rubbing my hands together, but a mixture of emotions bubble within my chest from the woman’s unlawful behavior. My words escape me before I may stop them: “What the hell is going on here?”
The Slaying Sickle combs his hand through his hair, then plasters a devilish grin upon his face. “Ello, love, I must apologize, but if they have apprehended your husband…or hopefully brother… Well, I came to save him!” He places his hand upon his chest with his false admission, but the woman slyly smirks.
She gestures with the gun toward Jack. “Hah! That syphilis-infected hornswoggler isn’t my husband. He is my mark. He’s been slaughtering my girls and displaying their innards like those of farm animals.” Then she returns to pointing the pistol at my brother, causing him to back up. Tension grows between us as we wait with bated breath for her next move.
“This despicable flesh bag dared to come into my establishment. An establishment I built to protect others. Those women aided me to gain power over the high-society pricks. I am The Widow, and I will be your executioner.”
Our eyes grow wide with her confession.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, The Widow? The one and only? Finds rich bastards, marries ’um—then poisons them and kills em in creative ways? Big fan, love. Big fan. The bathtub incident was my absolute favorite—artistic, dare I say!” The Slaying Sickle has begun to display a smitten reaction toward The Widow. His face is lit with delight as he bows toward the woman in admiration. I glance at Edward and see him staring murderously at our bowing intruder.
“Would you shut it? She has a pistol pointed at me, and you are admiring her as she tries to steal our kill!” He exclaims in irritation.
“Don’t you think I deserve this kill? After everything he has put my establishment through? For all the women he has slain?” The Widow asks, her eyes pleading as she grips the gun in her hand.
My brother and our newest intruder begin staring at one another in a challenging fashion.
Stepping between, them I explain in pure exasperation, “We take pride in our work. After we burned our mother and father at the age of fifteen, for nearly beating us to death, we began to go after child predators and high-society pricks, much like you. But we don’t wed them; we just bludgeon and torture ’em to death. We’ve only killed twelve people this year! Want to talk about the fifty or so people you’ve killed across Europe and Britain—hmm? Not entirely fair, love.”
The Widow crosses her arms over her chest and taps the barrel of her gun to her cheek.
“Maybe we can come to an agreement?” Edward asks, placing his hands in his trouser pockets.
“I’d love to make an agreement with you. And possibly with that bosom of yours. You are absolutely entrancing, darling.” The Slaying Sickle props his elbows atop the metal table and rests his chin upon his fist.
“Calm yourself, psycho,” my brother sneers between his teeth.
The Slaying Sickle furrows his brow. “I’ll gladly show you a psycho, wanker.”
They begin bickering among one another as The Widow gives a small chuckle.
“Do not touch him,” The Widow says.
The room stills. Even the Slaying Sickle stops moving.
Her pistol remains steady in her hand, though her eyes do not look at the weapon. They remain fixed upon Jack. Upon the man strapped to our table. Upon the creature who has carved fear into the streets and left women displayed like warnings.
Edward’s jaw tightens. “We captured him.”
“And he murdered my girls,” she retorts.
The Slaying Sickle steps forward, his sickle still clutched in one hand. “He murdered my Delphi.”
The name changes the air. Not because I know her, because I understand the sound of a person speaking the name of someone they failed to protect. The Widow’s gaze flicks to him. For one moment, the pistol lowers half an inch.
“Delphi was yours?” She asks carefully.
The Slaying Sickle swallows. The drunken amusement has vanished from his face entirely. “She was my sister in every way that mattered.” His tone is heavy with melancholy.
