The Ripper (Page 35)

This time, I would stop evil before it started.

The warehouse was deceptively large, and I was shocked that the space kept going and going, each inch of concrete floor fil ed with people laughing, smoking, and drinking as if they didn’t have a care in the world.

"Pardon me!" I yel ed in frustration, elbowing my way through couples and treading on people’s shoes, only fol owing the ever more pungent scent of iron – until I ran into a solid mass.

I looked up. It was Samuel. Instantly, I stood to my ful height and gave him a tight smile. I knew that careening through the warehouse must have made me seem drunk or mad.

"Pardon you!" Samuel said jovial y, tipping back his whiskey. "You seem to be in a hurry," he added, a flicker of amusement on his face.

"I’m looking for a friend," I muttered, my eyes darting from one side to the other. I realized I hadn’t seen Violet while I was running around. Now not only was I searching for a kil er, but for an innocent girl as wel . I had to make sure she was safe.

"Consider him here!" he said jovial y, blocking my path.

"Not you," I said, realizing only after the words left my mouth how rude they seemed. "I mean, I’m looking for Violet."

"Violet!" His eyes lit up in recognition. "Of course. I thought I saw her over by the bar . . . would you like to go with me?" I didn’t bother to be polite as I took off toward the bar, desperately scanning the crowd. It thinned out as I ran, and final y, I could stand without being bumped or jostled. I al owed my eyes to readjust to the dim light. The far side of the warehouse had two open doors that led to the docks, and, beyond that, the water. The doors had been propped open with several wooden milk crates, presumably to al ow fresh air in. Stil , while the rest of the warehouse was crammed, this part was unlit and deserted. I could smel cobwebs and mold.

And blood.

Outside, the clouds shifted, and a shaft of moonlight reflected through the filthy windows at one end of the warehouse. My eyes fel upon a crumpled heap in the corner. At first, I hoped it was nothing more than a discarded pile of fabric, pushed aside for the party. But it wasn’t. The material was bright green.

I blanched, already knowing what I’d see before I turned the figure over.

But when I did, I stil couldn’t hold in my strangled cry.

It was Violet, her throat slit, her inquisitive blue eyes gazing, unblinking, at the throng of people dancing only yards away from her cold, white figure.

Chapter Thirteen

Ihad to get Violet out of there, before the kiler came back to finish her off with his customary mutilation. I hastily lifted her up and heaved her over my shoulder. Her body grew colder every minute and the touch of her skin against mine sent a shiver down my spine. She was dead. And the kil er was nowhere to be found.

I glanced around wildly. The band had shifted into a waltz, and the front of the warehouse was crowded with couples dancing in the darkness. It looked gaudy, like an act from the two-bit carnival I’d worked at in New Orleans. The murderer was somewhere in that throng, bowing and weaving through couples.

My fangs throbbed, and my legs ached with the urge to run or fight. But I could do neither. I stood, frozen in place. Droplets of blood scattered across the bodice of her dress, and the kohl she’d used to line her eyes had run, making her face look like it was painted with tears.

I didn’t feel sorrow. What I felt was deeper, more primal. I felt anger at whoever did this, as wel as despair. This would always keep happening, and more victims like Violet would perish. It wouldn’t matter if I journeyed back to America or went to India or just traveled nomadical y throughout every land. How many deaths could I witness, al the while knowing death would never come to me?

I glanced back down at Violet’s limp body and forced myself to stop thinking those thoughts. Instead, I thought of Violet’s short life. Her wide grin when she’d put on one of her fine dresses, the way her happy face shone with tears at the end of the musical review, the way she truly believed that there was good in the world. I’d miss her. Violet had been spritely and passionate and alive. She’d also been stupid and trusting and so vulnerable.

And she’d given up her vervain to her sister. Of course, she hadn’t known it to be anything but a good luck charm, but stil  – if she’d had the vervain, she’d be alive now.

"’May flights of angels sing thee to thy rest,’" I said, quoting Shakespeare for lack of a prayer as I laid my hand against her cold brow and smoothed her loose curls off her forehead. The phrase echoed in my head, the words far more familiar to me than any of the sermons I’d sat through or psalms I’d heard when I was a human. I leaned down and grazed my lips against Violet’s cheek.

Suddenly, she reared up, her body trembling al over, her eyes wide, her mouth frothing, as she lunged toward my hand.

Hastily, I fel backward, scrambling to my feet and retreating to the shadows.

"Stefan?" Violet cal ed in a high and reedy voice that sounded nothing like her Irish brogue. Her hand frantical y clawed at her throat, and her eyes widened in fright when she pul ed her hand back and saw it covered with blood. "Stefan?" she cal ed again, her eyes gazing wildly in al directions.

I watched in shock. I’d seen death countless times at this point, and I knew that Violet had been dead. Yet now she wasn’t. This meant only one thing: She had been given vampire blood and then kil ed. She was in transition.

"Stefan?" she asked, grasping the air in front of her and gnashing her teeth against each other. Her breath was loud and raspy. She kept licking her lips, as though she were dying of thirst. "Help me!" she cal ed in a strangled voice.

Far off in the warehouse, I could make out the faintest sound of the band striking up another song. Everyone inside the party was blissful y unaware of the gruesome scene occurring in front of my eyes. I clenched my jaw. I wanted more than anything to be strong for Violet, but I was stil in shock.