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“You wanted women to die alone in the dark,” she says. “How unfortunate for you that none of us intend to be alone tonight.”

“Fine. Pieces and parts, split him up between us.” She begins walking between each of us. Trailing her finger over our arms. Then dancing her fingertips over our chests as her charisma bewitches each of our hearts.

I immediately call dibs on the parts I would like to keep for my own. “I want his head.”

“Not a chance. His skull is mine for the taking,” The Slaying Sickle murmurs, moving closer to Jack’s head.

“How may my tongue persuade you of a different location?” The Widow asks, then stands at the head of the table, next to Jack.

“Oh, love, don’t tempt me with that elation,” The Slaying Sickle retorts. His flirtatious behavior lances irritation through my veins.

Before I may speak, Edward explains, “Maybe my brother and I may entice you with some carnal knowledge.”

It has been a while since my brother and I shared a woman. The last time was in another country, another city, where intimate workers are much more protected. Peering up at my brother’s face, I can’t read his emotions. There is a flurry of different tics and movements, but I am unable to identify which feeling is occupying his brain. He appears confused, angered, solemn, but one sliver of it all is longing. We encircle The Widow as sexual tension thrums through the room. Edward cannot help himself, moving closer to her while his hands carefully hover over her nape. The Slaying Sickle places his finger on the base of her corset, and playfully lifts it.

A sharp voice splits the air. “Will you imbeciles release me so my death won’t interrupt your coital activities?”

The room shifts, moving from a playful display to shock. The Slaying Sickle reaches for his weapon and slices Jack the Ripper’s head completely from his body.

“May you rot in Hell,” he states, while Jack’s head falls to the floor with a thud.

For one suspended second, no one breathes. The Widow’s hand flies to her mouth. “What did you just do?”

My brother turns scarlet with rage. The Slaying Sickle looks rather pleased with himself, and I, unfortunately, understand two things at once. First, we have killed Jack the Ripper. Second, we have made a terrible mistake.

“Oh,” I say. “Shite.”

12. The World Fractures Open - Olive

Miracle

For years, the world has existed in shades of black and white. Not literally, perhaps. I am not foolish enough to believe the sun ceased shining yellow or that crimson no longer stains the lips of women in my establishment. Others spoke of color often enough. Emerald gowns. Ruby jewels. Golden candlelight. Blue skies after rain.

I remembered those things from my childhood upbringing. I simply could no longer see them. Not since my mother died. Grief had taken the world and drained it until everything became shadow, smoke, and ash. Faces blurred into pale shapes. Rooms became charcoal sketches. Blood looked no different than spilled ink beneath the right amount of darkness. Then I step into this shop to retrieve my kill and the world fractures open.

Color assaults me. Not gently. Violently.

The black-and-white tile beneath my boots sharpens until every square seems to glare back. The lantern light blooms gold across the metal table. Rust stains the tools along the wall in ugly shades of brown and red. A dark, leather brown coat hangs from one hook, still wet from rain.

And the men— Kali help me. The men are in color. The Slaying Sickle stands nearest the table, drenched in shadow and liquor, his dark hair disheveled and his rings catching the light like small, wicked stars. One brother watches me with unnerving fascination, his white-blond hair pale as moonlight, his eyes bright with something clever and dangerous.

Then there is my mysterious partner.

My breath forgets itself. The man from La Sirene. The man whose gaze found mine while I danced as though he had known exactly where to look. The man whose voice I know. Not from the stage. Not from the street. From years of luncheons divided by wood, curtains, aliases, and secrets. The cadence of him. The restraint. The quiet exhaustion beneath every carefully chosen word.

It is him. My mysterious companion. My darling stranger. I have imagined his hands around a teacup. His eyes narrowing over a newspaper. His mouth shaping arguments about cruelty, machinery, duty, and survival.

I have known the inside of his mind for years. And now I am standing before him with a pistol in my hand while Jack the Ripper lies bound upon a table between us. For one suspended moment, I cannot decide whether to laugh, scream, or shoot someone.

Then Jack makes the mistake of speaking. “Will you imbeciles release me so my death won’t interrupt your coital activities?”

The whole room shifts. The Slaying Sickle moves before I can blink, and his sickle flashes. A wet sound tears through the air. Jack’s head leaves his body and strikes the floor with a heavy thud.

A beat of silence follows. The dripping sound from the drops of blood hitting the hard floor echoes. Then a terrible, ringing silence follows.

I stare at the body.

At the blood that spilled over the side of the table. The puddle surrounding the severed head seeping into his skin and hair. The eyes open and staring.