Mad Bride of the Ripper Page 4

  “You in there, Martin?” Whispered. “I can’t see you in there. But you might be hiding. I can’t tell. Hoo hoo, are you hiding in there?”

  Moved over one vacant eye.

  Pulled the trigger again.

  To the other eye.

  Again.

  Giggled. “Well, I reckon that does you, Martin. All gone. And your eyes which saw her sweet plump arse have been destroyed. Can’t see her now, can you? Can’t see a fucking thing!”

  “Renfield?”

  He lifted his head and saw Lucy.

  A woman slim and curved. Perfect skin.

  Perfect eyes.

  Perfect everything barely covered by the torn rags of her dress. White dress. Torn open. Who had done such a thing? She deserved finery. Not these shabby substitutes.

  He wanted to find whoever had done it.

  Find them.

  Kill them.

  “Oh,” he moaned. Felt tears warm the edges of his eyes. Crouched even lower, wanting to press his head into the ground. Below the ground. Hide from her sight. He didn’t deserve her attention. “Lovely delight. Such speechless beauty. My Mistress. I defile your presence. Forgive me the thoughts I entertained. Please, Mistress. Forgive me.”

  She came to him.

  Cupped his cheeks and lifted him to his feet.

  His awe was a solar flare. Burning inside his chest.

  He could hear them coming.

  Guards.

  And he didn’t care. The gun was limp in his hand.

  The cleaver in his other, still slick with Old Motley’s brains, dropped from nerveless fingers.

  She leaned in close.

  And kissed him.

  If there had been even a fragment of doubt left in him that he was her slave, that doubt was crushed right there. He slumped when she let him go. Weeping as her voice filled his skull. “You are perfect, my Renfield. Your light shines brightest in the dark. Brighter than the sun!”

  “My Mistress…”

  The first guard rounded the corner. Shouted something. Renfield didn’t even look at him. Didn’t even think. His arm aimed on its own and blew the guard’s throat out with one gentle squeeze of trigger.

  His Mistress pounced.

  Landed on the falling guard with ferocity. Seized his arm and tore it loose. There was no scream. Blood showered her body.

  Perfect body, Renfield thought.

  Turned toward her. Kept his eyes on the hall.

  Not on her. It wasn’t his place to stare.

  But on the edge of his vision, there was no doubting perfection. She moved so smooth it made his stomach churn.

  Amelia came up beside him.

  Bent down and picked up the cleaver. A silent ghost, aged but murderous.

  Together, the vampire’s servants advanced as guards spilled around the corner. Shouting. Guns. Clubs. Whip. Weapons primed to subdue and suppress.

  Renfield lifted his own, its intent more lethal.

  Smiled.

  “What is wrong with you all?” Thumbed the hammer. “Can’t you see her? Why are you on your feet? You should kneel. Kneel for her favour. On hands and fucking knees, you should be kneeling! Why don’t you fucking kneel?”

  “Christ!” Douglas was the first to move. He’d been guarding the Sanitorium too long. Nothing shocked him. Not even the sight of Lucy gorging on the ruined throat of his friend. He aimed his gun at her. “Get off him, you bitch!”

  Renfield’s bullet found the thick meat of the guard’s belly and he flopped onto his side. Twisting and turning as blood spurted from his guts. Howling shrill cries for help.

  Then Amelia went right over him. Bowled into the next guard. Swinging cleaver with smooth precision. Drove the blade down into skull.

  Two guards down.

  A bullet zipped past Renfield’s head.

  He didn’t bother to duck. If he died now, it didn’t matter.

  She was free. She would never be caged again.

  He simply smiled and aimed.

  Squeezed.

  And watched Jolly’s jaw explode into shrapnel and gore.

  Lucy let out a shriek and dived again. Right into them. Raking slashes as fingers stabbed flesh. Slicing. Ripping. She plucked limbs free like she was tearing wings off flies. Jerking them loose and tossing them over her shoulder. Pulling limbless torso close.

  Seizing head in hand, fanged mouth clamped throat.

  Only Artemis tried to run. The youngest of them all. Sixteen. But the Angel-maker grabbed him by the back of his head. Fingers curling into hair.

  Cleaver up.

  Down.

  Straight into brain with a crisp chop.

