The Ripper Affair

For before she had wrenched it free of her flesh and married it to Archibald Clare’s, she had borne one just like it. A Philosopher’s Stone, made from a wyrm’s heart. Wyrms were held outside of Time’s river by their very nature, and a youngling’s heart was powerful proof against most ills.

So he had possessed two after all.

Llewellyn Gwynnfud, Lord Sellwyth, returned from the dead, creaked as he bent over her.

Now she could see the thin, fleshy filaments spinning out from the ruins of shattered ribs, the wet gleam of organs rebuilding themselves under a carapace of Alterative sorcery. His gloved fingers reached down, most of them broken stubs coming to small points as they regrew, and he reached through the blurring of sorcerous restraints to touch Emma’s hair. It was an oddly gentle caress.

Had he ever bothered to remain so tender, he might have had Emma’s loyalty, instead of a young queen who would eventually insult her past bearing.

She sought to speak. Nothing came out–of course, she was gagged and silenced. A trickle of saliva slid from the corner of her cruelly bound mouth, pooling under her cheek. She could feel splintered wood underneath her, a hard surface holding her up from the floor. From the wet sound he made when he moved, she supposed she should be grateful.

“And she recognises me,” he croaked. No wonder he had gone about muffled up to solicit the Coachman’s initial victims. “You should see your expression, darling one.”

Her brain began to race, furiously. The beginning of the Plague affair; she had felt another Prime in Victrix’s receiving room. She had assumed–oh, how Clare would chide her for that!–it was one of Victrix’s creatures, as she herself had been. The sense afterwards she had of being watched, the unseen hand that had aided her in unravelling the whole affair… of course, he would have wanted her safe and whole for his own plans. How he must have laughed. Perhaps he knew she did not possess the other Stone at this moment. Did he guess? What could he know?

The most likely solution was that he had bargained somewhat with Thin Meg. Or found some means to exert some pressure upon that unlovely creature.

What could such a Prime, who had been torn apart by his own sorcery after his erstwhile lover had literally stabbed him from behind, not accomplish, if he possessed the will to rebuild his shattered body?

The pain must have been incredible. She had found only bleached bones scattered about the tower in Wales where he had sought to bring one of the Timeless to the surface. Had some of them been his, twitching towards each other as he gathered strength?

What must he have felt?

“I have followed your career with much interest.” His teeth had regrown, straight and pearly. His lips were scarred, but the scars would no doubt recede, given enough time. As his body regrew he would no doubt shed the Alterations. Had he performed them himself? The Transubstantive exercises would surely yield to his patience, if not his skill or Discipline. “You broke my heart, you know.”

Oh, I doubt that. You were dallying with that French tart and later with Rudyard, while you amused yourself with me. Had you been honest, we might have made an agreement. And had you not accused me of a hand in said tart’s death, I may have forgiven you. She calmed her pulse, drew in what air she could slowly and deeply. Thankfully the sorcerous restraints kept her nose clear; he did not wish her to suffocate.

Yet, she reminded herself.

“Do you wonder why I have not simply killed you outright?” His chin bobbed as he nodded, fat snakes of his matted hair brushing his shoulders with avid little whispers. “You have been well guarded for a very long time. That thing you keep as a Shield, oh, my dear. Quite resourceful, and quite dangerous.” He smiled fully, a tear in his cheek widening before sealing itself with a wet sound. “But that is not the reason. I have plans for you, my love. Wonderful plans. I am going to give you a gift.” The smile widened. “And then,” Llewellyn Gwynnfud continued, “you will give me the world.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine Once The Temptation Is Large Enough

The tiny little court growing from Dorsitt Street was crammed with bluecoated bobbies and others, jostling and elbowing. It was better than the crush outside, where it seemed every criminal, unfortunate, or poor tradesman in Londinium had come to gawk. Aberline’s authority carried them to a hacked-apart door guarded by a very pale young man in bluecloth. There was a large wet stain to one side of the door, and a broken window.

Clare’s heart sank. He shook off sentiment, steeled himself, and peered into the darkness.