The Ripper Affair

“I think,” the thing in the well continued, hauling and shifting even more bits of herself, “you are the restless one. Or is the word ‘troubled’? An ill wind brings you here.”

“That should delight you.” The next few moments were very delicate, so Emma gave herself a pause. “Ill wind and misfortune usually does.”

A great rolling, rippling shrug. “They seek me out, little witchling. I do not stir one foot to seek them.”

And you fatten on their despair, a little at a time. “Yet all Whitchapel feels your fingers, Thin Meg.” Very quietly. “Every dark corner, and every crevice between cobbles.”

Stillness filled Chapelease. The walls groaned a little as the creature’s attention constricted.

The eyes narrowed, their gleams intensifying. Finally, the creature shifted again, heaving still more of her bulk up toward the lip of the depression where the shattered altar had once stood tall and proud. More fingers splatted dully in dust and splinters, grinding against stone.

They were plump, and they looked soft, but those tiny appendages could find the smallest crack and slide in. Stone crumbled before their persistent fingering. It was ever thus with those of her ilk–they had all the time in the world to poke and prod, to cajole and wear away.

“State your business,” Thin Meg finally said, and now Emma could see her actual mouth, the V-shaped orifice peeling open to show serried rows of sharp white teeth. “With no riddles, witchling.”

How very interesting. “Something new has been added to Whitchapel.”

More stillness. Mikal’s arm lifted, and he gently, slowly, pushed Emma back a step. His other hand lingered at a knife hilt, and Emma’s pulse sought to speed itself, was repressed.

“Oh, aye, and not with my leave.” Thin Meg laughed, and this time the heavy, ugly sound was truly amused. Still cold, though, a razor’s edge cutting the gloom, sparking against creeping fingers made of fine-woven smoke as they inched closer, pressing against Emma’s skirts. “What do you know of it? One of your kind, little hands prodding and poking where they shouldn’t. Take care lest the lid snap on those fingers!”

“I suppose if the odd bit of information comes to your lovely ears…”

Meg found this funny as well. At least, she shook with jollity, bits of her heaving and slopping, flashing dead-white flesh and pinging creaks as the building itself shuddered. Material split, shredding; the tortured souls in the chapel’s shadows shrank back from Emma, Mikal, and the stew of flesh and tawdry finery bubbling before them.

Mikal’s shoulders were rigid under black velvet; Emma’s throat ached to cut the din with a sharp Word, but she did not.

Finally, the heaving ended. Meg’s bulk receded, the sucking and shifting quieting as she eased back.

“It suits me to send you a starveling, should I have news.” Her mouth was still plainly visible, that stark, sharp smile causing candleflames to shudder and gutter en masse. A breath of rank foulness now slid between the columns, disturbing the fluttering smoke-hangings, which had quieted as they pressed back against the door, half-seen faces writhing with dismay. “You shall pay me by stopping him.”

“Him.” Emma nodded. “The faceless one.”

“He has no need of a face,” the creature crooned. “He’s a sharp canny jack, that one.”

Mikal stamped sharply, and there was a wet splattering. Thin Meg hissed, a long indrawn sound of pain, and Emma found herself pushed back further, blinking and shaking her head.

Her Shield shook the green, sticky sludge from his boot, and the pale, wriggling tendril retreated into the cauldron. “Prima?” Soft, but the edge of leashed deadliness under the word made each flame straighten and dance.

“Can’t fault me for trying.” The creature bubble-hissed, chuckling thickly. “But sparrow-slight she is. Now you, you are a finer morsel.”

“Not for your dining, madam,” he returned, equably enough.

Emma found her tongue. “Very well.” She turned, despite the fact that her skin was alive with revulsion–imagine feeling one of Meg’s grasping little fingers curling around one’s ankle, nudging upward, and the lassitude that would follow…

Her footsteps tapped with their usual authority as she set off down the central aisle. “Thank you, Maharimat of the Third Host. We shall be on our way.”

“He knows your name, sparrow-witch.” There was no laughter now, and the foul breath of a fallen creature that had once sung of and to holiness in other spheres was darker than sewage. It was difficult not to gag, and Emma took her air in tiny sips as she made for the doors. “You have more enemies than you know.”

“Pray you do not find yourself among them, bonny Meg,” she returned over her shoulder, finding she had enough breath for a parting sting. “For I might decide to let him finish his work, and weaken you as well.”

The doors creaked open, and she might have tumbled into the ranks of starvelings if Mikal had not caught her again.