  Renfield sniggered.

  “He’s heard us,” Lucy said suddenly. Lifted her head from a mauled throat. Mouth soaked with blood. It drooled off her chin and down her breasts. He didn’t look, but he saw. “Arthur. He’s coming. And he’s bringing the German. Van Helsing.”

  “I’ll kill him,” Renfield hissed.

  “No. No, my darling Renfield. We mustn’t risk being caught again. The German knows too many tricks! No, we run. We can’t stay here. We have to go. There’s so much to do! We must prepare the way for our Queen.”

  “The stables,” Amelia said. “There’s a wagon. I already hitched the horses.”

  Renfield began snatching guns. Tucking them into his pants. “They’re coming. They’re coming. But they’ll not catch Renfield. Oh, no. He knows all the secret ways. Knows all the roads. They’ll never find him. Never find Renfield.” He spat fierce as he turned to her again. “And they won’t find you, Mistress. I’ll be sure of that. Away into the night, we tread. Ghosts! Spirits. Shadows they’ll never dare to follow. No highwayman will rouse so much fear as our ride shall this night!”

  Lucy smiled at him. Brushed cold fingers down his cheek. “My Renfield,” she purred. “My mad bad Renfield.”

  He dashed down the hall. Amelia huffing behind him while Lucy flew in their wake. The vampire never touched ground. Her hands snapped out. Quick punches which smashed doors open with loud clanging crash after crash.

  One after the other.

  They came like zombies.

  Insanity like popping blisters inside their minds. Eyes bright. Shining. “We hear, Mistress,” they cried. “We hear you!”

  Renfield could feel the shambling horde behind him. Feel them turning back down the hall. Toward the front entrance.

  Where Arthur was fumbling with his keys and Van Helsing was opening his bag.

  Stake and mallet. Crucifix and holy water.

  Renfield sniggered.

  Lucy flew past him, twirling in the air. Her fingers slid through his greasy hair and she looked back at him. Fanged mouth a teasing grin.

  Then she shot ahead. Heading for the stables.

  He reached the horses as she slid a coffin into the wagon. The Sanitorium had many coffins. One, he knew, had been reserved for him. She’d picked one with heavy iron hinges.

  Dragged it from the stores and into the stables.

  Lifted! Such strength!

  Mute, he watched her work.

  “Soon, Renfield,” she said. “Soon.”

  He nodded, knowing what she was thinking. Knowing she was thinking what he was thinking. Knowing his madness had peeled a part of his brain and tied it to hers.

  He leapt up top and grabbed fistful of reins. Waited for Amelia to haul herself up.

  Looked back as Lucy climbed into the coffin. Drew the lid across and let herself slump inside.

  She’d been hungry.

  Was still hungry.

  She needed more. More blood.

  He grabbed the Angel-maker’s arm. Hissed; “We’ll need to feed her.”

  “I know how.”

  “Of course you do. Of course, of course.” He clicked his teeth and whipped the reins. The horses headed obediently to the gates. A click and clatter of hoof and wheel. “Nothing but the best. The sweetest. Juiciest. Only that, Angel-maker. Only the best for my Mistress.”<
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  Two men at the gate. Each tasted a bullet before Renfield managed to get the gates open.

  He laughed hard as Van Helsing, streaked with blood from those who’d tried to stop him, came leaping down the road behind them. Turned in his seat and howled at the old man; “You! I see you, you old fucker! With these eyes, I see you! Can you see me? See me! See Renfield. Mister Renfield! Sir Renfield! Behold the hand which will drive you into your grave! This hand. My hand! Do you see it?”

  “Stop that wagon, man!” Van Helsing couldn’t run much further. He shouted hard, injecting as much urgency as he could. “You don’t know what she’s capable of! You don’t know what she is!”

  “I know! I know everything!” He lifted from the seat and aimed his pistol. Van Helsing threw himself to the ground as Renfield fired off two shots before the gun ran out of bullets. He tossed it aside.

  Cackled as Van Helsing picked himself up out of the mud.

  Then the wagon swerved round a bend and all sight of the Sanitorium was lost among the trees.

  “They’ll follow us.” Amelia shivered. “He’s a mean bastard, that German. A real mean one.”

