The Compelled (Page 23)
“Yes, Thatcher,” she said as she patted her hand on his hunched shoulder and subtly forced him back to the marble bench where he’d been sitting. “Now, I’ve told you that we’d have guests tonight. Stefan, Damon, and Mary Jane?
Please, come forward.” She ushered us to a spot next to her in front of the fire. “Cora, take a seat.” Cora nodded nervously, sitting next to a beautiful young woman dressed in a blue velvet dress. Her long curls cascaded down her back and her neck and wrists were dripping with gold and jewels. The half-dozen people in the room looked like lords and ladies from the society pages.
Nothing about their dress, or demeanor, revealed their true selves. I felt a pang of envy. They could live normal lives.
They could blend in, without worrying about losing control or an accidental flash of fangs.
“As I’m sure al of you noticed, these men are not witches, but vampires,” Lady Alice continued, not bothering to introduce the witches in front of us. “You’l also notice they’re accompanied by one of our own tonight.” She turned and softened her gaze toward Mary Jane. “This girl is Mary Jane Kel y, a very powerful witch who doesn’t know the greatness of her gifts. She’s descended from the Original coven,” she said, nodding as several witches in the room gasped.
“Why’s a purebred witch wasting her time with ghastly bloodsucking monsters?” The woman in the blue dress sniffed. Cora shot a daggerlike glare at her.
“Because one of us is the ghastly bloodsucking monster who saved her,” Damon said smoothly, smiling his cat-who-ate-the-canary smile.
Lady Alice nodded. “It’s true. Why don’t you explain the rest?” she asked, looking expectantly at me.
I glanced around at the witches, trying to make eye contact. It was imperative they see me as their friend. But before I could explain that I was the one who’d saved Mary Jane, Damon continued.
“You may know me as Damon DeSangue, and this is my brother, Stefan. I came to your country a year ago, and I quickly made the acquaintance of London’s elite, including Samuel Mortimer,” he intoned. “But I can report to you with complete honesty that Samuel Mortimer is a vampire. And he’s Jack the Ripper.”
“That’s outrageous!” one of the old men blurted out, his head snapping up at the word vampire. “I know Samuel Mortimer. He’s a bloody great man.” A few dissenting grumbles echoed in the audience.
Cora came forward. “It’s true. He kil ed two of my friends and turned my sister into a vampire. I’ve seen him in the act, and I assure you he’s the Ripper.”
“The girl’s tel ing the truth,” one of the men stated, verbalizing what al the witches must have known.
“Samuel as the Ripper. I knew it,” one woman murmured.
“Didn’t I tel you, Oscar?” She turned to the man on her left.
“Why, at one of Cecil’s parties I straight-out asked Samuel if he had any leads. When he answered, I knew he was lying, but I thought he was covering up a secret Scotland Yard was keeping. I should have pushed him further,” she said, looking distraught as the man next to her patted her hand.
“Please, don’t blame yourselves!” Damon said gal antly, a gleam of excitement evident in his blue eyes. Damon in front of a crowd was an impressive sight, and I knew he was just warming up. “Samuel Mortimer began a reign of terror in the East End not for sport, but because he thought his kil ings would lead to the prize he covets.” At this, Damon lowered his voice so much that people had to lean in to hear him. “He wants the heart of a purebred witch. And he’s convinced that witch is Mary Jane.”
“It’s true,” Lady Alice said. “Al of it.”
“What happens if he gets the heart?” the woman in the blue dress asked, leaning forward in concern.
“He’s going to eat it.” The elderly woman by the door cut off Damon before he could answer. “And by doing so, he wil gain the power to compel vampires. He can get al the vampires in London to do his bidding.” She slid off her stool and hobbled toward us, leaning on an intricately carved wooden cane. “But why should we help them? We can do this ourselves. How do we know they aren’t just setting this up as a trap for this…this Samuel,” she spat, as if the name was the worst thing she could think to say. She glanced around the room indignantly, the eyebrows on her wrinkled, withered-apple face knitting together. Her strident tone reminded me of Mrs. Duckworth, the maid at Abbott Manor. She was the type of woman people listened to.
“My brother and I have witnessed firsthand the unspeakable horrors Samuel has committed. I assure you that we are dedicated to fighting him until he is stopped once and for al ,” I interjected. “As for taking care of yourselves, you may have magic, but Samuel is cunning and ruthless and therefore not to be underestimated. We’ve been fol owing him for weeks,” I explained. “We know his habits, and we know his weaknesses. We have strength, and we have knowledge of our enemy. While separately we might fail, by banding together we have a chance at ridding London of this fiend. And so we’re humbly asking for vinculum to be invoked. Lady Alice told us about the spel , and it seems it’s what we need. I know vampires and witches have a complicated history, but if we have a spel that binds us, then you won’t have to fear us.” The old woman nodded, but it was impossible to tel what she was thinking. She had the same strange pupils as Mary Jane. They were captivating, and it was hard to tear my eyes away.