Page 55 of Secrets in the Dark
But for the team of specialwhateversstaying in the house by the church...
He hadn’t really conceived of the thought of taking them all out at first. He wanted the woman. Of all the victims in 1888, Mary Kelly had been young and beautiful—and a whore, of course, but young and beautiful. When the Ripper had finished with her...
Mary Kelly had been—according to most so-called scholars and Ripperologists—the last of the Ripper’s victims. And he had been able to spend time with her—she’d been the only one killed in an apartment. He’d flayed most of her skin from her body, including her face. She had been unrecognizable as a human being. The apartment had been covered in her blood, in flesh, in body matter...
Ripper could just imagine the house where they were staying.
What he would do to Special Agent Della Hamilton. He would have time, lots of time, and he would use it all to good advantage.
How he would leave the house, bathed in blood, her blood... Maybe he’d drink just a little bit of it, too, in memory of the Vampire King, locked away across the pond.
Of course, as Ripper was always smart and careful, he’d watched. They thought that they watched. No, he watched, with far greater superiority.
She was never alone. That was a problem. Problems, of course, were simply items that had to be put in order and figured out.
Ripper had seen what had been happening in the city.
He’d seen the way that the man he’d known as “Grey” had been taken, and he was sure that Grey, being an idiot, had said too much. But no matter what he’d said, he couldn’t pin anything on Ripper. There was no evidence. None—at all.
He felt incredibly good. They had nothing. And watching now...he had everything. He had the answers to pesky little problems. He was that good.
He laughed aloud, walking down the street, feeling the cool night air. Grey was an idiot! He wouldn’t know Ripper if Ripper walked right up to him and slammed him in the shoulder.
And that was thanks to the Vampire King.
Now, however, Ripper was managing a feat as difficult as—or perhaps far more difficult than the Vampire King might have ever imagined.
And while he might be just a bit cliché himself...
Many people had wanted to be vampires through the years. Many played at it, drinking one another’s blood in cult groups or the like. Vampires were, in fact, as the Americans said, a dime a dozen! And, yes, he was no fool. There had been other “Rippers.”
But not like him. He was a true king, studying, reading, walking the streets, knowing the sites, understanding all there was to understand.
And planning a finale like no other!
It hadn’t been until tonight that he’d figured that out. Watching. Watching, watching and watching...
And now, knowing.
Knowing just how he would get his eager hands around Della Hamilton’s throat when the time came. Knowing just how he would get through it all...
And the very thought of it was delicious, something to be savored and he continued to watch, watch...
And choose his other prey, of course.
Oh, yes, so good.
So very delicious!
“Boys, eh! Out for a lark, are you now?” Ripper said, addressing the group who had barely seemed to notice him. “Come on with me, my good lads! Time for a pint or two, on me!”
Ten
Della and Mason chose seats at the bar, conveniently at the rear of the pub where, looking across the bar, they could see the whole of the establishment, looking over the heads of a few of those sitting on the other side of the oblong mahogany structure.
They ordered pints and nursed them.
There were two bartenders on that night, both in their late twenties or early thirties, one with an unruly thatch of red hair, one with darker hair.