  “Let him come,” Renfield hissed. “I’ll show him. Show them all. You’ll see. Sir Renfield, they’ll call me. Beg me to let them live. Beg, do you hear? One day. One night. One quiet evening when the stars are bright and the moon is full. Full of silver. Full of flesh. And we’ll have reckoning. We will.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Lucy Westenra was dead, but she could still play the part of a living woman.

  She stood beside the wagon, bleached white dress glowing in moonlight. Torn even more than the night before. Streaked with mud. Hair ragged and unkempt. Tangled with filth.

  She held out her arms. “How do I look, Renfield? Do I look like I’ve run all the way from Whitby?”

  “He’ll think you’ve been through Hell, Mistress.”

  “Oh, but I have.” She twirled. Giggled. Then sobered quickly. “You must keep moving. You know what you must do. Do it for me, Renfield. Please?”

  “Yes, Mistress.” Hesitated. “But they’ll be on our heels, Mistress. On your heels. On your feet and on your toes. We can stay. Hide in the shadows. The dark. No one will know Renfield was there. And then he can pounce!”

  “No. I’m safe here,” she said. “For now, do as I say.”

  He looked to the Angel-maker.

  The old lady hadn’t said a word for the entire journey and didn’t look ready to speak now.

  Finally, Renfield nodded. Licked lips and sprang up onto the wagon. “Then I’ll not fail you, Mistress. Never fail you. Buckets and pans. I’ll have it all set right. Right as a belly in a grave. You’ll see. Have it right. Renfield knows the place. Knows the ins and out. Especially the inns.” Sniggered. “Never fails, does Renfield.”

  She watched him go. The brightness of his insanity drowning the dark.

  Clatter of the wagon’s retreat. Renfield’s bitter laugh.

  He was an ugly little man. Repulsive. If she’d seen him in the street when she was alive, she’d have nearly vomited on sight.

  Now?

  Now she saw the madness inside him. A flower of incandescent threads all knotted and twisted into petals of incisive delight. The more she touched it, the more it grew. Like a lattice of light.

  He was beautiful.

  “Buckets and pans, my Renfield,” she murmured, adoring the taste of his words for a moment longer.

  Then turned to the manor house sitting haughty on its hill. Lights shining like yellow beacons from within. A light which called with hollow memories. Here, she’d grown past childhood. Had skipped across the fields.

  Played down by the stream bubbling at the foot of the property.

  Those memories were like slivers of glass trapped in her brain. Fragments to sweep together and toss away.

  Red lips curled into predatory grin, she ran.

  Ran through the woods.

  Vaulted the low stone wall.

  Snagged the dress and tore it further.

  Scraped skin from her thigh. Nails picked up dirt and grit.

  Brittle wind whipped her hair. Wet rain spat from above.

  Thunder in the distance. The storm had followed from Whitby.

  She felt it. Embraced it. After all, she was its herald.

  Through the garden. Didn’t care for the bushes. The flowers. The thorns. Waded through them in her eagerness to reach the door. Half-expecting vampire hunters to come tearing from the forest, tools of the hunter’s trade in hand.

  Battlecries howling at her back.

  When she made the door, she hammered on it.

  Shrieked. “Let me in! Dear Lord, let me in!”

  It opened.

  An old man stood inside, shotgun in hand as she dropped to the ground and let her body shiver and shake.

  She could remember fear. Remember what it felt like. She thought of Van Helsing. The terrible man cutting into her body with his instruments.

  It was this fear she channelled as she forced her body to quiver as though wracked by sobs.

  “Please,” she moaned. “It’s me. It’s me! Why won’t anyone believe me?”

  “My god,” the old man croaked. “It can’t be. Lucy? Lucy, is that you?”

  She looked up. Face masked with mud.

  Let him feel the shock before speaking again. “Father! Please. Help me. They’re after me, father! Don’t let them take me back. I don’t want to go. You must stop them. You simply must!”

  The shotgun fell from his hands and he leaned against the door’s sturdy frame. Hand across his racing heart. His face ashen. “It can’t be. I saw you. I saw your body, girl. I buried you.” Tears bubbled over his eyes. “I put flowers in your hands. They were cold. So cold.”

