The Ripper Affair

Though the bowl of the sky was a blind eye of cloud, the rain held itself in abeyance. It had been a cold, damp summer even for Londinium, and some whispered Britannia was unhappy.

Had Emma not been so painfully aware of her surroundings, she might have made a restless movement.

If she is unhappy, it is no concern of mine. Not now.

The thump of the oaken cask settling sent a shudder through her, one she quelled even as Clare’s face crumpled and smoothed itself, soundlessly.

Yes, I should have told you. I was afraid of the illogic unsettling your mind. I was afraid of…

Such an admission could not be borne. A Prime did not fear.

“Prima?” Barely a whisper, Mikal sounding not quite happy with her movement.

She had taken a step forward.

Hushed greenery and glowing marble mausoleums, their cargoes of quiet rotting hidden behind the gleaming façade and held safe in nets of ancient barrowcharm, to ensure they slept soundly.

Her Discipline roused slightly within her, and even the weak sunlight stung her sensitive eyes. She was glad of the veil’s obscurity, and still miserably compelled forward.

Wet earth full of mouldering, the open grave and the stone sleeve within it, nestling the coffin and its inner lining of charmed lead. A box within a box, within another, and inside them all a kernel that had once been… what, to her?

More than an acquaintance, more than a hireling, not quite a friend, caught in some space for which there was no proper word.

The first time she had ever engaged his services, he had played, catlike, as if she were a mouse under his paw. When the mouse turned out to be a lioness, the cat had merely blinked once, and afterwards still practised a cool disdain. There had been another woman involved, and sorcery, and plenty of blood. The sounds he made as he almost choked on the gallows, before she cut him down.

Strega. Whispered, like a curse, afterwards. She had paid him double, though he had sought to refuse her. You should have let me die.

Her own reply–That, sir, would not please me at all–greeted merely with a knife driven into the wall beside her head, and a muttered curse. Mikal had come very close to killing the Neapolitan, the first great test of his obedience to her will as her Shield… and the first moment she had begun to think that perhaps she might not have erred in accepting his service and sheltering him from the consequences of murdering his previous master.

She blinked, rapidly, grateful again for the veil. Later, glowing marble would rise above the nested boxes, and the stonewrights would chip a farewell into its gleaming face. Building a house for a dead man required time, even if one could pay double or triple for the best.

Her throat closed as she stared at the polished oak.

I am of the Endor. Did I will it, he would rise even from this… but it would bring no comfort.

The dead did not grant absolution. They merely answered simple questions of fact, and to ask them of Feeling was a waste. Once, one of her Discipline had brought a spirit fully to flesh to answer a king’s questioning, but such a feat was beyond Emma, Prime or no.

Or is it? There was little comfort in finding, at last, an act of sorcery that she did not dare attempt. It had merely taken her entire life so far to discover it.

Ludovico.

Her back held iron-straight, Emma Bannon extended her hand. A sharp flicker of sorcery, the fabric of tangled æther that condensed into physical matter shivering, and her glove was sliced neatly open.

The black glove–and the flesh underneath.

“Madam!” The priest, scandalised. She ignored him. The barrowmancer, standing ready at the periphery, stepped back nervously.

Ludo. I am sorry. Blood dripped, and her housekeeper, as the women obeyed custom and retreated, let out another sob. Emma did not move.

Mikal hissed in a breath as a spatter of scarlet drummed on the polished lid. Its pattern trembled for a moment, the sensitised fabric of reality rippling. Here was not a place for one of sorcery’s children to shed blood.

It mattered little. For this, nothing but blood would do. There was no vengeance to be had: Ludo’s killer had vaporised himself with the explosive as well. Were she to hunt down every last one of his accomplices, or even take her rage to Eire’s green shores, the scales still would not balance.

After all, hers was the hidden thumb upon one side. A cheat so accustomed to thievery it becomes habit, a partial judge. A sorceress who chose one life over another.