The Ripper Affair

Llew shuffled toward her. “X—z˙’t’ks’m,” he breathed, a sorcerous Word that bent strangely as it was uttered. The knife shimmered with ætheric force, and the smoky egg containing the Promethean convulsed afresh.

Her Discipline stirred, sleepily.

Too late, she began to understand what he meant to do, and how stupid she had been to use herself as a lure.

He began to chant, the language of Making and Naming alternating as he described what he wished the sorcerous force to shape itself as, how it would affect the tangled fleshly snarl of the physical and the gossamer of the unseen. Stone shivered uneasily as the taproots driven into Whitchapel stirred, only faint echoes where Emma had cleared them but driven deep in many other places. Many, many other victims had fallen–the creature found its own meat and drink, but its creator had been busy with murder, too.

Lines of force coalesced, becoming visible to Sight, and Llewellyn raised the knife. His mouth grinned and slavered over the consonants as he described her death, and what that ending would fuel.

The Promethean was nearing the end of its infancy. It needed a vessel, a mockery of birth. The knife lowered, and a faint piping reached Emma’s ears–souls, straining for release, perhaps. Each of the victims crying out, a chorus of the damned.

The smoky egg over the obsidian–it was an unholy altar, she realised, another mockery, yet the form was completely appropriate to the Work Llew was attempting–drifted free of its moorings. The two live coals of the Coachman’s eyes glared from a suggestion of a face, and Emma’s entire body tensed, as if it could deny the coming violation.

The knifetip touched her throat.

Chapter Forty-One To Crithen’s Church

It was no use. Clare pushed the carriage door open as the clockhorses shrilled. If they went any further, the carriage would become well and truly mired in the crowd, and Harthell’s steady cursing was already lost under the noise. Screams of frightened women, breaking bottles and tearing wood, the roiling of men’s voices. From somewhere torches had arrived, for the gaslamps were guttering, their wickcharms dying. The throng ahead filled the main thoroughfare of High Whitchapel Road, and the press of the crowd even on this small tributary was becoming rather worrisome.

Leather Apron! Leather Apron!

The public, that great beast–or at least a healthy slice of it–had lost patience with the keepers of order.

In her very bed, he did, and they do nothing, all high and mighty! Heard he opened her up, even her face. Welladay, the Metropoleans don’t care as long as he kills poor frails. Our girls, they are, even if low.

Lining High Whitchapel were shops and better-to-do homes; the crowd pressed uneasily against them. The carriage had not yet become a target, but it was only a matter of time.

Aberline was beside him, casting an eye over the heaving mass. The fog had greyed as if dawn was incipient; Clare’s pocket-watch told him that indeed, sunrise was very close, with Tideturn not far behind. More glass shattered, and Harthell cursed again.

“We shall not stir a foot in this,” Clare observed. Soon they may take a mind to upend the carriage.

“Not without sorcery or a regiment.” Aberline, sour-faced, had regained some of his colour. Mikal was silent, but his tension was clearly apparent.

“Ho! Pico, come down. Harthell, take the carriage home.” Clare had to shout. “We shall proceed—”

A different sound pierced the seashell roar. High and chilling, a silverwhistle.

“Oh, blast it all.” Aberline leapt from the carriage, landing heavily on blackened, broken cobbles. “Waring, you bloody fool. He’s called in—”

“Headcrackers. And possibly a regiment,” Clare said, grimly. “Or two. There will be blood shed this dawn.”

“Other sorcerers will muddy the waters.” Mikal had grasped Aberline’s elbow as the crowd surged around them. A toothless beldame in red calico shrieked, falling against a sturdy flashboy with an Altered left hand, metal sharpened and gleaming as he thrust her away with a curse. “How close are we?”

“To Crithen’s? A ten-minute walk, were this a fine morning. Today…” Aberline indicated the throng at the juncture of Bent and High Whitchapel.

Harthell evidently agreed with Clare’s estimation of the situation, for he wheeled the carriage hard right and vanished down Tehning Cross; the crack of his whip sent a chill up Clare’s spine. Set it aside. What may be done? Think!

Mikal glanced up, studying the rooftops. “I think—”