  “I know. And I can explain it all.” She squeezed her eyes shut. Felt a flicker of rage. She couldn’t cry. It seemed unfair. Even crocodiles could cry. A few tears and he’d crumble quickly. “Please, father. Help me.”

  “Lucy!” He darted forward. Wrapped both arms around her. Pressed his head deep into the crook of her neck. Sobbing uncontrollably as he held her tight. Didn’t seem like he’d ever let go. “My child, I thought you were dead. I grieved, girl. And your mother gone, too…”

  “They killed her!” Hissed. Reached into the flickering lights of his mind and touched the embers she found there. Pinpoints of light. Not so bright, but she could still blow on them. They glittered beneath her touch and she resisted the smile. “She found out what they were doing to me. And they murdered her for it!”

  “But, who-?” His hands tight around her shoulders, he pushed back and stared into her eyes. Wild in disbelief. “Who did this?”

  She forced her face slack. Slumped in his arms. “I’m safe now? Father, am I safe?”

  “Yes. You’re safe.” He scrambled for the shotgun. “If anyone’s coming here, they’ll get a bloody good taste of this!”

  “Inside,” she begged. “Please. Can I come inside?”

  “Yes. Quickly, girl. Come inside. Hurry now. Let’s get you some clothes. The fire. Through to the library with you. Hurry.”

  “Yes,” she said. Put her hands to her face to hide the triumph. “I must look frightful. I was on my own. I had to hide. I couldn’t trust anyone, you see. He made sure of that. They both did. And no one would believe me.”

  “Who?” The shotgun quivered in his grip. “Lucy, who did this?”

  “Why, father, don’t you know? I chose to marry Arthur, didn’t I? Like you wanted me to. I chose him.”

  “It was him? Why would-”

  “No. Not Arthur. Poor Arthur. I think they murdered him. I’m almost sure of it. I heard them talking. They said he was dead.”

  “But he went to Europe! To get over his grief. He was a broken man, Lucy. When you… Well. After the funeral, he went to pieces. He went to Europe. He couldn’t bear to be in England without you.”

  “No. That’s what they wanted you to think.” She shiv
ered as he led her into the library. Slumped into a chair. Wanted to wash the putrid stink off her body, but it was too soon to suggest that. “They killed him.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He wanted me. He was so jealous of Arthur. He knew he couldn’t have me once we got married, so he thought if he could make the world think I was dead, he could keep me prisoner forever.”

  “Oh, Lord. Who?” But the old man’s tears said he already knew.

  “He poisoned me. Slowly. Not enough to kill me. But enough to make me terribly sick. He thought at first Arthur would leave me. You remember how paranoid Arthur was about sickness? About diseases and things? But that didn’t work. Arthur wasn’t like that with me. He was my darling. My angel. And he stayed by my side.”

  “Your mother…”

  “She was there, too. She found out what they were doing. She didn’t trust him.”

  “Who?”

  “The German.”

  “Van Helsing,” he croaked. Fell back in his chair. Shotgun across his lap. “I met him after the funeral. There was something about him. Something not quite right. Something cold. And he was odd. Very odd. His eyes… I didn’t like him.”

  “He insisted mother put deadly herbs in my room. Surround me with it. But she knew them, you see. Knew they were poisoning me. She knew plants, remember?”

  “She loved the garden.” His arms hung helpless over the armrests. Swallowed hard.

  “She took them away. Threw them into the yard and burned them. And, when she confronted John about it, they killed her. I heard them.” She put her head down in her hands to hide dry eyes. “Oh, I still hear her, father. They strangled her. And I couldn’t do a thing! Van Helsing was the one. But he helped her. He held her down.”

  “Who?”

  “John. John Seward. He must have planned it so long ago. When he invited us to Whitby, I never expected anything like this. I didn’t know how obsessed he was. But he wanted me. Couldn’t bear to let me marry Arthur, could he?” She shuddered. “Refused to let me go. He forced me to take his drugs. Drugs which paralysed me. I couldn’t move. They put me in the coffin. Oh, I wanted so much to scream! But I couldn’t. I couldn’t move! Then, that night, they came to the crypt. They took me out and locked me in a cell. He told the nurses I was a madwoman. That I only thought I was Lucy. They said it was delusions, but I’m not insane. I’m not! Then he’d come for me. Every night he’d watch me from the door. Stare at me.”