The Ripper Affair

“You hear, but do not hear. You sssssee but do not sssssee. Find the dial again, sssssparrow-witch.” A trill of burbling laughter, and the starveling’s body crumpled, twitching. Its eyes collapsed, thin green tendrils racing outwards from the corpseglow sheen they had been filled with, and the body settled into a twisting, jerking dance as Scab consumed it. It would not last long, here outside Whitchapel.

Or perhaps some vestige of it would, and Thin Meg’s reach would eventually extend even this far.

That is a problem for another day. She unclenched her fingers, and patted Mikal’s black-clad shoulder soothingly as the starveling’s bones crackled, foul steam rising. Flesh liquefied, the ragged material clinging to it unravelling under caustic sludge, and soon very little was left.

Emma, however, forced herself to watch. She did not look away until there was merely a verdant patch of Scab, gently sending up thin curls of black steam. There were lumps in it–whatever fragments of rotted teeth the starveling had possessed would be last to dissolve.

“Very interesting,” she said, finally. “What do you make of that, Shield?”

“A riddle?” A single shrug, lifting and dropping her hand. “Couched in a threat?”

“And wrapped in Scab.” A cool finger of dread touched her nape, she shook it away with an unphysical flinch. “Come, let us see what has the Yard roiling like an anthi—”

Wait. The cool fingertip against her nape returned, and Emma spun, ætheric force gathered into a tight hurtful fist. She did not strike, though, for that end of Whitehell Road was deserted. Yellow Londinium fog was a blank canvas, and the streetlamps had begun to sputter, their carefully applied wick-charms fading as dawn approached.

Mikal stepped away, to give himself room in the event of attack–and a chill throatless chuckle bounced up from the cobbles and the side-paving.

“Emma, Emma.” The voice was faintly familiar, for all the simple, elegant sorcery used to disguise its location and waft it to her ears. “You are a wonder.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but the brass thunder of Tideturn rose from the Themis, filling Londinium’s crooked streets and teeming warrens. It descended upon her, stinging as she fought the sudden helplessness, and she could only hope the other Prime would not recover from the flood before she did.

And that the other Prime’s Shields had not been given orders to strike at Mikal.

She surfaced in a rush, ætheric force filling her and staving off physical weariness for a short while longer. The world wheeled underneath her, and she found Mikal’s fingers bruising-hard about her arm again as he held her on her feet. She exhaled sharply, setting her feet on solid ground, and spoke a Word.

“D’sk—zt!”

Ripples spread, ætheric force disturbed in concentric rings about her. They broke and refracted, her attention sweeping vigorously through, rather as her gaze would slide down a page of text searching for a wrong penstroke or figure. Or a dress, searching for inadequate stitching, a badly pinned fold, a—

There you are. Her heart leapt, sought to hammer behind her ribs, was ruthlessly repressed. Sorcerous force became a clamp, a vice, but he slid aside. A knight’s move on a chessboard, but she batted the distracting thought aside. It was a clever feint, but her instincts were still sharp from years of hunting treachery at Victrix’s behest. A clatter and a ringing sound–his Shields would be Mikal’s to deal with now that she had full control of her senses again.

“Not so fast,” came the directionless whisper again. “I am merely visiting, dear one.”

She found her voice. “Do not be so familiar, sir.”

“Most harsh.”

There were more clatters, breaking sounds, and Mikal’s tone was passionless, crisp authority ringing in every syllable. “Come closer and die.”

“No need.” The voice shifted direction again. “I simply wish to speak to your mistress. Hear me, Prima. There is a new spirit rising.”

She marked the words in memory, set them aside. Hot water leaked from under her lashes, dawn’s strengthening scoring her tender eyes. The more force she expended now, the worse they would smart. It mattered little. “I take it you are the one unseaming frails in Whitchapel, sir.”

“Necessary.”

“Are you mad?” She allowed her voice to rise, as if she had become distracted by his gruesome calmness. She was close, so close, a few more moments and she would find him. He had to be physically nearby, possibly within sight of her.

Once she located the source of the sorcery distorting his voice, she could strike.

“Not mad. Merely ambitious. Help me, Emma.”

He is most familiar with me, this masked Prime. “I find you rather presumptuous, sir.”