The Ripper Affair

He watched the irrationality unfolding before him as Aberline cursed, Pico let out a strangled noise, and several small soft plops sounded as more starvelings fell through the hole to swarm the unholy thing consuming one of their number.

Chapter Forty-Six Pronounced Once Before

Choking. A clot of soft rock in her throat, forced free, she spat a wad of blood and phlegm aside and inhaled. Her breath died on a scream; the lamp-flames trembled. The altar was grinding itself to pieces, shards of obsidian piercing the body that had fallen across it, and her cry was matched by another–a rusty, horrific sound.

She landed in wet noisome filth, falling from the shelf that had kept her free of the squelching. This far below Londinium, the Themis’s puddled feet were at the bottom of every hole. Her skirts and petticoats were flayed to ribbons, but her stays were still intact, and she was glad of their support as she screamed, throat afire with the memory of a scarlet necklace-wound.

A sobbing inhale, she fought the urge to scream again. It hurt, ætheric force bleeding through rips and rents, her self forced into a brutalised container. Her Discipline receded, the touch of sunheat on burned and blistered skin all along her internal pathways.

Retreating little tips and taps, she heard the Promethean fleeing. Tortured breathing that was not her own echoed as the obsidian shredded, thrusting its fragments heavenward with popping and sharp glass-singing noises.

What happened?

The memory of infinity receded, training forcing it aside. Black flowers bloomed at the corners of her vision, and the idea of just collapsing into the sludge beneath her was wonderfully enticing.

Get up. The Promethean is gone. Finish what you came for.

The question was, just what exactly had she endured this for? Certainly not Britannia.

Oh, d—n it all, Emma. Get UP.

She levered herself painfully to her feet. Her hair was a tangled mess, full of dirt and heaven alone knew what; her dress was all but gone. She used the wooden shelf she had been lain upon to finish the job of hauling herself upright, and saw with no real surprise that she had been sharing that hard narrow couch with an ancient skeleton. The skull was shattered, the brown bones traced with green–mildew, moss, perhaps even Scab.

A shudder wormed through her. She hunched her shoulders, like a child expecting a sharp corrective blow, and turned her head aside from the skull’s grimace.

The second pair of lungs working in this small stone cube were Llewellyn Gwynnfud’s. The shattered block of glassy volcanic stone had turned to fanglike fragments, and speared through his body, regrowing flesh and metal Alterations pierced alike. Steaming crimson blood and thick black oil-ichor coated the larger shards. As she watched, the obsidian fractured again, and the wreck of a sorcerer made another wretched sound as fresh spears pierced him.

How does it feel, sir? Does it satisfy your hunger? She coughed again, a second blood-clot forced free of her lungs, and when she spat the hot nasty pellet aside she found she could breathe much more easily.

One thing left to do. She was so weary.

He had taken her shoes off. Barefoot as a Whitchapel drab, she tottered across the intervening space. “Llew.” A harsh croak; she would never sing as a lady.

Oh, I pretend, and I put on a good show. But in the end, I suppose it’s taken a Whitchapel girl to bring him down.

I wonder if it took one to build an Empire, too?

Immaterial. She found her voice again. “Llewellyn.” What did she have to say?

His mad muddied gaze was a dumb animal’s. What must it be like, for Will and Stone to scrape a body together from the wreckage of a Major Work gone wrong? Had the bleached bones at Dinas Emrys been host to his consciousness?

Had he watched her stand over them, expressionless, for a half-hour before she turned and walked away? Could he have seen that without eyes?

Amid the broken, metal-laced ribs of his chest, the Stone gleamed.

“Emma,” he breathed, and his deformed hands twitched. One of them had kept the knife hilt clasped tight, and still knotted about it. The blade was no longer shining, but twisted and blackened. In its heart, a thin line of crimson.

The whip, and the knife. The Promethean is above, and will begin to murder. She set herself, and leaned drunkenly forward.

“Emma!” A cry from behind her.

Her fingers, blackened by dirt, soot, and her own blood, curled about a warm pulsing.

“Emma,” Llew breathed. Had he remembered her name, and forgotten his own?